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Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 297, 14 December 1892, Page 6

CHAPTER X. THE TIME OF BOSKS. 11 never thought to see it again, the dear old place. Nowhere in the world can ever seem so much like home to me as Brightbrook. It is good, good, good to be back !' So sayß little Leo, drawing a Ion?, contented breath. She stands leaning against a brown tree-trunk, her hat in hand, the sunshine sifting down upon her like a rain of gold,^ flecking her pink cambric dress, her braided dark hair, her sweefc, soft-cut face, the great black velvety eyes. Those dark eyes gaze with a wistful light in the direction of Abbott Wood, whither she has not yet been. Sitting in a rustic chair, near, Frank Livingston looksab her, thinking, artist-like, what an unconscious picture^ she makes of herself, and with eomething deeper, perhaps, than mere artist admiration in his eyes. They are all here, the Lamar family, and have been for two days. To Leo io is as though they had never quitted it. The villa, the village, the faces of Frank and Olga, everything seems a3 if she. had only left yesterday. The gap of years is bridged over; she is rich and prosperous Leo Ab-, bott once more. Only her old home she has not seen; she longs to go, but dreads to ask. In an invalid chair close by, sits her brother, very much of an invalid still, pallid and thin to a most interesting degree, and^ petted by all the womankind, until Livingston declares in disgust the after coddlinsr must be ten times harder for Lamar to bear up against than the fever bout. Olga is an exception. Olga, now that she has gotten him safely hore, feels a limitless content, but she does not 'coddle.' She watches the returning appetite, the growing strength, the gradual return to life and health, with a gladness, a thankfulness words are weak to tell, but she pets not ab all. She treats him a trifle more tenderly, perhaps, than the Geoffrey Lamar, vigorous of strength and life of some weeks back; but feel as she may, Olga Ventnor is not one to wear her heart on her sleeve for any man, sick or well. She is a fair, a gracious, a lovely young hostess, full of all gentle care for the comfort of her guesta ; but Geoffrey ia her mother's especial province, and to her mother quietly leaves him.

Ib ie rather against his will, truth to tell, thab Dr. Lamar is here ab all; bub very little voice was given him in bhe matter— his faint objections were overruled by a vasb majority, and he was en roube hither almost before he knew ib. Colonel Ventnor had come for bis rwife and daughter, alarmed for bheir Bafeby, and finding the pationb convalescent, and waited a few days, and abducted him, willy nilly. The cottage had been shut up, and the family are safely here, recuperating in the fresh, sea-scented breeze of Brightbrook, and Olga and Leo at least, in their hidden hearts, supremely happy. For Frank and Geoffrey—well, their roses are certainly nob bhornless. For Geoffrey, he finds himself yielding irresistibly to the spell of other days, and ib threatens to be a fatal spell. In those other days it was different—he might have hoped then—now hopo would only be another name for presumption. Ho has loved Olga ever since he can remember, ib seems to him, and even when ho though her assigned to Livingston, bad hoped, feeling confident of being able to hold his own with thab careless wooer. Bub all thab has been chan.od; in thoae days he was tho heirpresumptive of a very rich man ; in these days he is a penniless doctor, able to earn his daily broad and little more. And for all the best years of his lifo ib seems likely to be so. For himself, he has quite made up his mind to ib, has not been unhappy, but now—now, after this inopportune visit, afber long days spent in her society, it will be different. He can hardly love her better, and yet he dreads to stay. He will spoil his lifo for nothing; a hopeless passion will mar all that is best in him, a love she must never know of will consume his life, cab oub his hearb wibh useless longings and regrets.

Meantime Joanna speeds on by day and by night, on her long journey to her mother. Her prediction has proven true— she does not take the fever. And the doctor tells them all that to her indefatigable nursing more than anything else do they owe Geoffrey's life.

' Thank her if you can, young man,' Dr, Morgan says ; 'she never spared herself by night or day. But for her you would be a dead man this morning.'

Bub Geoffrey does nob even try to thank her — there are things for which mere words, be they ever so eloquent, are a poor return. Others overwhelm her with tears and gratitude—hia mother, his sister, Mrs Ventnor. Olga says little, but ib is ab her Joanna looks. She is very pale in these first days, wibh a bense sorb of look in her blue eyes ; bub she holds herself well in hand, and even Joanna burns away disappointed from that still,proudly calm face. Only when they say good-bye does a glimpse ot Olga'a heart appear. She is bhe lasb to say it and they are alone. She had held oub her hand at first with a smile, and the conventional good wishes for a pleasant journey. Suddenly she flings her arms around Joanna's neck and holds her almost wikllv to her.

' You have saved his life,' she whispered, kissing her again and again. 'I will love you while I live for that.' And then she is gono. Joanna looks after her, a glad, relieved, triumphant smile on her face.

' Ib 13 so, then,' she says, softly, 'in spite of all—in spite of pride. lam so glad—so very glad.'

And now they are all here, and the five last miserable yoars seem to drift away, and the old time—' tho time of roses '—comes back. Loo visits Abbott Wood to her heart's content—no one objects — and wanders sadly under the trees, and down by the blue summer sea, through the glowing rooms, speaking of her mother's refined taste, her father's boundless wealth.

Poor papa ! Leo's tender little heart is sad for him yet. Here is the chapel, beautiful St. Walburga's, with its radiant saints on golden backgrounds, the crimson and purple and golden glass casting rays of rainbow light on the coloured marbles of the floor, the carven pulpit with its angel faces, from which Mr Lamb's meek countenance used to beam down on them all. Up yonder is the or.an where mamma used to sit and play Mozart and Haydn on Sunday afternoons. How silent, how sad, how changed, it all is now. Here is her own white and blue chamber, with its lovely picture of Christ blessing little children, its guardian angels on brackets, her books, and toilet things, all as they used to be.

Here is Geoffrey's room, bare enough and without carpet, for his tastes were preternaburally austere in those days, with lots of space, and little else, except an iron bedstead, and tables, and chairs. And books, of course — everywhere books. And a horrid skeleton in a closet, on wires, and

a dismal skull grinning at her under a glass. Leo gets out again as quickly as may be, wibh a shudder at Geoff's dreadful bastes. Her firsb visit leaves her vory sad and thoughtful; she loves every tree in bhe old place, every room in bhe sbately house, and ib is never to be home to her aDy more 1 It is Joanna's, and, of course, she is glad of bhab. No good boo good can como to Joanna; but for all bhab, ib makes her heart ache. She may come to it as a visitor, but dear, dear Abbotb Wood will never be home any more. No one else goes—nob her mobher, nob her brother; they drive in every direction, never in that. Leo goes often, and frequent going blunts the first sharp feeling of loss and pain. Anobher sense of loss and pain, keener yet, follows this. What has she done to Frank ? He is her friend no more; he avoids her, indeed; he is never her escort if he can help ib. Sometimes he cannob help ib. Olga, in her imperious fashion, orders him bo go and take care of Leo, and nob let bhe child come to harm moving aboub alone. Leo tries to asserb herself, and summon pride bo her aid ; bub Leo in bhe role of a haughby maiden is a failure. The sensitive lips quiver, like the lips of a grieved child ; the velvet black eyes grow dewy and deep, with tears hardly held back. What has she done to make Fra=ik dislike her ? He used not be like this ; he used to be nice, and attentive, and polite. Bub ibis so no more. He goes with her when he musb, and talks to her after a constrained fashion, and looks ab her furtively, and seems guilty, when caughb in bhe acb. Why should he look guilty, and glance hastily away ? There is no harm in looking at her—Leo has a secret consciousness bhab she is nob bad to look at. She cannob bo entirely miserable over the loss of her old home, while she every day grows more and more miserable over the loss of her friend.

(To le Continued on Wednesday next.)