Margie's venture

She—Fay Grayling—very youthful-looking, even for her eighteen years, with her pretty, fair, flower-like face, her bright if somewhat shallow blue eyes, her light curly hair, and pouting red lips, which seemed like the unspent inheritance of childhood itself.

He—Harry Mayne—full ten years older—with his sturdy, well-developed manliness of form, his grave, earnest face, and quiet manner. The well-opened, steady eyes, and firm mouth and chin, spoke to force of character and tenacity of purpose; but there was gentleness too, and an infinite capacity for tenderness, in that dark, strong face.

Fay and Harry had plighted their mutual troth some few weeks before, and were now parting; for he was about to rejoin, as first officer, the big steamship which would carry him far away on a long year's cruise.

There were tears on Fay's round baby-cheeks as Harry at last unclasped from his arm the little hands that clung there.

"Time is going, dear; I must be off," he said firmly, though his lip quivered. "No, Fay, don't try to keep me. It is not true kindness, believe me, child. Where are your mother and sisters? I should like just to say good-bye to them. They have been so very good to me."

"They are all in the drawing-room," replied Fay, wiping her eyes; and, leading the way into the house, she opened a door, and ushered Harry in.

Mrs. Grayling and three girls were sitting round the table sewing by the light of a shaded lamp.

"Here's Harry come to say good-bye," said Fay. "He sails early to-morrow from Southampton, and he must catch the boat-train to-night."

"So you are really going, Harry?" said Mrs. Grayling. "We shall miss you very much, and our poor little Fay here will be quite inconsolable. You are one of us now, you know."

"How long shall you be away, Harry?" inquired Mattie, the eldest daughter.

"Over a year, I believe," replied the young man.

"That is a long time for you and Fay to be separated," remarked Lettie, the second girl.

All this time, Margie, the third, said nothing. Her head was bent low over her work, and she did not even look up.

"Well, I must not stay," said Harry; "to lose that train would be to lose my berth, and I can't afford that. Good-bye, Mrs. Grayling; good-bye, dear girls." And he kissed them all affectionately, as though already they were his mother and sisters.

Margie was the last. As he put his hand on her shoulder, she raised her flushed face from her work, and he saw those great grey eyes of hers brimming over with tears, and the lips were quivering as he pressed his own upon them. Somehow or other, the sight of her grief surprised and touched him, and as he lingered a moment longer with her hand in his, he heard her whisper, "God bless you, dear, dear Harry!"

Fay went with him to the door; she was crying again, and she clung to him as he bade her a fond farewell. But even lovers' farewells must end at last, for trains and tides do not wait for them. And in another minute, the door had closed and Harry was gone, while in Fay's ears were ringing his last words, "Be true to me, Fay, be true!"

* * * * * * *

"Oh dear me! Was ever a poor mother in such a dilemma? Just look here, girls! Another letter from the lawyer, and again bad news!" And Mrs. Grayling heaved a gusty sigh, and, sinking into the nearest arm-chair, stretched out a big, bony hand, in which was displayed the unwelcome letter, open to any one who wished to read it.