One fine morning in September, Mr. Drummond was standing at the back of Milner’s Library, turning over the last new assortment of books from Mudie, when two gentlemen entered the shop.

Strangers were always interesting to Archie, and he criticised them under a twofold aspect—pastoral and social. In this way curiosity becomes a virtue, and a man with a mission is not without his interests in life. Hadleigh was Mr. Drummond’s sheep-walk, where he shepherded his lambs, and looked after his black sheep and tried to wash them white, or, in default of that, at least to make out that their fleece was not so sable after all: so he now considered it his duty to leave off turning over the pages of a seductive-looking novel, and to inspect the strangers.

They were both dressed in tweed travelling costumes, and looked sunburnt, as though they had just returned from a walking-tour. The elder was a short wiry man, with a shrewd face and quizzical eyes; and he asked in sharp clipping voice 220 that was not free from accent, for the last number of the local paper, containing lists of inhabitants, visitors, etc.

Meanwhile, the younger man walked about the shop, whistling softly to himself, as though he had a fund of cheerfulness on hand which must find vent somewhere. When he came opposite Archie, he took a brief survey of him in a careless, good-humored fashion, and then turned on his heel, bestowing a very cursory glance on Miss Masham, who stood shaking her black ringlets after the fashion of shopwomen, and waiting to know the gentleman’s pleasure.

No one would have called this young man very good-looking, unless such a one had a secret predilection for decidedly reddish hair and a sandy moustache; but there was an air of bonhommie, of frank kindness, of boyish fun and pleasantry, that attracted even strangers, and Archie looked after him with considerable interest.

“Oxford cut, father and son: father looks rather a queer customer,” thought Archie to himself.

“Dick, come here!—why, where is that fellow?” suddenly exclaimed the elder man, beginning to put on his eye-glasses very nervously.

“Coming, father. All right: what is it?” returned the imperturbable Dick. He was still whistling “Twickenham Ferry” under his breath, as he came to the counter and leaned with both elbows upon it.

“Good gracious, boy, what does this mean?” went on the other, in an irritable perturbed voice; and he read a short advertisement, written in a neat lady-like hand: “Dressmaking undertaken. Terms moderate, and all orders promptly executed. Apply to—the Misses Challoner, the Friary, Braidwood Road. Ladies waited upon at their own residences’. What the”—he was about to add a stronger term, but, in deference to Miss Milner, substituted—“dickens does this mean, Dick?”

The young man’s reply was to snatch the paper out of his father’s hand, and study it intently, with his elbows still on the counter, and the last bar of “Twickenham Ferry” died away uncompleted on his lips; and if any one could have seen his face, they would have remarked a curious redness spreading to his forehead.

“Nan’s handwriting, by Jove!” he muttered, but still inaudibly; and then he stared at the paper, and his face grew redder.

“Well, Dick, can’t you answer? What does this piece of tomfoolery mean—‘dressmaking undertaken—ladies waited upon at their own residences’? Can there be two families of Challoner and two Friaries? and why don’t you speak and say something?”

“Because I know as little as yourself, father,” returned the young man, without lifting his head; and he surreptitiously 221 conveyed the paper to his pocket. “Perhaps this lady,” indicating Miss Milner, “could inform us?”

“I beg your pardon,” observed a gentlemanly voice near them; and, looking up, Dick found himself confronted by the young clergyman. “I overheard your inquiries, and, as I am acquainted with the ladies in question, I may be able to satisfy you.”

“I should be extremely obliged to you if you would do so, sir,” returned the elder man, with alacrity; but Dick turned away rather ungraciously, and his cheerful face grew sullen.

“Confound him! what does he mean by his interference? Knows them, indeed! such a handsome beggar, too,—a prig, one can see that from the cut of his clothes and beard!” And again he planted his elbows on the counter, and began pulling his rough little stubbly moustache.

“If you are referring to a mother and three daughters who live in the Friary and eke out a scanty income by taking in dressmaking, I am happy to say I know them well,” went on Archie. “My sister and I visit at the cottage, and they attend my church; and, as Miss Milner can tell you, they work hard enough all the six days of the week.”

“Indeed, Mr. Drummond, there are few that work harder!” broke in Miss Milner, volubly. “Such pretty creatures, too, to earn their own living; and yet they have a bright word and a smile for everybody! Ever since Miss Phillis,” (here Dick groaned) “made that blue dress for Mrs. Trimmings—she is the butcher’s wife, and a dressy woman, though not flashy, like Mrs. Squails—they have been quite the rage in Hadleigh. All the townspeople, and the resident gentry, and even the visitors, want their gowns made by the Miss Challoners. Their fit is perfect; and they have such taste. And––” But here the luckless Dick could bear no more.

“If you will excuse me, sir,” he said, addressing his bewildered father, “I have left something particular at the hotel: I must just run and fetch it.”

Dick did not specify whether it was his handkerchief, or his cigar-case, or his purse, of which he stood so urgently in need; but before Mr. Mayne could remonstrate, he had gone out of the shop. He went as far as the door of the hotel, and there he seized on a passing waiter and questioned him in a breathless manner. Having obtained his information, he set off at a walk that was almost a run through the town, and down the Braidwood Road. The few foot-passengers that he met shrank out of the way of this young man; for he walked, looking neither to the right nor to left, as though he saw nothing before him. And his eyes were gloomy, and, he did not whistle; and the only words he said to himself were, “Oh, Nan, never to have told me of this!” over and over again.

The gate of the Friary stood open; for a small boy had been washing the flags, and had left his pail, and had gone off to 222 play marbles in the road with a younger brother. Dick,—who understood the bearings of the case at once, shook his fist at the truant behind his back, and then turned in at the gate.

He peeped in at the hall door first; but Dorothy was peeling potatoes in the kitchen, and would see him as he passed, so he skirted the little path under the yews. And if Dulce had been at her sewing-machine as usual, she would have seen him at once; but this morning the machine was silent.

A few steps farther he came to a full stop, and his eyes began to glisten, and he pricked up his ears after the manner of lovers; for through an open window just behind him, he could hear Nan’s voice, sweet and musical, reading aloud to her sisters.

“Oh, the darling!” he murmured, and composed himself for a few moments’ ecstasy, for no doubt she was reading Tennyson, or Barrett-Browning, or one of the poetry-books he had given her; but he was a little disappointed when he found it was prose.

“‘With regard to washing-dresses,’” read Nan, in her clear tones, “‘cottons, as a general thing, have another material made up with them; the under-skirt may be of foulard or satin––?’”

“Oh, I dare say! What nonsensical extravagance!” observed Phillis.

“‘Or the bodice of surah, satin, cashmere, or llama, and the skirt of cotton.... The skirts are nearly always made with single box-pleats, with a flat surface in the centre, and a flat band of trimming is often stitched on at about five inches from the edge of the flounce.’ I should say that would be sweetly pretty, dear: we might try it for Mrs. Penlip’s dress. And just listen to a little more.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” blurted out Dick. “Oh, Nan, Nan! how could you be such a traitor?—washing-dresses indeed, and me left in ignorance!” And there was Dick, his face glowing and indignant, standing in the window, with Laddie barking furiously at him, and his outstretched hand nearly touching Nan.

Phillis and Dulce screamed with surprise, being young and easily excited; but Nan only said, “Oh, Dick!” very faintly; and her sweet face grew red and pale by turns, and her fingers fluttered a little in his grasp, but only for joy and the sheer delight of seeing him.

As for Dick, his eyes shone, but his manner was masterful.

“Look here!” he said, drawing Nan’s advertisement from his pocket; “we had come down here to surprise you girls, and to have a little fun and tennis; and I meant to have treated you to the public ground at the hotel, as I knew you had only a scrubby little bit of lawn; and this is what has met my eyes this morning! You have deceived mother and me; you have let us enjoy our holiday, which I didn’t a bit, for I had a sort of 223 nasty presentiment and a heap of uncomfortable thoughts; and all the while you were slaving away at this hideous dressmaking,—I wish I could burn the whole rag, tag, and bobtail,—and never let us know you wanted anything. And you call that being friends!”

“Yes, and the best of friends, too,” responded Phillis, cheerfully, for Nan was too much crushed by all this eloquence to answer. “Come along, Dulce! don’t listen any more to this nonsense, when you know mother is wanting us. Dick is all very well when he is in a good humor, but time and dressmaking wait for no man.” And the young hypocrite dragged the unwilling Dulce away. “Can’t you leave them alone to come to an understanding?” whispered Phillis in her ear, when they got outside the door. “I can see it in his eyes; and Nan is on the verge of crying, she is so upset with the surprise. And, you goose, where are you going now?”

“To mother. Did you not say she wanted us?”

“Oh, you silly child!” returned Phillis, calmly: “does not mother always want us? One must say what comes uppermost in one’s mind in emergencies of this sort. But for me, you would have stood there for an hour staring at them. Mother is out, as it happens: if you like we will go and meet her. Oh, no, I forgot: Dick is a young man, and it would not be proper. Let us go into the kitchen and help Dorothy.” And away they went.

“Phillis is a trump!” thought Dick, as he shut the door. “I love that girl.” And then he marched up to Nan, and took her hands boldly.

“Now, Nan you owe me amends for this; at least you will say you are sorry.”

“No, Dick,” hanging her head, for she could not face his look, he was so masterful and determined with her, and so unlike the easy Dick of old. “I am not a bit sorry: I would not have spoiled your holiday for worlds.”

“My holiday!—a precious holiday it was without you! A lot of stupid climbing, with grinning idiots for company. Well, never mind that,” his wrathful tone changing in a moment. “So you kept me in the dark just for my own good?”

“Yes, of course, Dick. What an unnecessary question!”

“And you wanted me, Nan?”

“Yes,” very faintly, and there was a little tear-drop on one of Nan’s lashes.

She had been so miserable,—how miserable he would never know; but he need not have asked her that.

“Oh, very well: then I won’t bother you with any more questions. Now we understand each other, and can just go to business.”

Nan looked up in his face in alarm. She anticipated another lecture, but nothing of the sort came. Dick cleared his throat, got a little red, and went on. 224

“I say settle our business, because we have been as good as engaged all these years. You know you belong to me, Nan?”

“Yes, Dick,” she returned, obediently; for she was too much taken by surprise to know what she ought to say, and the two words escaped from her almost unconsciously.

“There never was a time we were not fond of each other,—ever since you were so high,” pointing to what would represent the height of an extremely dwarfish infant of seven or eight months.

“Oh, not so long ago as that,” returned Nan, laughing a little.

“Quite as long,” repeated Dick, solemnly. “I declare, I have been so fond of you all my life, Nan, that I have been the happiest fellow in the world. Now, look here; just say after me, ‘Dick, I promise on my word and honor to marry you.’”

Nan repeated the words, and then she paused in affright.

“But your father!” she gasped,—“and the dressmaking! Oh, Dick! what have you made me say? You have startled me into forgetting everything. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what shall I do?” continued Nan, in the most innocent way. “We shall be engaged all our lives, for he will never allow you to marry me. Dick, dear Dick, please let me off! I never meant to give in like this.”

“Never mind what you meant to do,” returned Dick, with the utmost gravity: “the thing is, you have done it. On your word and honor, Nan, remember. Now we are engaged.”

“Oh, but Dick, please don’t take such advantage of me, just because I said—or, at least, you said—I was fond of you. What will mother say? She will be so dreadfully shocked; and it is so cruel to your father. I will be engaged to you in a way. I will promise—I will vow, if you will—never to marry any one else.”

“I should think not,” interrupted Dick, fiercely. “I would murder the fellow, whoever he was!” and in spite of himself his thought reverted to the fair beard and handsome face of the young clergyman.

Nan saw from his obstinate face that her eloquence was all wasted; but she made one more attempt, blushing like a rose:

“I will even promise to marry you, if your father gives his consent. You know, Dick, I would never go against him.”

“Nor I. You ought to know me better, Nan, than to think I should act shabbily and leave the dear old fellow in the dark.”

“Then you will set me free,” marvelling a little over her lover’s good sense and filial submission.

“As free as an engagement permits. Why, what do you mean, Nan? Have I not just told you we are engaged for good and all? Do you suppose I do not mean to tell my father so on the first opportunity? There he comes! bless the man, I knew he would follow me! Now you shall see how I can stick up for 225 the girl I love.” But Dick thought it better to release the hand he had been holding all this time.

There are certain moments in life when one is in too exalted a mood to feel the usual sensations that circumstances might warrant. At another time Nan would have been shocked at the condition of her work-room, being a tidy little soul, and thrifty as to pins and other odds and ends; and the thought of Mr. Mayne coming upon them unexpectedly would have frightened her out of her senses.

The room was certainly not in its usual order. There had been much business transacted there that morning. The table was strewn with breadths of gay broche silk; an unfinished gauzy-looking dress hung over a chair; the door of the wardrobe was open, and a row of dark-looking shapes—like Bluebeard’s decapitated wives—were dimly revealed to view. A sort of lay figure, draped in calico, was in one corner. As Nan observed to Phillis afterwards, “There was not a tidy corner in the whole room.”

Nevertheless, the presence of Dick so glorified the place that Nan looked around at the chaos quite calmly, as she heard Mr. Mayne’s sharp voice first inquiring for her mother and then for herself. Dorothy, with her usual tact, would have shown him into the little parlor; but Nan, who wished for no disguise, stepped forward and threw open the door.

“I am here, Dorothy. Come in, Mr. Mayne. Dick is here too, and I am so sorry mother is out.”

“I might have known that scapegrace would have given me the slip!” muttered Mr. Mayne, as he shook hands ungraciously with Nan, and then followed her into the work-room.

Dick, who was examining the wardrobe, turned round and saluted his father with a condescending nod:

“You were too long with the parson: I could not wait, you see. Did you make all these dresses, Nan? You are awfully clever, you girls! They look first-rate,—this greeny-browny-yellowish one, for example,” pulling out a much furbelowed garment destined for Mrs. Squails.

“Oh, Dick, do please leave them alone!” and Nan authoritatively waved him away, and closed the wardrobe.

“I was only admiring your handiwork,” returned Dick, imperturbably. “Does she not look a charming little dressmaker, father?” regarding Nan with undisguised pleasure, as she stood in her pretty bib-apron before them.

But Mr. Mayne only drew his heavy eyebrows together, and said,—

“Pshaw, Dick! don’t chatter such folly. I want to have some talk with Miss Nancy myself.”

“All right: I have had my innings,” returned naughty Dick; but he shot a look at Nan that made her blush to her finger ends, and that was not lost on Mr. Mayne.

“Well, now, Miss Nancy, what does all this mean?” he 226 asked, harshly. “Here we have run down just in a friendly way,—Dick and I,—leaving the mother rather knocked up after her travels at Longmead, to look you up and see how you are getting on. And now we find you have been deceiving us all along, and keeping us in the dark, and that you are making yourselves the talk of the place, sewing a parcel of gowns for all the townspeople.”

Mr. Mayne did not add that his son had so bothered him for the last three weeks to run down to Hadleigh that he had acceded at last to his request, in the hope of enjoying a little peace.

“Draw it mild!” muttered Dick, who did not much admire this opening tirade; but Nan answered, with much dignity,—

“If people talk about us it is because of the novelty. They have never heard of gentle-people doing this sort of work before––”

“I should think not!” wrathfully from Mr. Mayne.

“Things were so bad with us that we should have all had to separate if Phillis had not planned this scheme; and then mother would have broken her heart; but now we are getting on famously. Our work gives satisfaction, we have plenty of orders; we do not forfeit people’s good opinions, for we have nothing but respect shown us, and––”

But here Mr. Mayne interrupted her flow of quiet eloquence somewhat rudely.

“Pack of nonsense!” he exclaimed, angrily. “I wonder at your mother,—I do indeed. I thought she had more sense. You have no right to outrage your friends in this way! it is treating us badly. What will your mother say, Dick? She will be dreadfully shocked. I am sorry for you, my boy,—I am indeed: but, under the circumstances––”

But what he was about to add was checked by a very singular proceeding on the part of his son; for Dick suddenly took Nan’s hand, and drew her forward.

“Don’t be sorry for me, father: I am the happiest fellow alive. Nan and I have come to an understanding at last, after all these years. Allow me to present to you the future Mrs. Richard Mayne.”