Margaret Maliphant

								

given all his substance to the great "school," which had just opened
its branch houses in the provinces.
In all the works connected with it, Camille Lambert had taken an active
part; and when financial troubles and dissensions between the leaders
led popular ardor to cool and the scheme to be declared unpractical,
he broke his heart over the failure of his hopes, and came home to the
little English village to die.
As I read those pages in after years, I felt that it was no wonder that
such an enthusiasm should have kindled a kindred flame in the heart of
a man so just and so tender as I knew my dear father to be. I love to
think of that friendship now; it explains a great deal to me which has
sometimes been a puzzle, when I have looked at my father's character
with the more mature eyes of my present years. But in those days I did
not think deeply enough for anything to be a puzzle. I was proud of my
father's influence among the country-folk; I liked to hear the shouts
of applause with which he was greeted when he stood up to speak at
winter evening assemblies in the old town-hall. I knew that the crusade
he preached was that of the poor against the rich; and a confusion had
arisen in my mind as to our attitude towards the squire. I fancied I
noticed a restive feeling in father towards the man to whom he paid the
rent of his land; and when I guessed at that secret hope in mother's
heart, I began to class the squire with "the rich" against whom he
waged war in theory, and forgot the many occasions in which they were
one at heart in the performance of kindly and generous actions.
My mood did not last long, for the old habit of a lifetime was stronger
than a mood, and the squire was our friend, but for the moment that
was my mood. The squire belonged to an antagonistic class; perhaps,
even worse than that in my eyes, he was a middle-aged man, and Joyce
must not marry him. Mother never spoke of her hopes to me. It was old
Deborah who sometimes discussed them; she always did discuss the family
concerns far more freely than any one else in the house. She was with
us when Joyce was born, and it was natural she should talk most of what
mattered to those whom she loved most in the world. But Deborah could
not be expected to enter into the delicacy of such a situation, and I
felt sure that on me fell the duty of fighting to the death before my
beautiful sister should be sacrificed to commonplace affluence, instead
of shining in the world of romance that I loved to fancy for her.

CHAPTER II.

Captain Forrester was the hero of the romance that I had fashioned
in my head for Joyce. One bright, frosty winter's day I had driven
her into town to market. The sky was blue, the air was sharp, the
little icicles hung glittering from the trees and hedge-rows as we
drove down the hill; the sea lay steely and calm beyond the waste of
white marsh-land that looked so wide in its monotony. The day was