"Nothing is more pleasant to the eye," said Lord Bacon, "than green grass nicely shorn." And truly his quaint Lordship would have been pleased had he been able to look upon Mrs. Poynter's grass to-day. It was shorn and shaven as close as the priest of old who was so unkind as to marry the pretty maid forlorn to that dreadfully tattered old man we have all known in our story books. For summer was gone to sleep, and lay prone upon the earth covered with her dead rose-leaves—only to wake again hereafter. And now Autumn reigned. The dahlias in the long borders were shining like coloured stars, and the asters and sunflowers still upheld their heads. In the smaller beds the good begonias, who never crave for rest until dread frost compels them, shed great splendour where they lay. But they are frail things, and drop from their stems in a night when harsh winds assail them. June, July, August, all have gone. And with them every thought of the poor woman who had been done to death so strangely, only three months ago! One never talked of Mrs. Darkham now, though every one said a good deal about, Dr. Darkham, who had come back three weeks ago from that sad trip he had taken to shake off his grief. His grief appeared excellently well shaken off, they all said. He seemed quite to ignore it, indeed, when he returned, looking pale and thin certainly, but more interested in social surroundings. He was more full of life than he had ever been before. Mr. Sparks, a young man staying with the Poynters, who during the last year had contracted an unfortunate passion for photographing his friends, was now standing out on the lawn, with his instrument of torture before him, and his head buried in a dirty velveteen cloth. He "meant well," as they say, but he never did it. He was abnormally tall and thin, and his hair fell over his forehead; the atrocities that he had committed no doubt preyed upon his conscience. To add to his other misfortunes, he was a friend of Dicky Browne, who to-day was taking great joy out of him. "We'll be taken in a group," decided Mr. Browne, after a long discussion; "we can be taken separately afterwards, if we have the courage." He looked at Mrs. Poynter, who had been most eager to get a sitting all to herself. She was pretty, and she knew it, and why shouldn't others know it? She was unaware of Mr. Sparks's peculiar talent, certainly, or perhaps she would not have been so desirous of seeing herself or her children—two lovely little beings of six and eight—once again on paper. "Now I'm ready, if you are!" roared Mr. Sparks from the centre of the lawn. "One minute!" shouted back Dicky Browne. He was settling everybody, and pulling out their skirts. This made all the women mad. "Are you ready?" roared out Sparks again, who was suffocating from his incessant visits beneath the velveteen cloth. It was a very warm day. "One moment." Dr. Dillwyn had just come in, and where was he to be placed? He made straight for Agatha, and Dicky could not fail to see the significance of the smile with which she greeted him. "Is there room for me here?" That was his whisper. "Yes, yes," she said softly, gently. So he laid his hand on the arm of her chair, and stood erect. There was a moment of awful tension. All were putting on their worst smiles and the most fatally imbecile expression, and Mr. Sparks was about to withdraw the cap, when a lively crash was heard and a smothered shriek. They all sprang to their feet, and the tableau was spoiled. It was Dicky, of course. As usual, he had chosen the frailest seat in the place as a support for his rather stout frame—this time a milking-stool of delicate proportions; and one of the legs had come off, and now Dicky and it were floundering together on the floor of the veranda, buried in one common ruin. The party in the veranda broke up and went here and there through the gardens, or else back to the tennis-courts. Tea was going on in a large tent on the lawn, and presently Elfrida, who had seated herself in a garden-chair outside the tent, and had sent Lord Ambert for some coffee, saw Mr. Blount standing near her. Elfrida looked up at him. She was quite alone—a singular occurrence so far as she was concerned—and for the first time, therefore, she was able to look at Blount with a critical eye. It struck her first that he was the youngest-looking man she had ever seen, and then, for she was fond of analysis, she told herself she regarded him like that simply because Lord Ambert was so very far from young. Presently Blount looked round and saw her, and such a light of gladness grew upon his face as could not be mistaken. "Can't I do something for you?" asked he. "You can indeed; you can sit here beside me and amuse me, and tell me things." "Tell you things?" He laughed at this; he was feeling extraordinarily happy. "What can I tell you that could interest you?" "Well, one thing," said this finished coquette, "your Christian name. When one likes a person, one always wants to know how those who love him call him." She smiled at him divinely, bending here pretty head towards him. She looked very lovely in her exquisite gown—a delicate petunia shade, clouded with lace—and the curate, looking at her, lost his head a little. He looked back at her, with all the passionate and very real love he felt for her showing now openly within his honest young eyes. Blount woke from his mad dream, and to a most unpleasant reality. The Rev. Thomas Blount was a name that could be seen very often on cards for soirees, or placards for temperance meetings, or invitations to tea for girls' friendly societies. It hurt him in some strange way that she had never noticed those cards and placards. If she had even liked him, she would have felt some such small interest in him. "I'll tell you, of course," said he. Yet he hesitated. Thomas! How could he tell her his name was Thomas? It was, indeed, one of his greatest griefs that he had to sign himself so when he came to this parish. Thomas was such a respectable name! "Ah, I know now!" cried Elfrida, as he hesitated. "It is Thomas. I saw it in a—-" "Oh, really, you know, it is not my name," said Blount. "I'm always called Tom by my friends." "Yes?" Elfrida turned and gave him a wonderful little look from under her hat—a charming hat all covered with violets. "Am I your friend?" asked she. "My friend?" he stammered, and then stopped. Something in her face, her eyes, that were looking over her shoulder at some one approaching, checked another word. He, too, looked hastily backwards, to see Ambert coming out of the tent and approaching them, a cup in his hand and a scowl upon his brow. Mrs. Greatorex and Miss Firs-Robinson were behind him. |