I felt that no one in the world loved me so
wholly and kindly as this big brave man sitting
beside me, and I could not but be glad, though my
whole life might weep for it afterwards. Have
I not said well that I was very far from wise?
He told me about Eldergowan, and how it
missed me. The house was dull, and the inmates
moped; the fields seemed deserted, the gardens
lonely. Polly had said that the taste of Mattie
was gone from everything, and nothing had any
relish. Does it not seem laughable to relate?
But it made my heart ache to bursting.

"We want you," he said, "we want you
badly. You had no right to come to Eldergowan
creating such a need unless you intended
to return."

I tried not to mind the tones of his voice.
"That is all very well," I said, gaily, "and I am
very much obliged to Eldergowan for missing
me so much; but I want my crutch at present;
I want it badly. And when you see me hobbling
along the walk, you will perceive that
Eldergowan must rest content without me."

Still he withheld the crutch. "Wait awhile.
Mattie," he said again; "I am in no hurry to
see you hobbling down the walk. We used to
sit together in the gardens over yonder by the
hour, and it is inhospitable of you now to deny
me the only thing I coveted in coming to your
house—a little of your company alone. Do not
let me feel that you are altered in anything
besides the wearing of that fresh pretty gown
that makes you look as if you were dressed in
snowdrops. Say you are not changed, Mattie."

"I am not changed," I began; and then
started up, crying wildly, I think, "give me my
crutch; give it to me at once, and take me
home."

He rose on the instant, looking hurt and
surprised, placed my crutch without a word, gave
me his arm, and we went home to the house
together. When we drew near the door, I said;

"My pains have made me very cross; please
forgive me my rudeness."

"I could forgive you more than that," he
said; and we went in, and found my father
still in the dining-room, and alone.

My father had some awe of, and much
respect for, Mrs. Hatteraick, and it pleased him
to be friendly to her son. He marshalled Major
Hatteraick into the drawing-room—a room
which he himself rarely entered. Miss Pollard
and Sylvia were there, and the tea-things were
spread upon the table. Sylvia was cutting
cakes for the tea, and Miss Pollard was tugging
so fiercely at her worsted-work, that I was
sure the poor little lady had been lately made
to feel as if her gown were hooked on crooked,
or she had her shoes on the wrong feet. Luke
came in presently, but sat sullen and silent all
tea-time, and directly it was finished
disappeared. My father talked of the wars in
courtesy to Major Hatteraick, and Major
Hatteraick talked of the mills in courtesy to my
father, who was evidently well pleased with
his new friend.

After tea, Mark announced the object of his
visit.

"I am my mother's ambassador, sir," he
said, giving my father a note. There was also
one for me, and another for Sylvia. They were
all to the same purpose. Mrs. Hatteraick
wanted Sylvia and me to come to Eldergowan.
Sylvia flushed up and looked grave. She did
not want to go.

"They may do as they like," said my father,
who was pleased with Mrs Hatteraick's letter.
Mark looked eagerly towards me.

I shook my head. "You had better let me
limp about the Mill-house a little longer, papa,"
said I. "I am not just in order for paying visits."

"I do not suppose Mrs. Hatteraick will expect
you to walk the whole way," said my father,
sharply. And you may as well limp about
Eldergowan as the Mill-house." He was in
eminent good humour with the Hatteraicks at the
moment, and I saw that he was bent on our going.

Mark's face had clouded over. "My mother
will, of course, bring the carriage for you," he
said.

"Well, well," said my father, getting
impatient, "let them talk the matter over, and
make up their minds. Only no nonsense about
limping, Mattie. There is no reason in the
world against your accepting the kindness of
your friends."

And saying this, he marched off with Major
Hatteraick to inspect some new machinery at
the mills, and we three women were left looking
at each other.

"Mattie, my dear," said Miss Pollard, "I
should not have believed that a few hours in
the open air could make such a change in any
person. I never saw wild hair and a tumbled
gown so becoming in my life. You are shining
and blooming, like a new-blown rose."

"It is my new muslin gown, Miss Pollard,"
I said, hastily.

Sylvia, who had been very demure all evening,
nodded her head sagely.

"It's my mind, Mattie," said she, "that if
you go to Eldergowan you will look like that
every day you are there. But if you go at
present you must go alone. I do not know the
people, and I had rather stay at the Mill-house."

"I am not going to Eldergowan, Sylvia," I
said. And then a servant came into the room
with a letter.

MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS.
MR. CHARLES DICKENS will read at Blackburn on Friday
the 26th; at St. James's Hall, London, on Monday the
29th; at Stoke on Tuesday the 30th; at Hanley on
Wednesday the 1st of May; and at Warrington on Thursday
the 2nd.