Sweet Content

his hand to me in a way I could not resist or resent, thoughgenerally I stood on my dignity a good deal. "We had been thinking oftrying a rather desperate experiment to bring my poor aunt to hersenses," he said. "But I believe your effort will be more successful."

  We left the room together, he and I. I followed him upstairs to thefirst floor, and through two big drawing-rooms into a third and smallerone at the back. In he stalked, coughing a little now and then; in Icrept after him. A big fire was blazing, an armchair was drawn close toit, and on, or rather in, the armchair, which almost seemed to swallowher up, was seated a small dark figure. She was reading the newspaper.

  "What is it, Hugo?" she said, at the sound of my conductor's footsteps."There you are again, in and out as usual, exposing yourself to everydraught, of course."

  The sharp tones, the queer, black, unnatural-looking curls were all toofamiliar to me. I could not help shivering a little.

  "Aunt Angela," he said--only fancy _that_ being her name!--"I havebrought a young lady to see you," and he drew me forward a little. "Youhave seen her before,"--piercing eyes were upon me by this time--"butperhaps I can best introduce her and best explain her visit by tellingyou she is _not_ your great-niece, Mary Whyte."

  He stood still to watch the effect of his audacity. The old lady beganto tremble a little, though she tried to hide it. But this gave mecourage, because it made me sorry for her.

  "Who--who are you then? Who do you say you are?" she said, in a shaky,quavering voice.

  I came towards her and stood full in the light such a light as there ison a winter's day in a London back-drawing-room--I pushed my hat back--it fell off, and my fair hair came tumbling over my face. Major Whytepicked up my hat; I shook back my hair. The old lady could see me quiteplainly.

  "You will remember my face, I think?" I said, gently. "My name isConnie--Constantia Percy--papa is Dr Percy. He is the doctor atElmwood; everybody there knows us. I have come to--to apologise to you_very_ much for being so rude to you that day. I was in a bad temperbefore I met you. I don't think I'd have been so rude--and--andunkind--to a stranger, if it hadn't been for that I do hope you willforgive me."

  She looked at me still for some seconds, without speaking. Then sheturned to her nephew.

  "I can see now that there is no real likeness to Frank," she saidcoolly. "Still the mistake was a very natural one, meeting her where Idid, and the superficial resemblance of colouring, and so on, to whatyou had told me of the second girl, and to her photograph."

  "Yes," said Major Whyte, his face flushing nervously, "the original_mistake_ was natural enough, Aunt Angela: that is to say, if you couldimagine, which I _couldn't_, that one of Frank's girls could havebehaved so; but after you were assured that it _was_ a mistake, whenthey absolutely denied it--" he stopped--his indignation had carried himfurther than was prudent. He had hit Mrs Fetherston hard; he had hitsome one else hard too. Indeed, I think he had forgotten I was there.But I was too much in earnest to resent the unflattering inference ofhis words.

  "You could not think me like Mary if you saw us together," I saideagerly. "She is ever, _ever_ so much prettier, and, _of course_, justas good as I am naughty. It is quite true, neither she nor Yvonne couldhave behaved as I did."

  My voice began to break as I said the last words; the long strain wasbeginning to tell on me. I felt the tears coming, and I tried to chokethem down. I knew Mrs Fetherston's keen eyes were on me.

  "My dear," she said--I could scarcely have believed her voice could havebeen so different--"there are worse little girls in the world than you.I freely forgive you what I have to forgive. Some day I _may_ see youand Mary together."

  Major Whyte started and a bright look of pleasure lighted up his face.

  "Aunt Angela," he began joyfully. Then I think the remembrance of whathe had said came over him suddenly, for he turned to me.

  "My dear child," he said, "you must forgive me. I forgot."

  "No, no, please," I said, though I was crying by this time. "I don'tmind; it was quite true."

  But at that moment we were all startled by a knock at the door--thisroom was the old lady's private sitting-room and a man-servant, notDavid--an older one--appeared in answer to Mrs Fetherston's "Come in."

  "A--a gentleman to see Major Whyte, if you please, ma'am," he said;adding in a lower tone, "I think it's something rather particular."

  Major Whyte turned to go, but a fit of coughing interrupted him.

  "My poor boy, you are killing yourself," said his aunt; "Freeland, bringthe gentleman up here if it is anything particular. Your master can'tgo running up and down stairs in this way."

  CHAPTER TWELVE.

  TRUE HEARTS.

  We all waited, without speaking. Poor Major Whyte indeed seemedexhausted by his cough. There was a feeling in the air, I think, as ifsomething strange were going to happen.

  And in a very few moments there came the sound of footsteps up thestairs, and then crossing the two big drawing-rooms. And then--the dooropened. Freeland murmured something, and I saw coming through thedoorway the familiar figure of Captain Whyte, and close behind him thesweet fair face of dear Mary.

  Major Whyte started up. He wrung his cousin's hand without speaking.But I--what do you think I did? I seized Mary and dragged her forward.Fancy _me_, naughty me, being the one to introduce Mary to her own aunt!

  "Here she is," I cried; "now you _can_ see us together. This is Mary,your own niece, Mrs Fetherston; you can see if what I said wasn'ttrue."

  Mary _did_ look sweet, though she was shabbily dressed and veryfrightened. In that grand house the old tweed jacket looked evenshabbier than at Elmwood. She clung to me, till I almost pushed herinto the old lady's arms.

  "Kiss her, Mary. She's your own aunt. Oh, _do_" I whispered; "youdon't know what good it might do. Oh, do kiss her."

  Perhaps the last three words were spoken more loudly in my excitement;perhaps the old lady's ears were as sharp as her eyes! However it was,she heard, and she smiled.

  "Yes, _do_," she repeated, and she half held out her arms to Mary. "Youare not my special child, I suppose," she said. "Yvonne is my godchild;but, oh, you are very like what Frank was. Frank," she addedtremulously, "my boy, Frank--are you not going to speak to me, too?"

  He came to her at once; I turned away, and somehow or other I foundmyself with Major Whyte in the outer room.

  "Do you--do you really think it is going to be all right?" I could nothelp saying to him.

  He nodded; for a moment or two it seemed as if he could not speak, and Ithink there were tears in his eyes. His voice was husky when he didspeak, but that might have been from his cough.

  "Yes," he said, "I do--I do really hope so. _Thank God_."

  And as I glanced up at his kind, worn face, there seemed to me to be alight about it--a light such as one never sees save in the face of thosewho have suffered much, and have learnt to thank God for both sorrow andjoy. I knew then that poor Major Whyte was not--as our simplecountry-folk say--was not "long for this world." I never saw him again,and I had never seen him before, but I have never forgotten him.

  He took me downstairs to where mamma was anxiously waiting. He hadordered tea for her and me; he knew we would be the better for it, hesaid, before setting off on our cold journey back. He was so gentle andconsiderate to mamma, telling her all that had happened upstairs asfrankly as if she had been an old friend--I always notice that peoplewho are quite, _quite_ well-bred, are so much franker than commonerpeople, who make mysteries about nothing, and treat you as if your oneobject in life was to get their secrets out of them--and he was quiteright, for she did indeed feel like one. And when we went away he tookboth my hands in his _so_ nicely and thanked _me_--me, the naughtyhorrid little mischief-maker. Was it not more than good of him? Whenwe were by ourselves in the cab I leant my head against mamma's shoulderand burst into tears. I could not help it.

  "All's well that ends well, my Connie--my little Sweet Content," shesaid.
But I could not help going on crying when I thought of poor MajorHugo's thin face and his terrible cough, and of how much _I_ had addedto his troubles and anxieties by my naughtiness on Evey's birthday.

  Papa came home the next day. We were longing to see him and to tell himeverything. I fancy mamma was just a little afraid of his thinking wehad been imprudent, though she did not say so to me, for fear of makingme anxious. I _was_ anxious all the same. We had heard nothing of theWhytes, and mamma thought it better not to go to see them or send to theYew Trees till papa came home. We did not know what time to expect him;his letter only said "to-morrow, as early in