Chapter II: Part 2

Hazel, bent on humouring the hungry lad, after placing the food within easy reach, discreetly turned away and occupied eye and hand in the rearrangement of flowers in their several vases, adroitly holding her mother in conversation the while; but when, five minutes later, having completed her task with all possible deliberation, and having duly considered the result of her labour, with head on this side and that, the girl came forward to take her favourite seat beside her mother's chair: lo, the cup was empty, the plate bare, and Teddie was ingenuously reviewing his boots in taciturn and blue-eyed melancholy.

Despite himself, however, the boy could not long pretend to a condition so at variance with his joyful, hopeful young nature. In truth, by dinner-time, in response to the second sounding of the gong, fresh washed and dressed, his hunger appeased--for it is to be supposed that Teddie was responsible for the disappearance of the bread and butter and tea--he presented himself, to Hazel's delight, in the likeness of the more familiar Teddie, having set aside all pseudo-dejection, and, if truth be told, looking wonderfully handsome in his evening garb, which, though shabby and curiously appointed with high lights in all prominent places, was well brushed, and displayed a goodly show of spotless and snow-white cuff. So fresh and handsome did the boy look, indeed, that Hazel, quite impressed, regarded him in admiration.

"Why, Teddie," she cried, "how nice you look! And you were complaining, only last night, that your dinner jacket was not fit to wear. It is a little shiny, certainly, but----"

"You don't suppose," said Teddie seriously, amazed at her simplicity, "you don't suppose that I should be such a noodle as to wear my own evening clothes? No, no, I save my own, whenever I get the chance!"

"Oh, what a shame," Hazel expostulated. "Then whose are these?"

"Why, Hugh's," her brother informed her, with an irrepressible chuckle. "And it is all very well to cry shame, Hazel; but why do you suppose this suit looks so decent? Because, forsooth, Hugh puts it carefully away and wears mine whenever he can. And again, why has mine become so extremely shabby? Because, when he has it on--and he manages to wear it pretty often, let me tell you--he is utterly reckless as to how he treats it: he will lie upon the grass in it; and he wore it a great deal while he was making those bookshelves for you, and messing about generally in the carpenter's room of an evening."

"Mrs. Doidge has fine-drawn the hole in the knee where the chisel went through, sir," murmured Miles, as he offered his young master the vegetables, with deferential bend, "and I brushed and laid everything out upon your bed, sir, as usual."

"Thank you, Miles; yes, I saw that," Teddie rejoined. "Well, they will be all the readier. I am afraid I shall be wearing them very soon: something tells me that it won't be long before Hugh comes," he added, turning to Hazel.

Good, faithful Miles! With how much perseverance did he endeavour, in things great and small, to keep up his loved "family" to the level of their former status, deeming such condition essential to their well-being! With what toil and labour did he strive that each of his young masters should at all times appear well groomed, that they might not miss, nor show they lacked, the attentions of the two valets whose services had been entirely devoted to his five sons, by Hubert's order!

And indeed, as Miles himself was wont to confess, if it were not for the saving help of their faithful servant, long ere this would the young gentlemen have presented themselves at dinner in morning dress, to be tended by a couple of maids--Miles always lost his equanimity at the mere thought of women at table. He shuddered to contemplate the probable condition of the plate and glass, that constituted his greatest pride, under feminine control.

He would look into the drawing-room or search the hall--either of which places were gathering grounds of the family--a few minutes before the sounding of the dinner-gong, and if one luckless Le Mesurier boy chanced to be lurking in some corner, in morning garb, hoping to escape the watchful eye of the redoubted butler, Miles would immediately spy him out, and with bland severity inform the delinquent that he would ask Mrs. Doidge to "put the dinner back" a quarter of an hour, if his young master could find that sufficient time in which to make his toilet. His patient persistence at length shamed the boys into meek acquiescence, so that Miles had relaxed his stern vigilance somewhat of late, showing in its stead a pathetic trust in their own sense of right, such as they could not disregard.

The flower-garden too, in the immediate neighbourhood of the house, would be overrun with weeds--as he had once found it after a month's confinement to the house with an obstinate attack of rheumatism--entailing the extra expense of outside help for their suppression. It is true that Miss Hazel had wrestled with the noxious growths--as her little brown hands testified, for she either could not or would not keep on the queerly fashioned and enormous gloves that Mrs. Doidge assured the girl were the correct thing for gardening, and with which the good woman was careful to supply her; but what was his little mistress's feeble strength, pitted against the alarming odds of the pertinacious herbage? Miles asked pitifully, when even he, tough, work-hardened old man that he was, found the fight a fierce and oft-to-be-repeated one: for the foe, fresh and smiling in their green uniform, seemed to bear charmed lives, and to rise in formidable ranks like so many phoenixes from the weed carnage. Extermination seemed an impossibility, notwithstanding the feverish energy with which Miles went forth to combat, and the wondrous strategy that he brought to bear upon the imposing and ever-smiling green army.

*CHAPTER III*

Two days later, Teddie and Hazel, she seated on far-stretching, hopelessly tangled tree-roots, he prone upon his back on the dry moss, disported themselves in the leafy shade of the beloved greenwood, deep in consultation on the same momentous question that Hazel had endeavoured to solve alone: how might she earn money?

Typewriting had been discussed, but the idea was soon abandoned, Teddie informing his sister that, to be successful in that branch of industry, a peculiar kind of appearance was desirable--indeed, was essentially needful--an appearance that Hazel entirely lacked, as she herself would admit, could she see "the sort" that frequented the office adjoining Mr. Hamilton's.

"Why," the boy declared, "they would simply stare if _you_ suddenly turned up there and asked for a job, and the boss would inquire delicately where your mother was, and would instruct his head clerk to take you back to her."

"I should not go like this," Hazel returned, deprecatingly, fingering a piece of her white spotted muslin, and eyeing her brother wistfully. "I should probably have a tailor-made tweed dress, and a man's straw hat, and thick boots, and a stand-up collar and tie. You have no idea how--how strong-minded I could look, if I had the proper dress for bringing it out. Most women owe it to their dress: I am quite sure they don't feel and stride about like that, in their dressing-gowns."

She regarded him pleadingly; the mere thought of becoming one of the City band--the doing away for ever with the dolorous Monday morning partings--above all, the obtaining of means to supply her mother with endless little luxuries, made the proposition a very tempting one to the girl.

But Teddie shook his head. "It is a peculiar _stamp_," he said musingly, "and, take my word for it, Hazel, it is not all in the clothes. Why, some of them dress quite aesthetically; but it is no go, they are typewriters. Not that I disapprove of them as a class," he hastened to add. "If it comes to that, some of them are quite pretty, but--well, you would not do, and that is all about it."

There was a short silence. The sun glinted in and out among the tree-branches in shimmering shafts of yellow light, the leaves quivered slightly in the still air, the birds chirped, and Hazel sighed.

"Besides," Teddie continued, feeling perhaps that he had been somewhat unsympathetically sweeping in his assertions, "there would be the expense of learning. You don't become a full-blown typewriter all at once, you know. You don't just sit down and manage it, so to speak, as you happen to be able to play the piano--without lessons."

Hazel brightened visibly so soon as this very real obstacle--means--was put before her: she was willing to give up any attempt at scaling an obstruction that would obviously harm her in the ascent. It was not that she was cowardly, or easily discouraged--far from it: never was girl pluckier or keener spirited; but she was wise in her generation, and saw that the loss entailed in the attempt to gain was greater than the gain itself; that the other side of the block, in short, was not worth the reaching.

"That is true," she admitted, relieved. "There is the tailor-made dress, too! Let us talk of other ways." She hesitated. "Now, don't laugh, Teddie," she went on, "just think seriously over what I am going to propose, and then say yes or no, after due consideration, you know. Teddie--could I be a governess?" And the girl unconsciously straightened her back, while an expression of mild severity overspread her countenance.

Teddie's surprise at this, to him astounding, idea silenced his tongue. After a few moments the slender figure drooped--Hazel never stooped, she drooped: as different a state, mental and physical, as ugliness from beauty--the pretty features relaxed.

"Of course I know," she resumed modestly, "that they would have to be very, very young children--or very backward older ones. I should prefer the backward ones: the very young are so fascinating. I don't know whether I should have the strength of mind, if they were hot and tired, and wanting to play, to insist on their finishing the spelling-lesson or sum; and I know that, while you cannot be too kind and too patient, you also cannot be too firm in having the little task completed. But," she added reflectively, chin in hand, "I should be wise and see to it that the task was a very short and easy one, especially if the child was particularly longing to go out, or was not quite well."

The girl had almost forgotten her brother's presence, and had entered into a little world of her own. She pictured to herself a pleasant, airy schoolroom with three or four happy, rosy children seated at the table, of which she herself was the head, strewn with the usual schoolroom paraphernalia: rulers, slates, dingy spelling-books of dog's-eared, awe-inspiring columns of words, slate pencils whose points and bluntness alike set your teeth on edge when you looked at them; copy-books with pot-hooks and hangers to copy in pencil--for Hazel would permit no inkpots nor ink-bespattering pens to enter her domain, to sully the purity of clean pinafores and childish fingers. Yes, she would be careful that the room should be airy, for she knew that much of rosy-cheeked happiness must depend upon that; the lessons short and interesting: for how should a child, mewed up in a close atmosphere, set to learn a tedious task, which no older mind had first rendered pleasant and understandable by a little intelligent smoothing and explaining, be aught but fidgety, cross, and unhappy? A child's mind should be lightly taxed, Hazel decided. She also decided that, however unorthodox it might be, she would always have freshly cut flowers upon her schoolroom table. Lessons were to be connected with pretty things, as well as with smeary slate and dingy spelling-book. Besides, how useful they would be in furnishing themes on which to discourse to her eager-eared young charges!

These ideas floated through the girl's vivid imagination within the space of a few moments only. Presently she roused herself, and shook herself free of the reverie into which she had fallen.

"I suppose it ought to be the backward ones," she said with a sigh.

"To think of Miss Le Mesurier becoming a governess," Teddie observed ruminatingly. "It is ridiculous, Hazel. Why, you would be romping with them round the table? And why are they to be so very young or, if older, dolts? Do you mean you cannot teach?"

"I don't quite know," Hazel returned, hesitating and pausing. "My--my education has been--er--has been rather choppy, hasn't it?" she asked a little timidly, fearful of wounding her brother's feelings, for the five boys had had practically the charge of their little sister's education. Cecil, until he had obtained his present post in the Indian Civil Service, had given her a daily lesson in some or other branch of knowledge, at irregular times, certainly--an occasional hour before breakfast, or half an hour before bedtime. But the girl was an apt pupil. She marked, learned, and inwardly digested--her clever little brain seemed to be well nourished: for the food on which it was fed, albeit scanty, was of goodly quality, and the very ample time allowed her for the assimilation of each respective lesson was perhaps the secret, in part, of her strongly marked digestive power.

Then Guy had taken her in hand, but soon confessed himself no teacher--that Hazel's odd questions puzzled him. Soon afterwards he left home to play his modest part in the government of his country. The girl was then passed over to Gerald--good, steady, faithful, plodding Gerald. In him she found her master: he an intelligent, interesting pupil. Together they would while away the long morning hours in profound study, in summer taking their books to the woods; in winter the bearskin before the hall hearth would often be the scene of their labour.

Necessity, however, caused long months of enforced holiday, when the girl would have been impatient of days, and of late Saturday evening had become the only time possible for Gerald to devote to two or three hours of tutorage; while on Sunday, between church hours, the young man would read aloud and make instructive comments to a little auditor, all ears and eyes, upon books, the like of which caused the hair of Hugh and Teddie to rise upon their heads in amaze, in that their brother and sister should find pleasure in such "deadly dry stuff," to couch the expression in their own tongue. And Monday morning would see the persevering tutor, at a very early hour, correcting writings of his pupil's authorship, and further arranging a programme for the ensuing days of his absence.

"I don't fancy I am well grounded," the girl went on, "and I should suppose that to be very important to teachers." She paused.

"I must say," Teddie remarked remonstrantly, "that you are not very complimentary to Gerald--or to me, if it comes to that. I have given you a turn at arithmetic, myself, and I have found you smart enough."

"Yes, oh yes, thank you, old fellow," Hazel returned hastily, apologetically. "He and--and you"--it appeared a little difficult to the girl to make the addition--"have the talent of teaching. Now, even supposing my learning to be sufficient, have _I_?"

"I don't see that it _is_ the question," returned her brother, much mollified, "for none of us would let you become a governess: it would be too absurd--you are only a child yourself."

At this Hazel waxed indignant. "I am young," she admitted with naive frankness, "but I am tall and fond of children. Mother was saying lately that my next new dress must be made quite long. See," she cried, springing up and walking swiftly to and fro in straight-limbed, supple grace, "they are all but long already. And of course," the girl continued, resuming her seat, "I should do up my hair and wear 'ladies',' instead of 'girls'' hats. As I said before, you have no idea how much is owed to clothes."

There was a short silence. Teddie, upon his back, groaned slightly.

"Now listen, Teddie," Hazel presently continued, "I have one more plan to lay before you and, really, out of three, it is only reasonable to expect you to think seriously of one, and finally to agree to try it and help me to persuade mother. In this last plan, indeed, we need not consult her--she need know nothing about it, but just live happily and enjoy the results of it."

The girl paused and looked about her, half startled, on encountering the inquisitive glance of the bright eyes of her favourite squirrel who, afraid to approach nearer--his mistress, the wood-nymph, seemingly entertaining company--appeared to be listening with all his might for the proposition about to be unfolded by her.

"Teddie," Hazel said, bending over him and speaking low, "what do you say to us--to you and me--_keeping a lodger_ at Hazelhurst?"

In the pause that ensued Teddie rolled over upon his face, but never a word spoke he. Hazel regarded him a little anxiously, uncertain as to his state of mind. At length he broke the silence.

"_We should have to feed it_," he remarked, in hollow accents.

"I thought of that," Hazel returned eagerly, delighted that the proposal met with no more definite negative, "but suppose we were lucky--suppose we found a very delicate one, who wanted heaps of fresh air--we could give it the whole of the west wing, for instance--but one that could eat hardly anything? But no, that would not do," she continued, after pausing to reflect, "it would be more expense in the end, than less, to have a delicate lodger, I mean. You see, one would have to provide chicken and jelly, even if it would not eat, just to try to tempt it. No, we hid better look out for a moderately healthy one, but one who was used to plain food, you know: the sort that likes bread and cheese for lunch, better than anything else, and is a firm teetotaller. Who is that coming, I wonder?" she broke off suddenly.

The two raised themselves to listen, in breathless silence.

"Perhaps it is some one looking for lodgings," Teddie whispered mischievously. "Now remember, Hazel, twenty guineas a week for the west wing, garrets five shillings each, and the basement seven-and-six."

"It is Hugh," the girl exclaimed, springing to her feet and running to meet the fourth Le Mesurier boy, who, hot, dusty, and tired, yet returned his sister's greeting affectionately, if somewhat shame-facedly, as he became aware of the presence of his brother.

Teddie, at Hazel's exclamation, had sunk back into his former position and now lay, cool and comfortable, complacently regarding the new-comer with twinkling eyes.

"Hallo!" he said brightly. "So you have turned up, have you? I hope you will be comfortable. I have spent a very pleasant couple of days here myself. I ran down, without lunch, on Monday, and Mrs. Doidge has been feeding me up ever since." And Teddie gave vent to a sigh of satisfaction.

"Slack beast," murmured Hugh disgustedly. Yielding to the silent entreaty of Hazel's little hand and seating himself upon some moss, he threw off his hat and proceeded to mop his damp face.

"What is that?" Teddie asked innocently. "But, I say, you do look hot, old fellow. Walked up, I suppose?"

"Ugh," grunted Hugh.

"Doubtless in some perturbation of mind," Teddie continued sympathetically. "Very heating, this weather. And your bag, too--had books in it, perhaps?"

A slightly sardonic smile overspread Hugh's countenance.

"Talking of books, there was one of yours that I packed with mine," he announced in a friendly way, "and I left the bag at the station, thinking you might like to fetch it."

Teddie's blue eyes of a sudden blazed with wrath. "Do you mean to say," he asked, an ominous quietude marking his manner, "do you mean to say that you left a heavy bag of books at the station for me to fetch, your only excuse being that the bag contains a wretched thirty-page paper-covered pamphlet on Dentistry that chanced to be left in my name at our lodgings?"

"Partly that," returned Hugh, with the same air of engaging frankness. "I thought you would be pleased to see it again, and I knew it would grieve you to have me toiling up with anything belonging to you. Also partly because I thought the exercise would do you good: you have been out at grass long enough. I am glad I was so fully justified in my ideas," he added, "for on your own admitting you are eating your head off, and doing nothing all day."

"I hope you have a second supply of hair-brushes and--er--other things pertaining to the toilet," Teddie observed politely, his anger evaporated, a similar smile lighting his boyish features, "because I don't suppose you will feel inclined to make a second trip to the station to-day, and I don't happen to be going that way this afternoon. By the way, I shall have to wear my own dress clothes to-night," he added, with the air of one who is struck with an idea that necessitates reflection.

It was now Hugh's turn to wax indignant, but the sight of Hazel returning at this auspicious moment, bearing in her hand a large glass of lemon-squash, which she tendered to the hot and dusty lad, extinguished instantly the dire wrath that was kindling within his breast, making him feel very amiable toward his thoughtful little sister in particular, and to a world that included Teddie, in general.

"Ah," he exclaimed, pausing in the draught in order to take a deep breath, "there is nothing like lemon-squash in hot weather," and he turned a softened pair of blue eyes upon his brother, with a look of gathering trust that seemed only to ask sympathy.

Teddie vainly tried to look indifferent as he regarded the favoured Hugh a trifle wistfully; but nature is weak.

"It is a curious thing, Hazel," he remarked insinuatingly, "how awfully thirsty one gets this weather, even doing nothing."

"Oh, Teddie, I am so sorry," the girl made answer, "but Mrs. Doidge has no more spare lemons. Perhaps Hugh----" she broke off: it was too late. The glass was drained to the last drop, and Hugh, with a sigh of contentment, arranged his long limbs upon the mossy carpet for half an hour's repose before luncheon.

A couple of hours later Teddie, tired of inaction, being besides of an extremely good-hearted disposition, having melted sufficiently toward his brother, took his way to the station for the purpose of carrying home that brother's personal effects; but, only human, he could not resist the desire to open the bag and subtract therefrom the luckless pamphlet, which he proceeded to tear into shreds and scatter along the hedgerow.

*CHAPTER IV*

About a week after the circumstances of mixed joy and embarrassment recorded in the last chapter, there came strolling through the Le Mesuriers' wood one Paul Charteris, tall, lithe, and handsome being in the thirty-first year of his age. The master of Earnscleugh was on his way to Hazelhurst with the intention of paying his respects to its mistress, whom he had not seen for some six or seven years, having for that t space of time been an attach in the British Embassy at St. Petersburg. Eight years since, on the death of his father, Vivian, his elder brother, had inherited Earnscleugh and all pertaining to it, including the great town house. Vivian was devoted to his brother, and begged that they two should continue to share the old home as heretofore. But Paul's was a restless spirit: his college career ended, he must be up and doing. The interest of influential friends soon obtained for the young man the coveted post in Russia, and Vivian, with regret, was perforce obliged to yield where he had no authority to interfere. Therefore, for six long years was Paul Charteris no more seen among his people. Yet, while the elder brother yearned for the companionship he had always known, he could not but admit that it was better so, that action was necessary to Paul. For himself it was different He was essentially a student by nature, and wished only for a retired life. A slight limp in his gait fostered and favoured this recluse propensity, and the solitary years before his death were lived almost exclusively in the library at Earnscleugh, devoted to study, at such times as his multifarious duties with steward or lawyer--faithfully and patiently performed by the young master--left him free to follow his own devices.

Then came the death of Vivian at the early age of three-and-thirty, and Paul was called to take upon his own shoulders the responsibility of the vast estates of Earnscleugh.

He did not respond at once. Indeed, it would have been difficult for him to throw up his position at short notice. Neither had the young man any great inclination to take possession of his own, for the inheritance was rendered hateful to him, that had come to him only with the loss of his brother. He dreaded the sight of the empty place, the lonely library, the disused smoking-room, with its many familiar objects: skins of animals, boyish attempts at photography that the two brothers had always kept upon the walls and mantelshelf, as relics of their happy childhood. He shuddered as he thought upon such desolation.

So that a year had elapsed since the death of Vivian, and Paul had arrived only a few days since, his trouble somewhat softened by the healing of time. Nevertheless, it was a sorrowful ordeal. He yearned inexpressibly for the sight of his brother's form, seated in the old place at the study table, as he had so often pictured to himself; for the gladness that was wont to light Vivian's features at the appearance of himself, after even a temporary separation; for the tones of his voice. However, the first dreaded days were rendered considerably less painful by the almost continuous presence of Mr. Lewis, the family solicitor, or Crawford, the steward.

Yet, the first press of affairs over, Paul found more leisure in which to indulge his sorrow, and very sorely it beset him: its tyranny at length forcing him to rouse himself and endeavour to throw off the oppression. He presently bethought him of the friends and acquaintances of years gone by, and determined upon a course of visits, that should at once renew kindly recollections and while away the tedium of hours not enlightened by work. The Le Mesuriers were naturally uppermost in his mind, for the Hazelhurst estates joined those of Earnscleugh. They were nice enough boys, he was glad to remind himself--they would be strapping young fellows by now--and for their mother he entertained affectionate memories, for she had been a good friend and counsellor to the two motherless sons of Philip Charteris. Vivian, indeed, could remember her first coming to Hazelhurst, a bright, beautiful young creature, and the boy of six had formed quite a romantic attachment. Then there was that little brown witch of a girl, Hazel. Hazel must be sixteen or seventeen, Paul reflected, and he smiled at the recollection of their last interview, seven years since.

He had taken leave of Mrs. Le Mesurier and of such Le Mesurier boys as were present, and was departing through the wood, without accomplishing a farewell to his little friend Hazel, who was nowhere to be found. Passing beneath an oak, he heard above him a suppressed exclamation, then the rending of "gathers," and the child stood beside him, holding her torn frock together with one hand and courteously tending him the other.

"You are going away, aren't you?" she had asked him gravely. "You have been to say good-bye to mother and the boys?" and she turned to accompany him to the boundary fence.

"Yes," Paul replied, "and I was afraid I should have to go without seeing you."

"It would not have mattered," she answered, "you saw me on Tuesday, only three days ago. What will it matter, when you are going away for years, whether you saw me on Tuesday or Friday?"

"But I did not say good-bye on Tuesday," Paul returned, much amused. "That matters; don't you think so?"

"No," Hazel said quaintly. "Going away means good-bye. There is no need to say it, except in your heart."

"Still I like to say it to you and in my heart as well," Paul persisted. "To-morrow, when I shall be already in Paris, I shall be saying, 'Good-bye, little Hazel, good-bye; don't forget me.' And then I shall like to recall how you looked and what you said in answer."

At this juncture they had reached the fence dividing the two estates, and Paul turned to face his little companion.

"I am going away for years," he said, a trifle wistfully. "Will you give a fellow a kiss, Hazel?"

"No," Hazel returned decisively. "I am sorry, but I am too old. You may take both my hands, if you like," she added graciously.

Paul gratefully possessed himself of the proffered hands, and looked long into the upturned childish eyes.

"I wonder whether you will be as pretty when I come back as you are now," was his boyish comment.

"I don't know," Hazel returned indifferently. "I hope I shan't be any browner," she added; "the boys do tease me so."

"And shall you be saying 'good-bye, Paul,' in your heart to-morrow?" he asked eagerly.

"Of course," she said earnestly, somewhat surprised at the question. "All the time till you are home again."

"Let me hear you say it now," he entreated.

"Good-bye, Paul," she said obediently, and made to withdraw her hands.

"And you are quite sure about the--about the kiss?" he asked diffidently.

Hazel regarded him in mild reproach.

"I am sorry," he said hastily. "I did not mean to ask again. Good-bye, Hazel; don't forget me."

He vaulted over the fence and was gone.

Following the same twisting path that he had passed over then, with his child companion, the young man was presently aware that his dog, which had trotted on ahead, was leaping backwards and forwards before a certain tree, breaking into short, excited barks. Thinking it likely that Towzer was scaring some pet or other of Hazel's, Paul called sharply to his four-footed friend, but was not heeded by that usually most obedient of dogs. Becoming angry, he quickened his pace, and, raising his stick, was about to punish Towzer, when, to his astonishment, its point was seized from above and held firmly--after one or two ineffectual efforts to wrest it from his hand--while a girlish voice said, in laughing tones:

"No, you don't."

Paul peered up, in among the clustering foliage, and presently descried the recumbent form of a girl, lying at full length along one of the great boughs--her dress, of the exact shade of the bark, rendering her discovery difficult. The girl released her hold of the stick and sat up, one slender foot and ankle becoming visible beneath the canopy of leaves above the young man's head, and with both hands she parted the green screen before her face and peeped down at him. It was a lovely face that Paul beheld--bewitching, indescribable in its charm, framed in soft brown hair.

"Hazel--Miss Le Mesurier," he cried, "have you lived in that tree ever since I went away?" For he now recognised the giant oak. "I always said you were a little Dryad. Won't you deign to come down and be mortal for a while?"

"Certainly," returned Miss Le Mesurier, and hesitated. "If you will be so good as to walk on," she added, rather severely, "I will join you in a few moments."

Paul did as he was bidden. A rustling among the branches ensued, then a light jump to the ground; and as he turned eagerly to greet her, Paul was almost expectant of seeing one little hand occupied in the holding together of a rent skirt, so vivid were old associations with him just then. She came swiftly to his side, the soft cloud of hair floating around her. In the brown eyes shone a glad friendliness--the same grave, direct regard he remembered so well: a child-like, inquiring, essentially intelligent gravity, often to be remarked in clever, highly sensitive faces--and Hazel's was a very clever and acutely sensitive little face, in the truest sense for women, womanly. But, though childlike and open as ever, the expressive countenance was more grand, more noble--an earnest that the beautiful little nature of the _child_ Hazel had grown up in the way of its starting, without deviation.

She held out a hand to Paul, very slightly larger than the one that had bidden him farewell; and if it was not browner, it was quite as brown, but such a pretty, soft, warm tinge in the clear, transparent skin as made all whiter skin appear harsh in contrast, to Paul's thinking. It courteously shook his, and withdrew.

"How long have you been home?" she asked, when the wise, childlike eyes were satisfied; and, truly, Paul was a goodly sight.

"Six days," Paul returned. "I arrived here on Monday. But there was work to see to; and, besides, I did not feel like visiting any one, just at first."

"Of course," the girl responded sympathetically. "The boys will be home to-day," she added. "Three of them. So to-morrow--to-night even--you will have something cheering."

"I feel cheered already," Paul returned, cheerfully enough, as they turned to walk on together in the direction of the house. "How are they? How is your mother?" he inquired.

"Mother is fairly well," Hazel replied. "The boys are always well."

"And doing well?" Paul asked. "Affairs are prospering, I hope?"--the fortunes of the Le Mesuriers were ever an open secret.

"No," Hazel admitted, frankly and without reserve, "things are rather bad, and we are dreadfully poor just now--especially myself. You would hardly believe it," she went on confidentially, "but if it had not been for one and sixpence that Hugh gave me last Wednesday--already it has come down to eightpence--I should not possess a halfpenny. See," and the girl held out a limp little silken purse.

Paul took it from her. "What a quaint little thing! May I look inside?" he asked.

"Of course," Hazel said. "But I have told you exactly what is in it: eightpence."

And sure enough, two threepenny pieces and four halfpennies rolled out upon Paul's open palm.

"It is partly owing to the fact of Hugh and Teddie being out of work," Hazel went on, when the purse had been restored to her, and safely bestowed in her pocket. "They are in town to-day looking for something. But I am very much afraid they won't find anything. You know," she added, unconsciously moving a little nearer to him as they walked, "the main difficulty is, I believe, that they don't look 'clerky,' and their name is not a 'clerky' one, is it? These trifles make a difference, don't you think?" And she looked up at him with considering, brown eyes.

"I am sure they must," Paul assented.

"It only struck me lately," Hazel, following her own train of thought, presently resumed, "quite lately, how exactly like the portrait of Hugo Le Mesurier Teddie is. Of course Hugo has long hair and a lace collar--he was a Cavalier in the days of Cromwell, you know--but if he changed his clothes and cut his hair, the face alone would be enough to make people say they did not require a clerk"--and she sighed.

"I can well believe it," Paul agreed, sympathetically.

"I have been consulting the boys as to how I might earn a little money, if it were only five shillings a week," the girl continued. "They say I don't look like a typewriter. What do you think?"

"Great Heavens, no!" Paul ejaculated vehemently, horrified at the bare suggestion.

"That is how they feel," Hazel returned resignedly. "Only, they are a little calmer about it: they have seen so many, you know, poor things," she added, ingenuously. "Next," she began again, after a slight pause, "we considered letting lodgings, without mother's knowledge. But Teddie says a 'cute lodger would take me in horribly. He says I am no more cut out for a landlady than for a typewriter. Do you agree with that?"

"Most emphatically," Paul replied, unable to restrain a smile, which, however, escaped the girl's notice.

"You do?" she said, a trifle wistfully, as though half disappointed. "I hoped that you might, on thinking it over, consider it not such a bad plan as it at first appeared to you. I had thought of an invalid lady-lodger, who would require plenty of fresh air, but very little food. Though on second thoughts it occurred to me that we should have to persuade her with all sorts of dainties. So that would not do. But a gentleman, now, a gentleman, however unscrupulous in most matters, would not take a lady in, would he?" And the girl looked for his assurance.

"He would be an infernal cad if he did," Paul returned fiercely, tugging at his moustache.

"Yes," Hazel agreed. "I should hardly think that quite such cads existed, should you? Such very infernal ones, I mean. For even the greatest gentleman cad must have the sleeping instincts of a gentleman."

Paul's face was inscrutable.

"Now a bounder is different," was Hazel's startling announcement. "A bounder has never been a gentleman. He was born bounding, as you might say. I would rather deal with a cad myself: a bounder is so hopeless."

There was a short silence, devoted by both to reviewing the situation.

"But, Haz--Miss Le Mesurier," Paul amended, "you--you surely are not seriously thinking of--of this? Especially a gentleman. It--it--well, it would not be very usual, you know, especially if your mother is to be kept in ignorance."

"You mean, it is not the thing?" Hazel asked, simply, coming to his aid. "Oh, but we Le Mesuriers never trouble much about conventionalities," she explained airily. "Teddie says that ladies or gentlemen are always safe in following their inclinations--provided, of course, that those inclinations are not bad. Now, I don't think you could call my inclinations bad," she went on, meditatively, giving to the weighty question its due consideration. "They do rather lead me to take in a gentleman lodger, but he need not necessarily be a cad, you must remember. He might be very nice, and we might get quite fond of him."

"Certainly," poor Paul agreed, rather helplessly. It was evident that Hazel had interpreted his words to mean, he was under the impression that she, and the Le Mesuriers generally, delighted in cads and the like doubtful company.

At this juncture they reached the flower-garden, which, thanks be to Miles, looked pleasant enough. The girl led her companion swiftly through its winding paths and up the broad flight of steps. The marble-paved hall, with its shaded open windows, was deliciously cool and refreshing after the heat and glare without. In one of the wide recesses Miles was busied about the tea-table, collecting chairs from different quarters of the sparsely furnished hall. He turned as the two approached.

"You remember Miles?" Hazel asked of Paul. "Miles, Mr. Charteris has come home."

The old man bowed deferentially and made to withdraw, but Paul went forward and took the hand of the faithful old servant.

"Remember Miles? I should think I did, and the many things he has forgiven me when I was a boy," he said warmly.

A gleam of pleasure lighted the butler's furrowed countenance.

"I have had a deal of experience of boys," he said, somewhat sententiously, "having five young masters of my own, and I know what is natural to them, and only right, and what is wrong."

"And I was only natural, was I?" Paul laughingly asked.

"Yes, sir," Miles answered stolidly.

Hazel, who had gone in quest of her mother, soon returned with Helen.

"I am very glad to see you, Paul," Mrs. Le Mesurier said simply, regarding him with something of her daughter's direct gaze. "You are 'Paul' still, I hope?"

"If you will--if you please," he returned earnestly, and it suddenly occurred to the young man that Hazel had not named him at all.

He remarked little change in Mrs. Le Mesurier, save that she appeared to him more frail, perhaps, and the blue eyes seemed almost grey, as though the tears of her great grief had faded them.

"We have much to tell you of Vivian," she observed, as they seated themselves and Hazel made tea. "You know what a student he was, but he always found time to come to us, and always welcomed my children to his house. Indeed, they had the run of it at all times," she added. "I often feared it must inconvenience him."

"It was his greatest happiness," Paul said simply. "He frequently mentioned the boys and--and your daughter in his letters to me, and how their presence enlivened the old home."

"Poor Vivian!" Helen murmured. "He missed you sadly, Paul; but he always confessed that things were best as they were; that he would not have you home to pine in idleness."

She related many anecdotes of his brother that she knew would cheer Paul, and they fell to talking over old reminiscences, presently coming back to the topics of to-day, and the existing state of affairs; and Paul was soon laying before Helen a plan of his own sudden devising.

"Why should not Hugh come to me for a while as my secretary?" he asked. "If he does not care for the work, after giving it a trial, he can continue his search in the City."

"I don't want to seem conceited," Hazel broke in upon the conversation. She was seated near her mother on a low stool, chin in hand, deeply interested in all that passed. "I don't want to seem conceited," she said modestly, "but I can't help thinking that you had better have _me_. One often hears of lady secretaries," she went on, in expostulation at the smile upon her mother's face, a smile that Paul's countenance reflected; "it would be delightful, and you would not mind how I dressed, would you?" she added, turning eagerly to Paul. "You would let me have my hair down, and let me wear what I liked, provided I came punctually at the hours you named, and did the work properly."

Paul looked upon the ground. It was difficult to keep the muscles about his mouth under control. Helen was about to speak when Hazel resumed: for it appeared to her that Paul was considering the matter.

"I dare say you would be rather cross with me sometimes, at first," she admitted, "and think my writing queer and untidy; but I should soon fall into your ways, and my writing is at least legible. I have more of a business head than Hugh," she added, after a pause. "You see, I am not hampered by a love of drawing."

Mrs. Le Mesurier had acquainted her guest with Hugh's difficulties of temperament.

The girl awaited a decision breathlessly, but it was Helen who first spoke, the while Paul contemplated the little brown business head, with its wonderful, drooping hair, in silent and varied emotions.

"It would not do, Hazel," she said quietly. "Neither Paul nor myself would like it, nor think it wise."

Hazel glanced quickly at Paul, only to see him confirm her mother's words by a smiling shake of the head.

"Very well, motherling," she said resignedly, "and, after all, it would be selfish in me not to let Hugh have the trial," she added, more brightly.

Nevertheless, the girl looked down at the two small hands in her lap, and sighed.

*CHAPTER V*

The next day, Sunday, Hugh, Gerald, and Teddie, the two latter in high and unrelenting collars, well smoothed as to hair, attired in well-brushed clothes and boots of an almost supernatural polish--for Miles, the faithful, had personally attended their toilet--soberly and with elaborate care helped each the other over the boundary fence, intent upon returning, with prompt courtesy, the call their mother had received from Paul Charteris. The three wished to create a favourable impression upon their whilom friend, and a "decent get-up," to use Hugh's own words, was of the utmost importance for producing this desired result. Hugh, who had affected a low collar and loose tie, would have been well satisfied with himself were it not for the annoying circumstance that his new shoes pinched horribly, and that they squeaked, being somewhat low down in the scale of gentlemen's shoes, and bent on blatantly announcing the fact.

"Confound the things," he said angrily, trying various modes of locomotion, and finally adopting a mincing step of airy lightness, which seemed somewhat to pacify his fretful footgear, albeit he was pinched no whit less severely.

"Confoundedly hot in these high collars," Teddie grumbled, as he unfolded a snowy handkerchief and dabbed his moist brow. Immediately there was wafted upon the air the scent of lavender.

Hugh and Gerald regarded their brother in some severity, not unmixed with envy, in that they had neglected to make this elegant addition to their own toilets. "By Jove, Teddie," Gerald expostulated, "you must have literally soused that handkerchief."

"It is a bit damp," Teddie acknowledged composedly, "Comes in very refreshing."

Pursuing the winding paths in as direct a line as the topographical possibilities of the wood admitted, they at length came upon a large lawn that skirted the trees and lay smooth and green before the shady verandah of the south side of the house. Several long, low cane chairs stood invitingly about the verandah, and upon one of these, stretched at full length, in utter and complete comfort, was Paul Charteris, in loose white flannel garb, a cigar between his lips, a novel in his hand.

He sprang to his feet with an exclamation of welcome as Gerald, Hugh, and Teddie made their appearance across the lawn.

"Now, you fellows, just make yourselves comfortable and cool off," Paul said in amused compassion, as he marked the heated condition of the trio, and his quick glance took stock of the unsuitability of their habiliments. "I will look up Jackson, and ask for something to drink."

Hugh, glad to avail himself of the invitation, mincingly mounted the steps, and sank gratefully into the easiest chair, the other two likewise seating themselves.

Paul, disappearing for a few moments, quickly returned, followed by a servant bearing a tray, containing various sparkling liquids in multifarious bottles. Over this good and cooling cheer conversation soon became easy and natural, Teddie becoming so much himself as to refer energetically to stand-up collars as a "rotten invention."

"Look here, Charteris," he said, "perhaps, as you are alone, you won't mind my taking it off for a bit," and he proceeded to unfasten the offending piece of starched linen, in accordance with his host's warmly expressed advice, while Hugh surreptitiously slipped his poor tortured toes from their natural quarters into the main body of the shoe.

"You don't object to a pipe, Charteris?" Gerald inquired, producing from his pocket a well-worn briar-root, and, on Paul's assurance that he often enjoyed one himself, Hugh and Teddie quickly produced two others for his edification.

"Hazel received an invitation last night to spend a week with the Travers," Gerald announced conversationally, when all four were luxuriously smoking. "She is rather bothered about it; she does not care to leave the mater for so long."

"She could cut the visit short," Paul said, not unwilling to suggest so pleasing a solution of the difficulty. "How--er--how would your sister go?" he added, prefiguring himself and Hazel taking the long drive together in his dogcart, through the beautiful countryside.

But Gerald's reply quickly extinguished any such day-dream. "Oh, young Travers would fetch her in the trap; that is easy enough," he said carelessly.

"Is that Digby?" Paul asked quickly.

"Yes," Gerald replied, "he is desperately gone on Hazel--makes an awful idiot of himself."

"How old is he?" Paul asked curtly.

"About two- or three-and-twenty," Teddie broke in. "He is a decent fellow enough if only he would not sing."

Paul's innate delicacy would not permit him to ask that which he longed to know: whether or not that brown-eyed child, Hazel, reciprocated the feeling of the importunate Travers. However, Hugh soon relieved him on that score.

"Of course, Hazel does not guess what he is up to," he said, somewhat scornfully, in no wise trying to hide his contempt of the laboriously arranged and clumsily carried out tactics of young Travers. "How should she? None of us are likely to open her eyes. He only succeeds in boring her fearfully; she keeps out of his way whenever she can."

Paul was conscious of a sudden interest, almost amounting to a liking, for the luckless young man. "What sort of a fellow is he to look at?" he asked, readjusting his tie with some complacency.

"Oh, well enough," Hugh returned, to which somewhat vague description Paul's other guests grunted agreement.

"Greeky," Hugh went on, for his host's better understanding, and the subject was dropped, this graphic portraiture being deemed so eminently exhaustive that Charteris must be criticising a vivid mental picture of young Travers, the while he reclined with half-closed eyes, puffing lazily at his cigar.

"By the way," Paul began presently, turning to Hugh, "has Mrs. Le Mesurier spoken to you of the idea we formed?--just a suggestion, you know; you must, of course, feel at perfect liberty to--er----"

"Yes, thanks, awfully," Hugh replied suavely. "I'll turn up to-morrow. Nine o'clock suit--nine to four?"

For a moment Paul was staggered by such prompt acceptance of the post and subsequent arrangement of detail. "I think ten would suit me better," he said, a trifle apologetic. "I like to go in for various modes of exercise for a couple of hours before beginning work."

"All the same to me," Hugh returned airily. "Ten to five, then?"

"What do you say to having no fixed hour for leaving?" Paul suggested. "Just turn up at ten every day, and we can see what work there is to do, and do it. You will as often as not get through in an hour or two."

"That will just suit me," Hugh declared frankly. "And the salary?"

"Well," Paul said, with hesitancy, "a hundred a year would--er----"

"Phew," whistled Teddie, resorting to his bescented handkerchief; "and to think how I have to slave for a miserable forty!"

"But then, look how distasteful any kind of clerical work is to me," Hugh said ingenuously, gently expostulating with the unreasonable Teddie. "Even one hour is very real hard work to me; whereas Gerald, here, positively likes such business. If you look at things in their right proportions, you will find that I could hardly be overpaid, whatever you gave me."

Teddie did not look convinced by his brother's argument, and Paul, half amused, half dismayed at the outspoken candour of his secretary-elect, could not but determine that, whatever it was that filled the fair, curly head, diplomacy did not number among the gifts of Hugh Le Mesurier.

When, after some further talk, the young men rose to take their leave, Paul insisted upon accompanying his guests on at least part of their homeward way. Friendly relations were now so far established between the houses of Earnscleugh and Hazelhurst, that Teddie strolled with easy grace across the lawn, carrying the obnoxious collar in his hand, ever and anon waving it airily in gesticulation in the course of his conversation with Paul and Gerald; whilst Hugh modestly brought up the rear, stepping gingerly in bright red socks, bearing around his neck the plaintive shoes, slung together by their laces.

Hazel, meanwhile, who had walked with her brothers to the verge of the estate, had settled herself cosily upon the carpet of moss with a book, to await their return. Curiously enough, a desire to accompany them never entered the girl's mind, though it had ever been her habit to join her brothers in their excursions. Vivian Charteris had been well accustomed to the sight of Hazel's little figure among the tall and lanky forms of the Le Mesurier boys. Indeed, he would have sorely missed the bright and gentle girl, whom he had known intimately from babyhood, and for whom he entertained a brother's regard. He had gloried in the Le Mesurier lungs--more especially when voiced by the silvery tones of his little, brown-eyed favourite--echoing through his domain or about his house. But Vivian was Vivian, the grave and serious student, sixteen or seventeen years older than herself. Now, a quite unconscious reticence seemed to withhold the girl, to forbid the old childish freedom. Paul was almost a stranger to her: for, during the earliest years of her childhood, he had only spent at Earnscleugh the brief holidays of the long school-terms. At the age of eighteen he had entered upon his college career, visiting either his home or travelling abroad in the vacations; finally quitting England when Hazel had attained to her tenth year. So that, while familiar with his name, of the actual Paul the girl knew little.