The next few days passed far too quickly for Nan’s pleasure, and Dick’s last morning arrived. The very next day the Maynes were to start for Switzerland, and Longmead was to stand empty for the remainder of the summer. It was a dreary prospect for Nan, and in spite of her high spirits her courage grew somewhat low. Six months! who could know what might happen before they met again? Nan was not the least bit superstitious, neither was it her wont to indulge in useless speculations or forebodings; but she could not shake off this morning a strange uncanny feeling that haunted her in spite of herself a presentiment that things were not going to be just as she would have them, that Dick and she would not meet again in exactly the same manner.

“How silly I am!” she thought, for the twentieth time, as she brushed out her glossy brown hair and arranged it in her usual simple fashion.

Nan and her sisters were a little behind the times in some ways; they had never thought fit to curl their hair en garcon, or to mount a pyramid of tangled curls in imitation of a poodle; no pruning scissors had touched the light-springing locks that grew so prettily about their temples; in this, as in much else, they were unlike other girls, for they dared to put individuality before fashion, and good taste and a sense of beauty against the specious arguments of the multitude.

“How silly I am!” again repeated Nan. “What can happen, what should happen, except that I shall have a dull summer, and shall be very glad when Christmas and Dick come together;” and then she shook her little basket of housekeeping keys until they jingled merrily, and ran downstairs with a countenance she meant to keep bright for the rest of the day.

They were to play tennis at the Paines’ that afternoon, and afterwards the three girls were to dine at Longmead. Mrs. Challoner had been invited also; but she had made some excuse, and pleaded for a quiet evening. She was never very ready to accept these invitations; there was nothing in common between her and Mrs. Mayne; and in her heart she agreed with Lady Fitzroy in thinking the master of Longmead odious.

It was Mr. Mayne who had tendered this parting hospitality to his neighbors, and he chose to be much offended at Mrs. Challoner’s refusal.

“I think it is very unfriendly of your mother, when we are such old neighbors, and on our last evening, too,” he said to Nan, as she entered the drawing-room that evening bringing her mother’s excuses wrapped up in the prettiest words she could find.

“Mother is not quite well; she does not feel up to the exertion of dining out to-night,” returned Nan, trying to put a good face on it, but feeling as though things were too much for her this evening. It was bad enough for Mr. Mayne to insist on them all coming up to a long formal dinner, and spoiling their chances of a twilight stroll; but it was still worse for her mother to abandon them after this fashion.

The new novel must have had something to do with this sudden indisposition; but when Mrs. Challoner had wrapped herself up in her white shawl, always a bad sign with her, and had declared herself unfit for any exertion, what could a dutiful daughter do but deliver her excuses as gracefully as she could? Nevertheless, Mr. Mayne frowned and expressed himself ill pleased.

“I should have thought an effort could have been made on such an occasion,” was his final thrust, as he gave his arm ungraciously to Nan, and conducted her with ominous solemnity to the table.

It was not a festive meal, in spite of all Mrs. Mayne’s efforts. Dick looked glum. He was separated from Nan by a vast silver epergne, that fully screened her from view. Another time she would have peeped merrily round at him and given him a sprightly nod or two; but how was she to do it when Mr. Mayne never relaxed his gloomy muscles, and when he insisted on keeping up a ceremonious flow of conversation with her on the subjects of the day?

When Dick tried to strike into their talk, he got so visibly snubbed that he was obliged to take refuge with Phillis.

“You young fellows never know what you are talking about,” observed Mr. Mayne, sharply, when Dick had hazarded a remark about the Premier’s policy; “you are a Radical one day, and a Conservative another. That comes of your debating societies. You take contrary sides, and mix up a balderdash of ideas, until you don’t know whether you are standing on your head or your heels;” and it was after this that Dick found his refuge with Phillis.

It was little better when they were all in the drawing-room together. If Mr. Mayne had invited them there for the purpose of keeping them all under his own eyes and making them uncomfortable, he could not have managed better. When Dick suggested a stroll in the garden, he said,

“Pshaw! what nonsense proposing such a thing, when the dews are heavy and the girls will catch their deaths of cold!”

“We do it every evening of our life,” observed Nan, hardily; but even she dared not persevere in the face of this protest, though she exchanged a rebellious look with Dick that did him good and put him in a better humor.

They found their way into the conservatory after that, but were hunted out on pretence of having a little music; at least Nan would have it that it was pretence.

“Your father does not care much for music, I know,” she whispered, as she placed herself at the grand piano, while Dick leaned against it and watched her. It was naughty of Nan, but there was no denying that she found Mr. Mayne more aggravating than usual this evening.

“Come, come, Miss Nancy!” he called out, he always called her that when he wished to annoy her, for Nan had a special dislike to her quaint, old-fashioned name; it had been her mother’s and grandmother’s name; in every generation there had been a Nancy Challoner, “come, come, Miss Nancy! we cannot have you playing at hide-and-seek in this fashion. We want some music. Give us something rousing, to keep us all awake.” And Nan had reluctantly placed herself at the piano.

She did her little best according to orders, for she dared not offend Dick’s father. None of the Challoners were accomplished girls. Dulce sang a little, and so did Nan, but Phillis could not play the simplest piece without bungling and her uncertain little warblings, which were sweet but hardly true, were reserved for church.

Dulce sang very prettily, but she could only manage her own accompaniments or a sprightly valse. Nan, who did most of the execution of the family, was a very fair performer from a young lady’s point of view, and that is not saying much. She always had her piece ready if people wanted her to play. She sat down without nervousness and rose without haste. She had a choice little repertory of old songs and ballads, that she could produce without hesitation from memory, “My mother bids me bind my hair,” or “Bid your faithful Ariel fly,” and such-like old songs, in which there is more melody than in a hundred new ones, and which she sang in a simple, artless fashion that pleased the elder people greatly. Dulce could do more than this, but her voice had never been properly tutored, and she sang her bird-music in bird-fashion, rather wildly and shrilly, with small respect to rule and art, nevertheless making a pleasing noise, a young foreigner once told her.

When Nan had exhausted her little stock, Mr. Mayne peremptorily invited them to a round game; and the rest of the evening was spent in trying to master the mysteries of a new game, over the involved rules of which Mr. Mayne as usual, wrangled fiercely with everybody, while Dick shrugged his shoulders and shuffled his cards with such evident ill-humor that Nan hurried her sisters away half an hour before the usual time, in terror of an outbreak.

It was an utterly disappointing evening; and, to make matters worse, Mr. Mayne actually lit his cigar and strolled down the garden-paths, keeping quite close to Nan, and showing such obvious intention of accompanying them to the very gate of the cottage that there could be no thought of any sweet lingering in the dusk.

“I will be even with him,” growled Dick, who was in a state of suppressed irritation under this unexpected surveillance; and in the darkest part of the road he twitched Nan’s sleeve to attract her attention, and whispered, in so low a voice that his father could not hear him, “This is not good-bye. I will be round at the cottage to-morrow morning;” and Nan nodded hurriedly, and then turned her head to answer Mr. Mayne’s last question.

If Dick had put all his feelings in his hand-shake, it could not have spoken to Nan more eloquently of the young man’s wrath and chagrin and concealed tenderness. Nan shot him one of her swift straightforward looks in answer.

“Nevermind,” it seemed to say; “we shall have to-morrow;” and then she bade them cheerfully good-night.

Dorothy met her in the hall, and put down her chamber-candlestick.

“Has the mother gone to bed yet, Dorothy?” questioned the young mistress, speaking still with that enforced cheerfulness.

“No, Miss Nan; she is still in there,” jerking her head in the direction of the drawing-room. “Mr. Trinder called, and was with her a long time. I thought she seemed a bit poorly when I took in the lamp.”

“Mamsie is never fit for anything when that old ogre has been,” broke in Dulce, impatiently. “He always comes and tells her some nightmare tale or other to prevent her sleeping. Now we shall not have the new gowns we set our hearts on, Nan.”

“Oh, never mind the gowns,” returned Nan, rather wearily.

What did it matter if they had to wear their old ones when Dick would not be there to see them? And Dorothy, who was contemplating her favorite nursling with the privileged tenderness of an old servant, chimed in with the utmost cheerfulness:

“It does not matter what she wears; does it, Miss Nan? She looks just as nice in an old gown as a new one; that is what I say of all my young ladies; dress does not matter a bit to them.”

“How long are you all going to stand chattering with Dorothy?” interrupted Phillis, in her clear decided voice. “Mother will wonder what conspiracy we are hatching, and why we leave her so long alone.” And then Dorothy took up her candlestick, grumbling a little, as she often did, over Miss Phillis’s masterful ways, and the girls went laughingly into their mother’s presence.

Though it was summer-time, Mrs. Challoner’s easy-chair was drawn up in front of the rug, and she sat wrapped in her white shawl, with her eyes fixed on the pretty painted fire-screen that hid the blackness of the coals. She did not turn her head or move as her daughters entered; indeed, so motionless was her attitude that Dulce thought she was asleep, and went on tiptoe round her chair to steal a kiss. But Nan, who had caught sight of her mother’s face, put her quickly aside.

“Don’t, Dulce; mother is not well. What is the matter, mammie, darling?” kneeling down and bringing her bright face on a level with her mother’s. She would have taken her into her vigorous young arms, but Mrs. Challoner almost pushed her away.

“Hush, children! Do be quiet, Nan; I cannot talk to you. I cannot answer questions to-night.” And then she shivered, and drew her shawl closer round her, and put away Nan’s caressing hands, and looked at them all with a face that seemed to have grown pinched and old all at once, and eyes full of misery.

“Mammie, you must speak to us,” returned Nan, not a whit daunted by this rebuff, but horribly frightened all the time. “Of course, Dorothy told us that Mr. Trinder has been here, and of course we know that it is some trouble about money.” Then, at the mention of Mr. Trinder’s name, Mrs. Challoner shivered again.

Nan waited a moment for an answer: but, as none came, she went on in coaxing voice:

“Don’t be afraid to tell us, mother darling; we can all bear a little trouble, I hope. We have had such happy lives, and we cannot go on being happy always,” continued the girl, with the painful conviction coming suddenly into her mind that the brightness of these days was over. “Money is very nice, and one cannot do without it, I suppose; but as long as we are together and love each other ”

Then Mrs. Challoner fixed her heavy eyes on her daughter and took up the unfinished sentence:

“Ah, if we could only be together! if I were not to be separated from my children! it is that that is crushing me!” and then she pressed her dry lips together, and folded her hands with a gesture of despair; “but I know that it must be, for Mr. Trinder has told me everything. It is no use shutting our eyes and struggling on any longer; for we are ruined ruined!” her voice sinking into indistinctness.

Nan grew a little pale. If they were ruined, how would it be with her and Dick! And then she thought of Mr. Mayne, and her heart felt faint within her. Nan, who had Dick added to her perplexities, was hardly equal to the emergency; but it was Phillis who took the domestic helm as it fell from her sister’s hand.

“If we be ruined, mother,” she said, briskly, “it is not half so bad as having you ill. Nan, why don’t you rub her hands! she is shivering with cold, or with the bad news, or something. I mean to set Dorothy at defiance, and to light a nice little fire, in spite of the clean muslin curtains. When one is ill or unhappy, there is nothing so soothing as a fire,” continued Phillis as she removed the screen and kindled the dry wood, not heeding Mrs. Challoner’s feeble remonstrances.

“Don’t, Phillis: we shall not be able to afford fires now;” and then she became a little hysterical. But Phillis persisted, and the red glow was soon coaxed into a cheerful blaze.

“That looks more comfortable. I feel chilly myself; these summer nights are sometimes deceptive. I wonder what Dorothy will say to us; I mean to ask her to make us all some tea. No, mamma, you are not to interfere; it will do you good, and we don’t mean to have you ill if we can help it.” And then she looked meaningly at Nan, and withdrew.

There was no boiling water, of course, and the kitchen fire was raked out; and Dorothy was sitting in solitary state, looking very grim.

“It is time for folks to be in their beds, Miss Phillis,” she said, very crossly. “I don’t hold with tea myself so late: it excites people, and keeps them awake.”

“Mother is not just the thing, and a cup of tea will do her good. Don’t let us keep you up, Dorothy,” replied Phillis, blandly. “I have lighted the drawing-room-fire, and I can boil the kettle in there. If mother has got a chill, I would not answer for the consequences.”

Dorothy grew huffy at the mention of the fire, and would not aid or abet her young lady’s “fad,” as she called it.

“If you don’t want me, I think I will go to bed, Miss Phillis. Susan went off a long time ago.” And, as Phillis cheerfully acquiesced in this arrangement, Dorothy decamped with a frown on her brow, and left Phillis mistress of the situation.

“There, now, I have got rid of the cross old thing,” she observed, in a tone of relief, as she filled the kettle and arranged the little tea-tray.

She carried them both into the room, poising the tray skilfully in her hand. Nan looked up in a relieved way as she entered. Mrs. Challoner was stretching out her chilled hands to the blaze. Her face had lost its pinched unnatural expression; it was as though the presence of her girls fenced her in securely, and her misfortune grew more shadowy and faded into the background. She drank the tea when it was given to her, and even begged Nan to follow her example. Nan took a little to please her, though she hardly believed its solace would be great; but Phillis and Dulce drank theirs in a business-like way, as though they needed support and were not ashamed to own it. It was Nan who put down her cup first, and leaned her cheek against her mother’s hand.

“Now, mother dear, we want to hear all about it. Does Mr. Trinder say we are really so dreadfully poor?”

“We have been getting poorer for along time,” returned her mother, mournfully; “but if we had only a little left us I would not complain. You see, your father would persist in these investments in spite of all Mr. Trinder could say, and now his words have come true.” But this vague statement did not satisfy Nan; and patiently, and with difficulty, she drew from her mother all that the lawyer had told her.

Mr. Challoner had been called to the bar early in life, but his career had hardly been a successful one. He had held few briefs, and, though he worked hard, and had good capabilities, he had never achieved fortune; and as he lived up to his income, and was rather fond of the good things of this life, he got through most of his wife’s money, and, contrary to the advice of older and wiser heads, invested the remainder in the business of a connection who only wanted capital to make his fortune and Mr. Challoner’s too.

It was a grievous error; and yet, if Mr. Challoner had lived, those few thousands would hardly have been so sorely missed. He was young in his profession, and if he had been spared, success would have come to him as to other men; but he was cut off unexpectedly in the prime of life, and Mrs. Challoner gave up her large house at Kensington, and settled at Glen Cottage with her three daughters, understanding that life was changed for her, and that they should have to be content with small means and few wants.

Hitherto they had had sufficient; but of late there had been dark whispers concerning that invested money; things were not quite square and above-board; the integrity of the firm was doubted. Mr. Trinder, almost with tears in his eyes, begged Mrs. Challoner to be prudent and spend less. The crash which he had foreseen, and had vainly tried to avert, had come to-night. Gardiner & Fowler were bankrupt, and their greatest creditor, Mrs. Challoner, was ruined.

“We cannot get our money. Mr. Trinder says we never shall. They have been paying their dividends correctly, keeping it up as a sort of blind, he says: but all the capital is eaten away. George Gardiner, too, your father’s cousin, the man he trusted above every one, he to defraud the widow and the fatherless, to take our money my children’s only portion and to leave us beggared.” And Mrs. Challoner, made tragical by this great blow, clasped her hands and looked at her girls with two large tears rolling down her face.

“Mother, are you sure? is it quite as bad as that?” asked Nan; and then she kissed away the tears, and said something rather brokenly about having faith, and trying not to lose courage; then her voice failed her, and they all sat quiet together.