This request was accompanied by an arch smile, and a flash of blue eyes from under the dark straw hat brim. Whereat the cumbrous Jehu was faintly moved to a responsive grin.

"She ain't bad-looking, neither!" he muttered to himself,—and he was in a somewhat better humour when at last he ondescended to start. His vehicle was a closed one, and though be fully expected his passenger would put her head out of the window, when the horse was labouring up-hill, and entreat him to go faster,—which habit he had found by experience was customary to woman in a one-horse fly,- -nothing of the kind happened on this occasion. The person in the blue serge was evidently both patient and undemonstrative. Whether the horse crawled or slouched, or trotted,—whether the fly dragged, or bumped, or jolted, she made no sign. When St. Rest was reached at last, and the driver whipped his steed into a semblance of spirit, and drove through the little village with a clatter, two or three people came to the doors of their cottages and looked at the vehicle scrutinisingly, wondering whether its occupant was, or was not Miss Vancourt. But a meaning wink from the sage on the box intimated that they need not trouble themselves,—the 'fare' was no one of the least importance.

Presently, the fine old armorial gates of the drive which led up to Abbot's Manor were reached,—they were set wide open, this having been done according to Mrs. Spruce's orders. A woman at the lodge came hastily out, but the cab had passed her before she had time to see who was in it. Up through the grand avenue of stately oaks and broad-branching elms, whose boughs, rich with the budding green, swayed in the light wind with a soft rustling sound as of sweeping silks on velvet, the unostentatious vehicle jogged slowly,—it was a steady ascent all the way, and the driver was duly considerate of his animal's capabilities. At last came the turn in the long approach, which showed the whole width of the Manor, with its ancient rose-brick frontage and glorious oaken gables shining in the warm afternoon sunlight,—the old Tudor courtyard spreading before it, its grey walls and paving stones half hidden in a wilderness of spring blossom. Here, too, the gates were open, and the one-horse fly made its lumbering and awkward entrance within, drawing up with a jerk at the carved portico. The young person in blue serge jumped out, purse in hand.

"Ten shillings, I think?" she said; but before the driver could answer her, the great iron-clamped door of the Manor swung open, and a respectable retainer in black stood on the threshold.

"Oh, will you pay the driver, please?" said the young lady, addressing this functionary; "He says his fare is ten shillings. I daresay he would like an extra five shillings for himself as well," and she smiled—"Here it is!"

She handed the money to the personage in black, who was no other than the former butler to Sir Morton Pippitt, now at the Manor on temp'ry service,' and who in turn presented it with an official stateliness to the startled fly-man, who was just waking up to the fact that his fare, whom he had considered as a person of no account whatever, was the actual mistress of the Manor.

"Drive out to the left of the court," said the butler imperatively; "Reverse way to which you entered."

The submissive Jehu prepared to obey. The young person in blue serge smiled up at him.

"Good afternoon!" said she.

"Same to you, mum!" he replied, touching his cap; "And thank ye kindly!"

Whereat, his stock of eloquence being exhausted, he whipped up his steed to a gallop and departed in haste for the 'Mother Huff,' full of eagerness to relate the news of Miss Vancourt's arrival, further embellished by the fact that he had himself driven her up from the station, 'all unbeknown like.'

Miss Vancourt herself, meanwhile, stepped into her ancestral halls, and stood for a moment, silent, looking round her with a wistful, almost pathetic earnestness.

"Tea is served in the morning-room, Madam," said the butler respectfully, all the time wondering whether this slight, childlike- looking creature was really Miss Vancourt, or some young friend of hers sent as an advance herald of her arrival. "Mrs. Spruce thought you would find it comfortable there."

"Mrs. Spruce!" exclaimed the girl, eagerly; "Where is she?"

"Here, ma'am-here, my lady," said a quavering voice-and Mrs. Spruce, presenting quite a comely and maternal aspect in her best black silk gown, and old-fashioned cap, with lace lappets, such as the late Squire had always insisted on her wearing, came forward curtseying nervously.

"I hope, ma'am, you've had a pleasant journey—"

But her carefully prepared sentence was cut short by a pair of arms being flung suddenly round her, and a fresh face pressed against her own.

"Dear Mrs. Spruce! I am so glad to see you! You knew me when I was quite a little thing, didn't you? And you knew my father, too! You were very fond of my father, weren't you? I am sure you were! You must try to be fond of me now!"

Never, as Mrs. Spruce was afterwards wont to declare, had she been so 'took back,' as by the unaffected spontaneity and sweetness of this greeting on the part of the new mistress, whose advent she had so greatly feared. She went, to quote her own words, 'all of a fluster like, and near busted out cryin'. It was like a dear lovin' little child comin' 'ome, and made me feel that queer you might have knocked me down with a soap-bubble!'

Whatever the worthy woman's feelings were, and however much the respectable butler, whose name was Primmins, might have been astonished in his own stately mind at Miss Vancourt's greeting of her father's old servant, Miss Vancourt herself was quite unconscious of any loss of dignity on her own part.

"I am so glad!" she repeated; "It's like finding a friend at home to find you, Spruce! I had quite forgotten what you looked like, but I begin to remember now—you were always nice and kind, and you always managed so well, didn't you? Yes, I'm sure you did! The man said tea was in the morning-room. You come and pour it out for me, like a dear old thing! I'm going to live alone in my own home now for always,—for always!" she repeated, emphatically; "Nobody shall ever take me away from it again!"

She linked her arm confidingly in that of Mrs. Spruce, who for once was too much astonished to speak,—Miss Vancourt was so entirely different to the chill and reserved personage her imagination had depicted, that she was quite at a loss how to look or what to say.

"Is this the way?" asked Maryllia, stepping lightly past the stuffed knight in armour; "Yes? I thought it was! I begin to remember everything now! Oh, how I wish I had never gone away from this dear old home!"

She entered the morning-room, guiding Mrs. Spruce, rather than being guided by her,—for as that worthy woman averred to Primmins at supper that self-same night: "I was so all in a tremble and puspration with 'er 'oldin' on to my arm and takin' me round, that I was like the man in the Testymen what had dumb devils,—and scarcely knew what ground my feet was a-fallin' on!" The cheerful air of welcome which pervaded this charming, sunny apartment, with its lattice windows fronting the wide stretch of velvety lawn, terrace and park-land, delighted Maryllia, and she loosened her hold on Mrs. Spruce's arm with a little cry of pleasure, as a huge magnificently coated Newfoundland dog rose from his recumbent position near the window, and came to greet her with slow and expansive waggings of his great plumy tail.

"Plato, my beauty!" she exclaimed; "How do you like Abbot's Manor, boy? Eh? Quite at home, aren't you! Good dog! Isn't he a king of dogs?" And she turned her smiling face on Mrs. Spruce. "A real king! I bought him because he was so big! Weren't you frightened when you saw such a monster?—and didn't you think he would bite everybody on the least provocation? But he wouldn't, you know! He's a perfect darling—as gentle as a lamb! He would kill anyone that wanted to hurt me—oh, yes of course!—that's why I love him!"

And she patted the enormous creature's broad head tenderly.

"He's my only true friend!" she continued; "Money wouldn't buy HIS fidelity!" Here, glancing at Mrs. Spruce, she laughed merrily. "Dear Mrs. Spruce! You DO look so uncomfortable!—so—so warm! It IS warm, isn't it? Make me some tea!—tea cools one, they say, though it's hot to drink at first. We'll talk afterwards!"

Mrs. Spruce, with inaudible murmurings, hastened to the tea-tray, and tried to compose her agitated nerves by bringing her attention to bear on the silver tea-kettle which Primmins had just brought in, and in which the water was beginning to bubble, in obedience to the newly-kindled flame of the spirit-lamp beneath.

Maryllia, meanwhile, stepped out on the grass terrace in front of the window, with the dog Plato at her side, and looked long and earnestly at the fair stretch of woodland scenery before her. While she thus stood absorbed, Mrs. Spruce stole covert glances at her with increased wonder and bewilderment. She looked much younger than her twenty-seven years,—her childlike figure and face portrayed her as about eighteen, not more. She stood rather under than over the medium height of woman,—yet she gave the impression of being taller than she actually was, owing to the graceful curve of her arched neck, which rose from her shoulders with a daintily-proud poise, marking her demeanour as exceptional and altogether different to that of ordinary women. Her back being turned to Mrs. Spruce for the moment, that sagacious dame decided that she was 'real stately, for all that she was small,' and also noted that her hair, coiled loosely in a thick knot, which pushed itself with rebellious fulness beyond the close-fitting edge of the dark straw hat she wore, was of a warm auburn gold, rippling here and there into shades of darker brown. Suddenly, with a decided movement, she turned from the terrace and re-entered the morning-room.

"Tea ready?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am!—yes, miss—my lady—it's just made—perhaps it's best to let it draw a bit—"

"I don't like it strong!" said Maryllia, sitting down, and leisurely taking off her hat; "And you mustn't call me 'my lady.' I'm not the daughter of an earl, or the wife of a knight. If I were Scotch, I might say 'I'm Mclntosh of Mclntosh'; or some other Mac of Mac,—but being English, I'm Vancourt of Vancourt! And you must call me 'Miss,' till I become 'Ma'am.' I don't want to bear any unnecessary dignities before my time! In fact, I think you'd better call me Miss Maryllia, as you used to do when my father was alive."

"Very well, ma'am—miss—Miss Maryllia," faltered Mrs. Spruce, fumbling distractedly with the tea-things, and putting cream and sugar recklessly into three or four cups without thinking; "There! Really, I don't know what I am a-doin' of—do you like cream and sugar, my dear?—beggin' your parding—Miss Maryllia?"

"Yes, I like cream and sugar both," replied the young lady with a mirthful gleam in her eyes, as she noted the old housekeeper's confusion; "But don't spoil the tea with either! If you put too much cream, you will make the tea cold,—if you put too much sugar, you will make it syrupy,—you must arrive at the juste milieu in a cup of tea! I am VERY particular!"

Poor Mrs. Spruce grew warmer and redder in the face than ever. What was the 'juste milieu'? Often and often afterwards did she puzzle over that remarkable phrase.

"I think," continued Maryllia, with a dimpling smile, "if you put one lump of sugar in the cup and two brimming tea-spoonfuls of cream, it will be exactly right!"

Gladly, and with relief, Mrs. Spruce obeyed these explicit instructions, and handed her new mistress the desired refreshment with assiduous and respectful care.

"You are a dear!" said Maryllia, lazily taking the cup from her hand; "Just the kindest and nicest of persons! And good-tempered? I am sure you are good-tempered, aren't you?"

"Pretty well so, Miss," responded Mrs. Spruce, now gaining courage to look at the fair smiling face opposite her own, more squarely and openly; "Leastways, I've been told I keeps my 'ead under any amount of kitchen jawin'. For, as you may believe me, in a kitchen where there's men as well as women, an' a servants' 'All leadin' straight through from the kitchen, jawin' there is and jawin' there must be, and such bein' the Lord's will, we must put up with it. But it wants a 'ead to keep things straight, and I generally arranges pretty well, though I'll not deny but I'm a bit flustered to-day,— howsomever, it will soon be all right, and any think that's wrong, Miss, if you will be so good as to tell me—"

"I will!" said Maryllia, sweetly; and she leaned back in her chair, whimsically surveying the garrulous old dame with eyes which Mrs. Spruce then and there discovered to be 'the most beautiful blue eyes ever seen,'—"I will tell you all I do like, and all I don't like. I'm sure we shall get on well together. The tea is perfect,—and this room is exquisite. In fact, everything is delightful, and I'm so happy to be in my own home once more! I wish I had never left it!"

Her eyes darkened suddenly, and she sighed. Mrs. Spruce watched her in submissive silence, realising as she gazed that Miss Maryllia was 'a real beauty and no mistake.' Why and how she came to that conclusion, she could not very well have explained. Her ideas of feminine loveliness were somewhat hazy and restricted. She privately considered her own girl, Kitty, 'the handsomest lass in all the country-side' and she had been known to bitterly depreciate what she called 'the pink and white dolly-face' of Susie Prescott, the acknowledged young belle of the village. But there was an indefinable air of charm about her new lady which was quite foreign to all her experience,—a bewildering grace and ease of manner arising from high education and social cultivation, that confused her and robbed her of all her usual self-sufficiency; and for once in her life she checked her customary volubility and decided that it was perhaps best to say as little as possible till she saw exactly how things were going to turn out. Miss Maryllia was very kind,—but who could tell whether she was not also capricious? There was something slightly quizzical as well as sweet in her smile,— something subtle—something almost mysterious. She had greeted her father's old servant as affectionately as a child,—but her enthusiasm might be only temporary. So Mrs. Spruce vaguely reflected as she stood with her hands folded on her apron, waiting for the next word. That next word came with a startling suddenness.

"Oh, you wicked Spruce! How could you!"

And Maryllia, springing up from her chair, made a bound to the opposite corner of the room, where there was a tall vase filled with peacocks' feathers. Gathering all these in her hand, she flourished them dramatically in the old housekeeper's face.

"The most unlucky things in the world!" she exclaimed; "Peacocks' feathers! How could you allow them to be in this room on the very day of my return! It's dreadful!—quite dreadful!—you know it is! Nothing is quite so awful as a peacock's feather!"

Mrs. Spruce stared, gasped and blinked,—her hand involuntarily wandered to her side in search for convenient 'spasms.'

"They've always been 'ere, Miss," she stammered; "I 'adn't no idee as 'ow you wouldn't like them, though to tell the truth, I 'ave 'eard somethin' about their bein' onlucky—-"

"Unlucky! I should think so!" replied Maryllia, holding the objectionable plumes as far away from herself as possible,—"No wonder we've been unfortunate, if these feathers were always in the old house! No wonder everything went wrong! I must break the spell at once and for ever. Are there more of these horrible 'witch-eyes' in any of the rooms?"

Poor Mrs. Spruce made a great effort to cudgel her memory. She was affected by 'a palpitation,' as she expressed it. There was her newly-arrived mistress confronting her with the authoritative air of a young empress, holding the bunch of glittering peacocks' plumes aloft, like a rod uplifted for summary chastisement, and asking her to instantly remember whether there were any more 'horrible witch- eyes' about. Mrs. Spruce had never before heard such a term applied to the tail-sheddings of the imperial fowl,—but she never forgot it, and never afterwards saw a peacock's feather without a qualm.

"I couldn't say, Miss; I'm not sure—" she answered flutteringly; "But I'll have every 'ole and corner searched to-morrow—-"

"No, to-night!" said Maryllia, with determination; "I will not sleep in the house if ONE peacock's feather remains in it! There!" Her brows were bent tragically;—in another moment she laughed; "Take them away!" she continued, picking up Mrs. Spruce's apron at the corners and huddling all the glittering plumage into its capacious folds; "Take them all away! And go right through the house, and collect every remaining feather you can find—and then—and then—-"

Here she paused dubiously. "You mustn't burn them, you know! That would be unluckier still!"

"Lor! Would it now, Miss? I never should 'ave thought it!" murmured Mrs. Spruce plaintively, grasping her apronful of 'horrible witch- eyes'; "What on earth shall I do with them?"

Maryllia considered. Very pretty she looked at that moment, with one small finger placed meditatively on her lips, which were curved close like a folded rosebud. "You must either bury them, or drown them!" she said at last, with the gravest decision; "If you drown them, you must tie them to a stone, so that they will not float. If you bury them, you must dig ten feet deep! You must really! If you don't, they will all come up again, and the eyes will be all over the place, haunting you!" Here she broke into the merriest little laugh possible. "Poor Spruce! You do look so miserable! See here— I'll tell you what to do! Pack them ail in a box, and I will send them to my aunt Emily! She loves them! She likes to see them stuck all over the drawing-room. They're never unlucky to her. She has a fellow-feeling for peacocks; there is a sort of affinity between herself and them! Pack up every feather you can find, Spruce! The box must go to-night by parcel's post Address to Mrs. Fred Vancourt, at the Langham Hotel. She's staying there just now. Will you be sure to send them off to-night?"

She held up her little white hand entreatingly, and her blue eyes wonderfully sweet and childlike, yet grave and passionate, looked straight into the elder woman's wrinkled apple face.

"When she looked at me like that, I'd a gone barefoot to kingdom- come for her!" Mrs. Spruce afterwards declared to some of her village intimates—"And as for the peacocks' feathers, I'd a scrubbed though the 'ole 'ouse from top to bottom afore I'd a let one be in it!"

To Maryllia she said:

"You may take my word for it, Miss! They'll all go out of the 'ouse 'fore seven o'clock. I'll send them myself to the post."

"Thank you, so much!" said Maryllia, with a comical little sigh of relief. "And now, Spruce, I will go to my bedroom and lie down for an hour. I'm just a little tired. Have you managed to get a maid for me?"

"Well, Miss, there's jest a gel-she don't know anythink much, but she's 'andy and willin' and 'umble, and quick with her needle, and tidy at foldin', and got a good character. She's the best I could do, Miss. Her name is Nancy Pyrle—I'll send her to you directly."

"Yes, do!" answered Miss Vancourt, with a little yawn; "And show me to my rooms;—you prepared the ones I told you—my mother's rooms?"

"Yes, Miss," answered Mrs. Spruce in subdued accents; "I've made them all fresh and sweet and clean; but of course the furniture is left jest as it was when the Squire locked 'em all up after he lost his lady—"

Maryllia said nothing, but followed the housekeeper upstairs, the great dog Plato in attendance on her steps. On reaching the bedroom, hung with faded rose silk hangings, and furnished with sixteenth century oak, she looked at everything: with a curious wistfulness and reverence. Approaching the dressing-table, she glanced at her own reflection in the mirror; but fair as the reflection was that glanced back at her, she gave it no smile. She was serious and absorbed, and her eyes were clouded with a sudden mist of tears. Mrs. Spruce took the opportunity to slip away with her collection of peacocks' feathers, and descended in haste to the kitchen, where for some time the various orders she issued caused much domestic perturbation, and fully expressed the chaotic condition of her own mind. The maid, Nancy Pyrle, was hustled off to 'wait on Miss Vancourt upstairs, and don't be clumsy with your 'ands, whatever you do!'—Primmins, the butler, was sent to remove the tea-things from the morning-room,—at which command he turned round somewhat indignantly, asking 'who are you a-orderin' of; don't you think I know my business?'—Spruce himself, unhappily coming by chance to the kitchen door to ask if it was really true that Miss Vancourt had arrived, was shrilly told to 'go along and mind his own business,'— and so it happened that when Bainton appeared, charged with the Reverend John Walden's message concerning the Five Sisters, he might as well have tried to obtain an unprepared audience with the King, as to see or speak with the lady of the Manor. Miss Vancourt had arrived—oh yes, she had certainly arrived, Mrs. Spruce told him, with much heat and energy; but she was tired and was lying down, and certainly could not be asked to see anyone, no matter what the business was. And to make things more emphatic, at the very time that Bainton was urging his cause, and Mrs. Spruce was firmly rejecting it, Nancy Pyrle came down from attendance on her mistress and said that Miss Vancourt was going to sleep a little, and she did not wish to be disturbed till she rang her bell.

"Oh, and she's beautiful!" said Nancy, drawing a long breath,—"and so very kind! She showed me how to do all she wanted—and was that patient and gentle! She says I'll make quite a good maid after a bit!"

"Well, I hope to the Lord you will!" said Mrs. Spruce with a sniffy "For it's a chance in a 'undred, comin' straight out of the village to a first situation with, a lady like Miss Vancourt. And I 'ope you'll profit by it! And if you 'adn't taken the prize for needlework in the school, you wouldn't 'ave 'ad it, so now you sees what good it does to serve your elders when you're young." Here she turned to Bainton, who was standing disconsolately half in and half out of the kitchen doorway. "I'm real sorry, Mr. Bainton, that you can't see our lady, more 'specially as you wishes to give a message from Passon Walden himself—but you jest go back and tell 'im 'ow it is;—Miss Vancourt is restin' and can't be disturbed nohow."

Bainton twirled his cap nervously in his hand.

"I s'pose no one couldn't say to her quiet-like as 'ow the Five Sisters be chalked?—"

Mrs. Spruce raised her fat hands with a gesture of dismay.

"Lor' bless the man!" she exclaimed; "D'ye think we're goin' to worrit Miss Vancourt with the likes o' that the very first evenin' she's set foot in 'er own 'ouse? Why, we dussn't! An' that there great dog Plato lyin' on guard outside 'er door! I've 'ad enough to- day with peacocks' feathers, let alone the Five Sisters! Besides, Oliver Leach is agent 'ere, and what he says is sure to be done. She won't worry 'erself about it,—and you may be pretty certain he won't be interfered with. You tell Passon Walden I'm real sorry, but it can't be 'elped."

Reluctantly, Bainton turned away. He was never much disposed for a discussion with Mrs. Spruce,—her mind was too illogical, and her tongue too persistent. Her allusion to peacocks' feathers was unintelligible to him, and he wondered whether 'anythink she's been an' took' had gone to her head. Anyway, his errand was foiled for the moment. But he was not altogether disheartened. He determined not to go back to Walden with his message quite undelivered.

"Where there's a will, there's a way!" he said to himself. "I'll go and do a bit of shoutin' to Spruce,—deaf as he is, he's more reasonable-like than his old 'ooman!"

With this resolve, he went his way by a short-cut through Abbot's Manor gardens to a small thatched shelter in the woods, known as 'the foresters' hut,' where Spruce was generally to be found at about sunset, smoking a peaceful pipe, alone and well out of his wife's way.

Meanwhile, Maryllia Vancourt, lying wide awake on her bed in the long unused room that was to have been her mother's, experienced various chaotic sensations of mingled pleasure and pain. For the first time in her life of full womanhood she was alone,— independent,—free to come or go as she listed, with no one to gainsay her wishes, or place a check on her caprices. She had deliberately thrown off her aunt's protection; and with that action, had given up the wealth and luxury with which she had been lavishly surrounded ever since her father's death. For reasons of her own, which she considered sufficiently cogent, she had also resigned all expectations of being her aunt's heiress. She had taken her liberty, and was prepared to enjoy it. She had professed herself perfectly contented to live on the comparatively small patrimony secured to her by her father's will. It was quite enough, she said, for a single woman,—at any rate, she would make it enough.

And here she was, in her own old home,—the home of her childhood, which she was ashamed to think she had well-nigh forgotten. Since her fifteenth year she had travelled nearly all over the world; London, Paris, Vienna, New York, had each in turn been her 'home' under the guidance of her wealthy perambulating American relative; and in the brilliant vortex of an over-moneyed society, she had been caught and whirled like a helpless floating straw. Mrs. 'Fred' Vancourt, as her aunt was familiarly known to the press paragraphist, had spared no pains to secure for her a grand marriage,—and every possible advantage that could lead to that one culminating point, had been offered to her. She had been taught everything; that could possibly add to her natural gifts of intelligence; she had been dressed exquisitely, taken about everywhere, and 'shown off' to all the impecunious noblemen of Europe;—she had been flattered, praised, admired, petted and generally spoilt, and had been proposed to by 'eligible' gentlemen with every recurring season,—but all in vain. She had taken a singular notion into her head—an idea which her matter-of-fact aunt told her was supremely ridiculous. She wanted to be loved.

"Any man can ask a girl to marry him, if he has pluck and impudence!" she said; "Especially if the girl has money, or expectations of money, and is not downright deformed, repulsive and ill-bred. But proposals of marriage don't always mean love. I don't care a bit about being married,—but I do want to be loved—really loved!—I want to be 'dear to someone else' as Tennyson sings it,— not for what I HAVE, but for what I AM."

It was this curious, old-fashioned notion of wanting to be loved, that had estranged Maryllia from her wealthy American protectress. It had developed from mere fireside argument and occasional dissension, into downright feud, and its present result was self- evident. Maryllia had broken her social fetters, and had returned to her own rightful home in a state which, for her, considered by her past experience, was one of genteel poverty, but which was also one of glorious independence. And as she restfully reclined under the old rose silk hangings which were to have encanopied that perished beauty from which she derived her own fairness, she was conscious of a novel and soothing sense of calm. The rush and hurry and frivolity of society seemed put away and done with; through her open window she could hear the rustling of leaves and the singing of birds;—the room in which she found herself pleased her taste as well as her sentiment,—and though the faintest shadow of vague wonder crossed her mind as to what she would do with her time, now that she had gained her own way and was actually all alone in the heart of the country, she did not permit such a thought to trouble her peace. The grave tranquillity of the old house was already beginning to exert its influence on her always quick and perceptive mind,—the dear remembrance of her father whom she had idolised, and whose sudden death had been the one awful shock of her life, came back to her now with a fresh and tender pathos. Little incidents of her childhood and of its affection, such as she thought she had forgotten, presented themselves one by one in the faithful recording cells of her brain,—and the more or less feverish and hurried life she had been compelled to lead under her aunt's command and chaperonage, began to efface itself slowly, like a receding coast-line from a departing vessel.

"It is home!" she said; "And I have not been in a home for years! Aunt Emily's houses were never 'home.' And this is MY home—my very own; the home of our family for generations. I ought to be proud of it, and I WILL be proud of it! Even Aunt Emily used to say that Abbot's Manor was a standing proof of the stuck-up pride of the Vancourts! I'm sure I shall find plenty to do here. I can farm my own lands and live on the profits—if there are any!"

She laughed a little, and rising from the bed went to the window and leaned out. A large white clematis pushed its moonlike blossom up to her face, as though asking to be kissed, and a bright red butterfly danced dreamily up and down in the late sunbeams, now poising on the ivy and anon darting off again into the mild still air.

"It's perfectly lovely!" said Maryllia, with a little sigh of content; "And it is all my own!"

She drew her head in from the window and turned to her mirror.

"I'm getting old," she said, surveying herself critically, and with considerable disfavour;—"It's all the result of society 'pressure,' as they call it. There's a line here—and another there"—indicating the imaginary facial defects with a small tapering forefinger—"And I daresay I have some grey hairs, if I could only find them." Here she untwisted the coil at the back of her head and let it fall in a soft curling shower round her shoulders—"Oh, yes!—I daresay!" she went on, addressing her image in the glass; "You think it looks very pretty—but that is only an 'effect,' you know! It's like the advertisements the photographers do for the hairdressers; 'Hair- positively-forced-to-grow-in-six-weeks' sort of thing. Oh, what a dear old chime!" This, as she heard the ancient clock in the square turret which overlooked the Tudor courtyard give forth a mellow tintinnabulation. "What time is it, I wonder?" She glanced at the tiny trifle of a watch she had taken off and placed on her dressing- table. "Quarter past seven! I must have had a doze, after all. I think I will ring for Nancy Pyrle"—and she suited the action to the word; "I have not the least idea where my clothes are."

Nancy obeyed the summons with alacrity. She could not help a slight start as she saw her mistress, looking like 'the picture of an angel' as she afterwards described it, in her loose white dressing- gown, with all her hair untwisted and floating over her shoulders. She had never seen any human creature quite so lovely.

"Do you know where my dresses are, Nancy?" enquired Maryllia.

"Yes, Miss. Mrs. Spruce unpacked everything herself, and the dresses are all hanging in this wardrobe." Here Nancy went to the piece of furniture in question. "Which one shall I give you, Miss?"

Maryllia came to her side, and looked scrutinisingly at all the graceful Parisian and Viennese flimsies that hung in an. orderly row within the wardrobe, uncertain which to take. At last she settled on an exceedingly simple white tea-gown, shaped after a Greek model, and wholly untrimmed, save for a small square gold band at the throat.

"This will do!" she decided; "Nobody's coming to dine; I shall be all alone—"

The thought struck her as quaint and strange. Nobody coming to dinner! How very odd! At Aunt Emily's there was always someone, or several someones, to dinner. To-night she would dine all alone. Well! It would be a novel experience!

"Are there any nice people living about here?" she asked Nancy, as that anxious young woman carefully divested her of her elegant dressing-gown; "People I should like to know?"

"Oh, I don't think so, Miss," replied Nancy, quite frankly, watching in wonder the dexterity and grace with which her mistress swept up all her hair into one rich twist and knotted it with two big tortoiseshell hairpins at the back of her head. "There's Sir Morton Pippitt at Badsworth Hall, three miles from here—"

Maryllia laughed gaily.

"Sir Morton Pippitt! What a funny name! Who is he?"

"Well, Miss, they do say he makes his money at bone-melting; but he's awful proud for all that—awful proud he is—"

"Well, I should think so!" said Maryllia, with much solemnity; "Bone-melting is a great business! Does he melt human bones, Nancy?"

"Oh, lor', Miss, no!" And Nancy laughed, despite herself; "Not that I've ever heard on—it's bones of animals he melts and turns into buttons and such-like."

"Man is an animal, Nancy," said Maryllia, sententiously, giving one or two little artistic touches to the loose waves of hair on her forehead; "Why should not HIS bones be turned into buttons? Why should HE not be made useful? You may depend upon it, Nancy, human bones go into Sir Morton What's-his-name's stock-pot. I shouldn't wonder if he had left his own bones to his business in his will!

"'Imperial Caesar dead and turned to clay, May stop a hole to keep the wind away!'

That's so, Nancy! And is the gentleman who boils bones the only man about here one could ask to dinner?"

Nancy reflected.

"There's the Passon—" she began.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Maryllia, with a little shrug of impatience; "Worse than the bone-boiler!—a thousand times worse! There! That will do, Nancy! I'll stroll about till dinner's ready."

She left the room and descended the stairs, followed by the faithful Plato, and was soon to be seen by various retainers of the curious and excited household, walking slowly up and down on the grass terrace in her flowing white draperies, the afterglow of the sinking sun shining on her gold-brown hair, and touching up little reddish ripples in it,—such ripples as were painted by the artist of Charles the Second's day when he brushed into colour and canvas the portrait of Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt. Primmins, late butler to the irascible Sir Morton Pippitt, was so taken with the sight of her that he then and there resolved his 'temp'ry service' should be life-long, if he could manage to please her; and little Kitty Spruce being permitted by her mother to peep at the 'new lady' through the staircase window, could only draw a long breath and ejaculate: "Oh! Ain't she lovely!" while she followed with eagerly admiring eyes the gossamer trail of Maryllia's white gown on the soft turf, and strained her ears to catch the sound of the sweet voice which suddenly broke out in a careless chansonette:

"Tu m'aimes, cherie? Dites-moi! Seulement un petit 'oui,' Je demande a toi! Le bonheur supreme Vient quand on aime, N'est-ce-pas cherie? 'Oui'!"

"She's singin' to herself!" said the breathless Kitty, whispering to her mother; "Ain't she jest smilin' and beautiful?"

"Well, I will own," replied Mrs. Spruce, "she's as different to the lady I expected as cheese from chalk, which they generally says chalk from cheese, howsomever, that don't matter. But if I don't mistake, she's got a will of 'er own, for all that she's so smilin' and beautiful as you says, Kitty; and now don't YOU go runnin' away with notions that you can dress like 'er or look like 'er,—for when once a gel of YOUR make thinks she can imitate the fashions and the ways of a great lady, she's done for, body and soul! YOU ain't goin' to wear white gowns and trail 'em up an' down on the grass, nor 'ave big dogs a-follerin' up an' down while you sings in a furrin langwidge to yerself; no, not if you was to read all the trashy story-books in the world—so you needn't think it. For there ain't no millionaires comin' arter you, as they doos in penny novels,—nor nothink else what's dished up in newspapers; so jes' wear your cotton frocks in peace, an' don't worry me with wantin' to look like Miss Maryllia, for you never won't look like 'er if ye tried till ye was dead! Remember that, now! The Lord makes a many women,—but now and again He turns out a few chice samples which won't bear copyin.'. Miss Maryllia's one of them samples, and we must take 'er with prayer and thanksgivin' as sich!"



IX

Maryllia's first solitary dinner in the home of her ancestors passed off with tolerable success. She found something not altogether unpleasant in being alone after all. Plato was always an intelligent, well-behaved and dignified companion in his canine way, and the meal was elegantly served by Primmins, who waited on his new mistress with as much respect and zeal as if she had been a queen. A sense of authority and importance began to impress itself upon her as she sat at the head of her own table in her own dining-hall, with all the Vandykes and Holbeins and Gainsboroughs gazing placidly down upon her from their gilded frames, and the flicker of many wax candles in old silver sconces glancing upon the shields, helmets, rusty pikes and crossed swords that decorated the panelling of the walls between and above the pictures.

"Fancy! No gas and no electric light! It is simply charming!" she thought, "And so becoming to one's dress and complexion! Only there's nobody to see the becomingness. But I can soon remedy that. Lots of people will come down and stay here if I only ask them. There's one thing quite certain about society folk—they will always come where they can be lodged and boarded free! They call it country visiting, but it really means shutting up their houses, dismissing their servants, and generally economising on their housekeeping bills. I've seen SUCH a lot of it!"

She heaved a little sigh over these social reminiscences, and finished her repast in meditative silence. She had not been accustomed to much thinking, and to indulge in it at all for any length of time was actually a novelty. Her aunt had told her never to think, as it made the face serious, and developed lines on the forehead. And she had, under this kind of tutelage, became one of a brilliant, fashionable, dress-loving crowd of women, who spend most of their lives in caring for their complexions and counting their lovers. Yet every now and again, a wave of repugnance to such a useless sort of existence arose in her and made a stormy rebellion. Surely there was something nobler in life—something higher— something more useful and intelligent than the ways and manners of a physically and morally degenerate society?

It was a still, calm evening, and the warmth of the sun all day had drawn such odours from the hearts of the flowers that the air was weighted with perfume when she wandered out again into her garden after dinner, and looked up wistfully at the gables of the Manor set clear against a background of dark blue sky patterned with stars. A certain gravity oppressed her. There was, after all, something just a little eerie in the on-coming of night in this secluded woodland place where she had voluntarily chosen to dwell all alone and unprotected, rather than lend herself to her aunt's match-making schemes.

"Of course," she argued with herself, "I need not stay here if I don't like it. I can get a paid companion and go travelling,—but, oh dear, I've had so much travelling!—or I can own myself in the wrong to Aunt Emily, and marry that wretch Roxmouth,—Oh, no! I COULD not! I WILL not!"

She gave an impatient little stamp with her foot, and anon surveyed the old house with affectionate eyes.

"You shall be my rescue!" she said, kissing her hand playfully to the latticed windows,—"You shall turn me into an old-fashioned lady, fond of making jams and pickles, and preserves and herbal waters! I'll put away all the idiotic intrigues and silly fooling of modern society in one of your quaint oaken cupboards, and lock them all up with little bags of lavender to disinfect them! And I will wait for someone to come and find me out and love me; and if no one ever comes—" Here she paused, then went on,—"If no one ever comes, why then—" and she laughed—"some man will have lost a good chance of marrying as true a girl as ever lived!—a girl who could love— ah!" And she stretched out her pretty rounded arms to the scented air. "HOW she could love if she were loved!"

The young moon here put in a shy appearance by showing a fleck of silver above the highest gable of the Manor.

"A little diamond peak, No bigger than an unobserved star, Or tiny point of fairy scimitar; Bright signal that she only stooped to tie Her silver sandals ere deliciously She bowed unto the heavens her timid head, Slowly she rose as though she would have fled."

"There's no doubt," said Maryllia, "that this place is romantic! And romance is what I've been searching for all my life, and have never found except in books. Not so much in modern books as in the books that were written by really poetical and imaginative people sixty or seventy years ago. Nowadays, the authors that are most praised go in for what they call 'realism'—and their realism is very UNreal, and very nasty. For instance, this garden,—these lovely trees,—this dear old house—all these are real—but much too romantic for a modern writer. He would rather describe a dusthole and enumerate every potato paring in it! And here am I—I'm real enough—but I'm not a bad woman—I haven't got what is euphoniously called 'a past,' and I don't belong to the right-down vicious company of 'Souls.' So I should never do for a heroine of latter-day fiction. I'm afraid I'm abnormal. It's dreadful to be abnormal! One becomes a 'neurotic,' like Lombroso, and all the geniuses. But suppose the world were full of merely normal people,—people who did nothing but eat and sleep in the most perfectly healthy and regular manner,—oh, what a bore it would be! There would be no pictures, no sculpture, no poetry, no music, no anything worth living for. One MUST have a few ideas beyond food and clothing!"

The moon, rose higher and shed a shower of silver over the grass, lighting up in strong relief the fair face upturned to it.

"Now the 'Souls' pretend to have ideas," continued Maryllia, still apostrophising the bland stillness; "But their ideas are low,— decidedly low,—and decidedly queer. And that Cabinet Ministers are in their set doesn't make them any the better. I could have been a 'Soul' if I had liked. I could have learnt a lot of wicked secrets from the married peer who wanted to be my 'affinity,'—only I wouldn't. I could have got all the Government 'tips,' gambled with them on the Stock Exchange, and made quite a fortune as a 'Soul.' Yet here I am,—no 'Soul,'—but only a poor little body, with something in me that asks for a higher flight than mere social intrigue. Just a bit of a higher flight, eh, Plato? What do you think about it?"

Plato the leonine, waved his plumy tail responsively and gently rubbed his great head against her arm. Resting one hand lightly on his neck, she moved towards the house and slowly ascended the graduating slopes of the grass terrace. Here she was suddenly met by Primmins.

"Beg your pardon, Miss," he said, with an apologetic air, "but there's an old man from the village come up to see you—a very old man,—he's had to be carried in a chair, and it's took a couple of men nigh an hour and a half to bring him along. He says he knew you years ago—I hardly like to send him away—"

"Certainly not!—of course you mustn't send him away," said Maryllia, quickening her steps; "Poor old dear! Where is he?"

"In the great, hall, Miss. They brought him through the courtyard and got him in there, before I had time to send them round to the back entrance."

Maryllia entered the house. There she was met by Mrs. Spruce, with uplifted hands.

"Well, it do beat me altogether, Miss," she exclaimed, "as to how these silly men, my 'usband, too, one of the silliest, beggin' your parding, could bring that poor old Josey Letherbarrow up here all this way! And he not toddled beyond the church this seven or eight years! And it's all about those blessed Five Sisters they've come, though I told 'em you can't nohow be worrited and can't see no one— "

"But I can!" said Maryllia decisively; "I can see anyone who wishes to see me, and I will. Let me pass, Mrs. Spruce, please!"

Mrs. Spruce, thus abruptly checked, stood meekly aside, controlling her desire to pour forth fresh remonstrances at the unseemliness of any person or persons intruding upon the lady of the Manor at so late an hour in the evening as half-past nine o'clock. Maryllia hastened into the hall and there found an odd group awaiting her, composed of three very odd-looking personages,—much more novel and striking in their oddity than anything that could have been presented to her view in the social whirl of Paris and London. Josey Letherbarrow was the central figure, seated bolt upright in a cane arm-chair, through the lower part of which a strong pole had been thrust, securely nailed and clamped, as well as tied in a somewhat impromptu fashion with clothes-line. This pole projected about two feet on either side of the chair to accommodate the bearers, namely Spruce and Bainton, who, having set their burden down, were now wiping their hot faces and perspiring brows with flagrantly coloured handkerchiefs of an extra large size. As Maryllia appeared, they abruptly desisted from this occupation and remained motionless, stricken with sudden confusion and embarrassment. Not so old Josey, for with unexpected alacrity he got out of his chair and stood upright, supporting himself on his stick, and doffing his old straw hat to the light girlish figure that approached him with the grace of kindliness and sympathy expressed in its every movement.

"There she be!" he exclaimed; "There be the little gel wot I used to know when she was a babby, God bless 'er! Jes' the same eyes and 'air and purty face of 'er! Welcome 'ome to th' owld Squire's daughter, mates! D'ye 'ear me!" And he turned a dim rolling eye of command on Spruce and Bainton—"I sez welcome 'ome! And when I sez it I'spect it to be said arter me by the both of ye,—welcome 'ome!"

Spruce, unable to hear a word of this exordium, smiled sheepishly,— and twirling the cap he held, put his coloured handkerchief into it and squeezed it tightly within the lining. Bainton, with the impending fate of the Five Sisters in view, judged it advisable not to irritate or disobey the old gentleman whom he had brought forward as special pleader in the case, and gathering his wits together he spoke out bravely.

"Welcome 'ome, it is, Josey!" he said; "We both sez it, and we both means it! And we 'opes the young lady will not take it amiss as 'ow we've come to see 'er on the first night of 'er return, and wish 'er 'appy in the old 'ouse and long may she remain in it!"

Here he broke off, his eloquence being greatly disturbed by the gracious smile Maryllia gave him.

"Thank you so much!" she murmured sweetly; and then going up to Josey Letherbarrow, she patted the brown wrinkled hand that grasped the stick. "How kind and good of you to come and see me! And so you knew me when I was a little girl? I hope I was nice to you! Was I?"

Josey waved his straw hat speechlessly. His first burst of enthusiasm over, he was somewhat dazed, and a little uncertain as to how he should next proceed with his mission,

"Tell 'er as 'ow the Five Sisters be chalked;" growled Bainton in an undertone.

But Josey's mind had gone wandering far afield, groping amid memories of the past, and his aged eyes were fixed on Maryllia with a strange look of wonder and remembrance commingled.

"Th' owld Squire! Th' owld Squire!" he muttered; "I see 'im now—as broad an' tall and well-set up a gentleman as ever lived—and sez he: 'Josey, that little white thing is all I've got left of the wife I was bringin' 'ome to be the sunshine of the old Manor.' Ay, he said that! 'Its eyes are like those of my Dearest!' Ay, he said that, too! The little white thing! She's 'ere,—and th' owld Squire's gone!"

The pathos of his voice struck Maryllia to the heart,—and for the moment she could not keep back a few tears that gathered, despite herself, and glistened on her long lashes. Furtively she dashed them away, but not before Bainton had seen them.

"Well, arter all, Josey's nothin' but a meanderin' old idgit!" he thought angrily: "'Ere 'ave I been an' took 'im for a wise man wot would know exackly 'ow to begin and ask for the sparin' of the old trees, and if he ain't gone on the wrong tack altogether and made the poor little lady cry! I think I'll do a bit of this business myself while I've got the chance—for if I don't, ten to one he'll be tellin' the story of the wopses' nest next, and a fine oncommon show we'll make of ourselves 'ere with our manners." And he coughed loudly—"Ahem! Josey, will you tell Miss Vancourt about the Five Sisters, or shall I?"

Maryllia glanced from one to the other in bewilderment.

"The Five Sisters!" she echoed; "Who are they?"

Here Spruce imagined, as he often did, that he had been asked a question.

"Such were our orders from Mr. Leach," he said, in his quiet equable voice; "We's to be there to-morrow marnin' quarter afore six with ropes and axes."

"Ropes and axes shall not avail against the finger of the Lord, or the wrath of the Almighty!" said Josey Letherbarrow, suddenly coming out of his abstraction; "And if th' owld Squire were alive he wouldn't have had 'em touched—no, not he! He'd ha' starved sooner! And if the Five Sisters are laid low, the luck of the Manor will lay low with 'em! But it's not too late—not too late!"—and he turned his face, now alive in its every feature with strong emotion, to Maryllia—"Not too late if the Squire's little gel is still her father's pride and glory! And that's what I've come for to the Manor this night,—I ain't been inside the old 'ouse for this ten 'ear or more, but they's brought me,—me—old Josey,—stiff as I am, and failin' as I am, to see ye, my dear little gel, and ask ye for God's love to save the old trees wot 'as waved in the woodland free and wild for 'undreds o' years, and wot deserves more gratitude from Abbot's Manor than killin' for long service!"

He began to tremble with nervous excitement, and Maryllia put her hand soothingly on his arm.

"You must sit down, Josey," she said; "You will be so tired standing! Sit down and tell me all about it! What trees are you speaking of? And who is going to cut them down! You see I don't know anything about the place yet,—I've only just arrived—but if they are my trees, and you say my father would not have wished them to be cut down, they shan't be cut down!—be sure of that!"

Josey's eyes sparkled, and he waved his battered hat triumphantly.

"Didn't I tell ye?" he exclaimed, turning round upon Bainton; "Didn't I say as 'ow this was the way to do it?—and as 'ow the little gel wot I knew as a baby would listen to me when she wouldn't listen to no one else? An' as 'ow the Five Sisters would be spared? An' worn't I right! Worn't I true?"

Maryllia smiled.

"You really must sit down!" she said again, gently persuading him into his chair, wherein he sank heavily, like a stone, though his face shone with alertness and vigour. "Primmins!" and she addressed that functionary who had been standing in the background watching the little scene; "Bring some glasses of port wine." Primmins vanished to execute this order. "Now, you dear old man," continued Maryllia, drawing up an oaken settle close to Josey's knee and seating herself with a confidential air; "you must tell me just what you want me to do, and I will do it!"

She looked a mere child, with her fair face upturned and her rippling hair falling loosely away from her brows. A great tenderness softened Josey's eyes as he fixed them upon her.

"God Almighty bless ye!" he said, raising his trembling hand above her head; "God bless ye in your uprisin' and downlyin',—and make the old 'ouse and the old ways sweet to ye! For there's naught like 'ome in a wild wandering world—and naught like love to make 'appiness out of sorrow! God bless ye, dear little gel!—and give ye all your 'art's desire, if so be it's for your good and guidin'!"

Instinctively, Maryllia bent her head with a pretty reverence under the benediction of so venerable a personage, and gently pressed the wrinkled hand as it slowly dropped again. Then glancing at Bainton, she said softly:

"He's very tired, I'm afraid!—perhaps too tired to tell me all he wishes to say. Will you explain what it is he wants?"

Bainton, thus adjured, took courage.

"Thank ye kindly, Miss; and if I may make so bold, it's not what he wants more'n wot all the village wants and wot we've been 'opin' against 'ope for, trustin' to the chance of your comin' 'ome to do it for us. Passon Walden he's a rare good man, and he's done all he can, and he's been and seen Oliver Leach, but it ain't all no use,— -"

He paused, as Maryllia interrupted him by a gesture.

"Oliver Leach?" she queried; "He's my agent here, I believe?"

"Jes' so, Miss—he was put in as agent arter the Squire's death, and he's been 'ere ever since, bad luck to 'im! And he's been a-cuttin' down timber on the place whenever he's took a mind to, askin' no by- your-leaves, and none of us 'adn't no right to say a wurrd, he bein' master-like—but when it comes to the Five Sisters—why then we sez, if the Five Sisters lay low there's an end of the pride and prosperity of the village, an' Passon Walden he be main worrited about it, for he do love trees like as they were his own brothers, m'appen more'n brothers, for sometimes there's no love lost twixt the likes o' they, and beggin' your pardon, Miss, he sent me to ye with a message from hisself 'fore dinner, but you was a-lyin' down and couldn't be disturbed nohow, so I goes down to Spruce"—here Bainton indicated the silent Spruce with a jerk of his thumb—"he be the forester 'ere, under Mr. Leach's orders, as deaf as a post unless you 'ollers at him, but a good-meanin' man for all that—and I sez, 'Spruce, you and me 'ull go an' fetch old Josey Letherbarrow, and see if bein' the oldest 'n'abitant, as they sez in books, he can't get a wurrd with Miss Vancourt, and so 'ere we be, Miss, for the trees be chalked"—and he turned abruptly to Spruce and bellowed—"Baint the trees chalked for comin' down to-morrow marnin'? Speak fair!"

Spruce heard, and at once gave a lucid statement.

"By Mr. Leach's orders, Miss," he said, addressing Maryllia; "The five old beech-trees on the knoll, which the village folk call the 'Five Sisters,' are to be felled to-morrow marnin'. They've stood, so I'm told, an' so I b'lieve, two or three hundred years—"

"And they're going to be cut down!" exclaimed Maryllia. "I never heard of such wickedness! How disgraceful!"

Spruce saw by the movement of her lips that she was speaking, and therefore at once himself subsided into silence. Bainton again took up the parable.

"He's nigh stone-deaf, Miss, so you'll 'scuse him if he don't open his mouth no more till we shouts at him—but what he sez is true enough. At six o'clock to-morrow marnin'—"

Here Primmins entered with the port wine.

"Primmins, where does the agent, Leach, live?" enquired Maryllia.

"I really couldn't say, Miss. I'll ask—"

"'Tain't no use askin'," said Bainton; "He lives a mile out of the village; but he ain't at 'ome nohow this evenin' bein' gone to Riversford town for a bit o' gamblin' at cards. Lor', Miss, beggin' yer pardon, gamblin' with the cards do get rid o' timber—it do reely now!"

Maryllia took a glass of port wine from the tray which Primmins handed to her, and gave it herself to old Josey. Her mind had entirely grasped the situation, despite the prolix nature of Bainton's discourse. A group of historic old trees were to be felled by the agent's orders at six o'clock the next morning unless she prevented it. That was the sum total of the argument. And here was something for her to do, and she resolved to do it.

"Now, Josey," she said with a smile, "you must drink a glass of wine to my health. And you also—and you!" and she nodded encouragingly to Spruce and Bainton; "And be quite satisfied about the trees—they shall not be touched."

"God bless ye!" said Josey, drinking off his wine at a gulp; "And long life t'ye and 'appiness to enjoy it!"

Bainton, with a connoisseur's due appreciation of a good old brand, sipped at his glass slowly, while Spruce, hastily swallowing his measure of the cordial, wiped his mouth furtively with the back of his hand, murmuring: "Your good 'elth, an' many of 'em!"

"Wishin' ye long days o' peace an' plenty," said Bainton, between his appreciative sips; "But as fur as the trees is consarned, you'll'scuse me, Miss, for sayin' it, but the time bein' short, I don't see 'ow it's goin' to be 'elped, Oliver Leach bein' away, and no post delivered at his 'ouse till eight o'clock—"

"I will settle all that," said Maryllia—"You must leave everything to me. In the meantime,"—and she glanced at Spruce,—then appealingly turned to Bainton,—"Will you try and make your friend understand an order I want to give him? Or shall I ask Mrs. Spruce to come and speak to him?"

"Lord love ye, he'll be sharper to hear me than his wife, Miss, beggin' yer pardon," said Bainton, with entire frankness. "He's too accustomed to her jawin' an' wouldn't get a cleat impression like. Spruce!" And he uplifted his voice in a roar that made the old rafters of the hall ring. "Get ready to take Miss Vancourt's orders, will ye?"

Spruce was instantly on the alert, and put his hand to his ear.

"Tell him, please," said Maryllia, still addressing Bainton, "that he is to meet the agent as arranged at the appointed place to-morrow morning; but that he is not to take any ropes or axes or any men with him. He is simply to say that by Miss Vancourt's orders the trees are not to be touched."

These words Bainton dutifully bellowed into Spruce's semi-closed organs of hearing. A look first of astonishment and then of fear came over the simple fellow's face.

"I'm afraid," he at last faltered, "that the lady does not know what a hard man Mr. Leach is; he'll as good as kill me if I go there alone to him!"

"Lord love ye, man, you won't be alone!" roared Bainton,—"There's plenty in the village 'ull take care o' that!"

"Say to him," continued Maryllia steadily, noting the forester's troubled countenance, "he must now remember that I am mistress here, and that my orders, even if given at the last moment, are to be obeyed."

"That's it!" chuckled Josey Letherbarrow, knocking his stick on the ground in a kind of ecstasy,—"That's it! Things ain't goin' to be as they 'as been now the Squire's little gel is 'ome! That's it!" And he nodded emphatically. "Give a reskil rope enough an' he'll 'ang hisself by the neck till he be dead, and the Lord ha' mercy on his soul!"

Maryllia smiled, watching all her three quaint visitors with a sensation of mingled interest and whimsical amusement.

"D'ye hear? You're to tell Leach," shouted Bainton, "that Miss Vancourt is mistress 'ere, and her orders is to be obeyed at the last moment! Which you might ha' understood without splittin' my throat to tell ye, if ye had a little more sense, which, lackin', 'owever, can't be 'elped. What are ye afeard of, eh?"

"Mr. Leach is a hard man," continued Spruce, anxiously glancing at Maryllia; "He would lose me my place if he could—:"

Maryllia heard, and privately decided that the person to lose his place would be Leach himself. "It is quite exciting!" she thought; "I was wondering a while ago what I should do to amuse myself in the country, and here I am called upon at once to remedy wrongs and settle village feuds! Nothing could be more novel and delightful!" Aloud, she said,—

"None of the people who were in my father's service will lose their places with me, unless for some very serious fault. Please"—and she raised her eyes in pretty appeal to Bainton, "Please make everybody understand that! Are you one of the foresters here?"

Bainton shook his head.

"No, Miss,—I'm the Passon's head man. I does all his gardening and keeps a few flowers growin' in the churchyard. There's a rose climbin' over the cross on the old Squire's grave what will do ye good to see, come another fortnight of this warm weather. But Passon, he be main worrited about the Five Sisters, and knowin' as 'ow I'd worked for the old Squire at 'arvest an,' sich-like, he thought I might be able to 'splain to ye—"

"I see!" said Maryllia, thoughtfully, surveying with renewed interest the old-world figure of Josey Letherbarrow in his clean smock-frock. "Now, how are you going to get Josey home again?" And a smile irradiated her face. "Will you carry him along just as you brought him?"

"Why, yes, Miss—it'll be all goin' downhill now, and there's a moon, and it'll be easy work. And if so be we're sure the Five Sisters 'ull be saved—"

"You may be perfectly certain of it," said Maryllia interrupting him with a little gesture of decision—"Only you must impress well on Mr. Spruce here, that my orders are to be obeyed."

"Beggin' yer pardon, Miss—what Spruce is afeard of is that Leach may tell him he's a liar, and may jest refuse to obey. That's quite on the cards, Miss—it is reely now!"

"Oh, is it, indeed!" and Maryllia's eyes flashed with a sudden fire that made them look brighter and deeper than ever and revealed a depth of hidden character not lacking in self-will,—"Well, we shall see! At any rate, I have given my orders, and I expect them to be carried out! You understand!"

"I do, Miss;" and Bainton touched his forelock respectfully; "An' while we're joggin' easy downhill with Josey, I'll get it well rubbed into Spruce. And, by yer leave, if you hain't no objection, I'll tell Passon Walden that sich is your orders, and m'appen he'll find a way of impressin' Leach straighter than we can." Maryllia was not particularly disposed to have the parson brought into her affairs, but she waived the query lightly aside.

"You can do as you like about that," she said carelessly; "As the parson is your master, you can of course tell him if you think he will be interested. But I really don't see why he should be asked to interfere. My orders are sufficient."

A very decided ring of authority in the clear voice warned Bainton that here was a lady who was not to be trifled with, or to be told this or that, or to be put off from her intentions by any influence whatsoever. He could not very well offer a reply, so he merely touched his forelock again and was discreetly silent. Maryllia then turned playfully to Josey Letherbarrow.

"Now are you quite happy?" she asked. "Quite easy in your mind about the trees?"

"Thanks be to the Lord and you, God bless ye!" said Josey, piously; "I'm sartin sure the Five Sisters 'ull wave their leaves in the blessed wind long arter I'm laid under the turf and the daisies! I'll sleep easy this night for knowin' it, and thank ye kindly and all blessin' be with ye! And if I never sees ye no more—"

"Now, Josey, don't talk nonsense!" said Maryllia, with a pretty little air of protective remonstrance; "Such a clever old person as you are ought to know better than to be morbid! 'Never see me no more' indeed! Why I'm coming to see you soon,—very soon! I shall find out where you live, and I shall pay you a visit! I'm a dreadful talker! You shall tell me all about the village and the people in it, and I'm sure I shall learn more from you in an hour than if I studied the place by myself for a week! Shan't I?"

Josey was decidedly flattered. The port wine had reddened his nose and had given an extra twinkle to his eyes.

"Well, I ain't goin' to deny but what I knows a thing or two—" he began, with a sly glance at her.

"Of course you do! Heaps of things! I shall coax them all out of you! And now, good-night!—No!—don't get up!" for Josey was making herculean efforts to rise from his chair again. "Just stay where you are, and let them carry you carefully home. Good-night!"

She gave a little salute which included all three of her rustic visitors, and moved away. Passing under the heavily-carved arched beams of oak which divided the hall from the rest of the house, she turned her head backward over her shoulder with a smile.

"Good-night, Ambassador Josey!"

Josey waved his old hat energetically.

"Good-night, my beauty! Good-night to Squire's gel! Good-night—"

But before he could pile on any more epithets, she was gone, and the butler Primmins stood in her place.

"I'll help give you a lift down to the gates," he said, surveying Josey with considerable interest; "You're a game old chap for your age!"

Josey was still waving his hat to the dark embrasure through which Maryllia's white figure had vanished.

"Ain't she a beauty? Ain't she jest a real Vancourt pride?" he demanded excitedly; "Lord! We won't know ourselves in a month or two! You marrk my wurrds, boys! See if what I say don't come true! Leach may cheat the gallus, but he won't cheat them blue eyes, let him try ever so! They'll be the Lord's arrows in his skin! You see if they ain't!"

Bainton here gave a signal to Spruce, and they hoisted up the improvised carrying-chair between them, Primmins steadying it behind.

"There ain't goin' to be no layin' low of the Five Sisters!" Josey continued with increasing shrillness and excitement as he was borne out into the moonlit courtyard; "And there ain't goin' to be no devil's work round the old Manor no more! Welcome 'ome to Squire's gel! Welcome 'ome!"

"Shut up, Josey!" said Bainton, though kindly enough—"You'll soon part with all the breath you've got in yer body if ye makes a screech owl of yerself like that in the night air! You's done enough for once in a way,—keep easy an' quiet while we carries ye back to the village—ye weighs a hundred pound 'eavier if ye're noisy,—ye do reely now!"

Thus adjured, Josey subsided into silence, and what with the joy he felt at the success of his embassy, the warm still air, and the soothing influence of the moonlight, he soon fell fast asleep, and did not wake till he arrived at his own home in safety. Having deposited him there, and seen to his comfort, Spruce and Bainton left him to his night's rest, and held a brief colloquy outside his cottage door.

"I'm awful 'feard goin' to-morrow marnin' up to the Five Sisters with ne'er a tool and ne'er a man,—Leach 'ull be that wild!" said Spruce, his rubicund face paling at the very thought—"If I could but 'ave 'ad written instructions, like!"

"Why didn't you ask for 'em while you 'ad the chance?" demanded Bainton testily; "It's too late now to bother your mind with what ye might ha' done if ye'd had a bit of gumption. And it's too late for me to be goin' and speakin' to Passon Walden. There's nothin' to be done now till the marnin'!"

"Nothin' to be done till the marnin'," echoed Spruce with a sigh, catching these words by happy chance; "All the same, she's a fine young lady, and 'er orders is to be obeyed. She ain't a bit like what I expected her to be."

"Nor she ain't what I bet she would be," said Bainton, heedless as to whether his companion heard him or not; "I've lost 'arf a crown to my old 'ooman, for I sez, sez I, 'She's bound to be a 'igh an' mighty stuck-up sort o' miss wot won't never 'ave a wurrd for the likes of we,' an' my old 'ooman she sez to me: 'Go 'long with ye for a great silly gawk as ye are; I'll bet ye 'arf a crown she won't be!' So I sez 'Done,'—an' done it is. For she's just as sweet as clover in the spring, an' seems as gentle as a lamb,—though I reckon she's got a will of 'er own and a mind to do what she likes, when and 'ow she likes. I'll 'ave a fine bit o' talk with Passon 'bout her as soon as iver he gives me the chance."

"Ay, good-night it is," observed Spruce, placidly taking all these remarks as evening adieux,—"Yon moon's got 'igh, and it's time for bed if so be we rises early. Easy rest ye!"

Bainton nodded. It was all the response necessary. The two then separated, going their different ways to their different homes, Spruce having to get back to the Manor and a possible curtain- lecture from his wife. All the village was soon asleep,—and eleven o'clock rang from the church-tower over closed cottages in which not a nicker of lamp or candle was to be seen. The moonbeams shed a silver rain upon the outlines of the neatly thatched roofs and barns—illumining with touches of radiance as from heaven, the beautiful 'God's House' which dominated the whole cluster of humble habitations. Everything was very quiet,—the little hive of humanity had ceased buzzing; and the intense stillness was only broken by the occasional murmur of a ripple breaking from the river against the pebbly shore.

Up at the Manor, however, the lights were not yet extinguished. Maryllia, on the departure of 'Ambassador Josey' as she had called him, and his two convoys, had sent for Mrs. Spruce and had gone very closely with her into certain matters connected with Mr. Oliver Leach. It had been difficult work,—for Mrs. Spruce's garrulity, combined with her habit of wandering from the immediate point of discussion, and her anxiety to avoid involving herself or her husband in trouble, had created a chaotic confusion in her mind, which somewhat interfered with the lucidity of her statements. Little by little, however, Maryllia extracted a sufficient number of facts from her hesitating and reluctant evidence to gain considerable information on many points respecting the management of her estate, and she began to feel that her return home was providential and had been in a manner pre-ordained. She learned all that Mrs. Spruce could tell her respecting the famous 'Five Sisters'; how they were the grandest and most venerable trees in all the country round—and how they stood all together on a grassy eminence about a mile and a half from the Manor house and on the Manor lands just beyond the more low-lying woods that spread between. Whereupon Maryllia decided that she would take an early ride over her property the next day,—and gave orders that her favourite mare, 'Cleopatra,' ready saddled and bridled, should be brought round to the door at five o'clock the next morning. This being settled, and Mrs. Spruce having also humbly stated that all the peacock's feathers she could find had been summarily cast forth from the Manor through the medium of the parcels' post, Maryllia bade her a kindly good-night.

"To-morrow," she said, "we will go all over the house together, and you will explain everything to me. But the first thing to be done is to save those old trees."

"Well, no one wouldn't 'ave saved 'em if so be as you 'adn't come 'ome, Miss," declared Mrs. Spruce. "For Mr. Leach he be a man of his word, and as obs'nate as they makes 'em, which the Lord Almighty knows men is all made as obs'nate as pigs—and he's been master over the place like—"

"More's the pity!" said Maryllia; "But he is master here no longer, Spruce; I am now both mistress and master. Remember that, please!"

Mrs. Spruce curtseyed dutifully and withdrew. The close cross- examination she had undergone respecting Leach had convinced her of two things,—firstly, that her new mistress, though such a childlike-looking creature, was no fool,—and secondly, that though she was perfectly gentle, kind, and even affectionate in her manner, she evidently had a will of her own, which it seemed likely she would enforce, if necessary, with considerable vigour and imperativeness. And so the worthy old housekeeper decided that on the whole it would be well to be careful—to mind one's P's and Q's as it were,—to pause before rushing pell-mell into a flood of unpremeditated speech, and to pay the strictest possible attention to her regular duties.

"Then m'appen we'll stay on in the old place," she considered; "But if we doos those things which we ought not to have done, as they sez in the prayer-book, we'll get the sack in no time, for all that she looks so smilin' and girlie-like."

And so profound were her cogitations on this point that she actually forgot to give her husband the sound rating she had prepared for him concerning the part he had taken in bringing Josey Letherbarrow up to the Manor. Returning from the village in some trepidation, that harmless man was allowed to go to bed and sleep in peace, with no more than a reminder shrilled into his ears to be 'up with the dawn, as Miss Maryllia would be about early.'

Maryllia herself, meanwhile, quite unconscious that her small personality had made any marked or tremendous effect upon her domestics, retired to rest in happy mood. She was glad to be in her own home, and still more glad to find herself needed there.

"I've been an absolutely useless creature up till now," she said, shaking down her hair, after the maid Nancy had disrobed her and left her for the night. "The fact is, there never was a more utterly idle and nonsensical creature in the world than I am! I've done nothing but dress and curl my hair, and polish my face, and dance, and flirt and frivol the time away. Now, if I only am able to save five historical old trees, I shall have done something useful;— something more than half the women I know would ever take the trouble to do. For, of course, I suppose I shall have a row,—or as Aunt Emily would say 'words,'—with the agent. All the better! I love a fight,—especially with a man who thinks himself wiser than I am! That is where men are so ridiculous,—they always think themselves wiser than women, even though some of them can't earn their own living except through a woman's means. Lots of men will take a woman's money, and sneer at her while spending it! I know them!" And she nestled into her bed, with a little cosy cuddling movement of her soft white shoulders; "'Take all and give nothing!' is the motto of modern manhood;—I don't admire it,—I don't endorse it; I never shall! The true motto of love and chivalry should be 'Give all—take nothing'!"

Midnight chimed from the courtyard turret. She listened to the mellow clang with a sense of pleased comfort and security.

"Many people would think of ghosts and all sorts of uncanny things in an old, old house like this at midnight;" she thought; "But somehow I don't believe there are any ghosts here. At any rate, not unpleasant ones;—only dear and loving 'home' ghosts, who will do me no harm!"

She soon sank into a restful slumber, and the moonlight poured in through the old latticed windows, forming a delicate tracery of silver across the faded rose silken coverlet of the bed, and showing the fair face, half in light, half in shade, that rested against the pillow, with the unbound hair scattered loosely on either side of it, like a white lily between two leaves of gold. And as the hours wore on, and the silence grew more intense, the slow and somewhat rusty pendulum of the clock in the tower could just be heard faintly ticking its way on towards the figures of the dawn. "Give all—take nothing—Give—all—take—no—thing!" it seemed to say;—the motto of love and the code of chivalry, according to Maryllia.



X

A thin silver-grey mist floating delicately above the river Rest and dispersing itself in light wreaths across the flowering banks and fields, announced the breaking of the dawn,—and John Walden, who had passed a restless night, threw open his bedroom window widely, with a sense of relief that at last the time had come again for movement and action. His blood was warm and tingling with suppressed excitement,—he was ready for a fight, and felt disposed to enjoy it. His message to Miss Vancourt had apparently failed,—for on the previous evening Bainton had sent round word to say that he had been unable to see the lady before dinner, but that he was going to try again later on. No result of this second attempt had been forthcoming, so Walden concluded that his gardener had received a possibly curt and complete rebuff from the new 'Squire-ess,' and had been too much disheartened by his failure to come and report it.

"Never mind!—we'll have a tussle for the trees!" said John to himself, as after his cold tubbing he swung his dumb-bells to and fro with the athletic lightness and grace of long practice; "If the villagers are prepared to contest Leach's right to destroy the Five Sisters, I'll back them up in it! I will! And I'll speak my mind to Miss Vancourt too! She is no doubt as apathetic and indifferent to sentiment as all her 'set,' but if I can prick her through her pachydermatous society skin, I'll do it!"

Having got himself into a great heat and glow with this mental resolve and his physical exertions combined, he hastily donned his clothes, took his stoutest walking-stick, and sallied forth into the cool dim air of the as yet undeclared morning, the faithful Nebbie accompanying him. Scarcely, however, had he shut his garden gate behind him when Bainton confronted him.

"Marnin', Passon!"

"Oh, there you are!" said Walden—"Well, now what's going to be done?"

"Nothin's goin' to be done;" rejoined Bainton stolidly, with his usual inscrutable smile; "Unless m'appen Spruce is 'avin' every bone broke in his body 'fore we gets there. Ye see, he ain't got no written orders like,—and mebbe Leach 'ull tell him he's a liar and that Miss Vancourt's instructions is all my eye!"

"Miss Vancourt's instructions?" echoed Walden; "Has she given any?"

"Of coorse she has!" replied Bainton, triumphantly; "Which is that the trees is not to be touched on no account. And she's told Spruce, through me,—which I bellowed it all into his ear,—to go and meet Leach this marnin' up by the Five Sisters and give him 'er message straight from the shoulder!"

Walden's face cleared and brightened visibly.

"I'm glad—I'm very glad!" he said; "I hardly thought she could sanction such an outrage—but, tell me, how did you manage to give her my message?"

"'Tworn't your message at all, Passon, don't you think it!" said Bainton; "You ain't got so fur as that. She's not the sort o' lady to take a message from no one, whether passon, pope or emp'rur. Not she! It was old Josey Letherbarrow as done it." And he related the incidents of the past evening in a style peculiar to himself, laying considerable weight on his own remarkable intelligence and foresight in having secured the 'oldest 'n'abitant' of the village to act as representative and ambassador for the majority.

Walden listened with keen interest.

"Yes,—Leach is likely to be quarrelsome," he said, at its conclusion; "There's no doubt about that. We mustn't leave Spruce to bear the brunt of his black rage all alone. Come along, Bainton!—I will enforce Miss Vancourt's orders myself if necessary."

This was just what Bainton wanted,—and master and man started off at a swinging pace for the scene of action, Bainton pouring forth as he went a glowing description of the wonderful and unexpected charm of the new mistress of the Manor.

"There ain't been nothin' like her in our neighbourhood iver at all, so fur as I can remember," he declared. "A' coorse I must ha' seed her when I worked for th' owld Squire at whiles, but she was a child then, an' I ain't a good hand at rememberin' like Josey be, besides I never takes much 'count of childern runnin' round. But 'ere was we all a-thinkin' she'd be a 'igh an' mighty fashion-plate, and she ain't nothin' of the sort, onny jest like a little sugar figure on, a weddin'-cake wot looks sweet at ye and smiles pleasant,—though she's got a flash in them eyes of her which minds me of a pony wot ain't altogether broke in. Josey, he sez them eyes is a-goin' to finish up Leach,—which mebbe they will and mebbe they won't;—all the same they's eyes you won't see twice in a lifetime! Lord love ye, Passon, ain't it strange 'ow the Almighty puts eyes in the 'eads of women wot ain't a bit like wot he puts in the 'eads of men! We gets the sight all right, but somehow we misses the beauty. An' there's plenty of women wot has eyes correct in stock and colour, as we sez of the flowers,—but they're like p'ison berries, shinin' an' black an' false-like,—an' if ye touch 'em ye're a dead man. Howsomever when ye sees eyes like them that was smilin' at old Josey last night, why it's jest a wonderful thing; and it don't make me s'prised no more at the Penny Poltry-books wot's got such a lot about blue eyes in 'em. Blue's the colour—there's no doubt about it;—there ain't no eye to beat a blue one!"

Walden heard all this disjointed talk with a certain impatience. Swinging along at a rapid stride, and glad in a sense that the old trees were to be saved, he was nevertheless conscious of annoyance,- -though by whom, or at what he was annoyed, he could not have told. Plunging into the dewy woods, with all the pungent odours of moss and violets about his feet, he walked swiftly on, Bainton having some difficulty to keep up with him. The wakening birds were beginning to pipe their earliest carols; gorgeously-winged insects, shaken by the passing of human footsteps from their slumbers in the cups of flowers, soared into the air like jewels suddenly loosened from the floating robes of Aurora,—and the gentle stir of rousing life sent a pulsing wave through the long grass. Every now and again Bainton glanced up at the 'Passon's' face and murmured under his breath,—'Blue's the colour—there ain't nowt to beat it!' possibly inspired thereto by the very decided blue sparkle in the eyes of the 'man of God' who was marching steadily along in the 'Onward Christian Soldiers' style, with his shoulders well back, his head well poised, and his whole bearing expressive of both decision and command.

Out of the woods they passed into an open clearing, where the meadows, tenderly green and wet with dew, sloped upwards into small hillocks, sinking again into deep dingles, adorned with may-trees that were showing their white buds like little pellets of snow among the green, and where numerous clusters of blackthorn spread out lovely lavish tangles of blossom as fine as shreds of bleached wool or thread-lace upon its jet-like stems. Across these fields dotted with opening buttercups and daisies, Walden and his 'head man about the place' made quick way, and climbing the highest portion of the rising ground just in front of them, arrived at a wide stretch of peaceful pastoral landscape comprising a fine view of the river in all its devious windings through fields and pastures, overhung at many corners with ancient willows, and clasping the village of St. Rest round about as with a girdle of silver and blue. Here on a slight eminence stood the venerable sentinels of the fair scene,— the glorious old 'Five Sisters' beeches which on this very morning had been doomed to bid farewell for ever to the kind sky. Noble creatures were they in their splendid girth and broadly-stretching branches, which were now all alive with the palest and prettiest young green,—and as Walden sprang up the thyme-scented turfy ascent which lifted them proudly above all their compeers, his heart beat with mingled indignation and gladness,—indignation that such grand creations of a bountiful Providence should ever have been so much as threatened with annihilation by a destructive, ill-conditioned human pigmy like Oliver Leach,—and gladness, that at the last moment their safety was assured through the intervention of old Josey Letherbarrow. For, of course Miss Vancourt herself would never have troubled about them. Walden made himself inwardly positive on that score. She could have no particular care or taste for trees, John thought. It was the pathetic pleading of Josey,—his quaint appearance, his extreme age—and his touching feebleness, which taken all together had softened the callous heart of the mistress of the Manor, and had persuaded her to stay the intended outrage.

"If Josey had asked her to spare a gooseberry bush, she would probably have consented," said Walden to himself; "He is so old and frail,—she could hardly have refused his appeal without seeming to be almost inhuman."

Here his reflections were abruptly terminated by a clamour of angry voices, and hastening his steps up the knoll, he there confronted a group of rough rustic lads gathered in a defensive half-circle round Spruce who, white and breathless, was bleeding profusely from a deep cut across his forehead. Opposite him stood Oliver Leach, livid with rage, grasping a heavy dog-whip.

"You damned, deaf liar!" he shouted; "Do you think I'm going to take YOUR word? How dare you disobey my orders! I'll have you kicked off the place, you and your loud-tongued wife and the whole kit of you! What d'ye mean by bringing these louts up from the village to bull- bait me, eh? What d'ye mean by it? I'll have you all locked up in Riversford jail before the day's much older! You whining cur!" And he raised his whip threateningly. "I've given you one, and I'll give you another—"

"Noa, ye woan't!" said a huge, raw-boned lad, standing out from the rest. "You woan't strike 'im no more, if ye wants a hull skin! Me an' my mates 'ull take care o' that! You go whoam, Mister Leach!— you go whoam!—you've 'eerd plain as the trees is to be left stannin'—them's the orders of the new Missis,—and you ain't no call to be swearin' yerself black in the face, 'cos you can't get yer own way for once. You're none so prutty lookin' that we woan't know 'ow to make ye a bit pruttier if ye stays 'ere enny longer!"

And he grinned suggestively, doubling a portentous fist, and beginning to roll up his shirt sleeves slowly with an ominous air of business.

Leach looked at the group of threatening faces, and pulled from his pocket a notebook and pencil.

"I know you all, and I shall take down your names," he said, with vindictive sharpness, though his lips trembled—"You, Spruce, are under my authority, and you have deliberately disobeyed my orders—"

"And you, Leach, are under Miss Vancourt's authority and you are deliberately refusing to obey your employer's orders!" said Walden, suddenly emerging from the shadow east by one of the great trees, "And you have assaulted and wounded Spruce who brought you those orders. Shame on you, man! Riversford jail is more likely to receive YOU as a tenant than any of these lads!" Here he turned to the young men who on seeing their minister had somewhat sheepishly retreated, lifting their caps and trampling backward on each other's toes; "Go home, boys," he said peremptorily, yet kindly; "There's nothing for you to do here. Go home to your breakfasts and your work. The trees won't be touched—"

"Oh, won't they!" sneered Leach, now perfectly white with passion; "Who's going to pay me for the breaking of my contract, I should like to know? The trees are sold—they were sold as they stand a fortnight ago,—and down they come to-day, orders or no orders; I'll have my own men up here at work in less than an hour!"

Walden turned upon him.

"Very well then, I shall ask Miss Vancourt to set the police to watch her trees and take you into custody;" he said, coolly; "If you have sold the trees standing, to cover your gambling debts, you will have to UNsell them, that's all! They never were yours to dispose of;—you can no more sell them than you can sell the Manor. You have no permission to make money for yourself out of other people's property. That kind of thing is common thieving, though it MAY sometimes pass for Estate Agency business!"

Leach sprang forward, his whip uplifted,—but before it could fall, with one unanimous yell, the young rustics rushed upon him and wrested it from his hand. At this moment Bainton, who had been silently binding Spruce's cut forehead with a red cotton handkerchief, so that the poor man presented the appearance of a melodramatic 'stage' warrior, suddenly looked up, uttered an exclamation, and gave a warning signal.

"Better not go on wi' the hargyment jes' now, Passon!" he said,— "'Ere comes the humpire!"

Even as he spoke, the quick gallop of hoofs echoed thuddingly on the velvety turf, and the group of disputants hastily scattered to right and left, as a magnificent mare, wild-eyed and glossy-coated, dashed into their centre and came to a swift halt, drawn up in an instant by the touch of her rider on the rein. All eyes were turned to the slight woman's figure in the saddle, that sat so easily, that swayed the reins so lightly, and that seemed as it were, throned high above them in queenly superiority—a figure wholly unconventional, clad in a riding-skirt and jacket of a deep soft violet hue, and wearing no hat to shield the bright hair from the fresh wind that waved its fair ripples to and fro caressingly and tossed a shining curl loose from the carelessly twisted braid. Murmurs of 'The new Missis!' 'Th' owld Squire's darter!'—ran from mouth to mouth, and John Walden, seized by a sudden embarrassment, withdrew as far as possible into the shadow of the trees in a kind of nervous hope to escape from the young lady's decidedly haughty glance, which swept like a flash of light, round the assembled group and settled at last with chill scrutiny on the livid and breathless Oliver Leach.