"You must not weep like that, my child," she said, murmuring her words as a dove coos to its mate; "see how sad you are making Grip-poor Grip." Indeed, Grip was in sad case, burrowing to get at the girl's hidden face; making little whining noises in himself, and wagging his wee bit of tail in an agony of sympathy and sorrow. "See," said Madam, detaching a tiny golden key from her chain, "go up into my room-you know the picture above my table, open the case, and look at-what-I -have lost." Blinded with tears, Florrie went her way, lingering long to look upon the dark and tender face of the man who had been so madly loved, so passionately mourned. Grip, who, of course, had followed, stood looking gravely at the picture too, his head on one side, his ears well at attention. Then, seeing that his companion was weeping, he stood on end and licked her fingers. Surely he must have wondered what it was that made people so sad when they looked at that picture on the wall. In silence Florrie gave back the golden key; in silence took her place once more at Madam's feet. "My child," said Madam, "I am sorry to have made you look so sad. Life is not all sad, even when the desire of our eyes is taken from us. See how beautiful the world is. That is still ours-God-given, to comfort us-and there is so much to do. I have a friend-an old, old friend who manages my income for me-my needs here are small, and, as I told you, my husband left me rich. This friend searches out for me the sad, the sorrowful, the needy-all who stumble for lack of a helping hand. He writes out these stories of poverty and misfortune, and once a year he brings these records to me. They are sad enough reading, but they are precious. I think to myself as I pore over them, 'Hubert is doing this; Hubert is helping all these sad ones. One day I shall have a good account to give of my stewardship.' Meanwhile, life for me means waiting; for, Florrie-oh, my dear! I shall see my darling yet again, on the other side the River." The next day the Vicar and his wife and their niece Florrie went to the sea for a month. The Vicar said that "the lassie wanted a change, to make the roses bloom in her cheeks again." And, indeed, she was a pale lassie enough was pretty Florrie, and in her eyes a haunted look as of one who has looked on sorrow. The elasticity of youth and the keen sea breezes did their work, and Florrie was beginning to look forward to the return home, and, more than anything else, to hurrying down through the woods to the Red Farm, when she received a letter from Susan Garland. "DEAR LADY,-It is now my sorrowful duty to tell you that Madam has gone. She went like a flash, and she said you were to have the purple-bell fuchsia that she trained so lovely with her own fingers. The little old gentleman he came down two days afterwards and took away all her things, except the fuchsias. The place is silent as the grave, and mother has cried her eyes out. So have I. We had another sorrow, too, on top. Grip, he laid out straight when Madam was gone, after being shut up by main force in the fruit-room for nigh upon four hours, and he turned from his food, and was a very sad dog, I can tell you. Then he went; we know not how, nor yet where, nor can hear at all. 'Hoping that this will find you well, as it leaves me at present, I beg to remain, yours sorrowfully, "SUSAN GARLAND.” "I know I know!" cried Florrie, as she crushed poor Susie's letter in her hand. "She wanted her dear dead past all to herself again. She told me the story of it all because I teased her so, and then-she could not bear it! These things happened a long time ago, and no one in Redway has ever heard anything more of Madam, nor of Grip either. Love taught the little feet cunning, and be sure Grip found her somewhere. Nothing in life is wasted, and the Idyll of the Farm so deepened the character and chastened the ideals of Florrie May that her life was blessed exceedingly to those about her. The Right of Translating any of the Articles contained in this Number is reserved by the Authors. SUMMER NUMBER PRICE] OF ALL THE YEAR ROUND. CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS. OUT OF THE FASHION. BY MARY ANGELA DICKENS. Author of "A Mist of Error," "Cross Currents," etc., etc. CHAPTER I. her right on an important point. She answered with a very sweet little laugh. "When you think how much I've got to learn and to do," she said merrily, "it's just as well, isn't it?" The past two months had been for Christine Sylvester a wonderful and delightful period of transition. Three months "WE ought to get in in another half before her world had been an area of Yorkhour." "And then-it will all begin!" The scene Was a first-class railway carriage in the boat train, and the speakers were alone together therein a fact arguing a desire for dual solitude strong enough to produce a very substantial tip to the guard. The first statement had been made by a young man. He was four-and-twenty years old. He had a good-looking face, in which boyishness struggled curiously with a certain air of society and "savoir faire"; and his name was Richard Sylvester. Opposite him sat a girl. Her face, as she lifted it to respond to the young man, was lovely: very delicate in outline and colouring, with large dark-blue eyes, and framed in soft gold hair. She was very daintily and fashionably dressed for travelling; but there was something not simply conventional about her personality, and she was by no means as typical as the absolute correctness of her accessories should have made her. She was seventeen years old, and for nearly two months her name had been Christine Sylvester. "Well, we shan't find very much going on just yet, don't you know; the season's hardly begun." His correction was evidently not merely a boyish assumption of marital airs, but was dictated by a certain genuine desire to set shire moor, peopled, as far as her equals were concerned, by her father, her governess, and a certain dull and worthy Yorkshire squire and his wife, who owned the nearest "place." With these good people Christine had chanced to be staying when a nephew of theirs, on whom a duty visit had become incumbent, and whose private groans over the tedium involved were apt to be long and loud, had obtained leave to bring a friend for the hunting, and had introduced the said friend in the person of Dick Sylvester. The latter had come for a week; he stayed in the neighbourhood for a month. That month saw the dawn and progress of the old idyll of boy and girl love, and three months later the boy and girl were man and wife. Dick Sylvester was well connected, and, in spite of his youth, he had a position in London society, inherited from his father, who had been a man about town in the best "sets" for the last five-and-twenty years. The twelve months of married life which had preceded the birth of his son and the death of his wife had apparently been merely an interlude in Stephen Sylvester's life. Left alone, he had returned to bachelor habits, handing over his little boy to be brought up with some aristocratic cousins. Dick's temperament had adapted itself admirably to the education provided for him. No originality, no superabundance of brains, rendered it difficult to him to accommodate himself to a narrow groove. At twenty-two interest obtained for him a post in the War Office, and his first twelve months of London life left him a very popular and orthodox specimen of his class-good-natured and pleasant, but with no conception beyond his own social horizon, and with no higher ideal than to be exactly like ninety-nine out of every hundred men he met in society. It was not exactly an orthodox proceeding to marry a pretty country girl. There were sundry girls in town-pretty, attractive girls, all turned out of one mould -any one of whom would have been much more "the thing"; and Dick Sylvester's boyish conventionality had been a good deal perturbed by the untoward action of his heart. But after all, he told himself, it was only "the look of it." Christine was not in the least the ordinary country girl. And he was right. Christine was entirely unconscious that all life was not as her life. She had read no novels; newspapers she considered dull, and never looked at; and such hazy impressions of other lives as she had received were coloured by the atmosphere in which her own was lived. But even had she been conscious of her own limitations from a social point of view, there was that about her which would have rendered it impossible for even such consciousness to make her either awkward or uncertain. During the six weeks of her honeymoon, as she travelled about the Continent with Dick, and life unfolded before her eyes, she was like a child waking to a realisation of fairyland. She was never oppressed or confused by the gulf which lay for her between the present and the past. She was never at a loss or ill at ease on the one or two occasions when they chanced to fall in with persons who were to belong to her new life, and the source of her ready adaptation of herself to her new circumstances lay not in her natural grace or the refinement of all her instincts. It lay deeper than either of these characteristics -in the fresh, finely tempered happy spirit which was the mainspring of her dainty little personality. And now the honey moon was over and she was going home with her husband-going to a life which existed in her mind only as a brilliant outline, which was to be entirely unlike anything she had ever experienced. The Sylvesters were fairly well off. Dick had taken a smart little flat, and Christine's first season was likely to be a gay one. Her bright words as to her own deficiencies were replied to now by her husband somewhat over hastily. "You'll be all right," he asseverated; "you're sure to be all right! And there's Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe, you know; she'll put you up to everything. She's promised to see after you." "It's very kind of her," assented the girl happily. "It's delightful to think that I'm going to see her to-night. I feel as if it represented being introduced to all your friends, Dick." She paused a moment and laughed lightly, like an excited child, and then added: "Dick, you don't think we ought to have asked your aunt rather than Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe this very first evening?" "Certainly not!" returned Dick emphatically. "It isn't as a compliment we ask her, Christie, don't you see? It's-it's just that you may be introduced to her quietly. Aunt Emily's all very well, but she wouldn't put you up to things as Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe will. She's rather oldfashioned and humdrum-Aunt Emily, I mean-and we're not going to be in that set; Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe is 'chic,' don't you know." Christine's notions on the subject were hazy; but many delightful facts had been presented to her lately under strange names, and she smiled. She did not speak again, but leant back in her corner and looked vaguely out of the carriage window in a kind of happy dream. Dick did not interrupt her. He, too, leant back, crossing his legs with a very young man's assumption of elderly nonchalance, and fixed his eyes with a boyish frown of cogitation on the lovely face in front of him. He was wondering anxiously how his wife would "do," as he phrased it. He loved her after his limited fashionthat is to say, he admired her beauty immensely, and was very proud of his possession of it—but now, when his life as a married man was practically to begin, the one all-important point in his mind was that, having taken to himself a wife not of his set, no difference should be perceptible between that wife and the class of woman of which she was now to become, in outward circumstances, one. He thought, as he watched her now, of her pretty manner, her readiness, of what he called her "natural dash"-in reality, her spirit and brightness-and he smiled to himself a smile of boyish pride. Then another thought seemed to strike him, for the smile faded and the frown reappeared. He glanced down at a book which lay on the seat beside Christine. It was bound according to the latest eccentricity in binding for novels, but she had laid it down some time ago, and only about half was cut open. It bore upon its back the title, "A Society Phædra." "Christie," he said, rather abruptly, "don't you care for your book?" Christie started, and a little additional flash of colour came into her cheeks. "It was sweet of you to get it for me, Dick, dear," she said, rather hesitatingly; "but I'm afraid-I don't." To his own intense disgust Dick felt his own countenance getting hot, and he answered reprovingly: "I think you ought to finish it, though. Everybody in town is sure to be talking about it. They say it's awfully clever." "You-you haven't read it, Dick?" "Of course I haven't. I gave it to you first. But I've read all his others," returned Dick, with lofty superiority. The train steamed into Charing Cross Station as he spoke, and lofty superiority was not a mood to be lasting under the circumstances. To be twenty-four years old, and to be bringing a charming young wife to a perfectly appointed little home, is more compatible with boyish exhilaration; and during the next three hours there was not a better satisfied young man in London than Dick Sylvester. It was about five minutes to eight when the young husband and wife stood to gether in their pretty drawing-room, waiting to receive their first guest. A shade of perturbation, as though the impending occasion was a very serious one in his eyes, had settled over Dick's face as he dressed, and he glanced nervously at Christine now as she moved about the room. She was wearing a dainty white tea-gown, bought in Paris; Dick having assured her that she had "no proper frocks for the evening." She was quite unconscious that she ought to be looking forward to an ordeal, and her face was all bright anticipation. "There she is!" said Dick hastily, as the door-bell rang; and then she came across the room and stood by her husband's side, as Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe was announced. Social prominence is no more to be obtained than sundry kinds of prominence better worth having, without a certain allowance of brain power; and for the last four or five years Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe had been an increasingly prominent figure in London society. She had been born into a "good set"; she had married in that set, and she might have died in that set without making any particular mark in it. But there was a touch of originality about her, and it took the only line open to her under the circumstances. She went vigorously with the times-rather ahead of the times, some people said. She was a blonde woman of about five-and-thirty, not handsome, but with a style about her which went a great deal further than beauty. She was in full evening dress now, with bare arms, and diamonds flashing at her throat and in the elaborately dressed hair. To the girl who had never in her life beheld such a figure, she was like a beautiful personification of all. the novelty to come. But no astonishment or admiration could disturb the happy serenity of Christine's manner, and her acknowledgement of her husband's introduction was as perfect as years of London life could have made it. "I'm very glad to meet Dick's wife," said Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe graciously, as she held the girl's hand, and looked down. at her with keen eyes that took in every detail of form and expression. "Dick," she added, without interrupting her scrutiny, "mind, it's your wife's acquaintance I've come to make, and don't dare to interrupt us after dinner. I'm going on to a big affair at Lady Shrewsbury's, so I shan't have very long." "It's awfully good of you to come to us," said Dick, and as Christine echoed him prettily, Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe laughed and began to question them with easy familiarity about their journey. She was a woman who liked to have about her young men towards whom she held the positions at once of confidant and autocrat, and Dick Sylvester had been a very favourite protégé of hers during the past two years. He looked up to her as the most perfect possible specimen of womankind, and one of his first proceedings on his engagement had been to confide it to Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe, and beg her to "look after" Christine. And Mrs. KenyonStowe had promised him to do so-nothing loth. In the first place, she liked managing other people's affairs; in the second place, the "set" of which she was the acknow ledged leader was by no means so large or so firmly established as to be independent of recruits. She talked on through dinner pleasantly and cleverly, watching Christine keenly, and now and then slipping in a leading question cleverly veiled. The brilliant, witty talk was as new an experience to Christine as was the appearance of the talker; her own bright intelligence, never before similarly exercised, responded instantly to the call made on it, giving her a sense of exhilaration and enjoyment as fresh as it was delightful. Dinner was nearly over, and Dick's obvious anxiety had given way to a beaming expression of satisfaction, when Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe said carelessly, turning to Christine : "I saw that you had 'A Society Phædra' in the drawing-room. How do you like it?" There was an instant's pause as a sudden rush of crimson colour swept over the girlish cheeks, and Christine dropped her eyes. Then Dick said hastily, and with a quick frown: "She hasn't finished it yet. It's awfully clever, isn't it?" "Yes!" returned Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe calmly, fixing her eyes on Christine's flushed face, and evidently making a mental note. "Don't you think so, Mrs. Dick?" "I-I don't think I know" began Christine hesitatingly. But her husband interrupted, in a tone of evident relief. "Oh, I say, Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe," he said, "you must call her Christine. Mrs. Dick won't do at all! Will it, Christie ?" The subject was changed, and Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe did not return to "A Society Phædra" either at the moment, or when she and Christine were established tête-à-tête in the drawing-room a little later. She talked to the girl then about her frocks; about the London world and the details of its forms; giving her advice and instruction to which the young wife listened eagerly, as one learning a new language and delighting in it. Her patronage was kindly enough; Christine pleased her. And her new protégée had found her charming, and had accepted her gratefully as her pilot on the enchanting voyage before her long before they were interrupted. They had been alone for about half-an-hour when the door was opened and the maid announced: "Mr. Sylvester." went forward to receive the new-comer, "Dick will be so pleased." There was a touch of deference in her manner which made it irresistibly charming, and the man to whom she had given her hand, rather shyly, held it for an instant as he looked at her and said, with a slight smile: "I hope you are not displeased." Then, on her quick disclaimer, he released her hand and went up to Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe. "Am I interrupting?" he said to her as he shook hands. Stephen Sylvester, Dick's father, was a tall man, with an indolent carriage and an indolent manner. He wore a long grey moustache, and his hair was nearly white at the temples. His face should have been very handsome, but for its remarkable quiescence and the sleepiness of the blue eyes. It conveyed no impres sion so strongly as that of the entire indifference of its owner-an indifference apparently so confirmed that his individual character had become lost in it. question to Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe was spoken with the slightest touch of meaning, of lazily amused comprehension, and she answered him with a look of daring, halflaughing assent and defiance. His "You would have interrupted very much a little sooner," she said. “Now I think we may forgive you. Christine and I are great friends, and I am just going." She rose as she spoke, and Dick entering at the same moment, a little stir of departure ensued. She was just leaving the room; Stephen Sylvester was holding the door open; Dick was waiting to attend her downstairs; and Christine was standing in the middle of the room watching her out, when she turned suddenly. "By-the-bye, Christine," she said, “you must finish A Society Phædra.' You'll meet the author everywhere." With a curious simultaneous movement both men turned towards the white, girlish figure in the middle of the room-her husband with a frown of anticipated vexation, his father with indolent curiosity. They saw the happy face curve into fresh smiles of ready assent, the colour changing not at all, the pretty eyes looking frankly into the woman's hard ones. "Of course I will," answered the girl, brightly and eagerly. "I shall like it, I'm sure." "She's quick!" said Mrs. Kenyon-Stowe "Oh!" exclaimed Christine, as she to herself as Christine's young husband |