Cossart Place was a more comfortable home for Sheila just now than it had ever been before. Her aunt met her like one who wished to efface an unpleasing impression, and never was there any slightest allusion to the stormy scene at Madeira. Poor Mrs. Cossart had learned a lesson, and was really humiliated by the failure she had made. Sheila was gentler, more considerate, more tractable than ever before, and Oscar’s presence was a certain element of tranquillity and accord. Effie was so much stronger, and was so resolved to manage her case in her own way, that Mrs. Cossart felt rather like a hen taken from her chicks, and was delighted to have Oscar to coddle. And Oscar needed care for a long while. He had thoroughly run down in health since his father’s death, and this wasting fever had left him very delicate and frail. There was no reason to think that he would not in time be as strong as ever, but it would be a long business, and during this period it was Mrs. Cossart’s great pleasure to nurse him up, cosset him and care for him, much as she had cosseted and cared for Effie whilst the girl had been so much out of health. Sheila could not but love her aunt for all her goodness to Oscar, and he began to take almost a son’s place in that house, advising her, in the absence of the master, on all points connected with the property, and showing so much knowledge and insight that Mrs. Cossart would often exclaim— “I can’t think how you come to know all these things!” “I was brought up to them, you see,” Oscar would answer with a smile and a sigh. “I used to help my father, and I have been used to land from babyhood. I am much more at home still with a steward’s books than with the office accounts!” “Well, I wish your uncle would make you his man of business when he comes back,” said Mrs. Cossart one day, after Oscar had helped her through some accounts which had often been a source of bewilderment to herself and her husband. “I believe we get imposed upon right and left through ignorance. And I don’t like the thought of your going back to that nasty stuffy office. You would be much better for an open-air life, and I always do say that John is getting too old to look after all the land he buys, and that he ought to have a regular agent.” Oscar laughed and stroked his aunt’s hand caressingly. “Quite too halcyon an idea to work,” he said, “but I like to think that I am helping you in his absence.” “You are more than helping—you are doing everything, and I’m sure I’m thankful for it, for I never could understand the rights of things between landlord and tenant, and we want to do what is right and just without being imposed upon. Well, you will stay on, at any rate, till your uncle comes back, and he seems in no hurry to do so. I wonder he wasn’t as glad to come home as I was; but perhaps he knew there’d be a lot of worries waiting for him. He will be very glad to find them all straightened out like this.”