An Unwilling Guest (Romance Classic). Grace Livingston Hill

      CHAPTER IV.

      ALLISON'S FEARS

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      “Mamma," said Allison the next morning, as she put on the kettle she had just filled with fresh water from the spring, "Had you forgotten that Maurice is coming next week?"

      The mother looked from the eggs she was beating as she said, with a bright smile: "Oh, no indeed, daughter! How could you think I would forget my dear boy for a minute?"

      "But suppose—she—is here yet?" and the troubled expression in the dark eyes showed that this was not the first time she had pondered the possibility.

      "Why there is room enough, Allison," said the mother, beating some cold rice into the milk and eggs for the delicate batter-cakes she knew how to make to perfection.

      "Oh, yes, room enough," said the girl. 'But, mother, think of it! How can we enjoy his visit with her here? She will just spoil everything and Maurice won't like it at all."

      "I fancy I should enjoy his visit if there were a whole regiment of strangers here, dear," said her mother, laughing, "and as for one girl being able to spoil it, I think you are mistaken. Besides, your brother is not so easily put out as that."

      Allison looked at her mother with the trouble still in her eyes. She was evidently not yet satisfied, though she went thoughtfully about setting the breakfast table. But as she placed the forks and spoons at the stranger's plate, a vision of that young woman in her bewitching black gown and gleaming white shoulders appeared and brought back her trouble in full force. She went to the kitchen door and stood irresolute a moment watching her mother, opened her mouth to speak and closed it again, and then went back to her cups and plates. She could not quite make up her mind to put her thought into words and wondered whether it was wise to trouble her mother with it, even if she could. If it could not be helped why give her mother the anxiety of thinking about it, seeing she had not yet thought of such a thing for herself? Or had she? Did her mother think of it and calmly put her anxiety aside because there seemed a duty in the way she was walking?

      Allison drew her brows in thought and went to look out of the window. Twice she went to the kitchen door and began, "Mother," but when her mother answered she asked some trivial question about the table and turned away. At last however she threw down the pile of napkins she was placing and deliberately walked to her mother's side.

      "Mother," she said, in a low, troubled tone, "I must tell you what I am afraid of. Didn't you notice how pretty she looked last night and how attractive she can be when she tries, with all those beautiful clothes and her city airs? I can't help thinking what a terrible thing it would be if Maurice should take a fancy to her, and—and—marry her—perhaps!" she finished desperately.

      The mother stood erect and looked her daughter full in the face gravely.

      "Dear child," she said, "do you think your brother is so easily influenced by a pretty face and a beautiful effect? You give him little credit of discernment. And besides, do you not recognize a higher Power in shaping our lives than a mere chance of meeting? Cannot you trust God when we are in the way of duty?"

      "But is this the way of duty?" asked the daughter desperately.

      "What would you have me do, dear? Refuse my old friend her request? Tell the girl to go?"

      Allison turned to the window with tears growing in her eyes. "Wouldn't there be some other way? She doesn't want to stay, I feel sure, and we could just encourage her to go back home. I think that could be done without being any more impolite than she has been.”

      "Allison, have you forgotten her aunt? She is one of our oldest, most valued friends. She has come to our rescue in many a time of trouble and now she has asked us to help her. Is it less incumbent upon us to do it because it is unpleasant? Have you forgotten that this girl is a fellow-mortal, that your Saviour died for her? You may be doing her great injustice. You have let your prejudice influence you largely and you forget the wide difference in your home surroundings. Her ideas of what is proper in dress and everything else are built on an entirely different standard from yours. The life she has led is not Hillcroft life."

      "I should think not!" said Allison, in a low, repressed tone.

      "Allison, won't you try to know this girl's true character before you begin to hate her?"

      "Mamma, I should think it was plain enough what her character is, and you know I don't hate her, only it is so hard to think of having Maurice's visit spoiled by her, and it would be just terrible to have her come between me and my brother. I could not bear it."

      "I wish my little girl would learn to trust her troubles to her Burden-Bearer instead of carrying them herself. You may be carrying all this woe unnecessarily. It may be this sickness will not prove serious and she can go to her aunt's in a day or two. But, Allison, have you forgotten that you have been asked to make a friend of this girl and to help her?"

      "Mother, I could never help her, and she would never take any help from me," said Allison with firm conviction.

      "My daughter, you do not know what you can do with God's help, or rather what God can do with your help."

      Then the fried potatoes demanded attention and Allison, unconvinced but somewhat softened by her mother's words, went back and finished her work quickly.

      The guest, however, did not put in an appearance at breakfast time. They waited as long as possible for her and then went on without her, thinking she was weary with the long journey. To Allison it was a relief to have her father and mother to herself. Mrs. Grey realized this and tried to make the little time spent at the table as cheerful as possible, speaking of the expected arrival of the brother and son who had been away for nearly a year and who was to give them a whole week of his precious society before entering his professional career in an Eastern city. But the sister's face was not altogether unclouded and she looked eagerly for the promised message from the doctor which she hoped would bring word that their guest might leave them soon.

      But the doctor did not come and as the morning wore on and he did not send a message, Allison began to have a growing conviction that there would be no good news, else it would have been brought before. Her mother tried to make her look upon the cheerful side, insisting that no news was good news, and trying to make her see how inhospitable she was to actually desire a visitor to leave; but her usually ready smile was slow to come. The mother grew troubled over this persistent feeling on the part of her usually sunny and helpful daughter. It seemed strange that Allison should take such a dislike to another girl. Perhaps she did not realize how deeply some of Miss Rutherford's looks and tones of evident scorn had cut the sensitive nature. Allison writhed inwardly again and again that morning over remembered sentences and glances. She worked grimly, taking the utmost trouble to prepare for dinner a dessert so elaborate that it was usually saved for high occasions. Her mother, smiling, understood and let her alone.

      And while she worked with foamy eggs, rich whipped cream and gelatine, she made up her mind that she would show this city girl how much a country girl could do, and how useless was a frivolous life of