Frances Kane's Fortune. Meade L. T.

time to spare, you busy, busy creature, you can at least talk while we eat."

      Mrs. Passmore slipped her hand affectionately through Frances's arm, and led her across the wide hall to another cool and small apartment where covers were already placed for two.

      "I am very glad of some lunch, Carrie," said Frances. "I left home early this morning. I am not ashamed to say that I am both tired and hungry."

      "Eat then, my love, eat – these are lamb cutlets; these pease are not to be compared with what you can produce at the Firs, but still they are eatable. Have a glass of this cool lemonade. Oh, yes, we will help ourselves. You need not wait Smithson."

      The footman withdrew. Mrs. Passmore flitted about the table, waiting on her guest with a sort of loving tenderness. Then she seated herself close to Frances, pretended to eat a mouthful or two, and said suddenly:

      "I know you are in trouble. And yet I thought – I hoped – that you would be bringing me good news before long. Is it true, Frances, that Philip Arnold is really alive after all, and has returned to England?"

      "It is perfectly true, Carrie. At this moment Philip is at the Firs."

      Mrs. Passmore opened her lips – her bright eyes traveled all over Frances's face.

      "You don't look well," she said, after a long pause. "I am puzzled to account for your not looking well now."

      "What you think is not going to happen, Carrie. Philip is not likely to make a long visit. He came yesterday; he may go again to-morrow or next day. We won't talk of it. Oh, yes, of course it is nice to think he is alive and well. Carrie, does your aunt Lucilla still want a companion?"

      Mrs. Passmore jumped from her seat – her eyes lighted up; she laid her two dimpled, heavily ringed hands on Frances's shoulders.

      "My dear, you can't mean it! You can't surely mean that you would come? You know what you are to auntie; you can do anything with her. Why, you would save her, Frances; you would save us all."

      "I do think of accepting the post, if you will give it to me," said Frances.

      "Give it to you? you darling! As if we have not been praying and longing for this for the last two years!"

      "But, Carrie, I warn you that I only come because necessity presses me – and – and – I must make conditions – I must make extravagant demands."

      "Anything, dearest. Is it a salary? Name anything you fancy. You know Aunt Lucilla is rolling in money. Indeed, we all have more than we know what to do with. Money can't buy everything, Frances. Ah, yes, I have proved that over and over again; but if it can buy you, it will for once have done us a good turn. What do you want, dear? Don't be afraid to name your price – a hundred a year? You shall have it with pleasure."

      "Carrie, I know what you will think of me, but if I am never frank again I must be now. I don't come here to oblige you, or because I have a real, deep, anxious desire to help your aunt. I come – I come alone because of a pressing necessity; there is no other way out of it that I can see, therefore my demand must be extravagant. If I take the post of companion to your aunt Lucilla, I shall want three hundred pounds a year."

      Mrs. Passmore slightly started, and for the briefest instant a frown of disappointment and annoyance knit her pretty brows. Then she glanced again at the worn face of the girl who sat opposite to her; the steadfast eyes looked down, the long, thin, beautifully cut fingers trembled as Frances played idly with her fork and spoon.

      "No one could call Frances Kane mercenary," she said to herself. "Poor dear, she has some trouble upon her. Certainly her demand is exorbitant; never before since the world was known did a companion receive such a salary. Still, where would one find a second Frances?"

      "So be it, dear," she said, aloud. "I admit that your terms are high, but in some ways your services are beyond purchase. No one ever did or ever will suit Aunt Lucilla as you do. Now, when will you come?"

      "I am not quite sure yet, Carrie, that I can come at all. If I do it will probably be in a week from now. Yes, to-morrow week; if I come at all I will come then; and I will let you know certainly on this day week."

      "My dear, you are a great puzzle to me; why can't you make up your mind now?"

      "My own mind is made up, Carrie, absolutely and fully, but others have really to decide for me. I think the chances are that I shall have my way. Carrie dear, you are very good; I wish I could thank you more."

      "No, don't thank me. When you come you will give as much as you get. Your post won't be a sinecure."

      "Sinecures never fell in my way," said Frances. "May I see your aunt for a few minutes to-day?"

      "Certainly, love – you know her room. You will find her very poorly and fractious this afternoon. Will you tell her that you are coming to live with her, Frances?"

      "No; that would be cruel, for I may not be able to come, after all. Still, I think I shall spend some time in doing my utmost to help you and yours, Carrie."

      "God bless you, dear! Now run up to auntie. You will find me in the summer-house whenever you like to come down. I hope you will spend the afternoon with me, Frances, and have tea; I can send you home in the evening."

      "You are very kind, Carrie, but I must not stay. I will say good-bye to you now, for I must go back to Martinstown for a few minutes early this afternoon. Good-bye, thank you. You are evidently a very real friend in need."

      Frances kissed Mrs. Passmore, and then ran lightly up the broad and richly carpeted stairs. Her footsteps made no sound on the thick Axminster. She flitted past down a long gallery hung with portraits, presently stopped before a baize door, paused for a second, then opened it swiftly and went in.

      She found herself in an anteroom, darkened and rendered cool with soft green silk drapery. The anteroom led to a large room beyond. She tapped at the door of the inside room, and an austere-looking woman dressed as a nurse opened it immediately. Her face lighted up when she saw Frances.

      "Miss Kane, you're just the person of all others my mistress would like to see. Walk in, miss, please. Can you stay for half an hour? If so, I'll leave you."

      "Yes, Jennings. I am sorry Mrs. Carnegie is so ill to-day."

      Then she stepped across the carpeted floor, the door was closed behind her, and she found herself in the presence of a tall thin woman, who was lying full length on a sofa by the open window. Never was there a more peevish face than the invalid wore. Her brows were slightly drawn together, her lips had fretful curves; the pallor of great pain, of intense nervous suffering, dwelt on her brow. Frances went softly up to her.