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A [Oopyright.] ME Sara's Mother. ——♦— By ESME STUART, Author of Kestell of Greystone." A Woman of Forty." The Power of the Past," Ac., &c. CHAPTER I. The evening light was fading when Mrs. Beddoes folded up some work she had been doing for the poor, and came to warm her feet by the bright fire which was lighting up her small, but pretty drawing-room. As she stood thus close to the overmantel mirror she looked at herself with a quiet scrutiny which denoted that she had a purpose in her gaze. She saw before her the reflection of a very pratty woman, though pretty was not quite the right word to use about Lucy Beddoes, for her good looks were of a high order. If she was not beautiful as some understand the expression, her face and her features were very nearly perfect. Above all, she belonged to a very womanly type of womanhood, so that part ol her charm lay in her movements, in the soft- ness of her voice, in the slow lifting of her rather large and drooping eyelids, in the whiteness and shapeliness of her hands, in fact, in all that goes to make up a charming woman. But there was an evident, want ot animation about her. easily accounted for, however, by the sight of a minute widow's cap. This sign of mourning added to her attraction. and also accounted for an occasional dreamy manner, apparent even in the midst of such cheerful company as Willington could produce. The elite of the small country town had taken great interest in Mrs. Beddoes when she first came, with her young daughter, to live amongst them. They looked out her late husband in the Army list. and they heard that she was well born. They also found out that she had spent her married life in following what is called the tail of the army," and now that the captain was dead, she had a Blender income, and wished to live quietly. Of course, they said, the widow would marry again. A few affirmed that she was a great flirt for all her quiet, gentle ways, and that she was long- ing for a husband, but. though gossips talked. no one could find out that Mrs. Beddoes ever made a false step. She never received gentle- men unless a well-recognised chaperon was with her. and she never missed a. Sunday ftcrvioc. The tide of gossip then turned of ita own accord, and made Mrs. Beddoes into a saint. In five years she certainly could have found somebody to marry had she so wished; that ehe had not done so proved her right to be -canonised- Woodbine Villa became the favou- rite resting-place of the vicar and his curates, aind. what was still more meritorious, Mrs. Beddoes became the friend of the vicar's wife, and the sweet counsellor of all the curates who had love affairs. Two astute ladies once remarked that Mra. Beddoes waa very sweet and gentle, but, that she was very hard to know." You never got further with heir," as they expressed it, and "considering that she had only one child, it was strange that the girl was so little with her mother." For their pains, however, the xest of the Willingtonians called them un- charitable," and Mrs. Beddoas, eoon after the enunciation of their suspicious remarks, heaped coals of fire upon their heads by com- ing to nurse the younger sister through an attack of low fever. After this the elder made amende honourable by confessing to her bene- factor the disparaging remarks she had once pronounced against her. "ÅD to Sara. I know appearances are against me," sa.id Mrs. Beddoes. lifting her dirooping lids. You were quite right to think øo; I wonder everybody doesn't say it. but I don't want to sadden the child's young life with the tthadow of my eorrow. She is so high- spirited, so young, and ehe loves the country and her uncle's house much. Also, she is devoted to her oewtsins, and with me the child is so lonely. I always said that I must not be a selfish mother. I knew what the world would say of me, but But yon are a saint," exclaimed Miss TTooIIey. "I know it now." In this way Mrs. Beddoes* last enemy was oonquered. People in their sen-aes did not believe that anyone would sit up for six nights running simply for effect. This evening, just as Mrs. Beddoes had once more ascertained from the evidence of the looking-glass that she was still pretty. and still young-looking, that her figure was still slight, and that her hair was not grey. and. lastly, t-hat her blue eyes still looked most bewitching in their softness, the door bell rang. A slightly bard yet expectant look suooeeded the widow's smile as she awaited the entrance of the maid. Her taper fingers instinctively arranged hor cap-pin, and then smoothed down the long folds of her black dress. On the card which was brought in to her she read the name of Profitt. It was unknown to her, and it caused her a momentary frown trying to recollect if she had ever met a gentleman of that name. When her visitor wittered, she gave a mental start. Before "Pr stood a stout man, with unmistakable Illng of the law surrounding, his waistcoat and his whiskers. Mrs. Beddoes cordially disliked lawyers, but after bowing she politely pointed to a seat, expecting to hear of some forgotten debt left by her late husband. Her eyes were, slowly raised to Mr. Profitt's face, and she said softly: "I do not think that I have the pleasure of knowing you." "No, madam; but I have come on impor- tant business, which-" Indeed—I know very little of business." Mr. Profitt spoke in small, thin tones, quite eat of proportion with his ample figure. "You must often have needed counsel," he eaid. Mrs. Beddoes drooped heT eyelids, thinking. Who is this man. and what does he want?" "I need it still." My dear madam. if in the fntuve I can I be of any service to you. or to your daughter, I assure you that it will give me the utmost pleasure to-" I Thank you." She raised her eyes quickly this time. "Are you bringing me bad news?" "Bad news! Ah, ah!" said the tiny voice boxed up in the large body. No, indeed, pray be re-assured. Perhaps I should have written to you. but in these cases it is best to speak face to face with your clients." Mrs. Beddoes thought: "Jt is bad news, and he wants to break it gently to me. Horrid man!" "It is much better to speak face to face. Thank you exceedingly for your consideration," She folded her hands and waited. "I believe you have a daughter? Is she here?" "My daughter. Sara, is at school, at least, at this moment she is spending her Easter holi- days with her uncle in Shropshire, but she is coming home to-day." "How old is she? Excuse my seeming curiosity, but "She is twenty; at least, she is past twenty. I wanted her to have the advantage of a good education before she faced the world. I am not rich, and Sara will have to earn her own living. Has anyone left me a legacy?" The idea. suddenly entered her head. an dfor once Mrs. Beddoes asked a, direct question. "I am sorry to say no. For some unexplained reason, the lawyer's letter I received informs me that you are passed overand that the—the legacy is settled upon your daughter on the day that she comes of age. I should like to see her, because A pink flush spread over the widow's fair, oval fac £ "Who has left Sara a legacy?" she said. "A certain Mr. Frank Ferrars." "My husband's cousin was a rolling stone. I suppose he had not much money to leave?" Mrs. Beddoes <Vrew a, sigh of relief. Her thoughts had not turned at all towards this unknown connection. "Yes, certainly a holling stone, but the I "I hate hpr!" she said. "I hate her. and I am her mother!" strange part is that these rolling stones at times, my dear madam, refuse to be ruled by proverbs. Two years before his dea.th Mr. Ferrars was in Australia, and had a lucky chance." "Indeed?" said the widow, lifting her eyes towards the lawyer's rubicund face. Mr. Profitt fell a victim at once. Here was a woman who was not in the least excited by the word "fortune." "Yes; Mr. Ferrars was on his last legs, as people say. when really quite a romantic epi- sode befel him. His last penny was already spent in tobacco, and he was walking with his rough, but worthy, friend, Jethro Cobbin. discussing what could save them from starva- tion, when he struck his mining tool into the ground where the two had set down to smoke their last pipe—so they thought. Frank Fer- rars was not a fool, though he had been unlucky; he knew the colour of gold. He did not tell eyen his friend, but he went to the nearest township, borrowed money, and bought up the claim, which no one wanted, and then made his friend a present of a quarter of the claim and a quarter of the profits; of course, on certain conditions. Jethro Cobbin had soon reason to bless his chum, and, though the news had only just reached England, the partners had already made a large fortune. The excitement of wealth, however, proved too great for your hus- hand's relative, and he fell ill of brain fever and died. Strange, isn't it, that the gold killed him?" "How very foolish," murmured the young widow. t "A rolling stone, you see, is hampered by moss! Be died in Oobbin's arms. making him promise to bring his will to England and to see the-girl to whom he has left all his money and his claim. That girl, I am glad to tell you. is your daughter, Miss Sara Beddoes." "Why did he choose her?" asked the widow. There was no sound of pleasure in her voice. "Why? My de;u* madume. you must see Mr. Cobbin yourself. A most interesting man. Mr. Cobbin yourself. A most interesting man. A little rough, perhaps, but a true friend to yonr daughter. He will explain everything to you." "Frank Ferrars only saw Sara, once, ten years ago." "So it seems; but he took a fancy to her. I She was. I believe, a pretty little girl. Is she a pretty woman ?-though I need hardly ask that question when I am speaking to her mother." "And I am hardly the person to answer that question." said Mrs. Beddoes. "People cou- sidcr her nice-looking. She is certainly not a beauty." "Admirable mother," said the lawyer to him- self. Aloud he added. "I am sorry Miss Beddoe is not at home." "She is coming home this evening for a night. before returning to her school. She is working I for a scholarship. I told you she was destined ti teach." Mr. Profitt smiled and waved his fat hand deprecatingly at the bare notion of teaching. "All that will be unnecessary. I must tell you that there is a mention of a. handsome allowance for her present, maintenance, which will, of course, be paid oVltr to you." "I am to spend it as I think best?" "Yes. of course; certainly. There is only one trustee, this same Jethro Cobbin. Rather a strange trustee for a pretty girl. I must say; stall, he means to leave all the business details to me." I The widow raised her eyes again to the stout I man's face. "Thank you: you are very kind. Will you 'I tell Sara this evenimg, or shall I?" "Oh. you. of course; I leave it to you. my dear madam; but t' will call early to-morrow, before going back to town. I've engaged a I room at the hotel. Pretty country this. "Yes, beautiful country. Won't you d¡'¡TI/o I with us?" But the lawyer excused himself, dreading what a poor lady's idea of a good I, dinner might, be. When Mrs. Beddoes was once more left alone she stood for some time by the fireplace (motionless, except, that occasionally she glanced at the looking-glass. She was natu- rally graceful, and when she stood or moved those whose minds inclined towards art in- voluntarily thought "what a perfect model she would make." "Why did he pass me over?" she said' at last, in a low tone. "It is ridiculous that Sara should come in for aJl that moneY-Sara-and I am to be- But there is still a year before llle; a year! One can do a great deal in a year. How strangE-how strange!" She Eat down suddenly and clasped her hands. "I am 'free from poverty new, free! But Sara—who understands nothing—who—who She rose quickly again, a blush spread over her face—a blush, the reason of which was hidden in the depth of her soul. "Sara is not like her father, she is not suspicions. She will have plenty of suitors now. and most likely she will throw her- self away. I am too young to take the second place. I have kept her away so long from me, and now she must live here. It is unjust, un- fair, to have passed me over. With that money I could have lived my life again." She stopped short, her eyelids drooped, and an expression of barely-suppressed indignation made her suddenly look ten years older. Once more sha went towards the looking-glass and gazed at her own face. She was very pretty, a beauty which invariably attracted men: it was so feminine, so gentle. Then suddenly the soft colour rushed back again to her face, and she kne-lt down upon the heartb-rng. "I hate her!" she said. "I hate her! and I'm her mother!" ¡ CHAPTER II. Chapel Stacey lies embosomed in the midst of fascinating scenery, and the hills round about it effectually guard the village from the wild north winds. On one side of the valley runs the chain of the Highmynds, and on the other two high hills rise near each other, only separated by an upland road which winda for miles round lonely and lovely combs. On the summit of the Highmynds you can walk for many miles along a table-land, from which you may -ztze at many and \uried visions of English and Welsh hills and far distant plains. When weary of this you can turn aside, and on the left you may descend one of the many winding coombs, all more or less steep and all beautiful, yet each one possessing its own distinctive beauty. By this means the traveller will reach some lonely village nestling at the entrance of these quaint val'eys, or ha can follow one of the little streams as it circles round the foot of the miniature spurs, till at last, like its fellows, it guides him to the main valley. At Chapel Stacey the Manor House and its farm buildings formed an oasis in the midst of Lord Stretton's large property. This noble- man owned miles and miles of the beautiful country, and nearly half the houses in Chapel Stacey belong to him. That the Manor House was the freehold property of Mr. Gwillian, and could not be acquired from him, bad been a real sorrow to the late Lord Stretton, though the Manor is a mere toy estate compared with the rast. of the great man's possessions. The house was quaint and old-lashioned. Black timbers crossed the facade, and many of them were richly carved. The rooms were beautifully proportioned and picturesque. The garden was a paradise of natural beauty, and not far off was a small hill, at the top of which the remains of an ancient castle were still disccrnable. What a happy playground for the children of the Manor this had always been, and what games Virginia and Herring- ham Gwillian had enjoyed in the still perfect moat, especially when their cousin Sara was with them. Sara was always the life of the party—at least, Herringham thought so. But childhood had already passed away, and of late years the old castle had been forsaken by the young people for longer expeditions over the breezy Highmynds. Mr. Gwillian was poor, and farming did not make him richer, but he was not given to complaining. and his wife—"Aunt Lil," Sara. called her—was the most hopeful of living creatures. She was short and stout, and saw the best side of everyone: indeed, she seldom saw any other. "Sara! Sara!" she now called out. standing at the foot of the exquisitely-carved stairs. "Come down, dearie, to your lunch. Herring- ham says that you have only half an hour before he talces you to the station." It was Virginia who came in answer to her mother's appeal. She was a quiet, shy, and somewhat sad-looking, like her father, but still possessing an innate sense of humour, which made her good company among her own people. Sthe looked upon Sara Beddoes as her sister, and she had often petitioned her cousin to come and live altogether at the Manor, but Sara always answered that her mother would want her when her education was finished. She adored her mother, and never questioned that all she did was entirely right. "Sara is taking leave of Caradoc." said I Virginia, smiling through her 1 ears. "Por>r Oaradco. I believe he mopes when Sara goes away." "We all do." said Virginia. Herringham entered at this moment. He was tall, dark, with a low, wide brow. He had no hair on his face, out of which looked forth very sad eyes, but. to counteract this, he had a smile that gave tih elie to sadness. "Who mopes when Sara goes?" he asked. "Caradoc. They are taking leave of each other." Then there was heard the rustle of a woman's dres^. next the shuffle of four determined terrier toes, lastly the door burst open and the two entered together. At first sight Sara quite bewildered a stranger. Was she pretty or not was her hair of a lovely colour, or too visibly auburn? Were her eyes too pleading and pathetic for the laughing dimples on the bright, cheeks, or was she altogether merry- looking? These questions could not be answered all at once. She was rather tall, her figure was perfect. and there were health and strength visible in every movement. Sometimes her face was just a nice-looking face, beautified above it3 in- transic merit by that coil of red-gold hair; but, sometimes there was a- world of tender- ness. in her eye-s which belied the youthful carelessness of the rest of her features. At timEis her heart seemed to flash 'into her eyes. and you felt that this girl had depths not yet fully revealed to herself or to others. "Here we are. Aunt Lil. I think every time it becomes worse." "What does, my dear?" "Parting from Caradoc," Sara laughed, but] the loo of the inner feeling flashed for one moment into her grey eyes and told the lis- tener that it was not only Caradoc of which she spoke. "What is the use of grinding away at exami- nation work?" said Herringham. "You are leaving the country just when it's most lovely. Women were not made to work their brains." "I'll come again in the summer. You see one must grind to get a scholarship. Mother says she can't afford a penny more for my educa- tion." "Hang education!" said the young man. You are quite educated enough." "If one goes in for the teaching profession it's better to be thorough; besides, in these days it is a necessity. You won't like it," put in Virginia. Oh. I must! Mother won't hear of any- thing else. I did suggest being a milliner, or a cook." Sara was grave for half a moment, then her bright smile returned. Bear me wit- ness, I'll be a merciful teacher." You had much better marry." said Vir- ginia, cutting the cake with a little savage gesture. Sara blushed suddenly, but no one saw her discomfiture. Mother says penniless brides are myths of the Midd!e Ages." "What rot!" said Herringham under his breath. I've got a beautiful idea. I shall get a first class in modern languages, then I shall try for a highly-paid post in a high school. and then I shall make a home for mother I where she can sit still and look pretty. Do you know, ATIn7 Lil, that every year she gets prettier! "Here is your uncle, dear." said Aunt Lil, seeing her son's face darkening. Herring- ham would never believe in his aunt's perfec- tion. Mr. Gwillian was a very absent man, and even now it seemed a surprise to him, to see Sara standing ready dressed for depar- ture. "Ah! good-bye. dear. Herringham will see you to the station. How unlike your mother you are growing. Tell her so from me, and ask her if she ever means to come here." "I wish she would live here. That would be perfect. Willington is neither town nor country, but the Vicar and the curates and everybody loves her so much they won't, let her I go." "So you go back to town to-morrow?" "Yes. Oh, Uncle Tom, what should I do without the dear Manor House?" Herring- ham's eyes beamed with delight, but Sara had her back to him and saw nothing of it. "What should we do without you, Sara?" The tall man stooped down. kissed her, and then departed. He looked a little troubled as he passed by his son. "It's almost a pity she ever came here," he muttered to himself. "We miss her too much when she goes." Then came the final kiss for Virginia and Aunt Lil, not excluding Caradoc, and then Herringham and Sara walked side by side to- wards the station, which was distant only ten minutes from the Manor; but these ten minutes were sacred to Herringham, if quite ignored by Sara. "I sometimes think I am too lively for dear Sara. "I sometimes think I am too lively for dear mother. But I do love my life, even grinding at examinations has some charm. If I can save her a little anxiety it will all be ca'sy. I shan't, mind how hard I work." "You never think of yourself." "Oh, don't I?" -No; always of-your mother." Herring'ham's brow was very cloudy. Sara laughed. "Is that wrong?" Oh, no—of course not. But you forget us." "Forget you? Never! Chapel Stacey is just —heaven. Thi3 isn't humbug. I can't hum- bug people. In my future profession Which?" Teaching, of course, you stupid boy. Well, even in that I see people humbugging others." "It's the way to get on." "No—you don't believe that! Suddenly Sara raised her eyes nnd exclaimed, Is that Mr. Osborne, Herringham?" Yes," said Herringhant curtly. "He's coming to speak to us. He's going back to Oxford, I suppose?" "I daresay." Percival Osborne was Lord Stretton's only son. and he was the best type of a frank, honest young Englishman. "How do you do, Miss Beddoes?" he said cordially, and looking at Sara's face he thought her even prettier than he had thought her before. They had met for the first time at a County Hospital ball, and one evening had dobe the mischief, at least, on his side, he thought. "Are you going back to Oxford?" said Sara very simply. "Yes. Are you going this way?" "No; I'm going to Willington to-day, and then to London." Oh! it seems a shame to leave the country, doesn't it? I hope we shall meet in the autumn. There's a reading party coming to Chapel Stacey. I've bespoken Lane's house for it." "I shall be going to Girton. I hope. To teach nowadays one must have done all sorts of things." "To teach?" Percival looked again at Sara and the idea of her doing anything rut. receive admiration seemed preposterous. "Yes; I hope you see before you a future head-mistress." Head-mistress of a house. Miss Beddces?" "A hoifte! No. Of a high school!" and Sara laughed heartily. "Oh! Yes. of course." Sara, your train is coming," said Herring- ham, and he walked off. Good-bye. I'm so glad we met." Herringham's brow was very clouded. What did that young fool mean by talk- ing to you. Sara?" He wished to-well, to be pleasant, I suppose." Here is an empty carriage." Third-class, please, Herringham." '• ought not to travel third-class." What a man's idea! On the contrary, it is much safer." "Good-bye." They kissed. They had always done it. but now Herringham felt that the day was consecrated. For many years he had done it without thinking. "Sara." "Yes." "Don't make plans about your mother. She might not fall in with them." "You don't know her." "You'll come again as soon as ever you can?" "Of course. Shall I bring a reading party?" and Sara laughed. "Hang the reading parties!" "We have an Indian Princess, you know. She would turn your head." "Would she?" Herringham spoke Rcorn- fully. Suddenly Sara was grave; her soul was visible through her eyes. "We're off. Herringham. Thank you for all your goodness. You are a real—real The train was moving. "What?" he said quickly and much too earnestly. "A real brother." He walked home very slowly, for his mind wa" filled with moody thoughts. Sara seemed so much alive, so full of energy, so eager to join in life's battle, and once there he knew that d' e would drift away from her old home, whilst he was tied to this country life. "I W I His father could not spare him. and he would become more and more the country farmer, the man who could not leave home often, and who must wait on nature's moods. Herring- ham knew that it would be better for all of them if the old home were eold. They could only just keep their beads above water; but not for one moment would his father agree to this. If the Manor wore put up to auction Lord Stretton would buy it. and if his father had one strong passion it was a determina- tion that his land should never be possessed by his rich neighbour, whose father had long ago made an offer for it. Yo; Herringham was tied to the land quite as much as were the ancient serfs, and he would never be able to follow Sara. Did she even know he loved her? He had never breathd a word of it, and she always treated him as a brother. (To be continued.)