pected her to curtsey to him with humble gratitude while he deigned to raise her up, he who offered to marry herhe said nothing of love-that she might cook for him, and wait upon him, an unpaid servant, forever!

In words of passionate scorn she denounced him, and then, stricken and sobbing with the sense of the degradation she had suffered, she slipped past him and escaped.

CHAPTER IV.

The first visit Grannie paid on her return to Brierly-Stoke was to Roots. She saw the elder sisters first, and answered their hundred questions patiently. They had heard of Ethel's engagement-was it true? Yes, it was indeed quite true; rather unexpected, but very satisfactory in every way, and for the dear child's happiness. Grannie choked down a sigh. She dilated in her gentle way upon the subject until the curiosity of Martha and Susan and Jessie was sated, and then she asked to see Nancy and was told she was in the garden.

Thither Grannie followed her, begging leave to find her way alone; and when Mrs. Whipp made a request in that little regal way she could put on no Seaward sister dared refuse her. She drew Nancy, who got up from the bench where she sat with a proud startled look, close to her gray Chudda shawl with a very tender movement.

"My dear," she said, "I have come to steal you once more. No," she smiled, as Nancy made a movement of resistance, "not to be anybody else's cook this time, but my dear companion. You have heard that I am losing Ethel? She is to be married next week, and then I shall be childless. Nancy, will you share my home? All my children wish it. Autumn will soon be here, and I am thinking of going abroad. It is only a foolish old woman's notion, but when my Ethel goes to India I feel that

I shall be a little nearer her in the South of France. But I am a poor traveller, quite unused to taking tickets and looking after luggage, and mak

ing my wants known in foreign

tongues. Will you come and take care of me, Nancy? The children are all so persuaded their poor old mother cannot look after herself, and they will thank you as gratefully as I."

She could not have made any appeal that more closely touched the proud, sore-hearted girl, but Nancy still hung back.

"But, perhaps you have not heard-I think you ought to know-"

"My dear, I want no confessions. Think of me as an old witch who knows everything without being told; and now, shall we go and break the news to your sisters? I have your father's consent already. You see I was bold enough to take yours for granted." That winter by the sea was like a reincarnation for Nancy. They settled themselves in a large hotel near Cannes, where they had a private sitting-room and need mix no more than they chose with the gadding crowd. Their windows opened upon a garden of palms and aloes and wonderful vegetation, which bowered enchanting glimpses of the sunlit sea. Nancy had never dreamed that any world could be so fair. And in Grannie's company she expanded mentally and grew spiritually. There was about the old lady so fine a dignity, so all-embracing a charity, and at the same time so wise an estimate of men and things, that a young girl could not but learn much of her. Just as Nancy's hands softened and grew white now that they were no longer claimed by toil, so her judgments grew milder, her manners easier. She carried herself better, she dressed better, and every day, her blood the richer for sun and sea, she grew handsomer and happier.

Grannie was scarce allowed to miss

Ethel, her tyrant and her darling; Nancy walked and drove with her on the Croisette; listened to the music in the Cercle Nautique, read to her, and picked up the dropped stitches in her knitting. They talked of home, and discussed the letters that came from India, and Brierly-Stoke, and Manchester, and London, and mourned very sincerely together when they heard of the death of Miss Anne Whipp. They grew more and more to each other as the weeks passed on.

The glimpses of life as it revealed itself at table d'hôte had also their educational value for Nancy; her first tea at Rumpelmayer's was a breathless experience, and a new soul seemed born in her when she heard the world-renowned band in the Beaux-Arts at Monte Carlo. Not for all the music in the world would Grannie have set her dainty foot in the Casino.

And all the while, wise woman as she was, Grannie never sought to probe into the girl's wound, either to sympathize or make light of it. She did not avoid John Whipp's name, but neither did she obtrude it. She spoke of him naturally when his name came up in the home letters. At first Nancy listened with a defiant throb of the heart; but by-and-by, so gently was she being moulded by Grannie's influence, she began to wonder whether her share in that business was so very heroic after all. If John Whipp had not loved her as a girl desires to be loved, at least he had made no pretence of anything but a kindly affection for her, and, after all, a man pays a woman the highest compliment in his power when he asks her to share his life. So Nancy forgave him, and learnt to listen to such little scraps of news as that he was enlarging the bank and had taken to gardening and was thinking of building a commodious greenhouse, without wincing.

By-and-by February came and the

flowers with it. Grannie dearly loved to buy acacia sprays and early anemones and roses and all the sweets of the spring to send to the children at home; and one day when she and Nancy were paying their morning visit to Roux's in the Rue d'Antibes, she turned to the girl and said:

"I should like to send some to poor Eliza Jones. Will you write the address for me, my dear? I am afraid my shaky old hand will not be very legible.

Nancy drew off her glove and took the pen; the old lady dictated an address in London.

"Why-is Eliza having a holiday?"

"Didn't you know," said Grannie with artful surprise, "poor Eliza was sent home to her relations a few days after you left? She will never be fit for service again, poor thing. But John has been very liberal; he has settled a comfortable little pension on her, so that she may be well taken care of. My daughter Harriet and the children go to see her often."

"And-Mr. Whipp," stammered Nancy, "has he found another treasure?"

"I am afraid not." Grannie buried her fine little nose in a bunch of daffodils to hide a smile. "I believe he has shut up part of the house and has Nichols, the charwoman, to look after him. Jane was much too young to be left without supervision, but she has found a good home with young Mrs. Evan Whipp."

Nancy heard in silence, but she found herself thinking, not without a touch of humorous compassion, a good deal about cousin John and his forlorn condition, while she ate and drank of the best and was luxuriously housed. How he must feel the change, what a miserable man he must be, and-and-had she not perhaps been a little hard upon him, after all? So that one day, when the heat was growing intolerable and they were thinking of moving on, Gran

nie found the way already paved for a little plan she had to propose.

"I want to show you something of Paris, dear," she said, "but I am a very poor guide. I have not been there since my dear husband and I went on our honeymoon, and I am told I shall find it a changed world. My nephew, John Whipp, proposes to take a little holiday this spring-for I am sure he needs it, poor fellow-and I have been wondering if he could be persuaded to come and take charge of two helpless women. What think you, Nancy?"

"I think what you think," said Nancy, bending over the back of Mummy's chair so that her faint accession of color was not visible. "I am sure Mr. Whipp will be very usefulat the Custom House."

"Yes-at the Custom House," Grannie quickly acquiesced, with a hovering smile.

John, who in truth had been intriguing for an invitation, made such haste to respond to Grannie's note that he took the ladies by surprise. They had expected him in the evening and he came in the morning, and found Nancy in a dark blue gown like that in which he had first seen her, only it came from Paris and fitted her much better, arranging the flowers she had bought in his honor that morning from a walnutfaced old woman in the Allée de la Liberté. She had schooled herself to be quite friendly to him, and held out her hand readily when she had got over the start he gave her by his sudden appearance; but somehow there was an indefinable something about John that made friendliness difficult. It was not that he was stiff, for indeed he took the hand humbly enough, but that, incredible as it seemed, he was shy. Was this the self-confident John who had so magnificently thrown his handkerchief to her and expected her humbly to pick it up? His embarrassment was contagious; she found herself saying awk

wardly, "Mrs. Whipp will be so glad. She breakfasts in her room. I will go

and tell her."

"No, don't go yet-that is, pray don't disturb her. I can wait. I wanted to tell you I have been so horribly ashamed of myself-"

"You will want some breakfast," said Nancy breathlessly, flying precipitately from the room with cheeks aflame.

By dinner time they had scarcely grown more used to each other, and it was Grannie who did most of the talking.

"We thought we would keep you all to ourselves to-night, John," she said, "though Nancy and I generally take our one little dip into the world at table-d'hôte. To morrow you shall have tea at Rumpelmayer's and see all the sights. I hope you will like your dinner, my dear; the chef is quite a personage, I believe."

"After six months of Mrs. Nichols's ministrations," said John lightly, but looking a little annoyed, "I assure you I thankfully eat anything that is put before me."

And Nancy's watchful gray eyes ob served that he passed all the choicest dishes by.

In the late evening, when they walked in the garden, John threw off something of his embarrassment and betrayed an unusual interest in the strange plants and flowers which bordered the walks and grounds.

They left Grannie seated in her basket chair and paced the terrace in front of her. John told Nancy all about the rock garden he was planning at Laurel Grove, and the fern-house he had built. She liked it a great deal better than discussing mênus with him, and when she went to bed she found herself revising the portrait she had painted of him, putting in a softer touch here, lightening a shadow there. She approved of his devotion to Gran

nie; surely he must have been a good

son.

And, after all, a man was useful. John proved himself so when, after a few days devoted to sight-seeing, they turned their backs on the Riviera and began the slow journey homewards. No more trouble with the luggage, no more wrestling to make oneself understood when trying to explain that Grannie's room must have a south aspect. If John had little command of French, he knew his own wants and wishes, and, like an indomitable Briton, secured them. Then he really was possessed of an astonishing amount of information, and was much less dry in imparting it than Baedeker or Bradshaw. Perhaps it inspired him to feel a pair of earnest, interested eyes fastened on him, no longer with a look of aversion and distrust. Was this indeed the girl he had dared to insult. this peerless creature whom a man might count it an honor only to love without any hope of return? At the disturbing recollection he found himself hesitating and reddening when he should have been discoursing upon "Les Misérables" (they were at Marseilles). Nancy, responsive to the subtlest indications of his mood, felt herself blushing too, she knew not why, and blushing more and more as she grew the angrier with herself.

So this new John and this new Nancy made entirely unexpected discoveries about one another, and travelled slowly into a better knowledge of each other, as the train carried them by easy and dignified stages to the capital. Perhaps Grannie profited more by the stoppages than either of her companions. She did a little sight-seeing in a regal sort of way, and rested a good deal, and let herself be waited on by the young people (for John was still a young person in her eyes), and was the most serene old lady in the world, and to herself she kept saying: "Why

should we hurry? Let them take timé to know each other. In Paris it will all come right."

But in Paris, after she had conscientiously visited the Louvre and the Salon, Notre-Dame and the Madeleine, she declared herself satisfied to rest in her comfortable room and not go sight-seeing any more.

"Go out by yourselves, children, and leave me to rest," she said. "I cannot afford to sacrifice any more of my recollections. I came here on my wedding journey, and I seem to have lost my dear husband in this new world. Leave me to my memories; but for you it is still the present, go you and lay up pictures for the future."

Go out by themselves! They looked at each other in consternation, and Nancy was not at all reassured when she read something that was certainly not consternation dawning in John's eyes.

To save making a needless ado (and "perhaps let him imagine I am afraid of him," she said scornfully to herself), she went up and put on her hat and her gloves. They both lingered to fuss over Grannie, to settle her in the most comfortable chair, and put her fan and her scent-bottle near her, and the operaglass, which gave her a view of the passing panorama, and the morning paper and the "Saturday Review" which John stopped to cut, for all the world as if they were not coming back again to fuss still further over her at lunch!

But, behold, when they set out, after being so very voluble in Grannie's presence, so full of light chatter and foolish nothings, they had not a word to say to each other. Nancy held her parasol as if it were a weapon of defence, and never, even in the days when she had cooked for him, had Cousin John found her so stately and distant. With one consent they made for the shops, the gay alluring shops, which are as good

as a chaperon to all embarrassed lovers.

Grannie, slowly waving her fan and thinking with a sigh of her own vanished love-dream, was saying to herself, "It will happen to-day;" but it seemed as if for once she were to fail as a prophetess. That she did not was owing to one of those little accidents that give life a constant edge of adventure in the smiling city. They were crossing the Rue de Rivoli when a fiacre came whirling along, and, with that light scorn of human life which characterizes the Parisian driver, dashed upon them. Nancy, a step in advance of her companion, had her raised parasol spun out of her hand; a second more and she might have been trampled under the horse's feet, but for the wild grasp of a pair of strong arms that lifted her to safety.

"Nancy!" cried John, his voice hoarse with fear and deep with emotion.

"I am not hurt-not a bit," she said as he set her on the pavement; but all at once she began to tremble. It was such a different "Nancy" as he uttered it from the complacent, calm, cool "Nancy" with which he began his peroration that day long ago among the vegetables in the garden of Laurel Grove, and somehow it went straight to her defenceless heart.

They could neither of them give a coherent account of what happened afterwards, of what they did or said, or where they went upon that sunny May morning; but in those stored memories which Grannie sent them forth to harvest one little bit of Paris was to both for ever afterwards enchanted ground.

The Leisure Hour.

They got home in good time for Grannie's June dinner, which was this year a very special feast indeed. The family welcomed shy, stately Nancy with much cordiality; they marvelled at the immense improvement Grannie had effected in six months.

"She was always a pretty girl, but she is quite beautiful now," said the eldest daughter. "She has caught a reflection of Mummy's grace and charm. John has waited to some purpose-he has secured a real treasure at last."

"Mummy's occupation is gone now that John has surrendered," said the eldest son. "He was the last to hold out; there is not one of us left to marry now."

"She will begin on the grandchildren," laughed the third daughter; and Indeed as she sat, a queen among her court under the budding roses, Grannie was saying to herself: "I cannot live alone now. I should miss my dear Nancy too much. My daughter Harriet must lend me Kitty." For Kitty was eighteen and even Cousin Ethel out in India would allow that she was grown up.

Leslie Keith.