BARLEY HULLERS,” mused Hugh, when he awoke the next morning, “composed of chosen spirits, with boutonnihres of barley heads as an insignia of rank. I doubt not that if I were engaged in agricultural pursuits I should join them. But why, I wonder, did Major Hampton solicit me to identify myself with the order? The more I see of the old major the more I admire him, notwithstanding the half mystery that seems a part of him, and the contradictory elements in nis nature. Let me see—I have decided to ask Ethel Horton to be my wife.”

As he made his toilet he saw a reflection of his face in the mirror, and blushed as if he had been caught in the very act of preparing a declaration of love to Ethel. “Yes, it is a privilege and a duty. I can do no more than try; and then conscience urges me on.”

Arriving at the bank, he found a letter from Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton inviting him to the Grove for dinner that evening.

“I also received one,” said Captain Osborn, approaching Hugh’s desk. “I presume that the Hortons are giving a spread in honor of Lord Avondale.”

“Do you think it has any significance?” asked Hugh.

“Well, I am a little worried about it,” replied the captain. “They may announce Ethel’s engagement for all one knows, but, sir, I don’t believe it! No, sir, she is too sensible a girl and has too much American blood in her to be caught by an English title.”

“I hope you are right,” observed Hugh, sighing secretly, as he went on with his work.

That evening, on arriving at the Grove a little late, Hugh found not only the Osborns and Lord Avondale, but also Major Hampton and his daughter Marie.

Ethel Horton was all animation in helping her mother entertain, but Hugh’s quick eye detected a shade of sadness in her face. The light-hearted girl whom he had known in the first months of his residence in Kansas had to him now more the appearance of a conventional young woman of the world. Formalities had banished much of the girlish frankness of earlier days, leaving, indeed, only a trace.

Marie Hampton was attired in a beautiful evening gown of white silk, with a knot of La France roses at her corsage. Her beauty struck Hugh as never before. It aroused in him a sincere admiration. Her heavy bronzed tresses reflected the various shades of gold. As their eyes met a rich color flushed her cheeks. Hugh could not decide which outrivaled the other,—Ethel, the stately brunette, or Marie, the ideal blonde.

Mrs. Horton, in an elegant creation of Red-fern, was graciousness to every guest, while coquettish Mrs. Osborn appeared more youthful and girlish than ever. She smiled compassionately upon the captain and knowingly at Lord Avondale. She had a word of compliment for every one, and in many ways proved herself a most agreeable woman in the art of entertaining.

Lord Avondale, in his regulation black, roused himself above his usually dominating peculiarities, and seemed to be quite charmed with Ethel’s beauty, and to be genuinely interested in her.

Major Hampton had been discussing a painting when Hugh was announced, and, as he turned to receive him, Hugh was more than ever impressed with the grandeur of the man.

“What a rare specimen,” said he to himself, “of an American nobleman, both physically and intellectually.”

After the greetings, Hugh’s eyes sought Ethel’s with a hope that he might find some message in them, but they gave no response, and he was conscious of a chilled feeling at his heart.

John B. Horton, cattle king, was at his best. In his hearty frontier way he was the very prince of hosts. His black eyes beamed with good nature and hospitality.

“My friend Stanton,” said he, as he waved his hand toward the ladies, “lovelier specimens of the fair sex can’t be found. As for my daughter, you know, I am hardly an impartial judge—am so prejudiced in her favor. But look at Miss Marie,—why, her development completely astonishes me. I remember her as a little girl in short dresses, Stanton. It was only a little while ago, but now where can a young woman be found more queenly than she?”

Soon dinner was announced, and all seated themselves around a table both elegant and sumptuous. The conversation became animated. Ethel was especially vivacious, and won laurels in the repartee of the hour. Sometimes her laughing eyes would rest pointblank upon Hugh, and then again upon Lord Avondale.

As the dinner progressed, the Englishman turned his attention from Mrs. Osborn, much to her chagrin, and entered into a spirited conversation with Marie Hampton. The young woman proved herself a most brilliant conversationalist. Major Hampton looked beamingly upon his daughter, and smiled at her quick repartee, as if it were a personal compliment to himself and his instructions. Indeed, there was not a book in her father’s library with which she was not familiar. Her passion for study was gratified whenever she was not called to other employment. Before the dinner was half over the keen eyes of Mrs. Osborn had discovered what Hugh had never dreamed of,—that Marie Hampton was in love with him.

“The silly goose,” said Mrs. Osborn to herself, “he knows as little about affairs of the heart as a babe in swaddling-clothes.”

In Marie’s eyes Hugh was all that was noble, strong, and grand. She imagined that her secret was wholly hers; and she loved to pay him homage in silent girlish adoration. To Mrs. Osborn’s quick, experienced eyes, however, the rosebud was opening, and the warm, red petals were showing through the calyx of concealment which Marie was trying to throw around her adoration.

Lord Avondale announced that he expected to leave on the following day for Colorado, where, according to previous arrangements, he was to meet a party of English friends at Colorado Springs, and from there go hunting for Rocky Mountain sheep. Hugh fancied that he saw a pleased expression come to the face of his old friend, Captain Osborn; and a sigh of relief escaped his own heart at the thought of Lord Avondale really going away. He was glad not only on Ethel’s account, but also on account of the captain. He felt that the absence of this man might prevent complications in which Mrs. Lyman Osborn would be implicated.

“I am a little surprised,” observed Lord Avondale, “that you Americans don’t take the time to go shooting, when your mountains are so full of such excellent game. I regard shooting as rare sport—I do, indeed.”

“Our lives are rather busy ones,” replied Mrs. Horton, “but doubtless we would do well to imitate our English cousins and give ourselves more holidays. We Americans have seemingly fallen into the custom of sticking rather close to our business affairs, and you know it’s a hard thing to get out of a rut.”

“Quite true,” replied his lordship, “but all work, you know, and no play, makes Jack a dull boy.”

“Sometimes Jack is not so dull as he seems to be,” put in Captain Osborn.

“Of course, I meant nothing personal, you know,” said Lord Avondale, “for we are all aware that Americans are decidedly good business men,—quite sharp and thrifty, you know.”

“Some of them are,” observed Major Hampton, “but the masses are poor,—kept so by the sharpness of the few. Indeed, they are sadly in need of a protection which, at the present time, our laws do not afford.”

“It is not,” said Mrs. Osborn, “because our men cannot, but rather because they will not advise themselves of English ways and customs, and profit by the example.”

“Thank you,” said Lord Avondale, “that was a very clever speech, my dear Mrs. Osborn. I regard it as a compliment, I do indeed.”

“Habit and education,” said Mrs. Horton, “have much to do with our lives. Before I commenced visiting England, I entertained entirely different views from those I do to-day. At best, we Americans are but an offspring from the mother country, and the child should never cease to love and reverence the parent. I should have been greatly dissatisfied with myself had I permitted Ethel to be educated in the States.”

“My dear Mrs. Horton,” said Marie, looking up with a flushed face, “what text-books did Ethel study in England that cannot be found in America?”

“It’s not that!” exclaimed Lord Avondale, “it’s the surroundings, you know,—the absorbing of ideas peculiar to the English people, to which Mrs. Horton refers.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Horton, with her blandest smile, as she bowed to his lordship.

“I will not ask in what way they differ,” said Marie, “but I will ask in what way they are superior to the influences to be found in America?”

“Quite clever,” replied Lord Avondale, “quite clever, indeed. I could hardly answer the question you ask without also answering the one you say you will not ask.”

“Well,” persisted Marie, “I am waiting for the answer;” and a haughty expression came into her deep blue eyes.

“Ah! they’re so civil, don’t you know; the people in England are educated to respect their superiors, while the better class and the nobility are educated to be gentle toward inferiors.”

“But,” said Marie, “what if there were no class distinctions? Then may not Americans act toward each other the same as the better class and the nobility act toward one another? Are not Americans as civil as Englishmen?”

“Really, Miss Hampton,” said Lord Avondale, “I regret having been drawn into this discussion. I am quite willing to admit that in many parts of America the people are quite civil. Last winter I was in New Orleans. I found the people of the South remarkably civil,—much more so than the people of the Northern States.”

“And do you know the reason?” asked Marie with flashing eyes.

“No, really, Miss Hampton, I do not. I would be charmed if you would enlighten me, I really would—you know.” A supercilious smile overspread the face of Lord Avondale, while Marie’s handsome countenance glowed with an increased beauty in defending her country.

“That part of our country,” replied she, “New Orleans especially, was settled principally by the French, and the North by the English.”

“Ah! ah!—is that so?” stammered Lord Avondale. “I admit I am somewhat deficient in history, don’t you know.”

Captain Osborn laughed outright, much to the chagrin of his wife.

After they had returned to the parlors, both Mrs. Horton and Mrs. Osborn agreed that Marie had been shockingly rude to Lord Avondale. While they were talking of the affair in one corner, Ethel—sotto voce—was telling Marie that she was the dearest girl in the world, and that she loved her more than ever for having vanquished Lord Avondale.

Soon after, the guests took their departure, and the next day Lord Avondale left Meade on the stage-coach, to enjoy a few months’ shooting in Colorado.