uncle, who, of all people in the world, was supposed to most detest children.

The Russelthorpes seldom dined alone; but Mr. Russelthorpe, having established a reputation for eccentricity, left the entertaining to his wife, and would often shuffle off to his quiet study, even before dinner was fairly over.

One night he was earlier than usual.

His slippered feet made no noise as he crossed the hall, but he drew a breath of relief on entering his own den, and his breath was echoed by a startled gasp from the top of the library steps.

There sat a slim pale girl, with three volumes in her lap, and a fourth in her arms. She had taken sanctuary in his library (which even housemaids durst not invade) for three weeks, but she was discovered at last.

The two gazed at each other in silence. Uncle Russelthorpe's sharp eyes began to twinkle under their heavy brows, Meg's grew large with despair.

"Upon my word!" he said slowly. "And what are you here for?"

The dining-room door opened at this moment, and the sound of voices reached them, Aunt Russelthorpe's high above the rest.

"Oh, don't call her! Please, please," cried Meg, with desperate entreaty. "I didn't mean any harm, I didn't really—I always have gone before you came in—I won't ever stay so late again—I came to—to get away from them all."

"Hm—so did I," said Uncle Russelthorpe; and he shut the door, and drew the thick curtain before it.

"How long do you generally stop, ghost?"

"Till the clock strikes half-past seven," said Meg.

"Oh," said he, "you had better keep to your time. Ghosts are always regular in their visitations, but don't make any noise if you want to haunt me. I don't allow bodies in here, only spirits." He glanced at her again under his eyebrows.

"You've not flesh enough to speak of," he said. "Yes, I think you may stay."

So Meg stayed till the half-hour, when she took off her shoes in order to make no noise, stole from her high perch, and vanished on tip-toe.

She was pathetically grateful to him for the privilege; and their friendship prospered.

It was a characteristic of the old gentleman that he felt no responsibility for her. She devoured his books as she chose, and so long as she treated them carefully, he was only amused at her choice. He let her go her own way, as he let his wife; Meg worshipped him for his so-called kindness, and answered with eyes full of reverence when he addressed her; she thought his laziness patience, and his tolerance angelic.

All her life she saw heroes in ordinary men and women, and was disappointed if they failed to act up to her ideal of them. It was a propensity that cost her bitter tears—but, after all, the world might be the worse without the few fools who go on believing all things of those they love.

Sometimes Uncle Russelthorpe would take no notice of his "ghost"; and then, true to her part, she never spoke; sometimes, when the humour took him, he would draw her out and amuse himself with her quaint remarks. Occasionally her questions slightly discomposed him, "irresponsible" though he was.

"What does Socrates mean by this?" the clear, unabashed voice would ask; and Uncle Russelthorpe would interrupt the reading aloud that followed, with a hasty,—

"Oh, that is meant for old men like me, not for women or girls. You needn't think about it."

Fortunately, Meg had no morbid curiosity; and the ancient writers with whom her childish spirit communed left no stain on her innocence.

Sir Thomas Browne fascinated her; for the twelve-year-old girl, like the visionary doctor, had a strong leaning toward the supernatural.

Once Uncle Russelthorpe saw her shudder, as she bent over the big folio on her knee.

"What's the matter?" he inquired.

"Sir Thomas Browne says rather frightening things sometimes," said Meg, and proceeded to quote.

"But that those phantasms appear often, and do frequent cemeteries, charnel houses, and churches, it is because those are the dormitories, where the devil, like an insolent champion, beholds with pride the spoils and trophies of his victory in Adam."

"Do you think he really does do that, uncle?"

"Eh? Who? Does what?" said Uncle Russelthorpe, taking snuff.

"The—the devil," whispered Meg. "Does he truly walk about the cemeteries like an insolent champion?"

"We all make our own Devil, as we make our own God," said Mr. Russelthorpe. "You and your friend Sir Thomas make a very terrific one, with uncommonly long horns, because you are both cursed with imagination."

"I don't understand," said the child, after puzzling some time over this reply; and perhaps it was as well she didn't.

On the whole, the hours in the library were good for Meg. Mrs. Russelthorpe observed that she was getting less babyish, and put the change down to her own excellent treatment. She would probably have disapproved of the evening "hauntings" had she known of them; but Mr. Russelthorpe held his tongue on the subject, and they continued till Meg's lesson hours were lengthened with her petticoats, and she was well into her "teens". The cleverest of us are allowed less management than we sometimes fancy, wherein Providence shows some mercy.

CHAPTER II.

The madman saith he says so—It is strange!

Margaret was not brought out till she was nearly twenty.

"She was ridiculously young for her age," her aunt said; "besides, three unmarried nieces were too many, and Margaret was so unsteady that the least taste of excitement turned her head."

There was reason in all her remarks. A very little change excited Meg, as a very little champagne will excite habitual water-drinkers, and she was remarkably youthful in her enthusiasms.

Laura and Kate became engaged almost at the same time; Mr. Deane came down to the family place in Kent, and there were grand doings before the joint wedding.

Ravenshill had not been so gay since the time when Mr. Deane's young wife reigned there, and when the children pattered merrily about the passages.

Meg was always overjoyed when her father came home, and he on his side was inclined to be proud of his pretty daughter. She had developed fast, and was far prettier at twenty than when he had last seen her at sixteen. The youngest Miss Deane bid fair to rival Kate, who was the acknowledged beauty of the family.

She was a slim fair girl, with a sweet rather thin face, and eager innocent grey eyes.

Her looks were remarkably subject to moods. Her colour would come and go when she talked, and when she was with any one whom she cared for, and who took the trouble to overcome her shyness, she would light up into real brilliancy of beauty. Alone with her father she was often gay, and always intensely interested and sympathetic; with her aunt she was cold and constrained, having never overcome her childish horror of her.

During Meg's childhood the dislike was chiefly on her own side; for Mrs. Russelthorpe troubled her head very little about the whims of her youngest niece, but after she came out it was a different matter.

Meg had always been the favourite child, and during this last visit had become in some measure her father's confidante.

She caught his opinions with a thoroughness and wholesale admiration that delighted him; she brightened when he entered the room, and responded eagerly to his lightest humour.

There was no arrière pensée in her adaptability. Meg loved her father and hated her aunt, and made no secret of either feeling; but hers was not a nature to lay plots, and she would have been astonished had she guessed how often her aunt had said bitterly of late that "Margaret was cleverer than people fancied, and knew how to get round poor Charles".

Mrs. Russelthorpe and her youngest niece walked into Dover one day to return a call.

Mrs. Russelthorpe was determined that neither her own conscience nor the