Helbeck of Bannisdale. Mrs. Humphry Ward

of the river, and the maidenly instinct drove her from the window; though the man in question was perhaps a quarter of a mile away, and had he been looking for her, could not possibly have made out more than a pale speck on the old wall.

      "Mr. Helbeck,"—she thought—"by the height of him. Where is he off to before seven o'clock in the morning? I hate a man that can't keep rational hours like other people! Fricka, come here!"

      For her little dog, who had sprung from the bed after its mistress, was now stretching and blinking behind her. At Laura's voice it jumped up and tried to lick her face. Laura caught it in her arms and sat down on the bed, still hugging it.

      "No, Fricka, I don't like him—I don't, I don't, I don't! But you and I have just got to behave. If you annoy that big dog downstairs, he'll break your neck—he will, Fricka. As for me,"—she shrugged her small shoulders—"well, Mr. Helbeck can't break my neck, so I'm dreadfully afraid I shall annoy him—dreadfully, dreadfully afraid! But I'll try not. You see, what we've got to do, is just to get Augustina well—stand over her with a broomstick and pour the tonics down her throat. Then, Fricka, we'll go our way and have some fun. Now look at us!——"

      She moved a little, so that the cracked glass on the dressing-table reflected her head and shoulders, with the dog against her neck.

      "You know we're not at all bad-looking, Fricka—neither of us. I've seen much worse. (Oh, Fricka! I've told you scores of times I can wash my face—without you—thank you!) There's all sorts of nice things that might happen if we just put ourselves in the way of them. Oh! I do want some fun—I do!—at least sometimes!"

      But again the voice dropped suddenly; the big greenish eyes filled in a moment with inconsistent tears, and Laura sat staring at the sunshine, while the drops fell on her white nightgown.

      Meanwhile Fricka, being half throttled, made a violent effort and escaped. Laura too sprang up, wiped away her tears as though she were furious with them, and began to look about her for the means of dressing. Everything in the room was of the poorest and scantiest—the cottage washstand with its crockery, the bare dressing-table and dilapidated glass.

      "A bath!—my kingdom for a bath! I don't mind starving, but one must wash. Let's ring for that rough-haired girl, Fricka, and try and get round her. Goodness!—no bells?"

      After long search, however, she discovered a tattered shred of tapestry hanging in a corner, and pulled it vigorously. Many efforts, however, were needed before there was a sound of feet in the passage outside. Laura hastily donned a blue dressing-gown, and stood expectant.

      The door was opened unceremoniously and a girl thrust in her head. Laura had made acquaintance with her the night before. She was the housekeeper's underling and niece.

      "Mrs. Denton says I'm not to stop. She's noa time for answerin bells. And you'll have some hot water when t' kettle boils."

      The door was just shutting again when Laura sprang at the speaker and caught her by the arm.

      "My dear," she said, dragging the girl in, "that won't do at all. Now look here"—she held up her little white hand, shaking the forefinger with energy—"I don't—want—to give—any trouble, and Mrs. Denton may keep her hot water. But I must have a bath—and a big can—and somebody must show me where to go for water—and then—then, my dear—if you make yourself agreeable, I'll—well, I'll teach you how to do your hair on Sundays—in a way that will surprise you!"

      The girl stared at her in sudden astonishment, her dark stupid eyes wavering. She had a round, peasant face, not without comeliness, and a lustreless shock of black hair. Laura laughed.

      "I will," she said, nodding; "you'll see. And I'll give you notions for your best frock. I'll be a regular elder sister to you—if you'll just do a few things for me—and Mrs. Fountain. What's your name—Ellen?—that's all right. Now, is there a bath in the house?"

      The girl unwillingly replied that there was one in the big room at the end of the passage.

      "Show it me," said Laura, and marched her off there. The rough-headed one led the way along the panelled passage and opened a door.

      Then it was Laura's turn to stare.

      Inside she saw a vast room with finely panelled walls and a decorated ceiling. The sunlight poured in through an uncurtained window upon the only two objects in the room—a magnificent bed, carved and gilt, with hangings of tarnished brocade—and a round tin bath of a common, old-fashioned make, propped up against the wall. The oak boards were absolutely bare. The bed and the bath looked at each other.

      "What's become of all the furniture?" said Laura, gazing round her in astonishment.

      "The gentleman from Edinburgh had it all, lasst month," said the girl, still sullenly. "He's affther the bed now."

      "Oh!—Does he often come here?"

      The girl hesitated.

      "Well, he's had a lot o' things oot o' t' house, sen I came."

      "Has he?" said Laura. "Now, then—lend a hand."

      Between them they carried off the bath; and then Laura informed herself where water was to be had, and when breakfast would be ready.

      "T' Squire's gone oot," said Ellen, still watching the newcomer from under a pair of very black and beetling brows; "and Mrs. Denton said she supposed yo'd be wantin a tray for Mrs. Fountain."

      "Does the Squire take no breakfast?"

      "Noa. He's away to Mass—ivery mornin, an' he gets his breakfast wi' Father Bowles."

      The girl's look grew more hostile.

      "Oh, does he?" said Laura in a tone of meditation. "Well, then, look here. Put another cup and another plate on Mrs. Fountain's tray, and I'll have mine with her. Shall I come down to the kitchen for it?"

      "Noa," said the girl hastily. "Mrs. Denton doan't like foak i' t' kitchen."

      At that moment a call in Mrs. Denton's angriest tones came pealing along the passage outside. Laura laughed and pushed the girl out of the room.

      * * * * *

      An hour later Miss Fountain was ministering to her stepmother in the most comfortable bedroom that the house afforded. The furniture, indeed, was a medley. It seemed to have been gathered out of many other rooms. But at any rate there was abundance of it; a carpet much worn, but still useful, covered the floor; and Ellen had lit the fire without being summoned to do it. Laura recognised that Mr. Helbeck must have given a certain number of precise orders on the subject of his sister.

      Poor Mrs. Fountain, however, was not happy. She was sitting up in bed, wrapped in an unbecoming flannel jacket—Augustina had no taste in clothes—and looking with an odd repugnance at the very passable breakfast that Laura placed before her. Laura did not quite know what to make of her. In old days she had always regarded her stepmother as an easy-going, rather self-indulgent creature, who liked pleasant food and stuffed chairs, and could be best managed or propitiated through some attention to her taste in sofa-cushions or in tea-cakes.

      No doubt, since Mrs. Fountain's reconciliation with the Church of her fathers, she had shown sometimes an anxious disposition to practise the usual austerities of good Catholics. But neither doctor nor director had been able to indulge her in this respect, owing to the feebleness of her health. And on the whole she had acquiesced readily enough.

      But Laura found her now changed and restless.

      "Oh! Laura, I can't eat all that!"

      "You must," said Laura firmly. "Really, Augustina, you must."

      "Alan's gone out," said Augustina, with a wistful inconsequence, straining her eyes as though to look through the diamond panes of the window opposite, at the park and the persons walking in it.

      "Yes. He seems to go to Whinthorpe every morning for Mass. Ellen says he breakfasts with the priest."

      Augustina sighed and fidgeted. But when she was half-way through her meal, Laura