Herb of Grace. Rosa Nouchette Carey

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      Malcolm lifted his eyelids in some surprise. "It is a perfect beauty," he observed; "but you must have paid a goodish bit for it."

      "It was certainly rather extravagant of me," returned Mrs. Herrick apologetically; "but you know how girls love pretty things. Anna did so long for one of these little watches, and you know it is her one-and-twentieth birthday. By the bye, Malcolm, what have you two arranged for to-morrow?" But when her son briefly sketched out Anna's modest programme, Mrs. Herrick's pleasant face clouded a little.

      "What a singular choice the child has made!" she observed. "Malcolm, I am not particularly anxious for her to be introduced to your Bohemian friends. Oh, I don't mean to say anything against the Kestons," warned by a certain stiffness of manner on Malcolm's part—"I have never even seen them; but Anna and Mrs. Keston move in such different worlds."

      "Yes, of course," he returned rather impatiently; "but a mere introduction need not lead to intimacy. Verity is a good little creature, and her Bohemianism will not hurt Anna for one afternoon."

      Mrs. Herrick's firm lips were pressed together rather closely as Malcolm spoke, and her manner became still graver.

      "Will you forgive my speaking plainly, Malcolm?" she said quietly, "but I do think it such a grievous mistake for you to call Mrs. Keston by her Christian name. You know I have mentioned this before." Then Malcolm reddened; but though he laughed, he was inwardly annoyed.

      "I spoke without thinking," he returned, trying to control his impatience, "but I suppose habit was too strong for me. There is really no harm in it, mother. You know Keston is my most intimate friend—he is one of the best fellows in the world—and it stands to reason that his wife should be my good friend too."

      "Yes, but there are limits, Malcolm."

      "Of course there are limits," rather irritably; "but if I were to talk for ever I should never make you understand, mother. In the first place, you have never seen Verity—I mean Mrs. Keston. She is the product of a modern age. From babyhood she has lived among artists. She has imbibed their Bohemianism and learnt to talk their jargon. A studio has been her nursery, playroom, and schoolroom, and as soon as she grew up she married an artist."

      "But all this does not prove that she is not to be treated with the respect due to a married woman, Malcolm."

      "My dear mother, there is no question of respect. There is not a man who knows Mrs. Keston who does not esteem, and hold her in honour. She is an original little person certainly, but a more loyal wife and devoted mother never lived. He would be a bold man who ventured to take a liberty with her, or to overstep the limits laid down by her. He would soon feel the measure of Goliath's foot—in plain words, he would find himself kicked downstairs by Amias Keston."

      Mrs. Herrick shrugged her shoulders. The conversation bored her, and as usual she found Malcolm a little impossible; he seemed so determined to maintain his point.

      "From the first Mrs. Keston wished me to call her by her Christian name," he went on, "and Amias wished it too. We were on such brotherly terms," he said, "that Verity—you see habit is too much for me, mother—wished me to regard her as a younger sister."

      "I thought you looked upon Anna as your sister, Malcolm;" but Mrs. Herrick's keen gray eyes had a curious look in them—an acute observer might almost have thought that she was hoping that her son would contradict this statement.

      "Oh, Anna," and then he laughed. "My dear mother, one cannot draw comparisons between them—they are utterly dissimilar."

      "So I imagine," was the dry response; and then Mrs. Herrick made an effort to recover her wonted placidity. "Malcolm," she said, putting her hand through his arm, "we must go downstairs now or the Bishop will be arriving. I expect Anna is wondering what has become of us." Which proved to be the case.

      Malcolm soon regained his good-humour. His mother had rubbed him up the wrong way, as usual, but his good sense told him that it was no use resenting her plain-spoken remarks.

      She had her own fixed opinions on every subject, and nothing could move her out of her groove. She was a good woman and a kind-hearted one, but the sense of humour was lacking in her. She disliked all that she did not understand, and under the comprehensive term Bohemianism, she embodied all that was irregular and contrary to her creed.

      "Herrick mere is a Philistine of the purest type," Amias Keston once said to his wife. "No, I have never seen her, but I can draw my own conclusions. Yea-Verily, my child, far be the day when that British matron crosses our humble threshold."

      Malcolm had determined not to disappoint his mother that evening, so he banished all thoughts of his friends from his mind, and a few minutes later he was showing people to their seats and chatting pleasantly with his acquaintances.

      Now and then, in the midst of her duties as a hostess, Mrs. Herrick's eyes rested on her son's dark face with motherly pride and tenderness.

      He was doing his part so well—in his quiet, unobtrusive manner he was making himself so agreeable. Oh, if he would only have stayed with her, and been indeed the son of her right hand, and given himself to the work; and then for a moment there was a filmy look in the mother's eyes, and she listened a little absently to her favourite speaker.

      Malcolm did his part like a man. He applauded the speakers at exactly the right moment, and when the meeting was over he actually made a neat, telling little speech, conveying the vote of thanks to the chairman; and both the manner and matter were so good that more than one of Mrs. Herrick's friends observed to her that her son would make his mark in the House.

      Malcolm felt rewarded for his exertions when his mother wished him good-night.

      "You have been my right hand this evening, Malcolm," she said, looking at him with unusual tenderness. "Thank you so much, my son;" and these few words gave Malcolm quite a thrill of pleasure.

      The heavy storm had tempered the extreme heat and the night had been comparatively cool, and the little group gathered round the breakfast table the next morning looked as bright as the day itself.

      Anna had been charmed with her watch; but when she opened Malcolm's case and saw the tiny diamond-studded quiver, she was almost speechless with surprise and delight. "Oh, Malcolm, how could you—how could you be so kind to me!" was all she could say. But Malcolm only laughed and fastened the brooch in her white dress. Then he took some half-open pink rosebuds from a vase on the table and bade her wear them. "You are too pale, and these will give you colour," he said in a cool, critical tone.

      Anna took them from his hand rather shyly. She had put on her daintiest white frock in his honour, but the rosebuds savoured of vanity to her. She never disputed Malcolm's opinion on any subject, but as she adjusted the flowers she gave Mrs. Herrick a deprecating glance, which the latter met with an indulgent smile.

      "No, dear, you look very nice," she observed, as though in reply to this mute question; "you are not at all too smart. Now I must go and read my letters. Have a good time, children; and, Malcolm, remember Anna must not be overtired," and then Mrs. Herrick nodded cheerfully and withdrew to the library. Anna ran off to put on her hat, while Malcolm read his paper.

      They went first to Lincoln's Inn, and Anna stood on the wide steps looking at the pigeons fluttering over the old buildings, quite unaware, in her innocent excitement—though Malcolm was not—that many an admiring glance rested on her.

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