The Three Brides. Yonge Charlotte Mary

you one of Dan Reynolds’s boys, or Tim’s?” proceeded “No, I bides with granny.”

      Julius made no further attempt at disentangling the pedigree but inquired about his employments.  Did he go to school?

      “When there ain’t nothing to be done.”

      “And what can be done by such a mite?” asked Rosamond.

      “Tell the lady,” said the Rector; “what work can you do?”

      “Bird-starving.”

      “Well!”

      “And stoon-picking, and cow-herding, and odd jobs up at Farmer Light’s; but they won’t take I on for a carter-boy not yet ’cause I bean’t not so lusty as some on ’em.”

      “Have you learnt to read?”

      “Oh yes, very nicely,” interposed Miss Vivian.

      “Did you teach him?” said Rosamond.

      “No!  He could read well before I came to the place.  I have only been at home six weeks, you know, and I did not know I was poaching on your manor,” she added sotto voce to Julius, who could not but answer with warm thanks.

      It was discovered that the rain had set in for the night, and an amicable contest ensued between the ladies as to shawl and umbrella, each declaring her dress unspoilable, till it ended in Eleonora having the shawl, and both agreeing to share the umbrella as far as the Sirenwood lodge.

      However, the umbrella refused to open, and had to be given to the boy, who set his teeth into an extraordinary grin, and so dealt with the brazen gear as to expand a magnificent green vault, with a lesser leathern arctic zone round the pole; but when he had handed it to Miss Vivian, and she had linked her arm in Lady Rosamond’s, it proved too mighty for her, tugged like a restive horse, and would fairly have run away with her, but for Rosamond’s holding her fast.

      “Lost!” they cried.  “Two ladies carried away by an umbrella!”

      “Here, Julius, no one can grapple with it but you,” called Rosamond.

      “I really think it’s alive!” panted Eleonora, drawn up to her tip-toes before she could hand it to Julius, who, with both clinging to his arm, conducted them at last to the lodge, where Julius could only come in as far as it would let him, since it could neither be let down nor left to itself to fly to unknown regions.

      A keeper with a more manageable article undertook to convey Miss Vivian home across the park; and with a pleasant farewell, husband and wife plodded their way home, along paths the mud of which could not be seen, only heard and felt; and when Rosamond, in the light of the hall, discovered the extent of the splashes, she had to leave Julius still contending with the umbrella; and when, in spite of the united efforts of the butler and footman, it still refused to come down, it was consigned to an empty coach-house, with orders that little Joe should have a shilling to bring it down and fetch it home in the morning!

      CHAPTER IV

      Shades In Sunshine

      My friends would be angered,

      My minnie be mad.

—Scots Song

      “Whom do you think we met, mother?” said Julius, coming into her room, so soon as he had made his evening toilette, and finding there only his two younger brothers.  “No other than Miss Vivian.”

      “Ah! then,” broke in Charlie, “you saw what Jenkins calls the perfect picture of a woman.”

      “She is very handsome,” soberly returned Julius.  “Rose is quite delighted with her.  Do you know anything of her?”

      “Jenny Bowater was very fond of poor Emily,” rejoined the mother.  “I believe that she had a very good governess, but I wish she were in better hands now.”

      “I cannot think why there should be a universal prejudice for the sake of one early offence!” exclaimed Frank.

      “Oh, indeed!” said Julius, amazed at such a tone to his mother.

      “I only meant—mother, I beg your pardon—but you are only going by hearsay,” answered Frank, in some confusion.

      “Then you have not seen her?” said Julius.

      “I!  I’m the last person she is likely to seek, if you mean Camilla.”

      “She inquired a great deal after you, mother,” interposed Frank, “and said she longed to call, only she did not know if you could see her.  I do hope you will, when she calls on Cecil.  I am sure you would think differently.  Promise me, mother!”

      “If she asks for me, I will, my boy,” said Mrs. Poynsett, “but let me look!  You aren’t dressed for dinner!  What will Mistress Cecil say to you!  Ah! it is time you had ladies about the house again.”

      The two youths retreated; and Julius remained, looking anxiously and expressively at his mother.

      “I am afraid so,” she said; “but I had almost rather he were honestly smitten with the young one than that he believed in Camilla.”

      “I should think no one could long do that,” said Julius.

      “I don’t know.  He met them when he was nursing that poor young Scotsman at Rockpier, and got fascinated.  He has never been quite the same since that time!” said the mother anxiously.  “I don’t blame him, poor fellow!” she added eagerly, “or mean that he has been a bit less satisfactory—oh no!  Indeed, it may be my fault for expressing my objection too’ plainly; he has always been reserved with me since, and I never lost the confidence of one of my boys before!”

      That Julius knew full well, for he—as the next eldest at home—had been the recipient of all his mother’s perplexities at the time of Raymond’s courtship.  Mrs. Poynsett had not been a woman of intimate female friends.  Her sons had served the purpose, and this was perhaps one great element in her almost unbounded influence with them.  Julius was deeply concerned to see her eyes glistening with tears as she spoke of the cloud that had risen between her and Frank.

      “There is great hope that this younger one may be worthy,” he said.  “She has had a very different bringing up from her sister, and I did not tell you what I found her doing.  She was teaching a little pig-herd boy to draw.”

      “Ah!  I heard Lady Tyrrell was taking to the education of the people line.”

      “I want to know who the boy is,” said Julius.  “He called himself Reynolds, and said he lived with granny, but was not a son of Daniel’s or Timothy’s.  He seemed about ten years old.”

      “Reynolds?  Then I know who he must be.  Don’t you remember a pretty-looking girl we had in the nursery in Charlie’s time?  His ‘Fan-fan’ he used to call her.”

      “Ah, yes, I remember; she was a Reynolds, for both the little boys could be excited to fury if we assumed that she was a fox.  You don’t mean that she went wrong?”

      “Not till after she had left us, and seemed to be doing well in another place; but unfortunately she was allowed to have a holiday in the race week, and a day at the course seems to have done the mischief.  Susan can tell you all about it, if you want to know.  She was as broken-hearted as if Fanny had been her own child—much more than the old mother herself, I fear.”

      “What has become of the girl?”

      “Gone from bad to worse.  Alas!  I heard a report that she had been seen with some of the people who appear on the race-course with those gambling shooting-galleries, or something of that sort.”

      “Ah! those miserable races!  They are the bane of the country.  I wish no one would go near them.”

      “They are a very pleasant county gathering.”

      “To you, mother, and such as you; but you could have your county meeting without doing quite so much harm.  If Raymond would only withdraw his subscription.”

      “It