Elfrida stayed awake till twelve o'clock that night. Then she went to bed and slept soundly until her maid next morning called her.

She had said last night she would not marry Ambert. She had not yet, however, said whom she would marry.

She dressed herself and went down to the garden. She always rose early, and was in the habit of taking a little first breakfast in her own room. And now she found that the tiny cup of chocolate and its accompanying roll was as much as she cared for to-day.

She strolled slowly here and there. But presently she left the garden and strolled idly into the meadow beyond it, and, leaning her arms upon the stile, told herself it was lovely to be alone for once, and at this delightful hour, with not a single weight on her mind, not a creature in sight, and her engagement broken off!

Engagements were odious! Never would she submit to one again. They meant waiting and waiting. If ever she were to dream of marriage again, there should be no engagement. Hateful word!

Suddenly a quick light grew within her eyes. Down there in the lower field, quite a quarter of a mile away, some one was walking quickly. A quarter of a mile is a long way for people to distinguish one person from another, but somehow Elfrida was equal to the occasion. She knew at once that the man down there trudging across that field was Tom. She always called him Mr. Blount to people, but to herself of late he had been Tom.

She thought a moment, and then this finished coquette drew a handkerchief from her pocket and held it aloft.

The breeze caught and swayed it most delicately to and fro, but it did not seem to be of much use. At all events, the curate held his even way, and was now nearly across the field without having glanced once in its direction.

Elfrida was a person hard to beat. She now flung down her handkerchief, and raised both her small white hands to her mouth.

"Coo-ee."

The old Australian call came sweetly from her lips, and rang as such a sweet call should, straight to where it was meant to go.

The young man in the field below stood still, glanced to right and left, and then direct to the right.

Yes; she was there! It was she who had called him.

Blount knew nothing of what had happened after he ran away yesterday from her displeasure.

He was quite near before he dared to look at her, and then his spirits went up with a bound. She had not heard, then!

She received him sweetly.

"Fancy your cutting me like that," said she.

"Cutting you?"

"Well, yes—down there in the lower meadow. I waved my handkerchief to you, but, of course, one needn't see a thing unless one likes."

"I should have liked," said he. "But I didn't see."

"No? And then I called to you. You"—with a glance from under her long lashes—"had to come then."

"You know very well," said he, with some reproach, "that I was only too glad to come."

She laughed a little, but she had the grace to blush.

"What made you do that yesterday?" asked she at last, in a low tone.

"Who told you?" asked he. "But that is outside the matter. I did it because it was what I have been longing to do for months. Of course"—slowly—"I could say I did it because he insulted me, but there's no good telling a lie about it."

"For months! And why?"

"Well—if you will have it," said he desperately. "I half killed that fellow because you had promised to marry him, and— God forgive me—I'm not a bit sorry for it."

There was a short silence, then Elfrida looked straight at him.

"Neither am I," said she.

This astounding announcement from the bride-elect of the man he had just thrashed startled Blount into more immediate action.

"Then, what on earth are you marrying him for?"

"Oh, that's all over," said Elfrida airily.

"What's over?"

"My engagement to Lord Ambert. Didn't you know? I could not possibly marry a man who had been beaten—and beaten by you!"

"You are free now?"

"I don't know," said she softly. Her eyes were again on the ground.

Tom Blount looked at her. Was she in earnest?

"You don't believe it," she said. She could read him like a book.

"It seems to me"—petulantly—"that you don't want to believe it. And yet you tell me you half killed that coward just because—-"

"I loved you," said Blount.

"Ah!" She was not looking at the pebble now; she was looking at him. "You loved me then; I wonder—if you love me now."

"Elfrida!"

"You do?" She laughed again, so prettily, and held out to him her hand. He took it and held it fast.

"Why don't you kiss it?" she said, coquette to the last.

"I will not kiss your hand unless I may kiss you," said he. "And I would not kiss you unless you said you would be my wife."

"Wouldn't you?" said Elfrida. All her old audacity had come back to her. She stood erect, and looked at him defiantly. Her eyes sparkled; she did not, however, remove her hand from his grasp. It would have been difficult. "Very well, then, let me tell you that I wouldn't kiss you for anything you could offer— unless you said you would be my husband."

I don't think either of them knew which was the first. It was a simultaneous rush into each other's arms.

....

She took him in to breakfast—she had recovered her appetite— and told Miss Firs-Robinson all about it on the spot.

Miss Firs-Robinson, who had refused to believe in Elfrida's determination to break off her engagement with Ambert, was at first greatly upset. She marched to the window, turning her back upon Blount—it was beyond question the finest back in Europe —and there thrummed upon the panes for a minute or so. Then she came back.

"It is a blow—a blow," said she. "Your poor father meant you to be—-"

"Happy!" said Elfrida, "And I shall be so happy with Tom, and Tom with me. Won't you, Tom?" Blount had his arm round her in a moment. "And I couldn't bear Ambert, auntie, could I now? And you couldn't bear him, either, could you now?"

She left Blount's dear arms, and went to Miss Firs-Robinson, and slipped herself into her embrace.

"He was an earl!" said the old lady, in a distinct tone.

"He was a beast," said her niece sweetly.

There seemed something definite about this. Miss Firs-Robinson let Elfrida recline upon her ample bosom, and Elfrida accepted the air-cushion very gracefully. Peace with honour seemed to be restored, when all at once Miss Firs-Robinson spoke again. Her words were unpleasant, but she for the first time on this eventful morning addressed them to Blount, which of course was a good sign.

"Elfrida has a great deal of money," said she.

"I know," said Blount. He was feeling restive.

"Why," said he, looking at Elfrida, "could you not endow a hospital or an orphanage, or—-"

"Certainly not!" said Elfrida, abandoning the air-cushion on the spot. "Why should we be uncomfortable just because we happen to love each other?" She ran to him. "I love you, and you love me, and, auntie"—she looked back and held out her hand to the old lady—"you love him too, don't you?"

"How can I tell?" said she.

"Well, at all events, you hated Ambert, didn't you now?" Miss Firs-Robinson struggled with herself and then gave way. She burst into tears.

"Like poison, my dear," said she—"like poison."