e as jolly a day as we would have had without you,
Maggie."

"But I must go home, really," said Marjorie, "and--so must Ermie, too,
I'm afraid."

"Yes," said Ermengarde, rousing herself with an effort, and coming
forward. "Maggie has brought me bad news. There's a poor little girl
at home, the daughter of our head gamekeeper. She broke her leg a week
ago, and she's very ill now with fever or something, and she's always
calling for me. I--I--used to be kind to her, and I think I must go.
Maggie says she never rests calling for me."

"It's very noble of you to go," said Lilias. "This quite alters the
case. Let me run and tell mother. Oh, how grieved I am! but dear
Ermie, of course you do right. That poor little girl--I can quite
understand her looking up to you and loving you, Ermie. Let me fly to
mother and tell her. She'll be so concerned!"

In a very few moments Lady Russell and Mr. Wilton had both joined the
conference. Mr. Wilton looked grave, and asked a few rather searching
questions, but Marjorie's downright little narrative of Susy's
sufferings softened everyone, and Ermengarde presently left the house,
with the chastened halo of a saint round her young head.

Her saint-like conduct, and the romantic devotion of the poor
retainer's daughter, made really quite a pretty story, and was firmly
believed in by Lady Russell and Lilias. Mr. Wilton, however, had his
doubts. "Ermie in the role of the self-denying martyr is too new and
foreign for me," he muttered. "There's something at the back of this.
Basil in disgrace (which he well deserves, the impudent young
scoundrel), and Ermengarde the friend and support of the suffering
poor! these things are too new to be altogether consistent. There's
something at the back of this mystery, and I shall go home and see
what it means to-morrow."

CHAPTER XXIII.

BLESSED AND HAPPY.

Ermengarde was sitting in her own room, and Marjorie was standing by
her side. It was the day after Ermie's unexpected return home. She had
spent a couple of hours with Susy, and Miss Nelson had given her a
grave but kind welcome. Now the first day was over, the first night
had gone by, and Ermengarde was sitting, resting her cheek upon her
hand, by the open window of her pretty bedroom.

Marjorie was lolling against the window-ledge; her anxious eyes were
fixed on Ermengarde, who was looking away from her, and whose pretty
face wore a particularly sullen expression.

"Well, Ermie,