ill try to think of something.'

And for once she thoroughly enlisted Jacinth's sympathy for her friends.
Possibly, far down in Jacinth's heart, candid and loyal by nature, lay a
consciousness that, notwithstanding the plausible and, to a certain
extent, sound reasons for not meddling in other people's affairs, and
for refraining from all 'Harper' allusions to Lady Myrtle, she was going
farther than she needed in her avoidance of these girls, in her
determination not to know anything about their family or their possible
connection with her old lady. Her conscience was not entirely at rest.
And in a curious undefined way she was now and then grateful for
Frances's ready kindness to Bessie and Margaret: it seemed a vicarious
making up for the something which she felt she herself was withholding.
And this little appeal touched her sympathy; so that with a good deal of
tact--more tact than Frances, blunt and blundering, could have
shown--she helped to suggest and carry out a really charming little
birthday present, most of the materials for which she had 'by her,'
lying useless, only asking to be made into something.

Never had Bessie Harper felt so ready to make a friend of the
undemonstrative girl; never had Francie herself felt more drawn to her
elder sister.

And the little present was carefully packed and sent off; and the tender
mother's letter of thanks, when it came, was read to the Mildmays as but
their due, and for a while it seemed as if the friendship was to extend
from a trio into a quartette!

But alas! a very few days after the cheery letter from Southcliff,
Frances, spending a holiday afternoon at Ivy Lodge, as often happened,
especially when Jacinth was with Lady Myrtle, found Bessie Harper pale
and anxious, and Margaret's eyes suspiciously red. What was the matter?

'We didn't want to tell you about our home troubles,' said Bessie. 'I'm
sure it's better not, because of--you know what. But I must tell you a
little. It's--it's a letter from Camilla. Father has been so much worse
lately, and they didn't want to tell us. They hoped it was only
rheumatism with the cold weather. But--mother managed to get him up to
London to see the great doctor, and--he gave a very bad report.'

Here Bessie's voice failed.

'He's not going to die?--oh don't say that!' burst out Frances in her
heedless way.

Margaret flung out her hands wildly.

'Oh Bessie,' she cried, 'is that what it really means?'

Bessie looked a