He could not talk to her of her mother now. He would wait.

"I will tell you some day soon, why I asked for that promise," he said, and then the talk passed to other things.

CHAPTER II-A NEW ACQUAINTANCE AND AN OLD ONE.

IT was early in May, and the spring was late that year, being kept back by bitter winds. On the heights, indeed, spring seemed yet only an imagined good; but in the Donne valley, and the fertile plain which lies at the back of the Castleport hills, warmer breezes were blowing, tight fern-fronds were uncoiling, unfurled primrose leaves were starred with pale blossoms, and interest in the cuckoo's call had died out by reason of the advent of fuller-throated minstrels.

The village of Thurfrestone (pronounced Thurson), four miles from Castleport, might be fifty miles away, its climate so differs. It is a pretty place, typical of villages in that part of the world, with its cluster of grey houses, well enfolded in trees, and appearing from a distance to shoulder up the grey church in their midst. If any glory be attached to Thurfrestone it is due to its church. It is a Norman structure, tiny indeed, but perfect throughout, bearing down unspoiled through the centuries its riches of quaint vigorous carving. The place is little known, and the churchyard gate seldom opens to admit a stranger, unless it be a rambling antiquary now and then in the course of the year. Therefore a lady, who sits reading under the decrepit yew, which keeps watch over the graves, is surprised to perceive, on looking up, an unfamiliar figure standing near. It is evening, a warm evening, and but for the leafless trees it might be summer. Captain Rae is fond of walking, and enjoys well the long solitary rambles which he is accustomed to take when Frances is full of housekeeping cares, or goes to the town to take her French lesson. To-night he had an object in his walk. He has not yet carried out his resolution of telling Frances about her mother. He hardly knows why it appears to him so difficult a step to take. There is a strong instinct in some natures to keep such experience close-sealed, for their loves and sorrows are so inwoven with the fibre of their being that speech, which inevitably dissipates and squanders emotion, must be, where such things are concerned, repugnant-almost impossible.

The Captain's thoughts have been so much with his young wife lately that he has made a pilgrimage to the Thurfrestone churchyard, where, seventeen years ago, Fanny was buried. She had lived in this village with her mother and sister. The former died long since; the latter married, and went to live in America. Not one of Fanny's kin is living here

now.

Miss Magdalen Ford, looking up from her book, sees him standing not far off with his arms folded

behind his back, lost in thought. Had she met him in the lane she would probably have passed by with little notice. But his aspect, as it is, excites some curiosity in her mind. To begin with, his is by no means an unpleasing figure. Height and breadth are satisfactory, there is an easy vigour in his attitude, his hat is off, and thus may be seen the massive proportions of a well-shaped head. But what strikes her most is the unlooked-for expression on his face. While the features are cast in a mould rough enough, the complexion bronzed to something near mahogany, and the hair of beard and head of an iron-grey, suggestive of the age of common sense, there is upon the face a contradictory expression of feeling. It is unmistakable. There is a suffusion of something tender, regretful, compassionate over the face and in the bearing. His head is downcast, yet not abased; his face sorrowful, yet not dejected. In any observer of perception his aspect must excite interest; to a woman it must be touching. Magdalen, in her screened position, could observe him, herself unobserved. Fearful of disturbing him, she did not like to rise, yet she hardly liked to stay. She knew where he was standing, and the inscription upon the stone, for the churchyard was as familiar to her as her own garden. "Sacred to the memory of Fanny, wife of Captain Michael Rae, R.N., who died September, 18, aged 19." Presently the Captain turned to walk away, and the movement recalled Magdalen to a sense of her duties. The air was getting chilly, and glancing at her watch, she found that it was nearly seven o'clock.

"Say, Say!" she called, "it is time to go in."

She had risen from her seat, and the Captain, walking down the path, which led past the yew to the gate, saw her standing before him-a tall figure dressed in black. She picked up her book and shawl and again calling, "Say, Say!" cast a rapid glance round. The Captain, coming up at the moment, stopped and said, "I have not seen any one else in the churchyard since I came in."

"It is a child," she answered. She was playing here quietly a little while ago. She must be hiding; I don't think she would go home without me."

The Captain offered to help in the search, and she accepted frankly. Her manner and tones were gracious, though serious, and touched with a just perceptible frost of reserve. All discoverable nooks and corners were peered into, and tall headstones circumlocuted in case a naughty five-year-old might lurk behind

them.

"She is fond of the church, but the door is fast," said Miss Ford, trying it. "She must have gone

home."

Passing out into the road, it seemed their way lay in the same direction. The lady stopped at the entrance to a gravel-drive and shrubbery. The Captain said he should like to know whether the child were at home; so he waited. She rejoined him almost immediately.

"No one has seen her," she said; "they are going

to search the house, but I feel sure she is not there. She is such an adventurous creature, one does not know how far she may have strayed."

The Captain declared himself at her service, and was sent down to the blacksmith's and the pondtwo of her favourite haunts. Returning unsuccessful, he found that Magdalen and other seekers had fared the same. Considerable anxiety began to be felt. Supposing Magdalen to be the child's mother, the Captain had admired her cool and quiet manner throughout the affair; but now, on the advent of another lady on the scene, he discovered that his first acquaintance was only the aunt, and he began to think she ought to show more concern. They were standing at the garden-gate discussing probabilities. The lady who, it appeared, was the child's mother, and who had come down to the gate muffled in shawls, turned to Magdalen, and said, in a plaintive tone

'Really, Magdalen, it is very odd the child should be lost; it never happened before. Of course, I should not think of imputing any blame to you; but really, in my nervous state, I shall never be easy again unless she is with nurse."

The Captain, though standing in an outer circle of spectators, was observant of the scene, and saw a tinge of colour rise in the sister's face. She answered, with a kind of dignified humility

"Yes, I was culpably careless; but we must not get alarmed; I do not doubt that she will soon be found."

It was impossible to observe this person without growing interest. Her figure, air, and voice had a distinctive quality, so that it was difficult in her neighbourhood to be oblivious of her. Captain Rae began to feel an oddly personal obligation to find the child. He fancied he perceived that his new friend was at bottom more concerned about the matter than any one. Her voice was not heard in the babel of questioning and suggestion, but now and then it penetrated the confusion with some pointed remark, and the practical work she undertook was accomplished with remarkable speed and effectiveness. The church was searched, notwithstanding the closed door; for it appeared, on inquiry, that the old woman who had the care of it had been there during the evening, and had left the place, unnoticed by Magdalen. Seekers were despatched down the lanes, into the fields, but to no purpose.

At nine o'clock Magdalen and the Captain met once more in the churchyard. She had a lantern in her hand, and he saw how pale her face was, and read the anxious questioning of her eyes. His face, always a kindly one, on such an occasion became doubly pleasant. It looked down on Magdalen with a kind of hopeful solicitude.

"What can we do now?" he said.

"I am going to look into the church again," she answered; "the others have been, but it has really not been thoroughly searched, for they only looked round, and called to her, and it has struck me that

she may be asleep. It is a forlorn hope, but it is better than doing nothing."

The Captain took the key from her hand, the heavy door swung back, and the two entered the church, which struck uninvitingly dark and chill upon the senses. Magdalen shivered.

"Do not let yourself give way to alarm," he said. "Depend upon it the child will turn up soon, safe and sound.

"It is impossible to avoid getting anxious, but I am not alarmed," she answered.

They began the search. A few moments afterwards the Captain called out, "Bring me the light over here." A restrained eagerness in the tone made her hasten. There, indeed, was the child, coiled up in a corner of the vicar's pew, fast asleep. The Captain lifted her up into his arms so gently that she did not wake. He looked at Magdalen. She had not spoken, but he saw that her face was rosy-red, and her eyes flashing brightly through tears. Her calm face was wonderfully changed. "Why, now, you were alarmed after all," he said, smiling, and looking at her kindly.

"No," she said; "but when one has kept one's mind still, and held the reins tight, it will all the more have its way when relief comes. You remember it is my fault. I am too engrossed when I read."

Her smile answered the Captain's. She smiled rarely; but when she did, the effect was like the sun breaking through on a cloudy day. It created an atmosphere round her.

"Come," she said, "will you carry the child to her mother?'

The Captain followed her.

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'See now," he said, speaking slowly, as he always did when he was thinking, "what a good thing selfrestraint is! It keeps down pain, but lets joy have its way; and so it is its own reward."

As the two came up to the house, the Captain bearing the child and Magdalen lighting him, they were flashed upon by another lantern, and a stout gentleman came up to them hurriedly—

"Ah! you've found her, I see, Magdalen. That's lucky. Pretty greeting it was for me, when I got in, wasn't it? Halloa, Captain Rae! It is Captain Rae, isn't it? I thought I couldn't be mistaken. Why, where on earth did you spring from? Ah! yes, I see, my dear, she's asleep, and as soundly as if she'd never raised the wind. Take her in to my wife, and then I must hear all about you, Captain."

They were now at the door of the house. Magdalen held out her arms for the child.

"You must have some supper with me. I was detained in town, and have not dined. We'll have a chat. Depend upon it I've not forgotten Barbadoes and my obligations to you there."

But the Captain excused himself. It was late, and Frances would be waiting for him. In this Mr. Verney he recognised a West Indian merchant to whom years before he had been of some service. It now transpired that the two were to some extent neighbours, Mr. Verney having retired, and, with his wife, child, and sister-in law, settled down at Thurfrestone. The Captain promised to call at no distant period, and at last succeeded in escaping from his friend's volubility. He walked away quickly through the darkness, all the more quickly because of a certain absorption of mind, in which our legs will carry us on without our conscious volition. Magdalen, her looks and tones, were filling his mental vision and hearing. Her personality had affected him with singular suddenness and keenness. The most vivid picture was one he tried to get rid of, and could not. His mind insisted upon dwelling upon her as she looked when he put the child into her arms, and then passed away from him into the house. It had a painful effect upon him-the thought of her going away into the lighted hall, with only an inclination of the head, and a "good-night," and he sent off into the darkness. But what an absurdity, he thought. What had he to do with her, or she with him? So absorbed was he that he started when he found himself at his own gate, and heard a ringing voice accost him. There was Frances on the look-out for him.

"Oh, you naughty father!" she cried; "what have you been doing? If you play truant like this, I won't trust you out of my sight."

She linked her arm in his, and gave him sundry admonishing cuffs and pats, light as caresses, all the way up to the house. He found it even pleasanter than usual to be scolded and loved, and visions faded in the keener sense of realities. In the dining-room the supper was laid, the fire burned brightly, and his slippers stood on the fender. The customary struggle ensued as to whether Frances should take off his boots for him. They were wet and muddy, but she got her way as usual, and tugged for five minutes at what her father would have accomplished in as many seconds.

No, my girl, you rejoice my heart."

His tone was earnest, but Frances would not show how much it moved her. She resumed her work, and said with a laugh, " Then now I'll tease you till you cry for mercy, papa."

She ran off with the boots and to wash her muddy fingers. A knock at the door announced Mrs. Leek with a dish for the supper table. She had not yet "had it out" with her master for his undeserved reprimand. She had contented herself with preserving a generally dejected appearance, and accounting for

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Sir," said Leek, with gathering importance as she grew in a sense of her mastery of the position, you've spoke to me about my conduct to your dear young lady in a way that no lady-and I feel that I am a lady though humble-ought to take from any one, master or no master. And it would not be doing right by myself if I stayed where I was spoke to in that unbecoming manner." Here she began to whimper. "And so fond as I am of you both," she continued, "as I was telling the milkman only on the Friday, that I hoped I should never be called on to leave you, and then to be told as my tongue was mischievous, and I don't know what all."

The Captain cast a despairing backward glance on his old free life, his snug cabin and windy deck; women were extraordinarily troublesome creatures, and he thanked his stars he had seen so little of them. He must have said something quite brutal to the woman, without being in the least aware of it. And when as a finishing touch she put up her apron to her eyes, his heart smote him.

"Pray don't distress yourself," he said; "I dare say I spoke more roughly than women are used to. You see I've had sailors to deal with. You must accept my apology."

The poor Captain was saved any further sacrifice of authority, for at this juncture Frances entered. She perceived the state of affairs, and she was not used to hesitate long over her actions.

"Be off with you to the kitchen, Leek," she said, carelessly, yet with a mien that Leek knew by experience had will in it. "I can see you have been bothering papa, and that can't be allowed. I'll right your wrongs for you, if you 've got any."

Mrs. Leek did not wait a moment. She could eat humble pie with as good a grace as any other food when it suited her, and she knew she had gained her end. The Captain would be in mortal fear of her for the rest of his days.

"So you shall," said her father; "I'll take you to call there."

Frances uttered a cry of horror: "I daresay! Grand houses with fine ladies in them are a kind of ogre's mouth, into which I shall never put my head."

After supper, when the table was cleared, the fire stirred, and the arm-chair drawn up, Frances. fetched her father's paper and cut it for him. They sat side by side, and Frances was unusually silent. She was gazing into the fire, and her father watched her. He thought her lovely enough to please any eyes; the small head set daintily upon her shoulder, the skin creamy-white with the glow of young life upon it, the rings of curly hair, cut quite close to save trouble, neither exactly brown nor yellow, but of the real warm gold hue, and eyes of the rare kind that matches such hair-eyes that have also caught the gold gleam in their brown soft lustre. If any fault were to be found with her face it must be with the expression, which might be thought a little too vivacious and petulant usually, yet hardly so now, as she sat looking thoughtfully into the fire. She started when her father spoke to her. He had finished looking over the paper, and his mind was made up as to what he should do next. "Frances," he said, come and sit on my knee." He expected a merry answer, but none came; she nestled down silently. "I am going to talk to you about your mother," he said. His voice trembled, for he was filled with nervous dread that speech would jar upon the sacredness of that silent past. But he need not, it seemed, have had any fear of Frances. She spoke not a word, and as he told her the story, the clasp of the arms around his neck, and the girl's mute sympathy, made an atmosphere in which he could speak on and on. It was even a strange unexpected pleasure to him to empty his heart of that longhidden emotion.

"I have never spoken to you about her before," he said at last.

"No; you never have, papa," she answered in a low tone.

Her father's quick sense detected a shade of reproach.

"Yes, child," he said, "I ought to have done, but I dreaded it."

"Father, put me down," said Frances.

He let her go, wondering.

She sat down by his side, and took his hand, and stroked it gently, looking up into his face. Her eyes were full of tears, and her look was so tender, grave, and womanly that her father was almost startled. She seemed the living, breathing image of her mother.

"Father," she said, much?"

"did you love her very

"Yes," said the Captain, with a quick catching of his breath.

"And now you have only me-only a naughty ignorant child, who loves you, but cannot make you happy."

Her father tried to take her again on his knee, but she gently put his encircling arms away.

"No," she said, "no; I don't want to be a baby. I want to be better, and more grown-up. Papa, I don't know what to do. I was thinking-oh! so many things when you began to talk to me! You don't know how often I have wanted to have my mother, and I was thinking why it was you never talked to me about her. I wish she had lived-oh! I wish, I wish—”

Frances' voice had sunk to a deep whisper, and she spoke with passionate earnestness. “What do you wish, my dear?”

"Oh, so many things; I cannot tell you all. I want to be good. Mamma was only nineteen, you say, when she went away-only two years older than I. I have only got that little mamma in heaven, and no one old and wise here to tell me what to do."

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Oh, child," said her father, "I believe I'm a selfish old fellow; but I don't see what I can do more." Frances kissed him, and said with a sob, "Father, dear, dear papa, you have been so good-everything to me. It is not that; I did not mean to hurt you, it was only that I wanted my mother; she is different from a man, you know; but you will talk to me about her now, and I will tell you everything I feel, and that will help me."

Captain Rae comforted and kissed her, and after he had sent her to bed pondered long over that evening's work, often sighing deeply. Life was not so simple a matter as he had been used to think it. He had been accustomed to do his best, and then with a simple trust in God's guidance to make his mind easy. And he had loved his child, and had done his best. But it was evident he had not understood her. He had been quite unconscious that she lacked anything. Her way of speaking of her mother moved him deeply; her thoughts must often have been full of her during the year they had lived together; yet she had never breathed her name till she knew he wished it; the thought of it touched him very much. He began to feel there were strange contradictions in the child, depths of which he had only caught a glimpse.

(To be continued.)