face came between me and my
dreams. Her insolent voice rang in my ears. What had she meant by her
words? Why had Miss Darrell submitted to her impertinence? Was she afraid
of Leah, as Gladys said? I began to feel weary of all these mysteries.

CHAPTER XXX

WITH TIMBRELS AND DANCES

Aunt Philippa and Sara came to meet me at Victoria. They both seemed
unfeignedly glad to see me.

Aunt Philippa was certainly a kind-hearted woman. Her faults were those
that were engendered by too much prosperity. Overmuch ease and luxury had
made her lymphatic and indolent. Except for Ralph's death, she had never
known sorrow. Care had not yet traced a single line on her smooth
forehead; it looked as open and unfurrowed as a child's. Contentment and
a comfortable self-complacency were written on her comely face. Just now
it beamed with motherly welcome. Somehow, I never felt so fond of Aunt
Philippa as I did at that moment when she leaned over the carriage with
outstretched hands.

'My dear, how well you are looking! Five years younger.--Does she not
look well, Sara?'

Sara nodded and smiled, and made room for me to pass her, and then gave
orders that my luggage should be intrusted to the maid, who would convey
it in a cab to Hyde Park Gate.

'If you do not mind, Ursula, we are going round the Park for a little,'
observed Sara, with a pretty blush.

Her mother laughed: 'Colonel Ferguson is riding in the Row, and will be
looking out for us. He is coming this evening, as usual, but Sara thinks
four-and-twenty hours too long to wait.'

'Oh, mother, how can you talk so?' returned Sara bashfully. 'You know
Donald asked us to meet him, and he would be so disappointed. And it is
such a lovely afternoon,--if Ursula does not mind.'

'On the contrary, I shall like it very much,' I returned, moved by
curiosity to see Colonel Ferguson again. I had never seen him by
daylight, and, though we had often met at the evening receptions, we
had not exchanged a dozen words.

I thought Sara was looking prettier than ever. A sort of radiance seemed
to surround her. Youth and beauty, perfect health, a light heart, and
satisfied affections,--these were the gifts of the gods that had been
showered upon her. Would those bright, smiling eyes ever shed tears? I
wondered. Would any sorrow drive away that light, careless gaiety? I
hoped not. It was pleasant to see any one so happy. And then I thought
of Lesbia and Gladys, and sighed.

'You do not