Wych Hazel had time to meditate. Doubtless she once more scanned the rocks by which inexplicably she had let herself down to her present position; but in vain, no strength or agility of hers, unaided, could avail to get up them again. Indeed it was not easy to see how aid could mend the matter. Miss Hazel left considering the question. It was a wild place she was in, and wild things suited it; the very birds, unaccustomed to disturbance, hopped near her and eyed her out of their bright eyes. If they could have given somewhat of their practical sageness to the human creature they were watching! Wych Hazel had very little of it, and just then, in truth, would have chosen their wings instead. She did not, even now, in their innocent, busy manners, read how much else they had that she lacked; though she looked at them and at all the other wild things. The tree branches that stretched as they listed, no axe coming ever upon their freedom; the moss and lichens that flourished in luxuriant beds and pastures, not breathed on by even a naturalist's breath; the rocks that they had clothed for ages, no one disturbing. The very cloud shadows that now and then swept over the ravine and the hillside, meeting nothing less free than themselves, scarce anything less noiseless, seemed to assert the whole scene as Nature's own. Since the days of the red men nothing but cloud shadows had travelled there; the nineteenth century had made no entrance, no wood-cutter had lifted his axe in the forest; the mountain streams, that you might hear soft rushing in the distance, did not work but their own in their citadel of the hills. Wych Hazel had time to consider it all, and to watch more than one shadow walk slowly from end to end of the long stretch of the mountain valley, before she heard anything else than the wild noise of leaf and water and bird. At last there came something more definite, in the sounds of leaves and branches over her head; and then with certainly a little difficulty, Mr. Falkirk let himself down to her standing place. To say that Mr. Falkirk looked in a gratified state of mind would be to strain the truth; though his thick eyebrows were unruffled.

'How did you get here, Wych?' was his undoubtedly serious inquiry.

'Oh!' she said, jumping up, and checking her own wild murmurs of song,—'My dear Mr. Falkirk, how did you? What is the last news from civilization?' She looked wild wood enough, with the pink wreath round her hat and her curls twisted round the wind's fingers.

'But what did you come here for?'

'It's a pleasant place, sir—Mr. Rollo says. I was going to propose that you and I should have a joint summer house here, with strawberries and cream. Mr. Falkirk, haven't you a bun in your pocket?'

At this moment, and in the most matter-of-fact manner, presented himself her red squirrel friend, arriving from nobody knew where; and bringing not only himself but a little basket in which appeared—precisely—biscuits and strawberries. Silently all this presented itself. Wych Hazel's cheeks rivalled the strawberries for about a minute, but whether from stirred vanity or vexation it was hard to tell.

'Mr. Falkirk!' she cried, 'are all the rest of the staff coming? Here is the Commissary—is the Quarter-master behind, in the bushes?'

'I have no doubt we shall find him,' said Mr. Falkirk, dryly. 'How did you get into this bird's nest, child?'

'She was drawn here, sir,—by a red squirrel.'

'I was not drawn!—Mr. Falkirk, what are they about up there, besides lamenting my absence.'

Mr. Falkirk seemed uneasy. He only looked at the little speaker, busy with her strawberries, and spoke not, but Rollo answered instead.

'They are looking over the rocks and endeavouring to compute the depth to the bottom, with a reference to your probable safety.' There was a shimmer of light in the speaker's eye.

'If they are taking mathematical views of the subject, they are in a dangerous way! Mr. Falkirk, it is imperatively necessary that I should at once rejoin the rest of society,— will you let yourself be torn from this rock, like a sea anemone?'

Mr. Falkirk had been for a few minutes taking a minute and business-like survey of the place.

'I see no way of getting you out, Wych,' he said despondingly, 'without a rope. I must go back for one, I believe, and you and society must wait.'

'How will you get out, sir?'

'I don't know. If I cannot, I'll send Rollo.'

'Pray send him, sir,—by all means.'

'I can get you out without a rope,' said that gentleman, very dispassionately.

'Pray do, then,' said the other.

'There is a step or two here of roughness, but it is practicable; and with your help we can reach smooth going in a very few minutes. A little below there is a path. Let me see you safe down first, Mr. Falkirk. Can you manage that oak branch?—stop when you get to the bottom—Stand there, now.'

With the aid of his younger friend's hand and eyes Mr. Falkirk made an abrupt descent to the place indicated—a ledge not very far but very sheer below them. From a position which looked like a squirrel's, mid way on the rock with one foot on the oak, Rollo then stretched out his hand to Wych Hazel.

'Am I to stop when I get to the bottom?—most people like to do it before,' she said.

'You must. Come a little lower down, if you please. Take Mr. Falkirk's hand as soon as you reach footing.'

It was no place for ceremony, neither could she help it. As she spoke, he took the young lady in both hands as if she had been a parcel, and swung her lightly and firmly, though it must have been with the exercise of great strength, down to a rocky cleft which her feet could reach and from which Mr. Falkirk's hand could reach her. Only then did Mr. Rollo's hand release her; and then he bounded down himself like a cat. Once more, very nearly the same operation had to be gone through; then a few plunging and scrambling steps placed them in a clear path, and the sound of the waters of the fall told them which way to take. With that, Rollo lifted his hat again gravely and fell back behind the others. Wrapping herself in her mood as if it had been a veil, Wych Hazel likewise bent her head—it might have been to both gentlemen; but then she sped forward at a rate which she knew one could not and the other would not follow, and disappeared among the leaves like a frightened partridge.

What was she like when they reached the party on the height? With no token of her adventures but the pink wreath round her hat and the pink flush under it, Miss Hazel sat there a la reine; Mr. Kingsland at her feet, a circle of standing admirers on all sides; her own immediate attention concentrated on a thorn in one of her wee fingers. Less speedily Mr. Falkirk had followed her and now stood at the back of the group, silent and undemonstrative. Rollo had gone another way and was not any longer of the party.

CHAPTER VII.

SMOKE.

To Chickaree by the stage was a two-days' journey. The first day presented nothing remarkable. Rollo was their only fellow traveller whom they knew; and he did nothing to lighten the tedium of the way, beyond the ordinary courtesies. And after the first few hours the scenery had little to attract. The country became an ordinary farming district, with no distinctive features. Not that there be not sweet things to interest in such a landscape, for a mind free enough and eyes unspoiled. There are tints of colouring in a flat pasture field, to feed the eye that can find them; there are forms and shadows in a rolling arable country, sweet and changing and satisfying. There are effects in tufts of spared woodland, and colours in wild vegetation, and in the upturned brown and umber of fields of ploughed earth, and in the grey lichened rocks and the clear tints of their broken edges. There are the associations and indications of human life, too; tokens of thrift and of poverty, of weary toil and of well-to-do activity. Where the ploughs go, and the ploughmen; where the cattle are driven afield; where the farmyards tell how they are housed and kept; where the women sit with their milking pails or make journeys to the spring; where flowers trim the house-fronts, or where the little yard-gate says that everything, like itself, hangs by one hinge. A good deal of life stories may be read by the way in a stage coach; but not until life has unfolded to us, perhaps, its characters; and so Wych Hazel did not read much and thought the ride tedious and long. When she turned to her companions, Mr. Falkirk was thoughtful and silent, Mr. Rollo silent and seemingly self- absorbed, and if she looked at the other occupants of the coach—Wych Hazel immediately looked out again.

The second day began under new auspices. None of their former fellow travellers remained with them; save only Rollo and the servants; and the empty places were taken by a couple of country women, one young and rustic, the other elderly and ditto. That was all that Wych Hazel saw of them. The fact that one of the women presently fell to eating gingerbread and the other molasses candy, effectually turned all Miss Kennedy's attention out of doors.

The cleared country was left behind; and the coach entered a region of undisturbed forest, through which it had many miles to travel before reaching civilization again. The view was shut in. The trees waved overhead and stretched along the road endlessly, too thick for the eye to penetrate far. The coach rumbled on monotonously. The smell of pines and other green things came sweet and odorous, but the day was hot, and everything was dry; the dust rose and the sunbeams poured down. Wych Hazel languished for a change. Only a red squirrel now and then reminded her what a lively life she led a day or two ago. And Mr. Falkirk seemed too indifferent to mind the weather, and Rollo seemed to like it! She was very weary. Taking off her hat and leaning one hand on her guardian's shoulder, she rested her head there, too—looking out with a sort of fascinated intentness into the hazy atmosphere, which grew every moment thicker and bluer and more intensely hazy. It almost seemed to take shape, to her eye, and to curl and wave like some animated thing among the still pines. The countrywomen were dozing now; Mr. Rollo and Mr. Falkirk mused, or possibly dozed too; it made her restless only to look at them. Softly moving off to her own corner, Wych Hazel leaned out of the window. Dark and still and blue—veiled as ever, the pines rose up in endless succession by the roadside; a yellow carpet of dead leaves at their feet, the woodpeckers busy, the squirrels at play over their work. How free they all were!— with what a sweet freedom. No danger that the brown rabbit darting away from his form, would ever transgress pretty limits!—no fear that vanity or folly or ill-humour would ever touch the grace of those grey squirrels. As for the red ones!— Miss Hazel brought her attention to the inside of the coach for a minute, but the sight gave only colour and no check to her musings. How strange of that particular red squirrel to follow her steps as he had done the other day—to follow her steps now, as she more than half suspected. What did he mean? And what did she mean by her own deportment? Nothing, she declared to herself:—but that red squirrels will bite occasionally. There swept over her, sighing from among the pine trees, the breath of a vague sorrow. In all the emergencies that might come, in all that future progress, also dim with its own blue haze, what was she to do? Mr. Falkirk could take care of her property,—who could take care of her? Deep was the look of her brown eyes, close and controlling the pressure of her lips: the wrist where the three bracelets lay felt the light grasp of her other hand.

The coach rolled on, through thickening air and darkening sky, air thick also with a smell of smoke which it was odd no one took note of; until the horses trotted round a sudden turn of the road into the very cause of it all. The blue was spotted now with faint red fire; with dull streaks as of beds of coals, and little sharp points of flame. On both sides of the road, creeping among the pines and leaping up into them, the fire was raging. A low sound from Wych Hazel, a sound rather of horror than fear, yet curiously pitiful and heart-stirring, roused both her friends in an instant. Almost at the same instant the coach came to a standstill, and Rollo jumped out.

'What's the matter, Rollo?'

'Fire in the woods, sir. We must turn about; that's all.'

The elder of the two women, who had just waked up, asked with a terrified face, 'if there was any danger?' but nobody answered her. Rollo took his seat again; at the same time the horses' heads came about.

'What are you going to do?' she demanded.

'We are going back a little way. There is fire along the road ahead of us; and the horses might set their feet upon some hot ashes, which wouldn't be good for them.'

'But we're goin' back'ards!—where we come from! Calry, we're goin' back hum!'

'We shall turn again presently,' said Rollo. 'Have patience a few minutes.'

He spoke so calmly, the women were quieted. Mr. Falkirk, however, leaned back no more. He watched the hazy smoke by the roadside; he watched generally; and now and then his eye furtively turned to Wych Hazel. For some little time they travelled back hopefully on their way, though the smoky atmosphere was too thick to let any one forget the obstacle which had turned them. It grew stifling, breathed so long, and it did not clear away; but though every one noticed this, no one spoke of it to his neighbour. Then at last it began to weigh down more heavily upon the forest, and visible puffs and curls in the dense blue suggested that its substance was becoming more palpable.

'Rollo—', said Mr. Falkirk in an undertone.

'Yes!' said the other, just as the coach again came to a sudden stop and a volley of exclamations, smothered and not smothered, sounded from the coach box. Both gentlemen sprang out.

'Good patience!' said the older of the two women, 'it's the fire again! it's all round us! O I wisht I hadn't a'come! I wisht I was to hum!'—and she showed the earnestness of the wish by beginning to cry. Her companion sat still and turned very pale. Paler yet, but with every nerve braced, Wych Hazel stood in the road to see for herself. The gentlemen were consulting.

The fire had closed in upon the road they had passed over an hour or two before. There it was, smoking, and breathing along, gathering strength every minute; while a low, murmuring roar told of its out-of-sight progress. What was to be done? The driver declared, on being pressed, that a branch road, the Lupin road it was called, was to his knowledge but a little distance before them; a quarter of an hour would reach it.

'Drive on, then,'—said Rollo, turning to put Wych Hazel into the coach.

The man mumbled, that he did not know whether his horses would go through the fire.

'I know. They will. We will go straight on. You are not afraid,' he said, meeting Hazel's eyes for a moment. It was not more than half a second, but nature's telegraph works well at such instants. Wych Hazel saw an eye steady and clear, which seemed to brave danger and not know confusion. He saw a wistful face, with the society mask thrown by, and only the girl's own childish self remaining.

'Afraid to go on? no,' she said; and then felt a scarcely defined smile that warmed his eyes and brow as he answered, 'There is no need'—and put her into the coach. In both touch and tone there lay a promise; but she had no time to think of it. The coach was moving on again; the women were very frightened, and cried and moaned by way of relieving their feelings at the expense of other people's. Mrs. Saddler, who has hitherto used only her eyes, now clasped her fingers together and fell to the muttering of short prayers over and over under her breath, the urgency of which redoubled when the coach had gone a little further and the fire and smoke began to wreathe thicker on both sides of the road.

'There is no occasion, Mrs. Saddler,' said Mr. Falkirk somewhat sternly. 'Be quiet, and try to show an example of sense to your neighbours.'

'Did you never say your prayers before?' said Rollo turning towards her; they sat on the same seat. He spoke half kindly, half amused, but with that mingled—though ever so slightly—an expression of meaning more pungent; all together overcame Mrs. Saddler. She burst into a fit of tears, which nervousness made uncontrollable.

'What have I done?' said the young man as the weeping became general at his end of the coach. 'It is dangerous to meddle with edge tools! Come, cheer up! we shall leave all this smoke behind us in a few minutes. You'll see clear directly.'

His tone was so calm the women took courage from it, and ventured to use their eyes again. The stage-coach had left the burning road; they were going across the woods in another direction; the air was soon visibly more free of smoke. The driver was hopeful, and sending his horses along at a good pace. The shower withinside dried up; and Rollo throwing himself back upon the seat gazed steadfastly out of the window. Wych Hazel had gazed at him while he spoke to the others, with a sort of examining curiosity in her brown eyes that was even amused; but now she became as intent as himself on affairs outside of the coach.

For a while all was quiet. Mrs. Saddler sat in brown stupefaction after having received such rebukes, and no more apples were brought forward on the front seat. The women whispered together and watched their fellow-travellers—Rollo especially. But at length it became evident to the keener observers of the party that the air was thickening again; the smell of burning woods which filled the air was growing more pungent, the air more warm; those visible waves of the blue atmosphere began to appear again. Once Mr. Falkirk leaned forward as if to address Rollo; he thought better of it and fell back without speaking. And on they went. The smell of burning and the thick stifling smoke became very oppressive.

'There is a large tract on fire, Rollo,' Mr. Falkirk remarked at length.

'Probably.'

In another minute the coach halted. Rollo put his head out of the window to speak to the coachman, and the cool tone in which he asked, 'What is it?' Wych Hazel felt at the time and remembered afterwards. The driver's answer was unheard by all but one. Rollo threw himself out.

'Stay where you are,' he said to Mr. Falkirk as he shut the door. 'You keep order and I'll make order.'

He went forward. The coach stood still, with that fearful wreathing of the blue vapour thicker and nearer around it. The smell became so strong that the thought forced itself upon every one, they must have come upon the fire again. The woman wanted to get out. Mr. Falkirk dissuaded them. Wych Hazel kept absolutely still. In a moment or two Rollo appeared at Mr. Falkirk's side of the coach, and spoke rather low. 'I am going to make explorations. Keep all as you are.'

Mr. Falkirk spoke lower still. 'Is the fire ahead?'

The answer was not in English or French. Looking from her window as far as she could, Wych Hazel now saw Rollo cross the road and make for a tall pine which stood at a little distance. She saw him throw his coat and hat on the ground; then catching one of the long lithe branches he was in a moment off the ground and in the tree; yes, and making determinately for the top of it. The 'red squirrel' had not learnt climbing for nothing; agile, steady, quick, he mounted and mounted. She grew dizzy with looking. Mr. Falkirk had not the same view.

'What's he doing? what are we waiting for? Can you see?' he asked impatiently.

'Yes—they are trying to find out which way to go, sir.'

Mr. Falkirk made a movement as if to get out himself; then checked it, seeing the helpless bevy of women who were dependent on him and now in the utmost perturbation. Standing still tried their nerves. To keep order withinside the coach was as much as he could attend to. Cries and moans and questions of involved incoherency, poured upon him. Would they ever get home? would the fire catch the coach? would it frighten the horses? what were they stopping for?—were some of the simplest inquiries that Mr. Falkirk had to hear and answer; in the midst of which one of the ladies assured herself and him that if 'Isaiah had come along with them they would never have got into such a fix.' Mrs. Saddler Mr. Falkirk peremptorily silenced; the others he soothed as best he might; and all the while Wych Hazel watched the signs without, and followed the climber in the pine tree, following him in his venturesome ascent and descent, which were both made with no lack of daring. He was on the ground at last, swinging himself from the end of a pine branch which he had compelled into his service; he came straight to Mr. Falkirk, heated, but mentally as cool as ever.

'I see our way,' he said, 'I am going on the box myself. Don't be concerned. I have driven a post-coach in England.'

He looked across to Wych Hazel, as he spoke, and his eye carried the promise again. Wych Hazel met his look, though with no answer in her own; fear, or self-control, or something back of both, made the very lines of her face still; only a sort of shiver of feeling passed over them as he said, 'Don't be concerned.' All this passes in a second; then Rollo is on the box with the stage driver and the stage is in motion again. But it is motion straight on to where Wych Hazel has seen that the smoke is thickest. The horses go fast; they know that another hand has the reins; the ground is swiftly travelled over. Now the puffs of smoke roll out round and defined from the burning woodland; and then, above the rattle of wheels and tread of hoofs, is heard another sound,—a spiteful snapping and crackling, faint but increasing. Can the air be borne?—it is hard to breathe; and flame, yes, flame is leaping from the dried leaves and curling out here and there from a tree. Mrs. Saddler put her head out of the coach.

'Oh, sir!' she shrieked, 'he is taking us right into it! O stop him! we'll be burned, sure! it's all fire—it's all fire!'

The chorus of shrieks became now almost a worse storm within than the tempest of fire which was raging without. The women were wild. It was an awful moment for everybody. The fire had full possession on both sides of the road, viciously sparkling and crackling and throwing out jets of flames and volumes of smoke, threatening to dispute the way with the stage coach; yet through it lay the only way to safety. It could not be borne long; the horses, urged by a hand that knew how to apply all means of stimulus and spared none, drew the coach along at a furious speed. The speed alone was distracting to the poor women, who had never known the like; the coach seemed to them, doubtless, hastening to destruction. Their shrieks were uncontrollable; and indeed no topics of comfort could be urged, when manifestly they were fleeing for their lives from the fire, and the fire on every side, before and behind them was threatening with fearful assertion of power that they should not escape. How swiftly thoughts careered through the mind of the one silent member of the company—thoughts like those quick flashed of flame, those dark curls of smoke. The questions she had been debating two hours before—were they all to have one short, sharp answer?—And what would become of her then? Were such days as the one before yesterday forever ended? How would it feel to be caught and wreathed about like one of those pines—how would Mr. Rollo feel to see it—and what if all the rest should be dead, there in the fire, and she only half dead; together with a strange impatience to know the worst and endure the worst. She had drawn back a little from the window, driven in by the scorching air, but looked out still with both hands up to shield her eyes. She did not know into what pitiful lines her mouth had shaped itself, nor what faintness and sickness were creeping over her with every breath of that smoke. The time was, after all, not long; but in the thickest of the fire, when the smoke literally choked up the way before the horses' eyes, the animals suddenly stopped; from a furious speed, the coach came to a blank stand-still. A voice was heard from the coach-box cheering the horses—but the dead pause continued. And now when the rattle of the wheels ceased, the sweep of the fiery storm could be heard and felt. A wind had risen, or more likely was created by the great draught of the fire; and its rush through the woods, driving the flames before it, and catching up the clouds of smoke to pile them upon the faces and throats of the travellers was with a hiss and a fury and a blinding which came like the malice of a spiteful thing. It was almost impossible to breathe; and yet the coach stood still! A half- minute seemed the growth of a year. The women became frantic; Mr. Falkirk kept them in the coach by the sheer exertion of force. Wych Hazel in vain strained her eyes to see through the smoke what the detaining cause was.

The horses had been scared at last by the fire crackling and snapping in their faces, and confounded by the clouds of smoke. Bewildered, they had stopped short; and voice and whip were powerless against fear. That was a moment never to be forgotten, at least by those withinside the stage-coach, who could do nothing but wait and scream.

'Hush! the horses are frightened: that is all,' said Mr. Falkirk. 'He's——what's he doing, Wych?—yes, he's blinding the leaders; that's it. There!'

The intense anxiety which was smothered in every one of these words, Wych Hazel long remembered. They saw, as he spoke, they could see Rollo at the horses' heads, going from one to the other; they saw him dimly through the smoke; they caught the light of something white in his hand. Mr. Falkirk had guessed right. Then they saw Rollo throw himself postillion-wise upon one of the leaders. In another moment the coach moved, doubtfully; then amid the rush and roar they could hear the cheer of their charioteer's voice, and the frightened animals plunged on again. Presently, encouraged perhaps by a little opening in the smoke, they dashed forward as heartily as ever, and—yes—the smoke was less thick and the air less dark, and momentarily brightening. The worst was over. Surely the worst was over, but the travellers drew breath if freer yet fearfully, till the lessening cloud and disappearing fire and stillness in the woods, said that had left the danger behind. Black charred stems and branches began to show what had been where they now were; little puffs of grey smoke from half consumed tufts of moss and old stumps of great trees were all that was left of the army of fire that had marched that way.

The horses were brought back to a moderate going. A quieting of the storm within accompanied the passing away of the storm without. Fairly overcome now, dizzy besides with the almost flaming current which had blown full against her in that last charge through the fire, Wych Hazel drooped her head lower and lower till it rested on the sill of the window; but no one marked just then. The women were drying their eyes and uttering little jets of excited or thankful exclamation. Mr. Falkirk watched from his window what was to be done next.

'We'll have to put up, if it be onconvenient,' said the driver. 'Can't ask a team to do more'n that at a time, sir. 'Tain't no tavern, neither—but there's Siah Sullivan's; he's got fodder, and food, allays, for a friend in need.'

'How far is Lupin?' called out Mr. Falkirk. 'Aren't we on the Lupin road?'

'Na—it's a good bit 'tother side o' that 'ere flamin' pandemony, sir, Lupin's.'

'No it isn't! I mean Lupin, where Braddock's mill used to be— old John Braddock's.'

' 'Taint called Lupin now,' observed the driver,—'that ere's West Lupinus. Wal—John Braddock's there now; it's four or five mile straight ahead.'

'We can go there,' said Rollo. 'That will give us the best chance.'

Gently they took those three or four miles. The open country to which they soon came, getting out of the woods, looked very lovely and peaceful to them; the fire had not been there, and quiet sunshine lay along the fields. In the last mile or two the fields gave place again to broken country; a brawling stream was heard and seen by intervals, black and chafing over a rocky bed. Then the road descended sharply, among thick leafage, fresh and fair, not pine needles; and finally at the bottom of the descent the stage stopped.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MILL FLOOR.

The place was a dell in the woods, the bottom filled with a dark, clear little lake. At the lower end of it stood the mill; picturesque enough under the trees, with its great doors opening upon the lake. On the floor within could be seen the bags of flour and grain piled about, and the miller passing to and fro. It was deeply still; the light came cool and green through the oaks and maples and ashes; the trickling of water was heard. Dark slept the little lake, overshadowed by the leafy banks which shut it in; the only chief spot of light was the miller's open door, where the sunbeams lit up his bags and him; the mill-stream brawled away somewhere below, and beyond the mill the road curled away out of sight to mount the hill again. This was Braddock's mill.

Mr. Falkirk got out, and then Mr. Rollo helped out the women and Mrs. Saddler, who was confused out of all her proprieties, for she pushed before her young lady; finally Wych Hazel.

'How do you do?' said he, scanning her.

Apparently the dizziness had not gone off, for she raised her head and came out of the coach in the slowest and most mechanical way, lifting her hand and pushing back her hair with a weary sort of gesture as he spoke. So weary her face was, so utterly subdued, it might have touched anybody to see it. It never seemed to occur to her that the question needed an answer.

'Your best chance is the mill,' said he; 'I think you can rest there. At any rate, it is your chance.'

He put her hand upon his arm and led her down the few steps of rocky way to the mill door. Mr. Falkirk followed. The women had paired off to seek the miller's house, out of sight above on the bank. Only Mrs. Saddler came after Mr. Falkirk.

The mill floor was large, cool and clean; that is, in the shade, and with the exception of the dust of flour on everything. Mr. Falkirk entered into explanations with the miller; while Rollo, after a brief word of leave-asking, proceeded to arrange a pile of grain bags so as to form an extempore divan. Harder might be; and over it he spread the gentlemen's linen dusters and all the travelling shawls of the party; and upon it then softly placed Wych Hazel. Poor child! she was used to cushions, and in need of them, from the way she dropped down among these. She had thrown off her hat, and Mr. Falkirk stopped and unfastened her mantle, and softly began to pull off one of her gloves; the miller's daughter, a fair, plump, yellow-haired damsel, coming out from among the grain bins, began upon the other.

'What's happened here?' said she, pityingly.

'Have you anything this lady could eat?' was the counter- question. 'She is exhausted; fire in the woods drove us out of the way.'

'Do tell! I heard say the woods was all afire. Why there's enough in the house, but it ain't here. We live up the hill a ways. I'll start and fetch something—only say what. O here's this, if she's fainted.'—And producing a very amulet-looking bottle of salts, suspended round her neck by a blue ribband, she at once administered a pretty powerful whiff. With great suddenness Wych Hazel laid hold of the little smelling bottle, opening her brown eyes to their fullest extent and exclaiming:

'What in the world are you all about!'

'Ah!' said Mr. Falkirk. 'Get what you can my good girl; only don't stand about it. Can you give her a glass of milk? or a cup of tea?'

The girl left them and sprang away up the path at a rate that showed her good will, followed by Rollo. Arrived at the miller's house, which proved a poor little affair, the cup of tea was hastily brewed; and Rollo having contrived to find out pretty well the resources of the family in that as well as in other lines of accommodation, and having despatched along with the tea whatever he thought might stand least chance of being refused, left the miller's daughter to convey it, and betook himself to his own amusements.

The meal was not much. But when it was over Wych Hazel found a better refreshment and one even more needed just then. Mrs. Saddler at a little distance nodded and dreamed; Mr. Falkirk also had moved off and at least made believe rest. Then did his ward take the comfort, a rare one to her, of pouring out a mindful to somebody of her own sex and age. It was only to the little miller's daughter; yet the true honest face and rapt attention made amends for all want of conventionalities.

'What did you get that salts for?' she began.

'He said you was faint.'

'Who is "he"?'

'The gentleman—I mean the young one.'

'Ah—Well, but I was holding you down by the blue ribband for ever so long.'

'Yes—because—I had promised not to take it off,' said the girl, blushing.

'What a promise?'

'O, but you know, ma'am—I mean, it was give to me, and so I promised. When folks give you things they always expect you never to take 'em off.'

'Do they?' said Wych Hazel. But then she launched forth into the account of all the day's distress, electrifying her listener with some of the fear and excitement so long pent up. Yet the mill girl's comment was peculiar.

'It does make a person feel very solemn to be so near to death.'

'Solemn!' cried Wych Hazel. 'Is that all you would feel, Phoebe?'

'I'm not much afraid of pain, you know, ma'am—and if the fire took it couldn't last long.'

'But Phoebe;—' she sat straight up on her floury cushions, looking at the girl's quiet face. 'What do you mean, Phoebe?'— She could not have told what checked the expression of her growing wonder.

'O lie down, ma'am, please! Why I only mean,' said Phoebe speaking with perfect simplicity—'You know God calls us all to die somehow—and if he called me to die so, it wouldn't make much difference. I shouldn't think of it when I'd got to heaven.'

Again some undefined feeling sealed Wych Hazel's lips. She lay down as she was desired, and with her hand over her eyes thought, and wondered, and fell asleep.

For some hours thereafter the sunbeams were hardly quieter than the party they lighted on the miller's floor. Wych Hazel slept; Mrs. Saddler was even more profoundly wrapped in forgetfulness; Mr. Falkirk sat by keeping guard. The miller's daughter had run up the hill to her home for a space. As to Rollo, he had not been seen. His gun was his companion, and with that it was usual for him to be in the woods much of the time. He came back from his wanderings however as the day began to fall, and now sat on a stone outside the mill door, very busy. The little lake at his feet still and dark, with the side of the woody glen doubled in its mirror, and the sunlight in the tops of the trees reflected in golden glitter from the middle of the pool, was a picture to tempt the eye: but Rollo's eye, if it glanced, came back again. He was picking the feathers from a bird he had shot, and doing it deftly. Sauntering leisurely up the miller approached him.

'Now that's what I like,' he remarked; 'up to anything, eh? You don't seem so much used up as the rest on 'em. Even the little one talked herself to sleep at last!'

'Have you got a match, Mr. Miller?'

'No—I haven't,' said the man of flour—'I always light my pipe with a burning glass. Won't that serve your turn? So there she sits, asleep, and my Phoebe sits and looks at her.'

'I've something else that will serve my turn,' said the hunter applying to his gun. 'But stay—I do not care to see any more fire to-day than is necessary.'—And drawing his work off to a safe place, he went on to kindle tinder and make a nice little fire.—'Haven't you learned how to make bread yet, Mr. Miller?'

'Not a bit!' said he laughing. 'And when you've got a wife and four daughters you won't do much fancy cookig neither, I guess. But there's Phoebe—'

'A mistake, Mr. Miller,' said the fancy cook. 'Best always to be independent of your wife—and of everything else.'

And impaling his bird on a sharp splinter he stuck it up before the fire, to the great interest and amusement of the miller. Another spectator also wandered out there, and she was presently sent back to the mill.

'Miss Hazel,' said Mrs. Saddler, coming to the 'divan' where the young lady and her guardian were both sitting,—'Mr. Rollo says, ma'am, are you ready for him to come in?'

'I am awake, if that is what he means.'

'What do you mean, Mrs. Saddler?'

'If you please, sir, I am sure I don't know what I mean,—but that's a very strange gentleman, Miss Kennedy. There he's gone and shot a robin—at least, I suppose it was him for I don't know who else should have done it— and his gun's standing by— and then he's gone and picked it ma'am—picked the feathers off, and they 're lyin' all round; and then he washed it in the lake, and he was hard to suit, for he walked a good way up the lake before he found a place where he would wash it; and now he's made a fire and stuck up the bird and roasted it; and why he didn't get me or Miss Miller to do it I don't comprehend. And he's got plates and things, ma'am, and salt, ma'am, and bread; and that's what he means, sir; and he want's to know if you're ready. The bird's all done.'

Wych Hazel looked anything but ready. She was very young in the world's ways, very new to her own popularity, and somehow Mrs. Saddler's story touched her sensitiveness. The shy, shrinking colour and look told of what at six years old would have made her hide her face under her mother's apron. No such refuge being at hand, however, and she obliged to face the world for herself, as soon as she had despatched a very dignified message to Mr. Rollo, the young lady's feeling sought relief in irritation.

'I suppose I am not to blame this time, for making myself conspicuous, sir! Have you given me up as a bad bargain, Mr. Falkirk?'

'It can't be helped, my dear,'—said her guardian somewhat dryly, and soberly too. 'I think however it is rather somebody else who is making himself conspicuous at this time.'

He became conspicuous to their vision a minute after, appearing in the mill door-way with a little dish in his hand and attended by Phoebe with other appliances; but nothing mortal could less justify Wych Hazel's sensation of shyness. With the coolness of a traveller, the readiness of a hunter, and the business attention of a cook or a courier, both which offices he had been filling, he went about his arrangements. The single chair that was in the mill was taken from Mr. Falkirk and brought up to do duty as a table, with a board laid upon it. On this board was set the bird, hot and savoury, on its blue-edged dish; another plate with bread and salt, and a glass of water; together with a very original knife and fork, that were probably introduced soon after the savages 'left.' Mrs. Saddler's eyes grew big as she looked; but Rollo and the miller's girl understood each other perfectly and wanted none of her help. Well——

'Girls blush sometimes because they are alive'—but seeing it could not be helped, as Mr. Falkirk had said, Wych Hazel rallied whatever of her was grown up, and tried to do justice to both the cooking and the compliment. The extreme gravity and propriety of her demeanour were a little suspicious to one who knew her well, and there could be no sort of question as to the prettiest possible curl which now and then betrayed itself at the corners of her mouth; but Miss Kennedy had herself remarkably in hand, and talked as demurely from behind the breast-bone of her robin as if it had been a small mountain ridge. Mr. Falkirk looked on.

'Where did you find that, Rollo?'

'Somewhere within a mile of circuit, sir,' said Rollo, who had taken a position of ease in the mill doorway, half lying on the floor, and looking out on the lake.

'You are a good provider.'

'Might have had fish—if my tackle had not been out of reach. I did manage to pick up a second course, though——Miss Phoebe, I think it is time for the second course——'

His action, at least, Phoebe understood, if not his words; for as he sprang up and cleared the board of the relics of the robin, the miller's daughter, looking as if the whole thing was a play, brought out from some crib a large platter of wild strawberries bordered with vine leaves; along with some bowls of very good looking milk.

'Upon my word, Rollo!'—said the other gentleman.

'Ah, that touches you, Mr. Falkirk! You don't deserve it—but you may have some. And I will be generous—Mr. Falkirk, here is a wing of the robin.'

'No, thank you,' said the other, laughing. 'Why these are fine!'

'Is the air fine out of doors, Mr. Rollo?' asked the young lady.

'Nothing can be finer.'

'What you call "strong," sir?'

'Strong as a rose—or as a lark's whistle—or as June sunlight; strong in a gentle way; I don't admire things that are too strong.'

'Things that you think ought to be weak. But I was trying to find out whether your private collation of air could have taken away your appetite.'

'I think not—I haven't inquired after it, but now that you speak of the matter, I think it must have been bread and cheese.'

'And I suppose you tried the strawberries—just to see if they were ripe.'

'No, I didn't, but I will now.' And coming to Wych Hazel's side he proceeded to help her carefully and to put a bowl of milk in suggestive proximity to her right hand; then taking a handful himself he stood up and went on talking to Mr. Falkirk.

'What is your plan of proceeding, sir?'

'I don't know,' said Mr. Falkirk. 'I am puzzled. The coach goes back to-morrow morning to the foot of the mountain; there is no object in our making such a circuit, if we could get on from here,—besides the fact that none of us want to go over the ground again; but to get on from here seems out of the question.

'It seems to me, to stay here is out of the question,' observed Rollo.

'I don't see how to help it—for one night. The only sole vehicle here is Mr. Miller's little wagon, and that will hold but two.'

'So I understand.—Those strawberries are not bad,' he said, appealing to Wych Hazel.

'A very mild form of praise, Mr. Rollo. Harmless and inoffensive—to berries. What will you do, then, Mr. Falkirk? seeing there are five of us.'

'I am in a strait. Could you spend the night here in any tolerable comfort, Wych, do you suppose?'

'I am at a loss to understand your system of arithmetic,' observed Rollo.

'Simple addition. I suppose, sir, I could spend the night here where other human creatures can. And as I shall take Phoebe with me when I go, will you please arrange with her father? I told her she could have what wages she liked.'

'What shall I arrange with her father, Miss Hazel?'

'Why—anything he wants arranged, sir. What the wages shall be.'

'Your scheme of travel may be continued to any extent, Miss Hazel, if you continue to do business on an equally logical plan.'

She laughed, a good, honest, merry little laugh, but further direct reply made none.

'That puff of displeasure blows me fairly away!' she said, jumping up and floating off to the mill door like any thistle down, on the tips of her toes.

'Is it possible to make any comfortable arrangement for her at the miller's house?' Mr. Falkirk asked in a low tone.

'Not if she be "true princess," ' said Rollo with a smile. 'There would be more than a few vegetables between Miss Kennedy and comfort.'——He hesitated, and then suddenly asked Wych if she were tired? Certainly her face told of some fatigue, but the busy spirit was unconquered, and she said, 'No—not very much.'

'I am going on to Dr. Maryland's myself—with the miller's horse and wagon, which I engaged provisionally. If Miss Kennedy will trust herself to me—perhaps it would be less wearisome than to stay here; and it would make a jubilee at Dr. Maryland's as you know, sir. I will send the wagon back for you to-morrow, in that case.'

'It is for her to say!' Mr. Falkirk answered, rather gloomily. 'It is a day of adventures, Wych—will you go to meet them, or will you wait for them? There's no escape either way.' He smiled a little at his ward as he spoke. But her eyes spoke back only amazement.

'I shall stay with you, sir, of course.' Clearly Miss Kennedy thought her guardian had taken leave of his senses.

'What if you take the wagon to Dr. Maryland's then, sir; Miss Kennedy can hardly spend the night here. Even a twenty-five mile drive is better.'

But Mr. Falkirk had reasons of his own for negativing that plan, and negatived it accordingly.

'Go with me, then,' said Rollo, turning to Wych Hazel. 'I will take care of you!' And he said it with something of the warm smile which had met her before, power and promise together.

'Why, I'm not afraid,' she said, half laughing, yet half shyly too; thinking with herself how strange the day had been. Since until yesterday Mr. Rollo had scarcely paid her ordinary attention; since until then Mr. Falkirk had always been the one to care for her so carefully. She felt oddly alone, standing there by them both, looking out with her great brown eyes steadily into the setting sunshine; and a wistful air of thought-taking replaced the smile. Rollo remarked that there was but one unoccupied bed in the miller's house, and that one, he knew, was laid upon butternuts.

Mr. Falkirk had been watching his ward. He drew near, and put her hand upon his arm, looking and speaking with grave tenderness.

'You shall do as you list, my dear; I cannot advise you, for I do not know which would be worse, the fatigue of going or the fatigue of staying. You must judge. Dr. Maryland will receive you as his own child, if you go;—and I will keep you as my own child if you stay,' he added after a second's hesitation.

'Yes, sir—I know—I think I shall stay. I don't think I can go, Mr. Rollo; and as for the butternuts,' she added, recovering her spirits the moment the decision was made, 'any one who likes to sleep on them may! I shall play mouse among the meal bags.'

'Then I will do what I can to get you out of your difficulties to-morrow. I hope the play will not include sleeplessness, which is my idea of a mouse.'

He offered his hand, clasped hers, lifted his hat, and was gone.

CHAPTER IX.

CATS.

With the departure of the more stirring member of the company, Miss Wych had subsided; and in that state could feel that she was tired. She sat in the doorway of the mill. It was after sundown; still, bright, sweet, and fair, as after sundown in June can be. The sky all aglow still with cooler lights; in the depth of the hollow the morsel of a lake had a dark shining of its own, like a black diamond, or a green jasper, with the light off. Mrs. Saddler was gone up the hill with Phoebe, to get her share of hospitality. Mr. Falkirk had supped on the remains of the strawberries and milk, and would have nothing more. Guardian and ward were alone. The stillness of Summer air floated down from the tree-tops, and did not stir the lake.

'Wych, how do you like seeking your fortune? I am curious to be informed?'

'Thank you, sir. The finding to-day has gone so far beyond my expectations, that I am willing to rest the pursuit till to- morrow.'

'Fortune and you clasp hands rather roughly at first setting out! But what do you think of the train she has brought with her in these seven days?'

'What train, sir?'

'I asked you what you thought of it. Answer straight like a good child.'

'It's a wonderful train, if it has made a good child of me,' she answered, with a half laugh. 'Do you mean of people, or events, sir?'

'The events are left behind, child; the people follow.'

'Will they?' said Wych Hazel. 'Dr. Maryland and all? Mr. Kingsland might stay behind. Nobody will ever want him.'

'All the rest have your good leave!' said Mr. Falkirk, with an expression—Wych could not tell what sort of an expression, it was so complicated. 'Do you think it is an easy office I have to fill?' he went on.

'Maybe not, sir. I thought you seemed very ready to give it up. I have felt like stray baggage to-day.'

'How do you suppose I am to guard you from so many enemies?'

'Ready to send me round the country, with the first knight- errant that starts up?' said the girl, in an aggrieved voice. 'And if I had proposed such a thing!'

'My dear,' said Mr. Falkirk, 'you would have been perfectly safe at Dr. Maryland's. And much better off than in this old mill. I am not sure but I ought to have made you go.'

'What do you mean by "enemies," just now, Mr. Falkirk?'

'There's an old proverb,' said Mr. Falkirk with a quirl of his lips, 'that "a cat may look at a king." And no doubt it is a queen's liability. But how am I to guard you from the teeth and the claws?'

'My dear sir, very few cats are dangerous. I am not much afraid of being scratched.'

'Have you any idea how many of your grimalkins are coming to Chickaree this Summer?'

'No, sir. The more the better; for then they will have full occupation for their claws without me.'

'Ah, my dear,' said Mr. Falkirk, 'don't you know that the cat gets within springing distance before the claws are shown?'

'Yes, sir; but you are presupposing a stationary mouse. Pray, how many fierce, soft-pawed, sharp-clawed monsters preside over your ideas at present?'

'Six or seven,' said Mr. Falkirk with the utmost gravity. 'Fortune has come upon you suddenly, Wych.'

It was very pretty, the way she laughed and flushed.

'They are not all troubled with whiskers, sir—my kind medical friend, for instance.'

'You think so! Pray, in your judgment, what is he, then?'

'Not a cat, sir, and yet no lion. Mr. Rollo calls him a "specimen." '

'Of what?' (dryly enough.)

'I rebuked him for the expression, sir, but did not inquire its meaning.'

'Do you suppose that the English traveller, Mr. Shenstone, will come to Chickaree this Summer for the purpose of inspecting the Morton manufactories?'

'Let us 'ope not, sir. Mr. Morton will, for his home is just there. He told me so.'

'And young Nightingale has it in his mind to spend a good deal of the Summer at his aunt's, Mrs. Lasalle's; for he told me so. I saw him in town.'

'Mr. Falkirk, you are not a bit like yourself to-day. Are all men cats, sir?' (very gravely.)

'My dear,' said Mr. Falkirk, 'most men are, when they see a Chickaree mouse in their path!'

'Poor little me!' said Wych Hazel, laughing. She was silent a minute, then went cheerfully on. 'I know, Mr. Falkirk, I shall depend upon you! We're in a fairy tale, you remember, sir, and you must be the three dogs.'

'Will you trust me, Wych, when I take such a shape to your eyes?'

'Do you remember?' said she, not heeding. 'The first one with eyes like saucers, looking—so! And the next with eyes like mill wheels—so! And the next, with eyes like the full moon!—' At which point Miss Hazel's own eyes were worth looking at.

'You do not answer me, I observe. Never mind. A woman's understanding, I have frequently observed, develops like a prophecy.'

The night in the mill was better, on the whole, than it promised. No sound awoke Wych Hazel, till little messengers of light came stealing through every crack and knot hole of the mill, and a many-toed Dorking near by had six times proclaimed himself the first cock in creation, let the other be who he would!

To open her eyes was to be awake, with Wych Hazel; and softly she stepped along the floor and out on the dewy path to the lake side; and there stood splashing her hands in the water and the water over her face, with intense satisfaction. The lake was perfectly still, disturbed only by the dip of a king- fisher or the spring of a trout. She stood there musing over the last day and the last week, starting various profound questions, but not stopping to run them down,—then went meandering back to the mill again. On her way she came to a spot in the grass where there was a sprinkling of robin's feathers. Wych Hazel stopped short looking at them, smiling to herself, then suddenly stopped and chose out three or four; and went back with quick steps to the mill.

Bread and tea were had in the open air, with the seasoning of the June morning. The stage coach rumbled off by the road it had come, bearing with it the two countrywomen, and leaving a pile of baggage for Chickaree. The miller came down and set his mill agoing, excusing himself to his guests by saying that there was a good lot of corn to be ground and the people would be along for it. So the mill became no longer a place of rest, and Miss Hazel and her guardian were driven out into the woods by the rumble and dust and jar of machinery. Do what they would, it was a long morning to twelve o'clock; when the mill ceased its rumble and the miller went home to his dinner, and the weary and warm loiterers came back to the shade of the mill floor. Then the sound of wheels was heard at last; the first that had broken the solitude that day; and presently at the mill door Rollo presented himself, looking as if sunshine agreed with him. He shook hands with Mr. Falkirk, but gave Wych Hazel his old stately salutation.

'I could not come sooner,' he said. 'I did my best; but it is thirty miles instead of twenty-five. How was the night?'

'Sadly oblivious and uneventful!'

'Mine wasn't! for I was getting dinner for you in my dreams all night long. Being dependent on other people's resources, you see—However, I had a good little friend to help me!'

'What carriage have you brought for us, Rollo?'

'Dr. Maryland's rockaway, sir; and the miller's wagon for the trunks. To get anything else would have made much more delay. Is my friend Phoebe here?'

'She will be soon. It is dinner-time in the mill. What do you want, Mr. Rollo?'

'Three words and a little assistance.'

He went off, and in a little while was back again, accompanied by Phoebe and plates and glasses; and the two went on to set forth the dinner, which he drew from a great basket that had come in the rockaway. All this was done, and order given at the same time to other matters, with the light-handed promptitude and readiness of the bird-roasting of yesterday; Rollo assuring Wych Hazel between whiles that travelling was a very good thing, if you took enough of it.

'Thirty miles this morning, and thirty last night; and how many yesterday morning?—A hundred, I should say, by my measurement.'

'Rollo!—What a dinner you have brought us!' said Mr. Falkirk, who maintained a quiet and passive behaviour.

'You cannot set off for some hours yet, sir—the horses must have rest. I believe—but am not sure—that somebody got up very early this morning to make that pie. I told them I had left some friends in distress; and Primrose and I—did what we could. I realized this morning what must be the position of a Commissary General on a rapid march.'

The provision on the board called for no excuses. Rollo served everybody, even Mrs. Saddler, and afterwards dispensed strawberries of much larger growth than those of the day before. He was the impersonation of gay activity as long as there was anything to do; and then he subsided into ease- taking. The smoke of a cigar did not indeed offend Miss Kennedy's mill-door; but in a luxurious position under a tree at some distance the sometime smoker settled himself with his sketch-book, and seemed to be comfortably busy at play, till it was time for moving.

Wych Hazel had been in an altogether quiet mood since the arrival of the rockaway. In that mood she had watched the unpacking of the basket, in that mood she had eaten her dinner. It was strange, even to herself, the sort of quietus Mr. Rollo was to her. Not feeling free to play with him, by no means disposed to play before him, she had ventured to offer her services no further than by asking him what he wanted; then left him to himself; oddly conscious all the while, that if it had been any other one of her new feline friends, she would have put her little hand into the business and the basket with pleasant effect. So she sat still and watched him,—giving a bit of a smile now and then indeed to his direct remarks, but as often only a fuller look of the brown eyes. Since the gentleman had been under the tree she had been idly busy with her own thoughts, having sketched herself tired in the morning. "Prim" she recognized at once—Dr. Maryland's sister,—she had heard him speak of her. Would she be a friend? any one to whom these many thoughts might come out? So Wych Hazel sat, gazing out upon the lengthening shadows, leaning her head somewhat wearily in her hand, wishing the journey over and herself on her own vantage ground at Chickaree. It would be such a help to be mistress of the house!—for these last two days she had been nothing but a brown parcel, marked "fragile"—"with care."

CHAPTER X.

CHICKAREE.

Rollo had driven the rockaway down and was going to drive back. He put Wych Hazel into the carriage, recommending to her to lean back in the corner and go to sleep. Phoebe was given the place beside her; Mr. Falkirk mounted to the front seat; and off they drove.

It was about four o'clock of a fine June day, and the air was good to breathe; but the way was nothing extraordinary. A pleasant country, nothing more; easy roads for an hour, then heavier travelling.

The afternoon wore on; the miles were plodded over; as the sun was dipping towards the western horizon they came into scenery of a new quality. At once more wild and more dressed; the ground bolder and more rocky in parts, but between filled with gentler indications. The rockaway drew up. The driver looked back into the carriage, while the other gentleman got down.

'Miss Kennedy, if you will change places with Mr. Falkirk now you will be rewarded. I have something here a great deal better than that book.'

'I have not been reading—I have been watching for landmarks for some time,' she said, as she made the change; 'but I think I can never have gone to Chickaree by this road.'

The change was great. However fair it had looked from withinside, as soon as she got out on the front seat Wych Hazel found that a flood of bright, slant sunbeams were searching out all the beauty there was in the land, and winning it into view. It was one of those illuminated hours, that are to the common day as an old painted and jewelled missal to an ordinary black letter.

'Is it better than your book?' said the charioteer, whose reins were clearly only play to him, and who was much more occupied with his companion. She glanced round at him, with the very June evening in her eyes, dews and sunbeams and all.

'Better than most of the books that ever were written, I suppose. But the book was not bad, Mr. Rollo.'

'What book was it? to be mentioned in the connection.'

' "I Promessi Sposi." '

'Unknown to me. Give me an idea of it—while we are getting up this hill—there'll be something else to talk of afterwards.'

'Two people are betrothed, and proceed to get into all manner of difficulties. That is the principal idea so far. I haven't come to the turn of the story, which takes the thread out of its tangle.'

'A very stupid idea! Yet you said the book was not a bad book?' he said, looking gravely round upon her.

'No, indeed. And the idea is not stupid, in the book I mean, because the people could not help themselves, and so you get interested for them.'

'Do you get interested in people who cannot help themselves?'

'Yes, I think so—always,—people who cannot in the impossible sense. Not those who don't know or wont try. But my words did not mean just that. I should have said, help it—help being in difficulties.'

'I believe people can get out of difficulties,' said Rollo. 'What was the matter with these?'

'O the difficulties were piled on their heads by other people. Lucia was a peasant, but she was "si bella" that one of the grandees wanted to get her away from Renzo.'

'I don't see the difficulties yet. What next?'

'No, of course you don't!' said Wych, warming in defense of her book. 'But if some Don Rodrigo forbade somebody to marry you—and then sent a party to run away with your bride—so that she had to go into a convent and you wander round the world in ill humour—I daresay your clearness of vision would improve.'

'I dare say it would,' said Rollo, passing a hand over his eyes,—'I think it would have to grow worse before all those events could happen! But on the highest round of that ladder of impossibilities, I think I should see my way into the convent,—and escape the ill humour.'

'But Lucia would not be shut up from you, but from the grandee. It would only make matters worse to bring her out.'

'Not for me,' said Rollo. 'It might for the book, because, as you say, then the interest would be gone. Do you think the people in a book are real people?—while you are reading it?'

'Not quite—they might have been real. I don't feel just as if I should if I knew they were.'

'In that case the interest would be less?' he said, with a laughing look.

'Yes—or at least different. There are so many things to qualify your interest in real living people.'

'Yes. For instance in real life the people who cannot help being in difficulties never interest me as much as the people who get out of them; and so I think most novels are stupid, because the men and women are all real to me. There!' he said, pulling up as they reached the top of an ascent, 'there are no difficulties in your way here. What do you think of that?'

The hill-top gave a wide view over a rich, cultivated, inhabited country; its beauty was in the wide, generous eye- view and the painter's colours that decked it; for which, broken ground in front and distant low hills gave play to the slant sunbeams. Warm, rich, inviting, looked every inch of those wide-spread square miles.

'Do you know where you are?' said he in an enjoying tone.

'I suppose near home,—but it's not familiar yet.'

'No, you are some miles from home. Over there to the west, lies Dr. Maryland's—but you can't see it in this light. It's two miles away. Do you see, further to the north, standing high on a hill, a white house-front that catches the sun?'

'Yes.'

'Mme. Lasalle's, Moscheloo. It's a pretty place—nothing like Chickaree. When we reach the next turning you will catch a glimpse of Crocus in the other direction—do you know what Crocus is?'

'O yes, the village. Our house was brown, I remember that,—and as you go up the hill Mr. Falkirk's cottage is just by the roadside. Did you tell them to leave Mrs. Saddler there?'

'She will tell them herself, I fancy. Crocus is the place where you will be expected to buy sugar and spice. It is some four miles from Chickaree on that side, and we are about five miles from it on this;' and as he spoke he set the horses in motion. 'I sent on a rescript to Mrs. Bywank, bidding her on her peril to be in order to receive you this evening. Mrs. Bywank and I are old acquaintances,' he said, looking at Wych Hazel.

'Dear Mrs. Bywank! how good she used to be. I haven't seen her but once since I left home. I'm sure you have a great many worse acquaintances, Mr. Rollo.'

'I am at a loss to understand how you can be sure of that. But I have some better.—Miss Kennedy, I want you to give me a boon. Say you will do it.'

'I'll hear it first.'

'Will you? that's fair, I suppose; but if we were better friends, I should not be satisfied without a blank check put into my hands for me to fill up. However,—as I am not to have that honour on the present occasion I will explain. Let me be the one to introduce you, some day, to one of your neighbours, whom you do not remember, because she came here since you went away. Will you?'

'Why yes, of course, if you wish it—only I will not be responsible for any accidental introduction that may take place first.'

'I will,' said Rollo. 'Then it is a bargain? I shall ask half a day's excursion for it.'

'That is as much of a supplement as a woman's postscript, Mr. Rollo. However, I suppose it is safe to let you ask what you like.'

'You give it to me?'

'Maybe.'

'Then it is a bargain,' said he, smiling. 'Here is my hand upon it.'

She laughed, looked round at him rather wonderingly, but gave her hand, remarking:

'But you know I have the right to change my mind three times.'

There is a curious language in the touch of hands, saying often inexplicably what the coarser medium of words would be powerless to say; revealing things not meant to be discovered; and also conveying sweeter, finer, more intimate touches of feeling and mood than tongue could tell if it tried. Wych Hazel remembered this clasp of her hand, and felt it as often as she remembered it. There was nothing sentimental; it was only a frank clasp, in which her hand for a moment was not her own; and though the clasp did not linger, for that second's continuance it gave her an indescribable impression, she could hardly have told of what. It was not merely the gentleness; she could not separate from that the notion of possession, and of both as being in the mind, to which the hand was an index. But such a thought passes as it comes. Something else in those five minutes brought the colour flitting about her face, coming and going as if ashamed of itself; but with it all she was intensely amused; she was not sentimental, nor even serious, and the girlish light heart danced a pas seul to such a medley of tunes that it was a wonder how she could keep step with them all.

'What do you expect to see at Chickaree?'

'Birds, trees, and horses, and—Mr. Falkirk, didn't you say there would be cats?'

'Let him alone—he is deep in your book,' said Rollo, as Mr. Falkirk made some astonished response. "I meant, what do you remember of the place? we are almost at the gate.'

'I'll tell you—nothing yet. Ah!'—

Through some lapse in the dense woodland there gleamed upon them as they swept on, the top of an old tower where the sunbeams lay at rest; and from the top, its white staff glittering with light, floated the heavy folds of a deep blue flag, not at rest there, but curling and waving and shaking out their white device, which was however too far off to be distinguished. She had said she would tell him, but she never spoke; after that one little cry, so full of tears and laughter, he heard nothing but one or two sobs, low and choked down. Now the lodge, nestling like an acorn under a great oak tree, came in sight first, then the massive piers of the gate. The gate was wide open, but while the little undergrowth of children started up and took possession of window and door and roadside, the gate was held by the head of the house, a sturdy, middle aged American. Wych Hazel had leaned out, watching the children; but as the carriage turned through the gateway, and she saw this man, standing there uncovered, caught the working of his brown weatherbeaten face, she bowed her head indeed, in answer to his low salutation, but then dropped her face in her hands in a perfect passion of weeping. It came and went like a Summer storm, and again she was looking intently. Now past Mr. Falkirk's white domicile, where her glittering eyes flashed round upon him the "welcome home" which her lips spoke but unsteadily,—then on, on, up the hill, the thick trees hiding the sunset and brushing the carriage with leafy hands,—it seemed to Mr. Rollo that still as the very fingers of his companion were, he could almost feel the bound of her spirit. Then out on a little platform of the road—and there, he did not know why she leaned forward so eagerly, till he saw across the dell the shining of white marble.

He watched her, but drove on without making the least call upon her attention. The views opened and softened as they drew near the house; the trees here had been more thinned out, and were by consequence larger; the carriage passed from one great shadow to another, with the thrushes ringing out their clear music and the wild roses breathing upon the evening air. From out the forest came wafts of dark dewy coolness, overhead the clouds revelled in splendour. Up still the horses went, ever ascending, but slowly, for the ascent was steep. The delay, the length of the drive tired her,—she sat up again—she had been quietly leaning back; once or twice her hand went up with a quick movement to drive back the feeling that was passing limits; then gaining level ground once more, the horses sprang forward, and in the failing twilight they swept round before the house. Except the tower, it was but two stories high, the front stretching along, with wide low steps running from end to end. In unmatched glee Dingee stood on the carriage way showing his teeth,—on the steps, striving in vain to clear her eyes so that she might see, was Mrs. Bywank; her kindly figure, which each succeeding year had gently developed, robed in her state dress of black silk.

Taking advantage of her outside position,—regardless of steps as of wheels,—Wych Hazel vanished from the carriage, it was hard to say how. As difficult as it would have been to guess by what witchcraft a person or Mr. Bywank's proportions could be spirited through the doorway—out of sight—in a twinkling of time; yet it was done, and the steps were empty.

The hill at Chickaree was steepest on the side towards the west, and down that slope an opening had been cut through the trees—a sort of pathway for the sunbeams. The direct rays were gone, and only the warm sky glow brightened the hall door, when the young mistress of the place once more appeared. She stood still a moment and went back again; and then came Dingee.

'Miss Hazel say, sar, room's ready and supper won't be long. Whar Mass Rollo?'

'I suppose he'll be here directly.'

Mr. Falkirk did not go into the house immediately; he stood with folded arms waiting, or watching the fading red glow of the western sky. In about ten minutes the tramp of a horse's feet heralded the coming of Mr. Rollo, who appeared from the corner or the house, mounted on an old grey cob, who switched his tail and moved his ears as if he thought going out at that time of day a peculiar proceeding. Dingee staid the rider with the delivery of his young lady's message.

'I am afraid supper's more than ready somewhere else. I can't stay, my friend—my thanks to the lady.' And letting fall on the little dark figure who stood at his stirrup, a gold piece and a smile, Rollo passed him, bent a moment to speak to Mr. Falkirk, and brought the grey cob's ideas to a head by stepping him off at a good pace.

The room was large, opening by glass doors upon a wilderness of grass, trees and flowers. At every corner glass cupboards showed a stock of rare old china; a long sideboard was brilliant and splendid with old silver. Dark cabinet ware furnished but not encumbered the room; in the centre a table looked all of hospitality and welcome that a table can. There was a great store of old fashioned elegance and comfort in Wych Hazel's home; no doubt of it; of old-fashioned state too, and old-time respectability; to which numberless old-time witnesses stood testifying on every hand, from the teapot, the fashion of which was a hundred years ancient, to the uncouth brass andirons in the fireplace. Mr. Falkirk came in as one to whom it was all very wonted and well known. The candles were not lit; a soft, ruddy light from the west reddened the great mirror over the fireplace and gave back the silver sideboard in it. Not till the clear notes of a bugle, the Chickaree tea- bell, had wound about the old house awakening sweet echoes, did Wych Hazel make her appearance.

'Supper mos' as good hot as de weather,' remarked Dingee. 'Mas Rollo, he say he break his heart dat his profess'nal duties tears him 'way.'

'Dingee, go down stairs,' said Miss Hazel turning upon him,— 'and when you tell stories about Mr. Rollo tell them to himself, and not to me. Will you come to tea, sir?'

CHAPTER XI.

VIXEN.

The birds were taken by surprise next morning. Long before Mr. Falkirk was up, before the house was fairly astir with servants, there was a new voice in their concert; one almost as busy and musical as their own. Reo Hartshorne—the sturdy gardener and lodge-keeper—thought so, listening with wonder to hear what a change it made. Wych Hazel had found him out planting flowers for her, and with his hand taken in both hers had finished the half-begun recognition of last night. Now she stood watching him as he plied his spade, refreshing his labour with a very streamlet of talk, flitting round him and plucking flowers like a humming-bird supplied with fingers. The servants passing to and fro about their work smiled to each other; Mrs. Bywank came by turns to the door to catch a look or a word; Reo himself lifted his brown hand and made believe it was to brush away the perspiration. Another observer who had come upon the scene, observed it very passively—a girl, a small girl, in the dress of the poor, and with the dull eyes of observance which often mark the children of the poor. They expressed nothing, but that they looked.

'Good morning, child,' said Miss Hazel. 'Do you want me to give you a bunch of flowers?'

'No.'

'What then?'

'Mammy sent me to see if the lady was come.'

'Who is mammy? and what does she want?' said Wych Hazel, cutting more rosebuds and dropping them into her apron.

'Mammy wants to see the lady.'

'Well, is she coming to see me?'

'She can't come.'

'Why not?'—a quick shower of laughter and dew-drops, called down by a fruitless spring after a spray of white roses.

'She lays abed,' said the child, after the shower was over.

'O, is she sick?' with a sudden gravity. 'Then I will come and see her. Where does she live?'

The child went away as soon as sure arrangements were made for the fulfilment of the promise. Wych Hazel's first visitor! one of the two classes sure to find her out with no delay. And Miss Kennedy was about as well versed in the one as in the other.

The summons came to her to attend the breakfast room. Mr. Falkirk was there, fixed in an easy chair and pamphlet; the morning stir had not reached him.

'How long do we remain at Chickaree?' he asked, as he buttered his muffin.

'Why, dear Mr. Falkirk, you might as well ask me how long gentlemen will wear their present becoming style of head- dress! I don't know.'

'I gather that it would not be safe to order post-horses for departure. The question remains: would it be safe to order other horses for the stable at home? One or the other thing it is absolutely necessary to do.'

'The other horses, sir, by all means. And especially my pony carriage.'

'I shall have to have one built to order,' remarked Mr. Falkirk, after the pause of half an egg.

'And have it lined with blue—to set me off.'

'With a dickey behind—to set me on.'

'No, indeed! I'll have Dingee for an outrider, and then we'll be a complete set of Brownies. You must order quick-footed horses for me, Mr. Falkirk—I may be reduced to the fate of the Calmuck girls.'

A single dark flash was in Mr. Falkirk's glance; but he only said: 'Who is to have the first race, my dear?'

'Mr. Falkirk, you should rather be anxious as to who will have the last. But get me a fast horse, sir, and let me practise'— and flitting away from the table and about the room Miss Hazel sang—

' "The lady stude on the castle wa', "Beheld baith date and down; "Then she was ware of a host of men "Came ryding towards the town. "O see ye not, my merry men a', "O see ye not what I see? "Methinks I see a host of men: "I marvel wha' they be." '

And thereupon, finding she had suddenly come rather close to the subject, Miss Hazel dashed out of the room.

The day proved warm. The air, losing its morning dew and freshness, moved listlessly about among the leaves; the sky looked glassy; the cattle stood panting in the shade, or mused, ankle deep, in the brooks; only the birds were stirring.

With thought and action as elastic as theirs, the young mistress of Chickaree prepared for her visit to the poor woman; afraid neither of the hot sunbeams nor of certain white undulations of cloud that just broke the line of the western horizon. Mr. Falkirk had walked down to his cottage; there was no one to counsel or hinder. And over the horses there was small consultation needed; the only two nags found being a young vixen of a black colt, and an intensely sedate horse of no particular colour which Mrs. Bywank was accustomed to drive to church. Relinquishing this respectable creature to Dingee, Wych Hazel perched herself upon Vixen and set forth; walking the colt now to keep by her little guide, but promising herself a good trot on the way home.

The child had come to show her the way, and went in a shuffling amble by the side of the colt's black legs. For a good while they kept the road which had been travelled yesterday; at last turned off to another which presently became pleasantly shady. Woods closed it in, made it rather lonely in fact, but nobody thought now of anything but the grateful change. There were clouds which might hide the sun by and by, but just now he was powerful and they were only lifting their white heads stealthily in the west. At a rough stile, beyond which a foot track led deeper into the wood, the girl stopped.

'It's in here,' she said.

It was very clear that Vixen could not cross the stile. So her young rider dismounted and looping up the heavy folds of her riding skirt as best she might, disappeared from the eyes of Dingee among the trees. Her dress was a pretty enough dress after all, for though the skirts were dark and heavy, the white dimity jacket was all airiness and ruffles; and once fairly in the shade of the trees, Wych Hazel let her riding hat fall back and rest on her shoulders in very childish fashion indeed. Her little guide trotted on before her; till they saw the house they had come for.

It was a place of shiftless poverty; of need, no doubt, but not of industry; Wych Hazel was humbly begged to supply deficiencies which ought not to have been. Inexperienced as she was, she scarcely understood it. Nevertheless she was glad when the visit was over and she could step out of the door again. The clouds had not hid the sun yet, and she went lightly on through the trees, singing to herself according to custom, till she was near the stile; then she was 'ware' of somebody approaching and the singing ceased. The glance which showed her a stranger revealed also what made her glance again as they drew nearer; it was a person of uncommonly good exterior and fine bearing. A third glance would not have been given, but that, as they came close, Wych Hazel received the homage of a very profound and courteous salutation, and the gentleman, presenting a branch of white roses, said with sufficient deference,

'Earth, must offer tribute!—and cannot, without hands—'

And then passed swiftly on. Amused, startled, Wych Hazel also quickened her step; wondering to herself what sort of country she had fallen upon. It was ridiculously like a fairy tale, this whole afternoon's work. The little barefooted guide, the sick woman with her 'young goodness' and 'your ladyship,' now this upstarting knight. There were the roses in her hand, too, as much like the famed spray gathered by the merchant in 'Beauty and the Beast,' as mortal roses could be! But the adventure was not over. As she reached the stile she heard the same voice beside her again. The stranger held her riding whip, which Wych Hazel had left behind her at the cottage; the little girl had met him, bringing it, he said. And then he went on—'It is impossible not to know that I am speaking to Miss Kennedy. I am a stranger in the country, but my aunt, Mme. Lasalle, is well known to Mr. Falkirk. Will Miss Kennedy allow me to assist her in remounting?'

It was gracefully said, with quietly modulated tones that belong only to a high grade of society, and the speaker had a handsome face and good presence. Nevertheless, Wych Hazel had no mind to be 'remounted' by any one, and was very near saying as much; for in her, 'temperament' retarded the progress of conventionalism sadly. As it was, she gave him a hesitating assent, and received his proffered assistance. Then lifting his hat, he stood while she passed on.

It was time to ride, for the sky was dark with clouds, the air breathless, and sharp growls of thunder spoke in the distance, at every one of which Vixen made an uneasy motion of ears and head, to show what she would do when they came nearer.

'We must ride for it, Dingee,'—Miss Hazel said to her dark attendant.

'Reckon we'll get it, too, Miss Hazel,' was Dingee's reply, and a heavy drop or two said 'yes, it is coming.' Wych Hazel laughed at him, cantering along on her black pony like a brown sprite, the rising wind making free with her hair and hat ribbands, the rose spray made fast for her buttonhole. But as she dashed out of the woods upon a tract of open country, the distance before her was one sheet of grey rain and mist, and a near peal of thunder that almost took Vixen off her feet, showed what it would be to face such a storm, so mounted. And now the raindrops began to patter near at hand.

But where to go? She had passed no place of refuge in the woodland, and before her the storm hid every thing from sight. So, after a second's thought, Wych Hazel turned and flew down a side road a half a mile to the very door of a low stone house, the first she had seen, sprang off her frightened pony, and darted into the open hall door, leaving Dingee to find shelter for himself and his charge. Then she began to wonder where she was, and what the people would say to her; at first she had been only glad to get off Vixen's back, the pony had jumped and reared at such a rate for the last five minutes.

In the hall, which at a glance she saw was square and wide, and felt was flagged with stone, stood a large packing case; and about it and so busy with it that for a second they did not observe her, were a girl and young man, the latter knocking off boards and drawing out nails with his hammer, while the other hovered over the work and watched it absorbedly. In a moment more they both looked up. The hammer went down and with a face of illumination Rollo came forward.

'Why here she is!' he exclaimed gayly, 'dropped into our hands! and as wet as if she had fallen from the clouds literally. Here Rosy, carry off this lady to your domains. This is Primrose Maryland, Miss Kennedy.'

A primrose she evidently was, sweet and good and fresh like one, with something of a flower's gravity, too. That could be seen at a glance; also that she was rather a little person, though full and plump in figure, and hardly pretty, at least in contrast with her brilliant neighbour. Wych Hazel's first words were of unbounded surprise.

'From what possible part of the clouds did you fall, Mr. Rollo!'—then with a blush and a look of apology to Miss Maryland, 'I ought to excuse myself; I didn't know where I was coming. And my horse quite refused to stand upon more than two feet at once, I found the storm uncomfortable—and so jumped off and ran in. It's the fault of your door for being open, Miss Maryland!'

'I am very glad,' said Primrose simply. 'The door stood open because it was so hot. We were going to see you this afternoon but the storm hindered us. Now, will you come up-stairs and get on something dry?'

CHAPTER XII.

AT DR. MARYLAND'S.

They went up a low staircase and along a gallery to Primrose's room. Large and low, as nice as wax, and as plain. How unlike any room at Chickaree, Wych Hazel could not help feeling, while its little mistress was opening cupboards and drawers, and getting out the neatest and whitest of cambric jackets and ruffles and petticoats, and bringing forth all accommodations of combs and brushes. Meanwhile Wych Hazel could not help seeing some of the tokens about the place that told what kind of life was lived there. Its spotlessly neat and orderly condition was one token; but there were signs of business. Work-baskets, with what seemed fulness of work, were about the room; books, not in great numbers, but lying in little business piles, with business covers and the marks of use. Papers were on one table by the window, with pen and ink and pencil and cards. And everywhere a simplicity that showed no atom of needless expenditure. Very unlike Chickaree?

Primrose the while was neat-handedly helping to array her guest in fresh apparel. She had pretty little hands, and they were quick and skilful; and as she stooped to try on a slipper or manage a fastening, Wych Hazel had a view of a beautiful head of fair brown hair, in quiet arrangement that did not show all its beauty; and when from time to time the eyes were lifted, she saw that they were very good eyes; as reposeful as a mountain tarn, and as deep too, where lay thought shadows as well as sunshine. They were shining eyes now, with secret admiration and pleasure and good will and eager interest.

'Are you come to stay a good while at Chickaree? I hope you will.'

'Maybe—perhaps. O my boots are not wet, Miss Maryland,—and I don't think I caught enough raindrops to hurt. How kind you are!—And how well your brother describes you.'

'Arthur?—I wish he would not describe me. Chickaree is such a beautiful place, I should think one might like to stay there. I have been hoping about it, ever since I heard you were coming. Father knows Mr. Falkirk, and used to know your father and mother, so well, that I have almost felt as if I knew you,—till I saw you.'

'And you don't feel so now?' with a shade of disappointment.

'No,' said Primrose laughing. 'But I am sure I shall very soon, if you will let me. I have wished for it so much! There, won't that do? It is lucky I had some of Prue's things here— mine are too short. Prue is my sister. It looks very nice, I think.'

'O yes,' her guest answered, taking up her bunch of roses, fresh with the rain. 'Thank you very much! But why do you say that about your brother?'

'Arthur?—O—descriptions never tell the truth.'

'I am sure he did,' said Wych Hazel. 'And I know I would give anything to have anybody to talk so about me.'

Primrose returned a somewhat earnest and wondering look at her new friend; then took her hand to lead her down stairs.

In the hall they found Mr. Rollo; not by his packing case exactly, for he had taken that to pieces, and the contents stood fair to view; a very handsome new sewing machine. Surrounded with bits of board and litter, he stood examining the works and removing dust and bits of paper and string. Over the litter sprang to his side Primrose and laid her hand silently in his, and with downcast eyes stood still looking at the machine. The bright eyes under their lids spoke as much joy as Rosy's face often showed; yet she was perfectly still.

'Well?' said Rollo, squeezing the little hand and looking laughingly down at her.

'You are so good!'

'You don't think it,' said he. 'You know better; and as you always speak perfect truth, I am surprised to hear you.'

'You are good to me,' said Primrose in a low tone.

'I should be a pleasant fellow if I wasn't,' said he stooping to kiss her, at which the flush of pleasure on Rosy's cheek deepened; 'but in the meantime it is proper we should look after the comfort of our prisoner.' Then stepping across the litter to where Wych Hazel stood, he went on—'You know, of course, that you stand in that relation to us, Miss Kennedy? Primrose is turnkey, and I am governor. Would you like to see the inside of the jail?'

The 'prisoner' had stood still in grave wonderment at people and things generally; especially at the footing Mr. Rollo seemed to have in this house.

'Governor to a steam engine is an easier post,' she said, throwing off her thoughts.

'I have been that'—he said, as he led her into a room on the right of the hall.

This room took in the whole depth of the house, having windows on three sides; low, deep windows, looking green, for the blinds were drawn together. The ceiling was low, too; and from floor to ceiling, everywhere except where a door or window broke the space, the walls were lined with books. There was here no more than up stairs evidence of needless money outlay; the furniture was chintz covered, the table-covers were plain. But easy chairs were plenty; the tables bore writing-materials and drawing-materials and sewing-materials; and books lay about, open from late handling; and a portfolio of engravings stood in a corner. Rollo put his charge in an easy chair, and then went from window to window throwing open the blinds. The windows opened upon green things, trees and flowers and vines; the air came in fresher; the rain was softly falling fast and thick, and yet the pale light cheered up the whole place wonderfully.