Lucian the dreamer

n to their aid. Each knew that patience was not only necessary, but inevitable. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for Mr. Pepperdine to have dri

ation to tea, and spend an hour or two afterwards in convivial intercourse with Mr. Trippett. That took place every market-day and every time Mr. Pepperdine had occasion

had been knitting by the parlour fire

ht from the station,’ she said in sharp, dec

fancy needlework on the opposite

im from Oakborough last winter, I couldn’t get him to come home. He co

unlocked it, produced a spirit-case and three glasses, and set them on the table in the middle of the room. At the same moment a tap sounded on the door, and a maid e

d a good tea at the Grange—Sarah Trippett would see to that—but he’ll be cold. Some hot milk, I should

the parlour became hushed and silent. It was an old-world room—there was not an article of furniture in it that was less than a hundred years old, and the old silver and old china arranged in the cab

every movement; in her sharp, incisive speech; in her quick glance; and in the nervous, resolute click of her knitting needles. As she knitted, she kept her lips pursed tightly together and her eyes fixed upon her work: it needed little observation to make sure that{29} whatever Miss Pepperdine did would be done with resolution and thoroughness. She was a woman to be respected rather than loved; feared more than

act that at forty years of age she was still a pretty woman. There was something of the girl still left in her: some dreaminess of eye, a suspicion of coquetry, an innate desire to please the other sex and to be admired by men. Her cheek was still smooth and peach-like; her eyes still bright, and her brown hair glossy; old maid that she undoubtedly was, there were many good-look

aid siege to her and captured her susceptible heart. Their engagement was kept secret, for old Mrs. Pepperdine had almost as great an objection to soldiers as to foreigners, and would have considered a non-commissioned officer beneath her daughter’s notice. The sergeant, however, had aspirations—it was his hope to secure a commission in an infantry regiment, and his ambition in this direction seemed likely to be furthered when his regiment was ordered out to India and presently engaged in a frontier campaign. But there his good luck came to an untimely end—he performed a brave action which won h

er as she was when Cyprian Damerel took her away to London and a new life. None of her own people had ever seen Lucy again—they were stay-at-home folk, and the artist and his wife had spent most of

knowing that she spoke, ‘I wo

Pepperdine, ‘if Damerel ha

th. ‘He earned such larg

eedles clicked more

like most of his sort. That sort of money is earned easily and spent easily. With his ideas and his tastes

Judith timidly, and with a wistful glance at Miss Pepperdine’s ste

of begrudging anything to the child? All I sa

th sisters rose to their feet; each showed traces of some emotion. Without a word they passed out of the room into the hall. The maid-servant had

sound, and no breakages. Lucian, my boy, here’s your aunts Keziah and

ll, and lifted his hat as h

do?’ he sa

yes look out of the young face, and for the moment she could not trust herself to speak. Judith trembled all over; as the boy turned to her she put both arms r

d. ‘Uncle Pepperdine told me abo

. She had fallen in lov

ar,’ she said. ‘And I am very, ver

ine came in, businesslike and bustling; she had lingered in the hall, ostensib

turned him to the light. ‘Your Aunt Judith,’ she continued as she scanned him critically, ‘is

nce as keen and searching as her own

you. I think——’ He pau

think

metimes, but you’re good,’ he

hed. Judith knew tha

iss Pepperdine. ‘Now, then, off

much at Mrs. Trippett’s—English pe

ng with much rubbing of hands and stamping of feet. ‘’Tis cold a

duced an old-fashioned biscuit-box from the cupboard. The boy sat down near Judith, ate and drank, and

said suddenly. ‘Hers is a pretty room, but this sho

Pepperdine, ‘so it is. How

stared

ned and looked apologetic. ‘I think I should like to go to bed,’ he added,

th alacrity. She was pining t

he said. ‘Come along, dear, yo

him again and patted his head. He crossed over

the morning,’ he said. ‘Afte

tell John to have the pony ready. Good-night,{34} my

nt cheerfully away with Judith. Miss Pepp

yprian Damerel,’ she said

rdine. ‘An uncommon fine little lad, and

pewter thimble, measured whisky into it, poured it into a tumbler, added lemon, sugar, and hot water, and handed it to her brother, who received it

I’m going to bed myself—we’ve had a long day with churning. You’ll not want any news to-

said Mr. Pepperdine

put the key in her pocket, and took up the little tray on which she had placed the tumblers intended

‘And you did right to bring the child home—it was the rig

as seized with a

‘The{35} lad’s all right, Keziah—all right.

s Pepperdine. ‘I’ll go now—I just want to see th

’ said the farmer. ‘I’ll just loo

ureau, unlocked a small cupboard, and brought forth a bottle of whisky. He drew the cork with a meditative air and added a liberal dose of spirit to that handed to him by his sister. He replaced the bottle and locked up the cupboard, poured a little more