to a stranger, to have her perhaps made into a painted Jezebel like Mira's own mother!'

'You won't say that to her, I suppose.'

'Well, then, let her say nothing to me about Rachel. Going to be married, is she? and her first husband only just dead, in a manner of speaking. She had better keep him away from here, or I may give them both a bit of my mind they won't like. Such ways may be London ways, but they will not do in Hampshire.'

'If she has set her mind on marrying, nothing we can say or do will prevent her,' remarks Miss Aggles philosophically.

" Some poor creature of a counter-hopper, no doubt,' conjectured the farmer, who had a bucolic hatred for what he called 'London smirking ninnies.' 'She must have known him some time; they couldn't make a match up just in a minute, so to say, if they had been total strangers.'

That is exactly what I have been thinking, father.'

'Well, they don't take Rachel from us, they may make their minds quite sure on that subject.'

'I tell you, aunt, what I have been thinking,' said Mrs. Palthorpe, when, a couple of hours later, she met Miss Aggles coming into the orchard to say tea was ready. 'If you will write a note putting in the words and thoughts you spoke to me, I think he would be satisfied. All he wants is to feel sure the child is well done by.'

Miss Aggles gave an incredulous sniff.

'You may believe me or not—' began Mrs. Palthorpe angrily.

Thank you,' interrupted her aunt; 'as you give me the choice, I won't.'

'But what I am saying is perfectly true.'

He must be an extraordinary sort of person,' commented Miss Aggles. 'Men are not usually so thoughtful about other men's children, or so anxious to have them in the house.'

'I won't argue with you, aunt,' said Mrs. Palthorpe, with unwonted meekness. If y you write me the letter, I will go away and give you no more trouble about the matter, if I can help it.'

'I will think about it,' answered Miss Aggles; 'you don't want it to-night, I suppose?'

'No; any time to-morrow.' 'How long are you going to stay with us?'

'Till Thursday, if I shall not be putting you out.'

Miss Aggles looked at her niece in amazement.

'Are not you well, Mira?' she asked.

'Quite well, aunt, thank you, except that I feel a little tired. Why do you ask?'

'Because you don't seem like yourself.'

'You would be fonder of me, I suppose, if I never was like myself,' returned Mrs. Palthorpe.

Miss Aggles did not answer; she was walking slowly beside her niece under the shadow of trees literally laden with fruit; the orchard at Sunnydown was a noted one in the county.

'Who is this man you are going to marry? she at length broke the silence by inquiring.

'He-he's in business,' Mrs. Palthorpe replied.

'Have you known him long?'
'Some little time.'
'Is he well off?'

'He is not poor; he has saved money.'

"What is his name ?'

'There is no use in asking such a lot of questions !' broke out Mrs. Palthorpe petulantly. What can it signify to you what he is, or

6

MISS AGGLES wrote the required letter. It was not addressed, however, to the vague future husband; for the straightforward spinster firmly declined to have any dealings, direct or indirect, with an unknown and nameless stranger, who might, as she expressed her opinions, be anybody.'

'I will put my determination on paper, if you like, Mira,' she said. I will tell you in black and white that I won't let the child go, and I will tell you why; and if he wants to know more he can write to me himself, or come and see me if he likes.'

'I don't think he will want to know more,' answered Mrs. Palthorpe; and there is no doubt she really did at the time believe her aunt's honest language and strong

expressions of attachment for the fatherless child would plead her excuse when she returned unsuccessful from her embassy. She will be far better where she is, too,' she decided, referring to Rachel. It is all nonsense his talking of bringing her up as if she was his own daughter.'

'We sha'n't see much of you now, I suppose ?' remarked Miss Aggles the night before her niece's departure, as they paused for a moment at the top of the easy old-fashioned staircase, up and down which so many of the family had been carried in infancy, and borne not less tenderly to their long home.

'I will come whenever I can,' answered Mrs. Palthorpe; but though she spoke earnestly and as if she meant what she said, she knew perfectly well she never intended to enter the place again if things went as she hoped they would do.

It was the last night she should ever sleep in the room she had occupied when a girl. When she turned her back on the farm next day she should never see it more; she should not stroll again beside the river, or walk in the orchard and pluck the Jeannetton apples that were such a lovely sight just then on the trees, or look in the moonlight up the hill, thinking of what might have been, or listen to the doves cooing in the woods and the corncrake in the meadows, watch the milkers with their pails, and hear between sleeping and waking in the dewy hours of the summer mornings the sound of the mowers sharpening their scythes and the swish-swish of the falling grass.

All old things she intended to cast behind her when she commenced leading a new life, one in which her position as a wife and mistress of a household would be

recognised-when she would have done with doubt and fear and be able to speak freely, without the dread that had latterly oppressed her, dogging every word she said.

When she thought of the assured future before her, of the termination of suspense, of the certainty that she would be well provided for, she felt glad; and yet not to feel a little sorry at the idea of never seeing the old place again, she must have been less human than was the case.

For, even granting she did not care for any creature living thereand, indeed, she cared but little for any creature living anywhere save herself the things she was actually bidding farewell to were so fully part and parcel of her youth, that in saying good-bye to them she could not help feeling she was leaving behind many pleasant things which might meet her again on her way through life

nevermore.

Her girlhood, the hopes and dreams it held, the freshness of her early beauty, her freedom, her innocence. Through the oldfashioned house she had played, as Rachel played now; the orchard had been to her as the Garden of Eden, about which her grandfather talked often as they walked beside the river; she had made chains of daisies and dandelions sitting in the shade under the chestnuttrees; there was a swampy place in the water-meadows where she found rushes to make into parasols and butterfly-cages and swords; there was not a hedge about the farm she had not searched for birds'-nests, not a corner of the squire's plantations she had not traversed looking for peahens' eggs.

It all came back to her as she lay that night in bed, the wind softly rustling through the open windows, the stars shining in upon

her just as they used to do. Her heart was not softened, but it was sad; the loneliness of the silent country oppressed her, the solemnity of night troubled her. She could not sleep for thinking of the past and the future, wondering what the farm would be like when her grandfather died, marvelling about the changes time. might produce in herself.

And she had never thought so much in all the years since he left England of her dead husband as she did that night.

'After all it was hard for him,' she thought, for the first time a feeling of pity stirring her soul. 'It was hard for him to lose that fine place, and then his health, and then his life.'

'Then his life,' the silent voices of the night seemed, in some dumb fashion, to repeat.

Some day she would have to lose her life, and lie still and quiet. Well, she hoped before it came to that she might be able to take a great deal of enjoyment out of existence.

'Of course we must all die some time,' she thought, getting up and looking out of the window at the fair landscape, half-shrouded by night's shadows, lying stretched below. 'Some go soon, and some go late; and then, having quite decided that she would go late, that nothing ever was amiss with her, that she would live as long as her grandfather, or longer, she once more sought her pillow, and soon fell fast asleep.

She was awakened by the morning sun streaming into the room, by the voices of the reapers as they came up the lane, by the song of a thrush perched on the topmost branch of a tree near her window, by the trillings of the larks away down in the meadows, and the twittering of a hundred sparrows chattering all together

on the roof. Looking out between the leaves which clustered over the window, she could see the winding river, the rich pasture-lands, the spreading cornfields she meant never to behold

more.

Rising, she dressed herself hurriedly; and going softly downstairs, opened the front door and went out into the sunshine.

'I will walk up to the hill,' she said; likely I shall never look on it again.'

She climbed the hill, and sauntered through the plantations. The dew lay wet on the grass, and glittered as though millions of diamonds had been scattered broadcast over the land. There were peacocks still in the grounds spreading their magnificent tails to the sun. She made her way to a yew-hedge cut into all manner of fantastic shapes, which sheltered what had always been called Madam's flower-garden' from the easterly winds, a pleasant sheltered nook lying underneath some of the side-windows of the Hall. Through one of the green archways formed in the yew-hedge the wanderer, who thought to have been mistress there, stood and looked at the house. As she looked the memory of the bygone returned and dwelt with her: the dreams she had dreamt, the castles she had built, the fancies she had woven, the scenes she had pictured, they all came round her, each with its familiar face and remembered associations.

With a deep sigh she turned away, the smell of the heliotrope floating in the air after her, the yellow roses still peeping at her over the hedges as she passed along, the scent of sweetbrier grateful to the senses, passionflowers climbing with the roses.

'Ah, it was a pretty place,'

she said, as though the place, like the hopes she had cherished, were gone; a pretty place. I don't know that I ever thought so much of it before.'

She wandered through all the winding walks up to the very top of the hill, where she had stood so many and many a time with him watching the white sails of the ships in the distance; and then she slowly retraced her steps, and walked a little along the lane, which led from Sunnydown Farm into the main road to Ravelsmede.

As she paused by the gate for a moment on her return, dreamily looking up into the elder-bushes and the acacia-trees that sheltered it, the postman came by. He was early afoot, as most postmen have to be in the country, and, being an old inhabitant, he had of course known Mrs. Palthorpe from a child.

Anything for the farm?' she asked, stretching out her hand. 'Only one,' he answered, giving the letter to her.

Then he went rapidly on his way; but she stood still.

Going into the great kitchen in the farmhouse some ten minutes later, Miss Aggles was surprised to find her niece standing beside the fire. There chanced to be no one else in the kitchen-the cook had crossed over to the dairy and the housemaid was laying the break fast-cloth in the parlour. Mrs. Palthorpe had the place to herself, and she was, poker in hand, holding something down amongst the coals, and watching the blaze as it flared into powder.

'I did not know you were up, Mira,' said Miss Aggles.

Still holding down that something, which was now little save dust and ashes, Mrs. Palthorpe turned towards the speaker.

'Lord bless me, what is the

'Yes, I think so;' and the voice which answered did not sound like Mrs. Palthorpe's. 'I'll go up-stairs, aunt, if you please.'

Miss Aggles only waited to call the housemaid, and hurried after; but quick though she might be, Mrs. Palthorpe had been quicker. She had managed to hurry up the stairs, to reach the familiar apartment, to cross the floor, to throw herself into the great armchair which stood beside the bed, and then she fell into a dead faint.

At the sight, Miss Aggles' tenderness was all aroused. 'My poor girl, my dear Mira !' she murmured, as she threw water over the white frightened face, and held salts to her nostrils, and unfastened her dress and rubbed her hands. What is the matter? what can have happened?' she thought; and then all in a moment there came a horrified pause in her ejaculations, a pause during which she hastily shut and locked the door, and pressed her hands over her eyes, and stood still and silent, trying to realise that which she dreaded.

After a short time Mrs. Palthorpe recovered sufficiently to understand where she was and what had happened.

'I fainted, aunt, I think,' she said.

'Yes,' answered Miss Aggles, with a terrible brevity. 'Did I say anything?"

'Not that I heard.'

'That anybody heard?' persisted Mrs. Palthorpe, with painful

earnestness.

'There was nobody to hear,' said her aunt.

For a minute there ensued silence; then Mrs. Palthorpe began to speak again.

Isn't breakfast ready?' 'I daresay it is.'

I

'I wish you would go down to it, then, and never mind me. am all right now, and I would rather be alone.'

'Just as you like,' replied Miss Aggles. Shall I bring you up anything?"

Send me a cup of tea, please,' said Mrs. Palthorpe, struggling into an upright position, and looking about her with dazed wild eyes that had as yet no faculty of settled observation in them;‘that is all I want.'

Very well having uttered which brief remark, Miss Aggles moved to the door. Before she opened it, however, she came back again, and said, God help you, Mira,' as though the words were wrung out of her.