LILIAS.

Ermengarde had just finished her morning toilet when the bedroom door was banged violently open.  It shut with a loud report and Marjorie, breathless and triumphant, appeared before her.

“What will you give for some good news?” she said, dancing excitedly up and down.  “There, you shall give three guesses.  Something so good, so jolly.  You will be delighted.  Now guess!  What’s going to happen?”

Ermengarde was in one of her worst humors.  Everything had gone wrong with her.  There was a load of oppression and care on her heart, and now she was seriously uneasy about Basil.  She was not brave enough to exonerate him by confessing her own sins, but it was torture to her to think that he should be unjustly suspected of anything mean and dishonorable.

“Do guess!  It’s something so delightful.  You will be pleased,” repeated Marjorie, continuing to dance wildly up and down.

“I do wish, Maggie, you’d understand that other people are not in the frantic state of bliss you are in.  Your manners lately are too intolerable.  I shall ask father if I cannot have a separate bedroom, for I will not have you banging in and out of the room in the horrid tomboy way you have.  I don’t want to hear your good news.  It’s nothing that can concern me, that I am sure.”

“Oh, indeed, truly it concerns you.”

“I don’t want to hear it.  I know you and your raptures.  It will be a perfect comfort when you are at Glendower, and I can have a little peace!”

“That’s just it!  I’m not going to Glendower.”

“Oh!  You have got into a scrape too?  Well, I must say I think it’s time your righteous pride should have a fall.  I have no patience with little girls who are always in everyone’s good books, and who are set up as patterns.  But what’s the matter?  You seem uncommonly delighted at losing your fine treat.”

“I would be, if you’d speak ever so little kindly to me, Ermie, I really am not the horrid girl you think.”

“I don’t think anything about you, child.”

“Well, you shouldn’t say things about me.  You shouldn’t say what you don’t think.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t begin to moralize!  Was that the breakfast gong?”

“Yes.  And you’d better be quick eating up your breakfast, Ermie, for you won’t have too much time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ll have to tell Hudson about your dresses and things. You are going to Glendower!”

The dull look left Ermengarde’s eyes.  They began to sparkle.  She stood quite still for a moment.  Then she turned slowly round and faced her little sister.  All Marjorie’s soul was shining out of her face at this moment.

“Do you mean this, Maggie?” asked Ermengarde.

“Of course I mean it.  Aren’t you glad?  Aren’t you delighted?”

“But how has it been managed?  Father said he’d punish me for talking to Susan Collins, and he said you were to go in my stead.”

“Well, now, you are to go instead of me.  It’s just turned round.  Aren’t you very glad?”

“Well, I did want to see Lilias.  She’s more the sort of friend for me than for you; isn’t she, Maggie?”

“I suppose so,” said Marjorie, suppressing a quick sigh.

“And of course Lady Russell wanted me, not you.”

“Yes, I told father I was sure she’d like you best.”

“Oh, you spoke to father about it?”

“Why, of course, Ermie.”

“Then you haven’t got into disgrace yourself?”

“No, it wasn’t that-it wasn’t because I was in-” Marjorie turned her head away, and tears welled up slowly into her big wide-open gray eyes.

“You did it for me, then?” said Ermengarde.  “You gave up your own pleasure for me?  I didn’t see it until this moment; I didn’t really! or I wouldn’t have been so cross.  Kiss me, Maggie.  I’m awfully obliged.  But how did you come round father?”

“Oh, never mind now; it’s done, and father’s quite satisfied.  He expects you to go with him, and he told me to tell you to be sure to be ready in good time, as he cannot miss the midday train.”

“No fear.  I’ll be ready, I’m only too glad to get away from the Chase just now.  Is that Hudson I see in the passage?  Run to her, Maggie, I must speak to her about my white chiffon dinner dress.”

Marjorie darted away; her face was looking perfectly contented again.  She had not expected any more thanks from Ermengarde, and it was her nature when she did give, to give lavishly.  Now she was all eagerness to assist in the necessary preparations for Ermie’s sudden visit, and was much more inclined to make large proffers of help than was the somewhat offended Hudson.

“I had your clothes all ready, Miss Marjorie, and I have not got everything Miss Ermengarde requires at a moment’s notice.”

“Oh, but you will do your very best for Ermie, Hudson, and she can have all my clean handkerchiefs and sashes, and my Maltese gold cross, with the little chain.  You will help to send her off nice, won’t you, Hudson?”

“I’ll do anything for your sake, my dear little lady,” said the maid.

And Marjorie, well satisfied, trotted down to breakfast in Ermengarde’s wake.

The usual party were assembled in the schoolroom, and Ermengarde once more found herself by Basil’s side.  He just nodded to her when she came in, and then bent his head over “Westward Ho!” which he was reading as he ate his breakfast.

“I wonder if he’s coming with me, and if I’m to be treated to these sort of manners all the time,” thought Ermengarde.  “What will Lilias think?”

But just then Marjorie’s voice arrested attention.  “Don’t poke me so, Eric; it isn’t me-it’s Ermie; she’s going.”

“Oh, galopshious!  And you’ll stay at the Chase!  I was looking forward to a black time.  You and Basil away, and Miss Sulky-face for my sole companion.”

“Do hush, Eric; you say such horrid unkind things.  I won’t talk to you or be a bit nice.”

Eric continued to chatter in a loud, aggravating whisper.  His buzzing words were distinctly audible at the other end of the long table.  Ermengarde heard herself spoken of as Miss Sulky-face, but she was far too contented with the present state of affairs to mind what such a very unimportant person as Eric said about her.  Basil raised his head for a moment from his book.

“Are you going to Glendower instead of Maggie?” he asked, darting a quick glance at his sister.

Her heart swelled with sudden pain at his tone.

“Yes,” she said.  Her voice was humble and almost deprecating.

“Maggie has given up her wishes then?”

“I am going instead of Maggie,” said Ermengarde, her manner once more proud and defiant.

Basil resumed his reading of “Westward Ho!” Miss Nelson called to him to say that his breakfast was getting cold.  The moment she spoke, he shut up his book.

“I don’t wish to eat anything more, Miss Nelson,” he said.  “And I want to know if you will excuse me, and let me leave the table now.  I wish to say a word to father before he leaves the study.”

“You can certainly go, Basil,” replied the governess.

He went away at once.  A moment later, Basil was standing in his father’s presence.

“Do you expect me to go with you to-day to Glendower, father?” he asked.

Mr. Wilton was reading an important letter.  He looked up impatiently.

“Yes,” he said.  “You and Marjorie-I mean you and Ermengarde are to come.”

“But I have displeased you, and this is a-a pleasure trip.”

Mr. Wilton threw down his letter.

“Look here, Basil,” he said, “you are too old to be punished in the sort of way I punish Ermengarde, or Marjorie, or Eric.”

“I am only a year older than Ermengarde,”

“Don’t contradict me, sir.  I repeat, you are too old, and you are different.  I have regarded you hitherto as a manly sort of fellow, and even after last night I cannot treat you as a child.  Come to Glendower; only understand that, until you explain yourself fully, you suffer from my displeasure.”

“If that is so, father”-Basil’s lips quivered, his dark eyes glowed with pain-“if that is so, I would rather stay at Wilton Chase.”

“Then stay.  Until you are once more the frank fellow I have always regarded you, your movements do not interest me.”

“I will stay at home then, father.”

“Very well.”

Mr. Wilton opened another letter, and began to read it.  Basil lingered for a moment, as if he hoped for another softer word; then he turned on his heel and left the room.

In due time Ermengarde and her father started on their journey.  Ermengarde carried away with her every conceivable bit of finery which Marjorie could stow into her trunk, and Hudson, finding herself helpless to stem the tide of events, at last rose to the occasion, and did her best to send off her young lady suitably prepared for her visit.

Ermengarde looked very pretty and graceful as she seated herself beside her father in the carriage, and although the children were conspicuous by their absence, and there were no sorrowful looks to witness her exit, she did not concern herself very much over such trivial matters.

Marjorie’s farewell was all that was warm and affectionate, and as it was Mr. Wilton’s fashion to forgive absolutely when he did forgive, Ermengarde had a very comfortable journey.

The travelers arrived in good time at Glendower, and Ermengarde really forgot all the worries, the miseries, the sins of the last few days, when Lilias Russell threw her arms round her neck, and warmly bade her welcome.

Lilias was a very beautiful girl.  She had that radiant sort of almost spiritual loveliness which is generally accompanied by a very sweet, noble, and upright nature.  Her complexion was very fair, her eyes large, soft, and brown; her hair was the finest, palest gold.  She was a slightly made girl, but she had no look of ill-health about her.  On the contrary, her elastic young figure was full of strength and vigor.  She was a great favorite with all her friends, for she was unselfish, loving, and straightforward.  She was slow to think evil of people, and was generally affectionately rapturous over the girls and boys who came to visit her at Glendower.  Although the only child of very wealthy parents, she was too simple-minded to be spoiled.  She received lots of flatteries, but they did her no harm, because she failed to see them.  Her beautiful face was praised to her many times, but no one yet had seen a conscious or conceited expression cross it.

“I’m delighted you have come, Ermie,” she said, “but I scarcely expected you, for mother had a letter from your father, who said he was obliged to bring Maggie instead.”

Ermengarde colored.  There is no saying what reply she would have made, but at that moment Mr. Wilton stepped forward and answered Lilias’s look of inquiry himself.

“Maggie gave up her pleasure to Ermie,” he said.  “She is an unselfish child, and she saw how very much Ermie wished to spend a few days with you, Lilias.”

“How sweet of Maggie!” replied Lilias.  “I do think she is one of the very dearest little girls in the world.  Of course I’m delighted to have you with me, Ermengarde; but I only wish your father had brought Maggie, too.”

“And where is my special favorite, Basil?” asked Lady Russell, who had been listening with an amused smile to the above conversation.

“Basil is not in my good graces at present,” replied Mr. Wilton.  “Pardon me.  I make no complaints.  He was free to come, but he elected to stay at home; under the circumstances, I think his choice was wise.”

Lady Russell and Mr. Wilton walked slowly away together, and Lilias linked her hand affectionately through Ermengarde’s arm.

“If there is a mystery, you will tell me about it presently,” she said, “and I am not going to worry you now.  I am so pleased to have you with me, Ermie, and there are a whole lot of things I am going to consult you about.  But first of all, just come to my grotto.  I want you to see in what a pretty pattern I have arranged the shells.  Here we are; enter, fair and welcome guest!  Oh, you must stoop your tall head a little, Ermie.  Pride must bend when it enters a humble grotto like mine.  Now then, look around you.”

Ermengarde was feeling tired, hot, and thirsty.  She had hoped to have been treated to nice grown-up tea in one of the drawing-rooms, and she felt just a little annoyed at being carried off at once to look at Lilias’s stupid shells, or to behold the most charming grotto that was ever built.  Ermengarde had no love for natural history, and fond as she was of Lilias, she felt just a wee bit cross.

But the moment she entered the grotto, the clouds fled like magic from her face.  There were shells, of course, and sea-weeds, and a deep pool which contained sea-anémones; and into which a fountain continually dripped.  But there was also tea on a charming little rustic table, and two rustic easy-chairs, and two egg-shell china cups and saucers, and a wee silver jug full of cream, and a dish of hot muffins, and a little basket full of grapes and peaches.

Lilias watched her friend’s face.

“She wants her tea, poor Ermie does,” she whispered to herself; “I know Maggie would have rushed at the shells first of all, and she’d have asked me a thousand questions about my sea-anémones and my fountain.  Still, it’s perfectly natural that Ermie should be thirsty and want her tea.”

So the two little friends sat down, and had a very cozy and merry time together.