sinking his head lower on his chest and looking daggers at his daughter.
“Long enough for that,” she repeated.
She rose from her seat and went across the room to ring the bell. When the servant entered the room she gave some very clear and emphatic directions, and then desiring the nurse who waited on her father to be summoned, she left the room.
Her interview had scarcely been a peaceable one, and as she went downstairs her usually calm expression was considerably disturbed.
“I can make terms with the mother now,” she murmured. “But I am not going even to tell my father what they are.” And she went downstairs.
Floating in through the open window came the sound of gay, childish mirth, and looking out she saw the little strangers dancing and laughing and chatting merrily to old Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper, as she took them round the grounds.
Then Miss Griselda went downstairs, and she and Miss Katharine had their interview with the grave, quiet young mother, who had come, as she said, to make terms. No one heard what they said to her nor what she said to them; no one knew what arrangements were arrived at between the three; no one guessed either then or long years afterward what the terms were. When the somewhat protracted interview had come to an end, the young mother left Miss Griselda’s study with her veil drawn tightly over her face. If her eyes were red and her lips trembled, no one noticed those signs of grief through her thick crape veil. Miss Griselda offered her food, and Miss Katharine wanted to take her hand and wring it with a kindly pressure; but she shook her head at the one and drew back proudly from the other’s proffered hand-shake.
The dog-cart was waiting at a side entrance, and she got into it and drove away. Nor did she once look back as she drove down the long straight avenue under the shade of the old forest trees.
That night Squire Lovel said a word or two to his daughters.
“So you have kept the children?”
“We have kept the children,” repeated Miss Griselda tersely.
“It is nothing to me. I have made that codicil to my will. You have had your way in that.”
“You have done justice, father – you will die happier,” replied Miss Griselda.
“Have you made arrangements with the mother?” questioned the squire.
“The mother will not trouble us; we have arranged with her,” answered the elder Miss Lovel.
“We have made arrangements with her,” echoed Miss Katharine, and here she bent her head and gave vent to a little choking sob.
The squire was very restless all night, and several times the words “Kitty” and “Valentine” escaped his lips. The end was near and the poor old brain was wandering.
Toward morning he was left alone for a few moments with Miss Katharine.
“Father,” she said suddenly, kneeling by his bedside, clasping his hand, and looking at him imploringly, “father, you would bid us be kind to Valentine’s children?”
“Valentine’s children?” repeated the old man. “Ay, ay, Kitty. My head wanders. Are they Valentine’s children or Rupert’s children? – the Rupert who should have inherited Avonsyde. Somebody’s children were here to-day, but I cannot remember whether they belonged to Valentine or Rupert.”
“Father, they belong to Valentine – to your son Valentine. You are dying. May I bring them to you, and will you bless them before you go?”
The old squire looked up at his daughter with dim and fading eyes. She did not wait to listen for any assent from his lips, but flying from the room, returned presently with two rosy, cherub-like creatures.
“Kiss your grandfather, Kitty; his pain is bad. Kiss him tenderly, dear little child.”
Kitty pursed up her full red lips and gave the required salute solemnly.
“Now, Rachel, kiss your grandfather; he is very ill.”
Rachel too raised herself on tiptoe, and bending forward touched the old man’s lips lightly with her own.
“Rupert’s child,” he murmured; “ay, ay, just like Rupert.”
Shortly afterward he died.
CHAPTER III. – PREPARING FOR THE HEIR
“I wonder, Rachel,” said Kitty, “I wonder when the heir will be found.”
Rachel had curled herself up in a luxurious arm-chair, was devouring a new story-book, and was in consequence displeased with Kitty for her question.
“Let me read, Kitty. In half an hour I have to go to my drill, and then practicing, and then learning those tiresome lessons. I don’t care if an heir is never found; do let me read!”
“There’s another one coming to-morrow,” continued Kitty in a by no means abashed voice; “his name is Philip and his mother is coming with him. I heard Aunt Grizel telling Mrs. Eyre all about it, and, Rachel – oh, Rachel, do listen! they are to sleep in the bedroom directly under Aunt Katharine’s and Aunt Grizel’s room in the tower.”
This last piece of information was sufficiently interesting to Rachel to make her fling down her book with an impetuous gesture.
“What a tiresome Kitty you are. I never can read when you come into the room. I was in a most exciting part, but never mind. My half-hour of quiet will be gone in no time. I had better keep the book until I can steal away into the forest and read it in peace.”
“But isn’t it exciting,” pursued Kitty, “to think that they are going to sleep in the tower bedroom?”
“And his name is Philip!” repeated Rachel, “Philip is the name of this one – the last was Guy, and the one before was Ferdinand, and the one before that was Augustus. I want an heir to come of the name of Zerubbabel. I like Zerubbabel, and it’s uncommon. What a pity this one’s name is Philip!”
“Oh, he’s not the real heir,” said little Kitty, shaking her head solemnly; “he’s only another make-believe; but it’s rather exciting his mother coming too and the tower room being prepared. Rachel, aren’t you almost certain that when the real, true heir comes his name will be Rupert? Why, of course it must be Rupert – mustn’t it, Rachel?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” answered Rachel, tumbling out of her luxurious chair and shaking back her dark, untidy locks. “How old is Philip, Kitty? Poor Philip, I wish him joy of the place! He’ll find it dull enough, and he’ll find Aunt Grizel very tiresome and Aunt Katharine very sweet, but very stupid, and he’ll wish he wasn’t the heir a thousand times in the twenty-four hours. How old is he, Kitty-cat? Just tell me quickly, for I must go.”
“He’s eight years old,” replied Kitty in a very interested tone; “that’s another thing that’s exciting – his being so near to my age. Aunt Grizel says that he’ll be a sort of a companion for me. I do hope he’ll be a nice little boy.”
“I don’t care anything at all about him,” said Rachel; “he may be the heir or he may not. I’m not in the least interested. I don’t see anything exciting in the fact of a stupid little boy coming to Avonsyde with his mother; it’s a slow place and he’ll have a slow life, and
