The next day Maryllia was up betimes, and directly after breakfast she sent for Mrs. Spruce. That good lady, moved by the summons into sudden trepidation, lest some duty had been forgotten, or some clause of the household 'rules and regulations' left unfulfilled, hastened to the inner library, a small octagonal room communicating with the larger apartment, and there found her mistress sitting on a low stool, with her lap full of visiting-cards which she was busily sorting.

"Spruce!" and she looked up from her occupation with a mock tragic air—"I'm dull! Positively D U double L! DULL!"

Mrs. Spruce stared,—but merely said:

"Lor, Miss!" and folded her hands on her apron, awaiting the next word.

"I'm dull, dull, dull!" repeated Maryllia, springing up and tossing all the cards into a wide wicker basket near at hand—"I don't know what to do with myself, Spruce! I've got nobody to talk to, nobody to play with, nobody to sing to, nobody to amuse me at all, at all! I've seen everything inside and outside the Manor,—I've visited the church,—I know the village—I've talked to dear old Josey Letherbarrow till he must be just tired of me,—he's certainly the cleverest man in the place,—and yesterday the Pippitts came and finished me. I'm done! I throw up the sponge!—that's slang, Spruce! There's nobody to see, nowhere to go, nothing to do. It's awful! 'The time is out of joint, O cursed spite!' That's Hamlet. Something must HAPPEN, Spruce!"—and here she executed a playful pas-seul around the old housekeeper—"There! Isn't that pretty? Don't look so astonished!—you'll see ever so much worse than that by and bye! I am going to have company. I am, really! I shall fill the house! Get all the beds aired, and all the bedrooms swept out! I shall ask heaps of people,—all the baddest, maddest folks I can find! I want to be bad and mad myself! There's nobody bad or mad enough to keep me going down here. Look at these!" And she raked among the visiting-cards and selected a few. "Listen!—'Miss Ittlethwaite, Miss Agnes Ittlethwaite, Miss Barbara Ittlethwaite, Miss Christina Ittlethwaite, Ittlethwaite Park.' It makes my tongue all rough and funny to read their names! They've called,—and I suppose I shall have to call back, but I don't want to. What's the good? I'm sure I never shall get on with the Ittlethwaites,—we shall never, never agree! Do you know them, Spruce? Who are they?"

Mrs. Spruce drew a long breath, rolled up her eyes, and began:

"Which the Misses Ittlethwaite is a county fam'ly, Miss, livin' some seven or eight miles from here as proud as proud, owin' to their forebears 'avin' sworn death on Magnum Chartus for servin' of King John—an' Miss Ittlethwaite proper, she be gettin' on in years, but she's a great huntin' lady, an' come November is allus to be seen follerin' the 'ounds, stickin' to the saddle wonderful for 'er size an' time o' life, an' Miss Barbara, she doos a lot o' sick visitin', an' Bible readin', not 'ere, for our people won't stand it, an' Passon Walden ain't great on breakin' into private 'ouses without owners' consents for Bible readin', but she, she's 'Igh, an' tramps into Riversford near every day which the carrier's cart brings 'er 'ome to 'er own place they 'avin' given up a kerridge owin' to spekylation in railways, an' Miss Hagnes she works lovely with 'er needle, an' makes altar cloths an' vestis for Mr. Francis Anthony, the 'Igh Church clergyman at Riversford, he not bein' married, though myself I should say there worn't no chance for 'er, bein' frightful skinny an' a bit off in 'er looks—an' Miss Christina she do still play at bein' a baby like, she's the youngest, an' over forty, yet quite a giddy in 'er way, wearin' ribbins round her waist, an' if 'twarn't for 'er cheeks droppin' in long like, she wouldn't look so bad, but they're all that proud—"

"That'll do, Spruce, that'll do!" cried Maryllia, putting her hands to her ears—"No more Ittlethwaites, please, for the present! Sufficient for the day is the Magnum Chartus thereof! Who comes here?" and she read from another card,—"'Mrs. Mordaunt Appleby.' Also a smaller label which says, 'Mr. Mordaunt Appleby'! More county family pride or what?"

"Oh lor' no, Miss, Mordaunt Appleby's only the brewer of Riversford," said Mrs. Spruce, casually. "He's got the biggest 'ouse in the town, but people remembers 'im when he was a very shabby lot indeed,-an awful shabby lot. HE ain't nobody, Miss-he's just got a bit o' money which makes the commoner sort wag tails for 'im, but it's like his cheek to call 'ere at all. Sir Morton Pippitt, bein' in. the bone-meltin' line, as 'im up to dine now an' agin, just to keep in with 'im like, for he's a nasty temper, an' his wife's got the longest and spitefullest tongue in all the neighbourhood. But you needn't take up wi' them, Miss-they ain't in your line,-which some brewers is gentlemen, an' Appleby ain't—YOUR Pa wouldn't never know HIS Pa."

"Then that's settled!" said Maryllia, with a sigh of relief. "Depart, Mordaunt Applebys into the limbo of forgotten callers!"-and she tossed the cards aside-"Here are the Pippitt names,-I small remember them all right-Pip-pitt and Ittlethwaite have a tendency to raise blisters of memory on the brain. What is this neat looking little bit of pasteboard-' The Rev. John Walden.' Yes!-he called two or three days ago when I was out."

Mrs. Spruce sniffed a sniff of meaning, but said nothing.

"I've not been to church yet"-went on Maryllia medi-tatively. "I dare say he thinks me quite a dreadful person. But I hate going to church,-it's so stupid-so boresome-and oh!-such a waste of time!"

Mrs. Spruce still held her peace. Maryllia gave her a little side- glance and noted a certain wistfulness and wonder in the rosy, wrinkled face which was not without its own pathos.

"I suppose everybody about here goes to church at least Once on
Sundays," pursued Maryllia-"Don't they?"

"Them as likes Mr. Walden goes," answered Mrs. Spruce promptly-"Then as don't stops away. Sir Morton Pippitt used allus to attend 'ere reg'ler when the buildin' was nowt but ruin, an' 'e 'ad a tin roof put over it,-'e was that proud o' the tin roof you'd a' thought 'twas made o' pure gold, an' he was just wild when Mr. Walden pulled it all off an' built up the walls an' roof again as they should be all at 'is own expense, an' he went away from the place for sheer spite like, an' stayed abroad a whole year, an' when 'e come back again 'e never wouldn't go nigh it, an' now 'e attends service at Badsworth Church,-Badsworth Barn we calls it,-for'tain't nowt but a barn which Mr. Leveson keeps 'Igh as 'Igh with a bit o' tinsel an' six candles, though it's the mis'ablest place ye ever set eyes on, an' 'e do look a caution 'isself with what 'e calls a vestiment 'angin' down over 'is back, which is a baek as fat as porpuses, the Lord forgive me for sayin.' it, but Sir Morton 'e be that set against Mr. Walden he'll rather say 'is prayers in a pig-stye with a pig for the minister than in our church, since it's been all restored an' conskrated—then, as I told you just now, Miss, the Ittlethwaites goes to Riversford where they gits opratick music with the 'Lord be merciful to us mis'able sinners'—an' percessions with candles,—so our church is mostly filled wi' the village folks, farmer bodies an' sich-like,—there ain't no grand people what comes, though we don't miss 'em, for Passon 'e don't let us want for nothin' an' when there's a man out o' work, or a woman sick, or a child what's pulin' a bit, an' ricketty, he's alhis ready to 'elp, with all 'e 'as an' welcome, payin' doctor's fees often,—an' takin' all the medicine bills on 'isself besides. Ah, 'e's a rare good sort is Passon Walden, an' so you'd say yerself, Miss, if ever you took on your mind to go and hear 'im preach, an' studied 'is ways for a bit as 'twere an' asked 'bout 'im in the village, for 'e's fair an' open as the day an' ain't got no sly, sneaky tricks in 'im,—he's just a man, an' a good one—an' that's as rare a thing to find in this world as a di'mond in a wash-tub, an' makin' so bold, Miss, if you'd onny go to church next Sunday—-"

Maryllia interrupted her by a little gesture.

"I can't, Spruce!" she said, but with great gentleness—"I know it's the right and proper thing for me to do in the country if I wish to stand well with my neighbours,-but I can't! I don't believe in it,— and I won't pretend that I believe!"

Poor Mrs. Spruce felt a sudden choking in her throat, and her motherly face grew red and pale by turns. Miss Maryllia, the old squire's daughter, was—what? A heathen?—an unbeliever—an atheist? Oh, surely it was not possible—it could not be!—she would not accept the idea that a creature so dainty and pretty, so fair and winsome, could be cast adrift on the darkness of life without any trust in the saving grace of the Christian Faith! Limited as were Mrs. Spruce's powers of intelligence, she was conscious enough that there would be something sweet and strong lost out of the world, which nothing could replace, were the message of Christ withdrawn from it. The perplexity of her thoughts was reflected on her countenance and Maryllia, watching her, smiled a little sadly.

"You mustn't think I don't believe in God, Spruce,"—she said slowly—"I do! But I can't agree with all the churches teach about Him. They make Him out to be a cruel, jealous and revengeful Being— -"

"Mr. Walden don't—-," put in Mrs. Spruce, quickly.

"And I like to think of Him as all love and pity and goodness," went on Maryllia, not heeding her—"and I don't say prayers, because I think He knows what is best for me without my asking. Do you understand? So it's really no use my going to church, unless just out of curiosity—and perhaps I will some day do that,—I'll see about it! But I must know Mr. Walden a little better first,—I must find out for myself what kind of a man he is, before I make up my mind to endure such a martyrdom as listening to a sermon! I simply loathe sermons! I suppose I must have had too many of them when I was a child. Surely you remember, Spruce, that I used to be taken into Riversford to church?" Mrs. Spruce nodded emphatically in the affirmative. "Yes!—because when father was alive the church here was only a ruin. And I used to go to sleep over the sermons always— and once I fell off my seat and had to be carried out. It was dreadful! Now Uncle Fred never went to church,—nor Aunt Emily. So I've quite got out of the way of going—nobody is very particular about it in Paris or London, you see. But perhaps I'll try and hear Mr. Walden preach—just once—and I'll tell you then what I think about it. I'll put his card on the mantelpiece to remind me!"

And she suited the action to the word, Mrs. Spruce gazing at her in a kind of mild stupefaction. It seemed such a very odd thing to stick up a clergyman's card as a reminder to go to church 'just once' some Sunday.

Meanwhile Maryllia continued, "Now, Spruce, you must begin to be busy! You must prepare the Manor for the reception of all sorts of people, small and great. I feel that the time has come for 'company, company!' And in the first place I'm going to send for Cicely Bourne,—she's my pet 'genius'—and I'm paying the cost of her musical education in Paris. She's an orphan—like me—she's all alone in the world—like me;—and we're devoted to each other. She's only a child—just over fourteen—but she's simply a wonder!—the most wonderful musical wonder in the world!—and she has a perfectly marvellous voice. Her master Gigue says that when she is sixteen she will have emperors at her feet! Emperors! There are only a few,—but they'll all be grovelling in the dust before her! You must prepare some pretty rooms for her, Spruce, those two at the top of the house that look right over the lawn and woods—and make everything as cosy as you can. I'll put the finishing touches. And I must send to London for a grand piano. There's only the dear old spinet in the drawing-room,—it's sweet to sing to, and Cicely will love it,—but she must have a glorious 'grand' as well. I shall wire to her to- day,—I know she'll come at once. She will arrive direct from Paris,—let me see!"—and she paused meditatively—"when can she arrive? This is Friday,—yes!—probably she will arrive here Sunday or Monday morning. So you can get everything ready."

"Very well, Miss," and Mrs. Spruce, with the usual regulation 'dip' of respectful submission to her mistress was about to withdraw, when Maryllia called her back and handed over to her care the wicker basket full of visiting-cards.

"Put them all by,"—she said—"When Cicely comes we'll go through them carefully together, and discuss what to eat, drink and avoid. Till then, I shall blush unseen, wasting my sweetness on the desert air! Time enough and to spare for making the acquaintance of the 'county.' Who was it that said: Never know your neighbours'? I forget,—but he was a wise man, anyway!"

Mrs. Spruce 'dipped' a second time in silence, and was then allowed to depart on her various household duties. The good woman's thoughts were somewhat chaotically jumbled, and most fervently did she long to send for 'Passon,' her trusted adviser and chief consoler, or else go to him herself and ask him what he thought concerning the non-church-going tendencies of her mistress. Was she altogether a lost sheep? Was there no hope for her entrance into the heavenly fold?

"Which I can't and won't believe she's wicked,"—said Mrs. Spruce to herself—"With that sweet childie face an' eyes she couldn't be! M'appen 'tis bad example,—'er 'Merican aunt 'avin' no religion as 'twere, an' 'er uncle, Mr. Frederick, was never no great shakes in 'is young days if all the truth was told. Well, well! The Lord 'e knows 'is own, an' my 'pinion is He ain't a-goin' to do without Miss Maryllia, for it's allus 'turn again, turn again, why will 'ee die' sort of thing with Him, an' He don't give out in 'is patience. I'm glad she's goin' to 'ave a friend to stay with 'er,—that'll do 'er good and 'earten her up—an' mebbe the friend'll want to go to church, an' Miss Maryllia 'ull go with her, an' once they listens to Passon 'twill be all right, for 'is voice do draw you up into a little bit o' heaven somehow, whether ye likes it or not, an' if Miss Maryllia once 'ears 'im, she'll be wanting to 'ear 'im again— so it's best to leave it all in the Lord's 'ands which makes the hill straight an' the valleys crooked, an' knows what's good for both man and beast. Miss Maryllia ain't goin' to miss the Way, the Truth an' the Life—I'm sartin sure o' that!"

Thus Mrs. Spruce gravely cogitated, while Maryllia herself, unaware of the manner in which her immortal destinies were being debated by the old housekeeper, put on her hat, and ran gaily across the lawn, her great dog bounding at her side, making for the usual short-cut across the fields to the village. Arrived there she went straight to the post-office, a curious little lop-sided half-timbered cottage with a projecting window, wherein, through the dusty close-latticed panes could be spied various strange edibles, such as jars of acidulated drops, toffee, peppermint balls, and barley-sugar— likewise one or two stray oranges, some musty-looking cakes, a handful or so of old nuts, and slabs of chocolate protruding from shining wrappers of tin-foil,—while a flagrant label of somebody's 'Choice Tea' was suspended over the whole collection, like a flag of triumph. The owner of this interesting stock-in-trade and the postmistress of St. Rest, was a quaint-looking little woman, very rosy, very round, very important in her manner, very brisk and bright with her eyes, but very slow with her fingers.

"Which I gets the rheumatiz so bad in my joints," she was wont to say—"that I often wonders 'ow I knows postage-stamps from telegram- forms an' register papers from money-orders, an' if you doos them things wrong Gove'nment never forgives you!"

"Ah, you'll never get into no trouble with Gove'nment, Missis Tapple!" her gossips were wont to assure her, "For you be as ezack as ezack!"

A compliment which Mrs. Tapple accepted without demur, feeling it to be no more than her just due. She was, however, in spite of her 'ezack' methods, always a little worried when anything out of the ordinary occurred, and she began to feel slightly flustered directly she saw Maryllia swing open her garden gate. She had already, during the last few days, been at some trouble to decipher various telegrams which the lady of the Manor had sent down by Primmins for immediate despatch, such as one to a certain Lord Roxmouth which had run as follows:—"No time to reply to your letter. In love with pigs and poultry."

"It IS 'pigs and poultry,' ain't it?" she had asked anxiously of Primmins, after studying the message for a considerable time through, her spectacles. And Primmins, gravely studying it, too, had replied:—

"It is undoubtedly 'pigs and poultry.'"

"And it IS 'in love' you think?" pursued Mrs. Tapple, with perplexity furrowing her brow.

"It is certainly 'in love,'" rejoined Primmins, and the faintest suggestion of a wink affected his left eyelid.

Thereupon the telegram was 'sent through' to Riversford on its way to London, though not without serious misgivings in Mrs. Tapple's mind as to whether it might not be returned with a 'Gove'nment' query as to its correctness. And now, when Maryllia herself entered the office, and said smilingly, "Good-morning! Some foreign telegram-forms, please!" Mrs. Tapple felt that the hour was come when her powers of intelligence were about to be tried to the utmost; and she accordingly began to experience vague qualms of uneasiness.

"Foreign telegram-forms, Miss? Is it for Ameriky?"

"Oh, no!—only for Paris,"—and while the old lady fumbled nervously in her 'official' drawer, Maryllia glanced around the little business establishment with amused interest. She had a keen eye for small details, and she noticed with humorous appreciation Mrs. Tapple's pink sun-bonnet hanging beside the placarded 'Post Office Savings Bank' regulations, and a half side of bacon suspended from the ceiling, apparently for 'curing' purposes, immediately above the telegraphic apparatus. After a little delay, the required pale yellow 'Foreign and Colonial' forms were found, and Mrs. Tapple carefully flattened them out, and set them on her narrow office counter.

"Will you have a pencil, or pen and ink, Miss?" she enquired.

"Pen and ink, please," replied Maryllia; whereat the old postmistress breathed a sigh of relief. It would be easier to make out anything at all 'strange and uncommon' in pen and ink than in pencil-marks which had a trick of 'rubbing.' Leaning lightly against the counter Maryllia wrote in a clear bold round hand:

"Miss CICELY BOURNE,

"17 RUE CROISIE, PARIS.

"Come to me at once. Shall want you all summer. Have wired Gigue. Start to-morrow.

"MARYLLIA VANCOURT."

She pushed this over to Mrs. Tapple, who thankfully noting that she was writing another, took time to carefully read and spell over every word, and mastered it all without difficulty. Meanwhile Maryllia prepared her second message thus:

"Louis GIGUE,

"CONSERVATOIRE, PARIS.

"Je desire que Cicely passe l'ete avec moi et qu'elle arrive
immediatement. Elle peut tres-bien continuer ses etudes ici.
Vous pouvez suivre, cher maitre, a votre plaisir.

"MARYLLIA VANCOURT."

"It's rather long,"—she said thoughtfully, as she finished it. "But for Gigue it is necessary to explain fully. I hope you can make it out?"

Poor Mrs. Tapple quivered with inward agitation as she took the terrible telegram in hand, and made a brave effort to rise to the occasion.

"Yes, Miss," she stammered, "Louis Gigue—G.i.g.u.e., that's right— yes—at the Conservatory, Paris."

"'No, no!" said Maryllia, with a little laugh—"Not Conservatory—
Conservatoire—TOIRE, t.o.i.r.e., the place where they study music."

"Oh, yes—I see!" and Mrs. Tapple tried to smile knowingly, as she fixed her spectacles more firmly on her nose, and began to murmur slowly—"Je desire, d.e.sire—oh, yes—desire!—que—q.u.e.—Cicely- -yes that's all right!—passe, an e to pass—yes—now let me wait a minute; one minute, Miss, if you please!—l'ete—l apostrophe e, stroke across the e,—t, and e, stroke across the e—-"

Maryllia's eyebrows went up in pretty perplexity.

"Oh dear, I'm afraid you won't be able to get it right that way!" she said—"I had better write it in English,—why, here's Mr. Walden!" This, as she saw the clergyman's tall athletic figure entering Mrs. Tapple's tiny garden,—"Good-morning, Mr. Walden!" and as he raised his hat, she smiled graciously—"I want to send off a French telegram, and I'm afraid it's rather difficult—-"

A glance at Mrs. Tapple explained the rest, and Walden's eyes twinkled mirthfully.

"Perhaps I can be of some use, Miss Vancourt," he said. "Shall I try?"

Maryllia nodded, and he walked into the little office.

"Let me send off those telegrams for you, Mrs. Tapple," he said. "You know you often allow me to amuse myself in that way! I haven't touched the instrument for a month at least, and am getting quite out of practice. May I come in?"

Mrs. Tapple's face shone with relief and gladness.

"Well now, Mr. Walden, if it isn't a real blessin' that you happened to look in this mornin'!" she exclaimed—"For now there won't be no delay,—not but what I knew a bit o' French as a gel, an' I'd 'ave made my way to spell it out somehow, no matter how slow,—but there! you're that handy that 'twon't take no time, an' Miss Vancourt will be sure of her message 'avin' gone straight off from here correct,— an' if they makes mistakes at Riversford, 'twon't be my fault!"

While she thus ran on, Walden was handling the telegraphic apparatus. His back was turned to Maryllia, but he felt her eyes upon him,—as indeed they were,—and there was a slight flush of colour in his bronzed cheeks as he presenty looked round and said:

"May I have the telegram?"

"There are two—both for Paris," replied Maryllia, handing him the filled-up forms—"One is quite easy—in English." "And the other quite difficult—in French!"—he laughed. "Let me see if I can make it out correctly." Thereupon he read aloud: "'Louis Gigue, Conservatoire, Paris. Je desire que Cicely passe l'ete avec moi et qu'elle arrive immediatement. Elle peut tres-bien continuer ses etudes ici. Vous pouvez suivre, cher maitre, a votre plaisir.' Is that right?"

Maryllia's eyes opened a little more widely,—like blue flowers wakening to the sun. This country clergyman's pronunciation of French was perfect,—more perfect than her own trained Parisian accent. Mrs. Tapple clasped her dumpy red hands in a silent ecstasy of admiration. 'Passon' knew everything!

"Is it right?" Walden repeated.

Maryllia gave a little start.

"Oh I beg your pardon! Yes—quite right!—thank you ever so much!"

Click-click-click-click! The telegraphic apparatus was at work, and the unofficial operator was entirely engrossed in his business. Mrs. Tapple stood respectfully dumb and motionless, watching him. Maryllia, leaning against the ledge of the office counter, watched him, too. She took quiet observation of the well-poised head, covered with its rich brown-grey waving locks of hair,—the broad shoulders, the white firm muscular hands that worked the telegraphic instrument, and she was conscious of the impression of authority, order, knowledge, and self-possession, which seemed to have come into the little office with him, and to have created quite a new atmosphere. Outside, in the small garden, among mignonette and early flowering sweetpeas, Plato sat on his huge haunches in lion-like dignity, blinking at the sun,—while Walden's terrier Nebbie executed absurd but entirely friendly gambols in front of him, now pouncing down on two forepaws with nose to ground and eyes leering sideways,—now wagging an excited tail with excessive violence to demonstrate goodwill and a desire for amity.—and anon giving a short yelp of suppressed feeling,—to all of which conciliatory approaches Plato gave no other response than a vast yawn and meditative stare.

The monotonous click-click-click continued,—now stopping for a second, then going on more rapidly again, till Maryllia began to feel quite unreasonably impatient. She found something irritating at last in the contemplation of the back of Walden's cranium,—it was too well-shaped, she decided,—she could discover no fault in it. Humming a tune carelessly under her breath, she turned towards Mrs. Tapple's small grocery department, and feigned to be absorbed in an admiring survey of peppermint balls and toffee. Certain glistening squares of sticky white substance on a corner shelf commended themselves to her notice as specimens of stale 'nougat,' wherein the almonds represented a remote antiquity,—and a mass of stringy yellow matter laid out in lumps on blue paper and marked 'One Penny per ounce' claimed attention as a certain 'hardbake' peculiar to St. Rest, which was best eaten in a highly glutinous condition. A dozen or so of wrinkled apples which, to judge by their damaged and worn exteriors, must have been several autumns old, kept melancholy companionship with assorted packages of the 'Choice Tea' whereof the label was displayed in the window, and Maryllia was just about wondering whether she would, or could buy anything out of the musty- fusty collection, when the click-click-click stopped abruptly, and Walden stepped forth from the interior 'den' of the post-office.

"That's all right, Miss Vancourt," he said. "Your telegrams are sent correctly as far as Riversford anyhow, and there is one operator there who is acquainted with the French language. Whether they will transmit correctly from London I shouldn't like to say!—we are a singular nation, and one of our singularities is that we scorn to know the language of our nearest neighbours!"

She smiled up at him,—and as his glance met hers he was taken aback, as it were, by the pellucid beauty and frank innocence of the grave dark-blue eyes that shone so serenely into his own.

"Thank you so very, very much! You have been most kind!" and with a swift droop of her white eyelids she veiled those seductive 'mirrors of the soul' beneath a concealing fringe of long golden-brown lashes—"It's quite a new experience to find a clergyman able and willing to be a telegraph clerk as well! So useful, isn't it?"

"In a village like this it is," rejoined Walden, gaily—"And after all, there's not much use in being a minister unless one can practically succeed in the art of 'ministering' to every sort of demand made upon one's capabilities! Even to Miss Vancourt's needs, should she require anything, from the preservation of trees to the sending of telegrams, that St. Rest can provide!"

Again Maryllia glanced at him, and again a little smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

"I must pay for the telegrams," she said abruptly—"Mrs. Tapple—-"

"Yes, Miss—I've written it all down," murmured Mrs. Tapple nervously—"It's right, Mr. Walden, isn't it? If you would be so good as to look at it, bein' tuppence a word, it do make it different like, an' m'appen there might be a mistake—-"

Walden glanced over the scrap of paper on which she had scrawled her rough figures.

"Fivepence out, I declare, Mrs. Tapple!" he said, merrily. "Dear, dear! Whatever is going to become of you, eh? To cheat yourself wouldn't matter—nobody minds THAT—but to do the British Government out of fivepence would be a dreadful thing! Now if I had not seen this you would have been what is called 'short' this evening in making up accounts." Here he handed the corrected paper to Maryllia. "I think you will find that right."

Maryllia opened her purse and paid the amount,—and Mrs. Tapple, in giving her change for a sovereign, included among the coins a bright new threepenny piece with a hole in it. Spying this little bit of silver, Maryllia held it up in front of Walden's eyes triumphantly.

"Luck!" she exclaimed—"That's for you! It's a reward for your telegraphic operations! Will you be grateful if I give it to you?"

He laughed.

"Profoundly! It shall be my D.S.O.!"

"Then there you are!" and she placed the tiny coin in the palm of the hand he held out to receive it. "The labourer is worthy of his hire! Now you can never go about like some clergymen, grumbling and saying you work for no pay!" Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "What shall we do next? Oh, I know! Let's buy some acid drops!"

Mrs. Tapple stared and smiled.

"Or pear-drops," continued Maryllia, glancing critically at the various jars of 'sweeties,'—"I see the real old-fashioned pink ones up there,—lumpy at one end and tapering at the other. Do you like them? Or brandy balls? I think the pear-drops carry one back to the age of ten most quickly! But which do you prefer?"

Walden tried to look serious, but could not succeed. Laughter twinkled all over his face, and he began to feel extremely young.

"Well,—really, Miss Vancourt,—-" he began.

"There, I know what you are going to say!" exclaimed Maryllia—"You are going to tell me that it would never do for a clergyman to be seen munching pear-drops in his own parish. I understand! But clergymen do ever so much. worse than that sometimes. They do, really! Two ounces of pear-drops for me, Mrs. Tapple, please!—and one of brandy balls!"

Mrs. Tapple bustled out of her 'Gove'nment' office, and came to the grocery counter to dispense these dainties.

"They stick to the jar so," said Maryllia, watching her thoughtfully; "They always did. I remember, as a child, seeing a man put his finger in to detach them. Don't put your finger in, Mrs. Tapple!—take a bit of wood—an old skewer or something. Oh, they're coming out all right! That's it!" And she popped one of the pear- drops into her mouth. "They are really very good—better than French fondants—so much more innocent and refreshing!" Here she took possession of the little paper-bags which Mrs. Tapple had filled with the sweets. "Thank you, Mrs. Tapple! If any answers to my telegrams come from Paris, please send them up to the Manor at once. Good-morning!"

"Good-morning, Miss!" And Mrs. Tapple, curtseying, pulled the door of her double establishment wider open to let the young lady pass out, which she did, with a smile and nod, Walden following her. Plato rose and paced majestically after his mistress, Nebbie trotting meekly at the rear, and so they all went forth from the postmistress's garden into the road, where Walden, pausing, raised his hat in farewell.

"Oh, are you going?" queried Maryllia. "Won't you walk with me as far as your own rectory?"

"Certainly, if you wish it,"—he answered with a slight touch of embarrassment; "I thought perhaps—-"

"You thought perhaps,—what?" laughed Maryllia, glancing up at him archly—"That I was going to make you eat pear-drops against your will? Not I! I wouldn't be so rude. But I really thought I ought to buy something from Mrs. Tapple,—she was so worried, poor old dear!- -till you came in. Then she looked as happy as though she saw a vision of angels. She's a perfect picture, with her funny old shawl and spectacles and knobbly red fingers—and do you know, all the time you were working the telegraph you were under the fragrant shadow of a big piece of bacon which was 'curing,'—positively 'curing' over your head! Couldn't you smell it?"

Walden's eyes twinkled.

"There was certainly a fine aroma in the air," he said—"But it seemed to me no more than the customary perfume common to Mrs. Tapple's surroundings. I daresay it was new to you! A country clergyman is perhaps the only human being who has to inure himself to bacon odours as the prevailing sweetness of cottage interiors."

Maryllia laughed. She had a pretty laugh, silver-clear and joyous without loudness.

"Fancy your being so clever as to be able to send off telegrams!" she exclaimed—"What an accomplishment for a Churchman! Don't you want to know all about the messages you sent?—who the persons are, and what I have to do with them?"

"Not in the least!" answered John, smiling.

"Are you not of a curious disposition?"

"I never care about other people's business," he said, meeting her upturned eyes with friendly frankness—"I have enough to do to attend to my own."

"Then you are positively inhuman!" declared Maryllia—"And absolutely unnatural! You are, really! Every two-legged creature on earth wants to find out all the ins and cuts of every other two- legged creature,—for if this were not the case wars would be at an end, and the wicked cease from troubling and the weary be at rest. So just because you don't want to know about my two friends in Paris, I'm going to tell you. Louis Gigue is the greatest teacher of singing there is,—and Cicely Bourne is his pupil, a perfectly wonderful little girl with a marvellous compass of voice, whose training and education I am paying for. I want her with me here—and I have sent for her;—Gigue can come on if he thinks it necessary to give her a few lessons during the summer, but of course she is not to sing in public until she is sixteen. She is only fourteen now."

Walden listened in silence. He was looking at his companion sideways, and noting the delicate ebb and flow of the rose tint in her cheeks, the bright flecks of gold in the otherwise brown hair, and the light poise of her dainty rounded figure as she stepped along beside him with an almost aerial grace and swiftness.

"She was the child of a Cornish labourer,"—went on Maryllia. "Her mother sold her for ten pounds. Yes!—wasn't it dreadful!" This, as John's face expressed surprise. "But it is true! You shall hear all the story some day,—it is quite a little romance. And she is so clever!—you would think her ever so much older than she is, to hear her talk. Sometimes she is rather blunt, and people get offended with her-but she is true—oh, so true!—she wouldn't do a mean action for the world! She is just devoted to me,—and that is perhaps why I am devoted to her,—because after all, it's a great thing to be loved, isn't it?"

"It is indeed!" replied John, mechanically, beginning to feel a little dazed under the influence of the bright eyes, animated face, smiling lips and clear, sweet voice—"It ought to be the best of all things."

"It ought to be, and it is!" declared Maryllia emphatically. "Oh, what a lovely bush of lilac!" And she hastened on a few steps in order to look more closely at the admired blossoms, which were swaying in the light breeze over the top of a thick green hedge— "Why, it must be growing in your garden! Yes, it is!—of course it is!—this is your gate. May I come in?"

She paused, her hand on the latch,—and for a moment Walden hesitated. A wave of colour swept up to his brows,—he was conscious of a struggling desire to refuse her request, united to a still more earnest craving to grant it. She looked at him, wistfully smiling.

"May I come in?" she repeated.

He advanced, and opened the gate, standing aside for her to pass.

"Of course you may!"—he said gently,—"And welcome!"