"She must be dreadful," she used to say when discussing her unknown niece in family conclave; and both Mr. Hamley and Dora used to say, "Dreadful indeed!" in concert.

Neither of these last-mentioned persons wanted to see Mrs. Hamley become interested in her niece. To Mr. Hamley the adoption of his own cousin had been a matter of intense pride and satisfaction; and such a cousin too!-fit to be a queen, he used to think. And dear Dora, though not noticeably jealous, naturally wished to keep her standing intact and did not desire a rival. Hence, no word of praise that was impossible, for no one knew if she was praiseworthy or not-but no word of indulgent hope was ever coupled with Patricia's name at Abbey Holme, and the idea of her was associated with a certain steadfast disfavour that bore its fruits in the time to come, and made itself felt even now in the time at hand.

Patricia had thus some cause for the sudden dismay that overcame her when her uncle said he would write to Aunt Hamley for her advice and be guided by it. She knew by intuition that all the advice they would have from Abbey Holme would be hard and uncomfortable, so far as she was concerned; and who knows? perhaps her uncle would adopt it,

whatever it might be, even if it hurt himself to do so. He had his crotchets at times, and was not always in the same humour; and his conscience had a trick of self-torturing when he was not quite well, which led him to acts of pain and penance, happily of short duration if severe while they lasted.

Right or wrong, however, this idea of a lady companion had taken possession of him; and with it the necessity "of consulting his sister Hamley in a matter so purely out of his line." So acting on the theory of the providential inspiration of his thought, he wrote now on the instant to Abbey Holme, at Milltown, as has been said; and in doing so felt he had washed his hands of half his responsibility and all his difficulty.

THIS

CHAPTER III.

"WHAT WOULD YOU DO, LOVE?"

THIS was the first break in Patricia's life; a break as yet only potential, not actual. But it brought her up with a round turn as she herself would have said, and made her reflect on her position, for the first time, seriously. For the first time too, it opened the gate of the future and gave her a glimpse of the possibilities lying within.

Her uncle's darling; to be sure, that she knew she was; the light of his days, the apple of his eye. He could no more get on without her than the trees and the flowers in the garden could live without the sun. She knew all this well enough; had always known it with more or less consciousness from the time when she was brought to the cottage in her little black frock, with her doll in her arms, and Uncle Robert, whose name was associated in her childish mind with perennial

sugarplums and almost the only toys she ever had, had taken her on his knees and had kissed her and her doll too, and had told her with a husky voice that he would be her father now, and that she was to be a good girl and say her prayers, and never do anything behind backs she was afraid of all the world seeing.

From that time she had taken her place and had rooted. And she had been happy; who indeed happier? It had been just the life that had suited best with her physical temperament and her moral nature. She was nothing of a dreamer, nor yet of a casuist; she was contented with things as they were; things she could touch and understand without going to their roots or questioning eternal causes, She liked to know that she was doing right, but she did not care to analyze her own sensations, nor to understand exactly where her right might have broadened into wrong. Certainly she was not over well educated nor yet intellectually inclined. Hitherto she had not cared greatly for reading, save history, which was true and therefore fascinating enough; and her uncle had not made her read much beside the Bible and Shakespeare, which last he had Bowdlerised on his own account with a broad pen and very thick ink. thick ink. But on the other

hand she had learnt a good deal of natural history, and what she knew of life was by the village dramas acted before her eyes, not by theories thought out by others. As yet she had more conscience than consciousness, and a moral sense keener than her intellectual perceptions.

Her physical life too, suited her as exactly as the rest. Two-thirds of it was passed in the open air, chiefly in strong exercise; and her home occupations were for the most part active outside her needlework and her evening backgammon with her uncle. Her health was perfect, and her strength greater than the strength of most women, save such as work in the fields or the like. And she loved to use it. And as, happily for her, her uncle did not think it part of the eternal rule of right that women should be defrauded of their inheritance of health and development, she did use it, and to good purpose. Thus it was that she never knew what it was to be sick or sorry, depressed or doubtful, out of heart or out of temper, or at cross purposes with life at home or abroad.

But with all this fulness of joy in the present her future was not assured. Her uncle was not her father, and she had no claims hereafter, if many privileges now. If anything happened-she did not