We Two. Lyall Edna

but when they reached home they instinctively drew together over the study fire. There was a long silence even then, broken at last by Charles Osmond.

      “Well, my son?” he said.

      “I cannot see how I can be of the least use to her,” said Brian, abruptly, as if his father had been following the whole of his train of thought, which, indeed, to a certain extent, he had.

      “Was this afternoon your first meeting?”

      “Our first speaking. I have seen her many times, but only today realized what she is.”

      “Well, your little Undine is very bewitching, and much more than bewitching, true to the core and loyal and loving. If only the hardness of her life does not embitter her, I think she will make a grand woman.”

      “Tell me what you did this afternoon,” said Brian; “you must have been some time with them.”

      Charles Osmond told him all that had passed; then continued:

      “She is, as I said, a fascinating, bright little Undine, inclined to be willful, I should fancy, and with a sort of warmth and quickness about her whole character, in many ways still a child, and yet in others strangely old for her years; on the whole I should say as fair a specimen of the purely natural being as you would often meet with. The spiritual part of her is, I fancy, asleep.”

      “No, I fancy tonight has made it stir for the first time,” said Brian, and he told his father a little of what had passed between himself and Erica.

      “And the Longfellow was, I suppose, from you,” said Charles Osmond. “I wish you could have seen her delight over it. Words absolutely failed her. I don't think any one else noticed it, but, her own vocabulary coming to an end, she turned to ours, it was 'What HEAVENLY person can have sent me this?'”

      Brian smiled, but sighed too.

      “One talks of the spiritual side remaining untouched,” he said, “yet how is it ever to be otherwise than chained and fettered, while such men as that Randolph are recognized as the champions of our cause, while injustice and unkindness meet her at every turn, while it is something rare and extraordinary for a Christian to speak a kind word to her. If today she has first realized that Christians need not necessarily behave as brutes, I have realized a little what life is from her point of view.”

      “Then, realizing that perhaps you may help her, perhaps another chapter of the old legend may come true, and you may be the means of waking the spirit in your Undine.”

      “I? Oh, no! How can you think of it! You or Donovan, perhaps, but even that idea seems to me wildly improbable.”

      There was something in his humility and sadness which touched his father inexpressibly.

      “Well,” he said, after a pause, “if you are really prepared for all the suffering this love must bring you, if you mean to take it, and cherish it, and live for it, even though it brings you no gain, but apparent pain and loss, then I think it can only raise both you and your Undine.”

      Brian knew that not one man in a thousand would have spoken in such a way; his father's unworldliness was borne in upon him as it had never been before. Greatly as he had always reverenced and loved him, tonight his love and reverence deepened unspeakably—the two were drawn nearer to each other than ever.

      It was not the habit in this house to make the most sacred ties of life the butt for ill-timed and ill-judged joking. No knight of old thought or spoke more reverently or with greater reserve of his lady love than did Brian of Erica. He regarded himself now as one bound to do her service, consecrated from that day forward as her loyal knight.

CHAPTER V. Erica's Resolve

       Table of Contents

      Men are tattooed with their special beliefs like so many

       South Sea Islanders; but a real human heart, with Divine

       love in it, beats with the same glow under all the patterns

       of all earth's thousand tribes. O. Wendell Holmes.

      For the next fortnight Brian and Erica continued to pass each other every afternoon in Gower Street, as they had done for so long, the only difference was that now they greeted each other, that occasionally Brian would be rendered happy for the rest of the day by some brief passing remark from his Undine, or by one of her peculiarly bright smiles. One day, however, she actually stopped; her face was radiant.

      “I must just tell you our good news,” she said. “My father has won his case, and has got heavy damages.”

      “I am very glad,” said Brian. “It must be a great relief to you all to have it over.”

      “Immense! Father looks as if a ton's weight had been taken off his mind. Now I hope we shall have a little peace.”

      With a hasty good bye she hurried on, an unusual elasticity in her light footsteps. In Guilford Square she met a political friend of her father's, and was brought once more to a standstill. This time it was a little unwillingly, for M. Noirol teased her unmercifully, and at their last meeting had almost made her angry by talking of a friend of his at Paris who offered untold advantages to any clever and well-educated English girl who wished to learn the language, and who would in return teach her own. Erica had been made miserable by the mere suggestion that such a situation would suit her; the slightest hint that it might be well for her to go abroad had roused in her a sort of terror lest her father might ever seriously think of the scheme. She had not quite forgiven M. Noirol for having spoken, although the proposal had not been gravely made, and probably only persevered in out of the spirit of teasing. But today M. Noirol looked very grave.

      “You have heard our good news?” said Erica. “Now don't begin again about Madame Lemercier's school; I don't want to be made cross today of all days, when I am so happy.”

      “I will tease you no more, dear mademoiselle,” said the Frenchman; but he offered no congratulations, and there was something in his manner which made Erica uneasy.

      “Is anything wrong? Has anything happened?” she asked quickly.

      The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

      “Who knows! It is an evil world, Mademoiselle Erica, as you will realize when you have lived in it as long as I have. But I detain you. Good bye. AU REVOIR!”

      He took off his hat with a flourish, and passed on.

      Erica, feeling baffled and a little cross, hurried home. M. Noirol had not teased her today, but he had been inscrutable and tiresome, and he had made her feel uneasy. She opened the front door, and went at once to her father's study, pausing for a moment at the sound of voices within. She recognized, however, that it was her cousin, Tom Craigie, who was speaking, and without more delay she entered. Then in a moment she understood why M. Noirol had been so mysterious. Tom was speaking quickly and strongly, and there was a glow of anger on his face. Her father was standing with his back to the mantlepiece, and there was a sort of cold light in his eyes, which filled Erica with dismay. Never in the most anxious days had she seen him look at once so angry, yet as weighed down with care.

      “What is the matter?” she questioned, breathlessly, instinctively turning to Tom, whose hot anger was more approachable.

      “The scamp of a Christian has gone bankrupt,” he said, referring to the defendant in the late action, but too furious to speak very intelligibly.

      “Mr. Cheale, you mean?” asked Erica.

      “The scoundrel! Yes! So not a farthing of costs and damages shall we see! It is the most fiendish thing ever heard of!”

      “Will the costs be very heavy?”

      “Heavy! I should think they would indeed!” He named the probable sum; it seemed