MRS. BLAND'S house stood in the High Street of the little town of Woodham. It was an old-fashioned, sedate-looking house, with a bow-window projecting on each side of the front door, and two rows of white-curtained windows above; but there was nothing prim about the garden which lay at the back of the house. This garden, with its wealth of sweet-scented flowers, its fruit trees, its sunflowers and hollyhocks standing out in rich contrast to the mellow red of the old walls, was a delightful place in which to spend a warm September afternoon.

About the middle of the garden, and bordering at its lower end the portion which, though not devoid of beauty, was obviously devoted to utility, was a strip of lawn shaded by trees. Here, on such an afternoon, Hilda Bland was lying, very much at her ease, in a hammock suspended between two sturdy trunks. She had a book in her hand, but reading was impossible, since Kate was on the path close by, chattering fast as she gathered flowers, and Gwen, her younger sister, was displaying great energy in her attempts to shake or knock down some of the ripe greengages that were visible at the top of the tall tree to which one end of the hammock was fastened.

"You won't get them that way, Gwen," cried Kate, as her sister threw a rake handle at the top of the tree, and it came rattling down through the branches.

"You are far more likely to break my head," said Hilda, from the hammock, "and you shake me dreadfully. You might have a little respect for my feelings."

"Nonsense; you are so lazy, Hilda! If you were anything of a sister, you would come and help me."

"Thanks for the suggestion, dear," said Hilda, sweetly, "but I prefer remaining where I am." And she threw herself back upon the cushions with an air of indolent grace.

At all times Hilda had rather a languid air. Of slender form, below the middle height, with a colourless complexion, and features regular and delicately formed, she had a frail appearance beside her more robust-looking sisters; but, in truth, her health was as good as theirs. Mrs. Bland used to boast that her girls were never ill, thanks to the care with which she had followed the common sense rules for the rearing of his children laid down by her deceased husband, who had practised as a surgeon at Woodham. There was a dreamy, absent look in Hilda's large blue eyes, which some persons found interesting, and others quite the reverse. To the unimaginative it was a sleepy, stupid look; but the more discerning saw in it the sign of a thoughtful, reflective nature.

There was but the faintest resemblance between Hilda and Kate, who was eighteen months older. No one could be less dreamy or indolent than Kate, or, as she was more often called, Kitty. With black hair, keen dark eyes, and a warm brown complexion, now, at the end of the summer, deepened to a gipsy-like hue, she looked very much alive. Her form was sturdy, though trim, her features of a decided character, the nose of the Roman type, the chin well rounded and somewhat prominent, the mouth firm, though ready enough to break into smiles. She was the eldest of Mrs. Bland's family of four, and had passed her twenty-second birthday, but strangers often took her for younger than Hilda, there was so much of the child about Kitty still. Hilda was the quiet one of the family, fond of reading and dreaming. Kitty was seldom still. She seemed made for a country life, and was as happy in the rigours of winter as in the summer's prime. Riding, rowing, skating, there were few healthy exercises in which she did not excel. Of the liveliest temperament, she was a great talker and rather satirical, but happily her nature was too sound and warm for her satire to be tinged with malice or envy.

"I wish Charlie would come," she said presently, as she flitted to and fro amongst the flowers; "it chimed four ever so long ago. There, the quarter is striking now."

"Did you ever know Charlie come straight home from school?" asked Hilda, as she turned over the leaves of her Browning. "Why are you in such a hurry to see him?"

"Oh, you know! I am dying to hear about that new master. The arrival of a stranger at Woodham is such an event."

"Is there a new master?" asked Hilda, indifferently.

"Oh, Hilda! How stupid you are! Don't you know that Mr. Ferris was to leave at the end of last term, and did you not hear Miss Lorraine say the other day that a gentleman from London was coming to take his place—a B.A. of Cambridge, she said he was?"

"I did not hear it," said Hilda; "but Miss Lorraine has always so much to say, I cannot pretend to listen to every word."

"Well, I should think you might have listened to that," returned Kate, whilst Gwen paused for a moment in her futile efforts to bring down the greengages, and turned to hear what her sisters were saying.

"Why? What about him? What is his name, and what has he to do with us?" asked Hilda, anxious to get information as speedily as possible, that she might resume her reading.

"I have not heard his name, and I do not know that he has anything to do with us," said Kate, rather lamely; "but I hope, for Charlie's sake, that he is nice; and, of course, I should like to know whether he goes in for boating and that sort of thing, and would be likely to join our tennis club."

"Oh, you are thinking of the tennis," said Hilda, languidly; but the next moment she started up with an exclamation of pleasure, as she saw who was coming down the path from the house, accompanied by Mrs. Bland.

The visitor was a tall, slight girl, wearing a fresh cotton gown and a wide straw hat, as simply dressed as a girl could be, yet with a certain becoming grace peculiar to the wearer. You might not have known at first sight whether Aldyth Lorraine was to be considered pretty; but you would have felt in an instant that she was charming.

Her features were neither regular nor delicately moulded. The chin was too long, the mouth too large, the lips perhaps a trifle too full for beauty; but when the lips parted they displayed the most white and perfect teeth, and her smile revealed the sweetness of a frank and loving nature. The large-brimmed hat hid the broad, finely-arched brow and the dark brown hair which rippled back from it, but could not dim the merry, happy light that shone in the grey eyes. There could be no question as to the beauty of those eyes, long in shape, of a deep violet-grey hue, and shaded by long dark lashes. But, whilst we may attempt to describe features, what words can give the charm of a sweet girl's face? Aldyth's had a charm which won many hearts. But perhaps the charm was rather in herself than in her face. That was winsome, because her heart was tender and true and sympathetic, full of kind feelings towards every one she met.

"To think of my finding you all at home!" exclaimed Aldyth. "I felt sure you would be at tennis this lovely afternoon, and that I should have a quiet chat with Mrs. Bland."

"I am sorry for your disappointment," said Kitty; "but there has been nothing to hinder your having a quiet talk with mother. The fact is, Clara Dawtrey has a party of her friends on the ground this afternoon." Kitty's lip curled as she spoke.

Aldyth's quick little nod expressed perfect comprehension.

"What a pity that girl is so loud in her manners," she remarked. "I feel sometimes as if I should like to give her a little hint, but I suppose it would do more harm than good. Aunt says that if she only knew the things that are said of her, even by the gentlemen she counts her admirers, she would alter her ways."

As she spoke, Aldyth was lifting a chair out of the summerhouse at the end of the lawn for Mrs. Bland.

"Gwen," cried Kitty, who had her hands too full of flowers to render assistance, "do you see what Aldyth is doing? How rude you are! It is time you went back to school."

"Never mind, Gwen," said Aldyth, laughing, as the girl rushed up too late to be of use; "it won't kill me to lift a chair. And it is cruel of Kitty to remind you that Monday is so near. Charlie has gone back to school to-day, has he not?"

"Oh, that is nothing; I wish I only went to a day-school," said Gwen, a big girl of fifteen; "but is not Kitty curious? She is dying to question Charlie about the new master. Do you know anything about him?"

"Some one else is curious, I think," said Aldyth, merrily. "All I know of him is that he is named John Glynne, and Aunt Lucy is trying to persuade herself that he is one of the Glynnes of Norfolk, and that she went to school with his mother. Ah, here is Charlie; now we shall hear."

A boy of twelve, satchel in hand, came bounding down the garden. But, boy-like, Charlie would yield but meagre replies to the questions with which the girls plied him.

Yes, he had seen Mr. Glynne, of course. He had taken their class for Latin, and they were to read Shakespeare with him on Friday afternoons. He did not know that Mr. Glynne was any different from other masters; he did not like him so well as Mr. Ferris. He had given them a lot to prepare, and he had come down "like a load of bricks" on one boy, whom he had caught with a book open beneath his desk. He said it was as bad as stealing to take the credit of knowing a lesson which had not been studied, and that he had hoped he was going to teach manly boys, and not "sneaks."

"He is quite right," said Mrs. Bland, warmly. "I hate to hear of boys doing such deceitful things. Charlie, it would grieve me beyond words to express if I thought you could act in such a way. But I am not afraid. I believe that my boy will always be true and straightforward in his conduct."

"All right, mother," said Charlie, hastily. "But, please, I want that half-crown you promised me. I'm off to Stubbs' now, about those rabbits." And no more information concerning the new master was to be drawn from him.

"Tiresome young monkey!" cried Kate, as Charlie ran off with his half-crown. "Aldyth, you have no idea how provoking a young brother can be. You have no brothers or sisters to trouble you."

"I have a brother and sisters," said Aldyth, "though they cannot certainly be said to trouble me."

"To be sure! I always forget those relatives of yours on the other side of the world," said Kate, carelessly. "I must say I could not feel much affection for half-brothers and sisters whom I had never seen."

"But I hope to see them some day," said Aldyth, colouring as she spoke; "and I write to them, and they write to me sometimes. I should be sorry to feel as if I did not belong to them. But I must be going. I only looked in to ask Mrs. Bland if I had bought the right kind of wool that mother wants me to send her."

"Oh, Aldyth, don't go yet!" exclaimed Hilda, springing up in the hammock, and well-nigh overbalancing herself. "Do try the hammock; it's delicious this afternoon. A thousand apologies for not asking you before."

"Not now, thank you, Hilda," said Aldyth; "I have my letter to finish for the mail."

Though Aldyth was on the friendliest terms with all the Bland family, Hilda was especially her friend. The two girls walked arm-in-arm to the garden door, and after a prolonged good-bye there, Hilda came back to her mother and sisters.

"Kitty," she said, "you should not have said that about Aldyth's relatives. I am sure you hurt her, for she thinks so much of them all. She is always writing to them, and she never forgets one of their birthdays, though they sometimes forget hers."

"I am very sorry," said Kitty; "but really it is absurd to suppose that she can care as much for her brother and sisters as if they had been brought up together."

"She may not care in the same way, but she certainly loves them; and as for her mother, it seems to me that Aldyth simply worships the mother whom she has never seen."

"She must have seen her," said Kate.

"Of course; but you need not be so absurdly literal, Kate. Aldyth was only two years old when her mother went to Australia. She cannot remember her."

"It always seems to me that Miss Lorraine is more truly Aldyth's mother," said Mrs. Bland. "She has had the care of her ever since she was a few months old, for shortly after Aldyth was born, Captain Lorraine's health began to fail, and then Mrs. Lorraine travelled about with him, and the baby was left with her aunt. I am sure Miss Lorraine feels that Aldyth is her child, and I believe she provides for her almost entirely."

"Yes, but Aldyth does not feel like that," said Hilda. "She is fond of her aunt, and very grateful to her; but she loves her mother best. She is always looking forward to her mother's coming to England. I wonder if she ever will come!"

"Poor Aldyth!" said Mrs. Bland, with a sigh.

"Why do you always say 'Poor Aldyth' when we speak of Aldyth's mother?" asked Hilda, quickly.

"Do I always say it?" replied Mrs. Bland.

"Yes, you do, mother, and I want to know why. I believe it is because you think that Aldyth's mother loves her eldest child less than her eldest child loves her. Is that it?"

"Well, perhaps," Mrs. Bland admitted. "I must confess I find it hard to understand how a mother could leave such a tiny child behind her in England, and let her grow up to womanhood without making an effort to see her. I can only suppose that the other children, born to her in Melbourne, have taken Aldyth's place in her heart, and that, absorbed in her home life, she thinks but little of her eldest daughter, and regards her rather as Miss Lorraine's adopted child than as her own."

"But she wants to come home, and her coming has often been talked of," said Hilda. "She tells Aldyth in her letters how she longs to see her."

"I dare say," said Mrs. Bland, drily; "but a mother's passionate yearning to see her child would have found out a way for them to meet before now, I think."

"You knew Aldyth's mother when she was a girl, did you not?" asked Kate. "Is Aldyth like her?"

"Yes and no," said Mrs. Bland; "Aldyth's mother was a lovely girl, and had most fascinating ways. Aldyth is more of a Lorraine, and yet she often reminds me of her mother. But there is a great difference—I hardly know how to explain it—but there is a great difference between them. Aldyth seems to have inherited her father's frank, loving nature together with her mother's brightness."

"Had not Mrs. Lorraine a loving nature?" Hilda asked.

"Well, not as a girl. She was the belle of this neighbourhood, and had many admirers, and that sort of thing makes same girls callous. Then her parents were poor and designing, and they hurried her into a marriage with Captain Lorraine, because they thought he was to be his uncle's heir. I do not believe she loved him, and she was too young to have an idea of the serious duties and responsibilities of married life. You know I think no girl should be married before she is one and twenty."

"And the marriage proved an unhappy one, I suppose?" said Kate.

"I fear so," said Mrs. Bland. "Stephen Lorraine strongly disapproved of it, and when his nephew married in spite of his disapproval, he would have nothing more to do with him. The captain was harassed with money difficulties, and, as his health failed, he grew morbid and depressed. I heard Mrs. Lorraine say once that living with him was like being continually with a wet blanket. She was easily consoled after his death, for within a year she married Mr. Stanton, and sailed for Australia."

"Poor Aldyth!" sighed Hilda. "It seems hard that her mother should desert her like that. Miss Lorraine is very kind; but she is so fussy and talkative; I should not like to live with her."

"I wonder if Aldyth will ever join her family," said Kitty, "and how she will like them if she does!"

"I almost hope that may never happen," said Mrs. Bland, "for I fancy it would mean disappointment for Aldyth."

"She will never know what it is to have such a dear little mother as you," cried Gwen, suddenly bestowing a warm hug on her mother.

Mrs. Bland laughed at Gwen's vehemence, but tears came into her eyes as she kissed Gwen.

The death of her husband, followed a year later by that of her eldest boy, three years younger than Hilda, had intensified the anxiety that almost invariably attends a mother's love; but Mrs. Bland was a wise woman, and kept most of her fears to herself, taking care not to worry her children. Thus it was that her girls grew up with the feeling that their mother was their best friend, and there was no constraint between them, though Hilda at times evinced a certain reserve of character which caused her mother some uneasiness.

Mrs. Bland's heart was so essentially that of a mother that its sympathies could not be bounded by her own home circle. The friends of her girls were her friends also, and responded gratefully to the kindness she showed them. As for Aldyth Lorraine, she was well-nigh as dear to Mrs. Bland as one of her own children. She had grown up with Kate and Hilda. They had been separated only during their school terms, Aldyth having been sent to a more expensive school than Mrs. Bland could afford for her daughters. Aldyth often said that Mrs. Bland was the most motherly woman she knew; and unconsciously the girl's thoughts of her absent mother, and her dreams of what their meeting would be, were largely coloured by what she saw of the love and confidence existing between Mrs. Bland and her daughters.