Margaret had read those lines of Swinburne's:

and she remembered them; they came floating up through her memory during the still hours of the night following Lord Blair's passionate avowal.

It had taken her so completely by surprise that even yet she had scarcely realized what this was that had happened to her.

She had read of love, had painted it, but hitherto she and it had been perfect strangers; and now—and now all wonderful mysterious sweetness of it suffused her whole being. "He loves me! he loves me!" she found herself repeating over and over again in a species of half-unconscious rapture; and as she murmured the significant words she hid her face in her hands, and the words he had spoken came surging back on her ears and in her heart, and she could still feel his hot, passionate kisses on her hands and hair.

All the next day she lived like one in a dream.

She never asked herself whether she had acted wisely or even rightly in listening to him, or promising to meet him again. Wisdom and propriety were swamped and overwhelmed by the full tide of love which had taken possession of her.

Once there flashed upon her the thought that she ought to tell her grandmother, but the same instant she felt that it would be impossible. It would be like sacrilege to utter a word of this new mystery which she had discovered. Besides, she had not yet given him his answer. It would be time enough to tell Mrs. Hale after then.

In the evening she wandered slowly to the glade, and rested on the spot where she had sat the day before; and there she re-enacted the whole scene so vividly that she could almost believe that he was really present, kneeling at her side, and holding her hand.

With a sigh, she leaned her head on her hand, and tried to think it out, but she could not think. A great joy, like a great pain, makes thought impossible.

The day passed, she scarcely knew how, and the night. She slept some hours, but her sleep was full of dreams, in which Lord Leyton was the predominant figure; the handsome face may be said to have hovered about her pillow; and when she awoke, flushed and quivering, it was to have the sense of her great joy sweeping over her anew like an overwhelming flood.

"Margaret, my dear, you look pale," said Mrs. Hale, at breakfast. "It's the heat. I wouldn't go painting in the gallery to-day. It's hot there, and the colors must give you a headache, I should think. If I were you, I'd go and sit in the woods; there is some shade there, and it's cool, especially near the cascade."

Margaret colored furiously. It almost seemed as if Mrs. Hale had got an inkling of her appointment with Lord Blair.

"I will go to the woods, grandma," she said; and she put her arm round the old lady's neck, and laid her soft cheek against the withered one.

"Yes, my dear," said Mrs. Hale, "you can go there quite safely, for the earl never walks there even when he does go out, and Lord Leyton's gone. But you won't disturb the birds, Margaret, will you? Mr. Simpson, the head keeper, is so particular."

"No, I will do no harm, grandma," Margaret said, and she got her hat and went to the woods.

It was a lovely morning; the birds were singing in full note; the butterflies were flitting from wild flower to wild flower; the miniature cascade made a delicious music. But it and the birds seemed to sing the same song for Margaret. "I love you! I love you!"

Surely, if she lived to be a hundred, whatever happened in her life, she should never forget this spot sacred to her in the first passion that had ever stirred her maiden heart. Always before her eyes in the future would rise this glade at Leyton woods; always would she hear the ceaseless babble of the brook, the song of the linnets!

She had not long to wait. There came a quick, firm step—she knew it so well, although it had come into her life so recently—and with a spring like a boy's, Lord Blair was beside her; not only beside her, but on one knee.

For a moment he seemed unable to speak, and the color came and went on his tanned cheek.

"Do you know," he said with a smile, and in that hushed, lingering voice which love takes to itself, "all the way I have been tormenting myself with the dread that you wouldn't come!"

"I said that I would come!" she said, with downcast eyes.

"I know! And I ought to have known that you would rather die than break your word. But I thought that perhaps you would be prevented, that you might have told some one—Mrs. Hale——"

"I have told no one," said Margaret, with a sudden feeling of gratitude.

"That is right," he said; then, as the shadow swept over her face, he went on quickly—"Not that I should have cared for myself. No! I would like all the world to know how I love you; not that they could possibly know that. Not even you can guess at that, Margaret. But I should like to tell everybody that I love you, and that——But, ah, Margaret, you haven't told me yet! Are you going to let me stay? Are you going to let me go on loving you? Dearest, you have not come to be hard and cruel to me! You will say 'yes?'" and he held out his arms to her.

Margaret sat silent for a moment, then she raised her eyes; they seemed heavy with love's mysterious shyness, and she breathed the word that gave her to him.

His arms closed round her, and he held her to him with one passionate kiss until, half frightened, she drew away from him.

There was silence between them then, and they sat hand in hand in that communion of spirit which is only permitted to us poor mortals once in a life. To him she was the embodiment of all that was beautiful and good! To her he was the epitome of all that was handsome and brave; and he was to be good also now, for had he not said that her love should be his salvation?

After a time they began to talk, as newly-made lovers do talk. Short little sentences, full of delicious meaning; small nothings, which represented the sum of all things to them.

Then Blair said, suddenly:

"Dearest, you said you had told no one: Mrs. Hale, or any one, about our meeting?"

"No," she assented.

"That was right, Margaret," he said. "I don't want you to tell any one."

She looked at him trustingly, but with a vague surprise.

"Do you mind, dear?" he asked. "If so, if you would rather this were told, we will go together, you and I, and then we will go to the earl——"

"No, no," said Margaret, shrinking from such an ordeal, and longing—girl-like—to keep her delicious secret to herself for a little longer.

"It shall be as you wish, dearest," he said, frankly; "but there are reasons why it would be better for us to say nothing about our engagement. Look here, Margaret," he went on, earnestly, "I spoke the truth just now, when I said that I would like to proclaim my happiness to all the world, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be a good thing to do. It would be better not to do so, for your sake."

"For mine?" she said, looking into his dark eyes with a tender questioning.

"Yes. I don't want you to lose anything by your goodness to me, dear; that's natural enough, isn't it? And I am afraid you would lose a great deal if we declared our engagement."

"What should I lose?" she asked.

"You know, dear," he answered, "that I am the heir to my uncle's title and estates."

"I know," said Margaret.

She would not wound him by reminding him that she was the granddaughter of the earl's housekeeper, and penniless.

"Well, that's very good; and I wish I were the King of England, that I could make you the queen, Madge," he said, with a smile. "But in addition to the title and estates, mine uncle has a great deal of money, and if he likes he can leave that to us, or to anybody else."

"To us?" said Margaret. "To you."

"I and you are one, dear," he said, simply. "Now, so far as I am concerned, I don't care a fig for the money; but I don't think I ought to rob you of it."

"And I care less than a fig!" she said, smiling.

His face cleared from the faint shadow which had dwelt upon it while he had been speaking.

"You don't! Madge, you don't know how glad you make me! I might have known that you would not care about it! Let it go! I would rather let a million slip than there should be any concealment! We'll go and tell him at once—or I'll go, and fetch you afterward. I knew you'd say so, even while Austin was advising me!"

"Austin? Who is Austin?" she asked.

"What an idiot I am!" he exclaimed, with a laugh. "I am talking as if you knew everybody I know, and everything I know! You see, it seems as if I had known you for years, and that we had been one since we were boy and girl!"

She laid her hand timidly on his head, and lovingly smoothed the black, clustered hair.

"Austin is Austin Ambrose," he went on; "the best fellow in the world. He is the greatest friend I have, Madge, and I want you to like him awfully."

"I like him already if he is a friend of yours—Blair," she said.

His face flushed as she let his name fall from her lips for the first time.

"He is a great, a true friend," he said. "I was lucky enough to be on the spot when he got the cramp, bathing, and I lugged him out, and the foolish fellow can't forget it."

"How very foolish," said Margaret. "You saved his life, Blair?"

"So he says; but he makes the most of it. Anyway, we have been fast friends ever since, and—you won't mind, Madge?—I told him how I had met and fallen in love with you. I was bound to tell some one or go mad, and I have always told him everything."

"I do not mind—why should I?" said Margaret, smiling. "And I had no one to tell."

"Poor Margaret!" he murmured, smiling up at her tenderly.

"And what did Mr. Austin Ambrose say? What a pretty name it is—almost as pretty as Blair Leyton."

"Well, he was awfully pleased, of course," said Blair. "Anything that pleases me pleases him."

"I shall be a little jealous," murmured Margaret.

He laughed.

"You needn't be. Not even Austin could come between you and me, dearest," he said. "He was awfully pleased, and—and all that, but he thought of this property. He is one of those cute, long-headed fellows, you know, darling, who are always looking to the future, and it was he who wanted us to keep it secret."

"He knows that I am so unfit, so unworthy," said Margaret, in a low voice, and with a sudden pang.

Blair's face flushed, and he looked up at her reproachfully.

"Don't ever say that, Madge," he pleaded; "it hurts me."

"Forgive me, Blair," she whispered. "But he did think so, did he not?"

"I don't care what he thought," he said, firmly. "And whatever he thought, he will have only one idea when he sees you, and that is that you are a thousand, a million times too good for me."

"Poor Blair," she murmured.

"And, Margaret, I want you to see him very soon. I want you to feel that he is your friend as well as mine." He paused for a moment, then went on—"Madge, he is down at Leyton now."

"At Leyton now—here?" said Margaret with momentary surprise.

Blair nodded.

"Yes. He was so anxious to see you, that I asked him to come down with me. Shall I tell you why I did so?"

"Yes," said Margaret. A strange feeling, scarcely of dread—how could it be?—had crept over her. "Tell me everything."

"Everything!" he repeated emphatically. "From this moment I will not have a thought you shall not share, dearest. Well, then, I didn't know what your answer would be, Madge, and I felt so afraid of myself; I know what a stupid idiot I am when I want to say anything and can't, that I brought him to plead for me if it should be necessary."

"It was not necessary," she murmured, and he kissed her hand.

"He held out at first, and wouldn't hear of coming, but I persuaded him at last; poor old Austin can't refuse me anything, and so he came with me. He is waiting at the stile, in case you will condescend to see him."

Margaret shrank a little. She could not guess that though Lord Blair fully believed that it was he who had persuaded Austin Ambrose to come against his will, it had really been Austin's own suggestion artfully made.

"I will do as you wish, Blair," she said. "Yes," she added quickly, "I will see him."

After all, she could not even seem to be cold to her lover's closest friend!

Blair sprung to his feet.

"He will be so glad, Margaret!" he said. "He is the best fellow in the world, and the wisest; and he is dreadfully afraid that you may not like him."

"Bring him, and I will put him out of his misery," said Margaret with her divine smile. "Do you think that I should not love all you love, and hate all you hate, Blair?"

"You are an angel!" he said, looking at her; "yes, that is what you are!"

She put her hands against his breast and pushed him gently away from her.

"Go and fetch him," she said, and he strode away.

Austin Ambrose was seated on the stile, smoking a cigarette. He greeted Blair with a nod and a smile.

"Well, my Adonis! Well, my Corydon! Have you come to tell me that the beloved mistress declines to see the intruder?"

"Ah, you don't know her yet, old fellow!" said Lord Blair, with all a lover's pride. "She has sent me to bring you to her at once! My friends shall be her friends, and you, Austin, shall rank first."

Austin Ambrose flung his cigarette away and smiled.

"Then she has made you a happy man, Blair? All doubts dispelled, eh?"

"She has made me the happiest man in all the world," said Blair, almost solemnly.

"At any rate, she is good-natured," said Ambrose. "Most women would have sent me to the right-about——"

"Not Margaret! not Margaret!" broke in Blair. "Wait till you see her and hear her talk, old fellow!"

"Well, I sha'n't have to wait long," he said, as he caught sight of Margaret's dress.

The next moment he stood before her.

Mr. Austin Ambrose was a man who had raised the art of concealing his emotions and his thoughts to a positive science; therefore he neither started nor uttered an exclamation as his eye fell upon Margaret Hale; but a swift and sharp surprise and astonishment went through him like the stab of a dagger.

She had risen at the sound of their footsteps, and stood upright before him in all her beauty, and with all her infinite grace; and instead of the pretty, hoidenish, middle-class young woman he had pictured, Austin Ambrose found himself confronted by a girl who was not only lovely, but refined, and, in short—a lady!

And Margaret? For a moment she was conscious of a feeling of repulsion, of dread, and almost of dislike, but she fought it down, and instead of responding to his respectful and almost reverential inclination with a formal bow, she held out her hand.

"This is very good, very gracious of you, Miss Hale! To accept the acquaintance of a stranger so suddenly——"

"No friend of Lord Blair's must be a stranger to me," she said, with a blush.

Blair took her hand and kissed it, and he looked at Austin Ambrose triumphantly.

"Thank you, thank you," murmured Austin, as if deeply touched. Then after a pause, with a look of respectful admiration, "Miss Hale, I can understand Blair's fascination, he should indeed be the happiest man in England this June morning!"

Margaret blushed still more vividly, and Blair colored, too, but with pleasure.

"I forgot to tell you, Madge," he said, "that Austin is a perfect dab at fine speeches."

"And a martyr to truth," said Austin Ambrose. "And are you sure that you can quite forgive me for intruding this morning?"

"There is nothing to forgive, I am very glad," Margaret said, simply.

Blair drew her gently to her old seat, and then threw himself at her feet. Austin Ambrose seated himself on the bank a little above and in front of them.

"Lord Blair and I are such old friends, Miss Hale," he said, "that I suppose neither of us would think of doing anything important without consulting each other. Not that Blair has consulted me," he added, quickly. "He had made up his mind before he spoke to me, and would not have dreamed of consulting Solomon himself if he had been alive. And I think he was right!"

"Two very outspoken compliments," said Blair laughing with pleasure. "And it's a poor return, old fellow, to tell you that we have made up our minds not to take your advice. I am going to send an announcement of our engagement to the society papers to-night—after I have seen my uncle."

Austin Ambrose nodded and smiled as if he were rather pleased than otherwise.

"That is delightful!" he said, genially. "Lovers should always be imprudent. Yes, I like the idea very much."

Margaret glanced from the clear-cut, self-possessed face to Blair's handsome, careless one, and her eyes grew troubled.

"Is it so imprudent?" she said softly.

"Very, deliciously so!" said Austin, laughing. "And that is why I like it. Lovers should always be unwise and reckless. It is, as Doctor Watts observed, 'their nature to!' Miss Hale, I have one weak spot, amongst many, and you will discover it presently, I dare say. I am foolishly romantic. Anything in the shape of sentiment conquers me directly. I assure you that when Blair came and told me that he had met and lost his heart to the most beautiful young lady in the world, I felt as if I had lost mine, and I was as anxious—well, nearly as anxious, as he was to learn whether he was to be the happiest or the most miserable of men."

Blair laughed, Margaret smiled, but she was fighting against the strange repulsion which grew more distinct with every word the supple lips uttered.

"Yes," he went on. "And the idea of your going hand in hand to the earl and saying, 'My lord, we mean to be married. We don't care whether you like it or not, we defy you. You may leave us your immense wealth or you may bequeath it to the Home for Lost Dogs, we don't care. We love each other, and that is enough. My lord, good-morning!' Now, that is delightful! It is imprudent, it is reckless, and—and—well, yes—foolish; but it is so charming, so perfectly romantic, that I can't help admiring it."

Margaret's eyes grew more troubled. Blair smiled no longer.

"I say, Austin!" he expostulated.

Austin Ambrose held up his finger.

"No, no! I won't hear a word said against it. I have a distinct conviction that the whole romance—and what a charming romance it is!—would be completely spoiled by one word of wisdom, and I am very sorry that I ever uttered one! Here, in Miss Hale's presence, I make full recantation, and implore her forgiveness for ever having harbored one sordid thought concerning her. Let the earl's fortune go to the winds!" and he waved his hand dramatically. "With Miss Hale's love, my dear Blair, you will be the richest man in England, although you should be the poorest peer."

"You are right," exclaimed Blair, pressing Margaret's hand. "Those are the truest words you ever spoke, old fellow! Eh, Margaret?" he whispered.

She sat silently looking at Austin Ambrose's face.

Though he had not said so in so many words, he had as good as told her that by marrying Lord Blair she would deprive him of his uncle's fortune.

The color came and went in her face, her eyes grew downcast, while both men looked at her; Blair with loving adoration, Austin Ambrose with a covert and concealed intentness.

At last she looked up—at Blair, not at Austin Ambrose.

"It must not be known," she said in a low voice.

"Margaret!" exclaimed Blair, astonished; but Austin Ambrose, watching her eyes, gave a slight, a very slight, nod of approval.

"No," she said. "Mr. Ambrose is—is right! You shall not make such a sacrifice for me, Blair." Her face flushed, her eyes shone with the fire of a woman's resolution to sacrifice herself rather than injure the man she loves. "We—we will not tell any one!"

Austin Ambrose raised his hat, and looked at her with a fine assumption of admiration.

"That was nobly spoken, Miss Hale," he said gravely, "nobly and wisely. I am too much Blair's friend, and yours, if you will permit me, to conceal my anxiety on your account. You would sacrifice not his future alone, but yours, for it would be yours, you know, by doing anything rash. The earl is an eccentric old gentleman, and easily offended. It would be worse than folly to do so. You have made a wise decision, Miss Hale, and you have added respect to my admiration!" and he bowed.

"Well!" exclaimed Blair, half amused, half annoyed. "You two are beyond me! Why, half an hour ago, Madge, you were aghast at our keeping our engagement secret, and now——"

"Miss Hale had not considered the matter in all its bearings," broke in Austin Ambrose, gently and smoothly. "Trust me, Blair, she has more sense in her little finger than you have in all your great, hulking body."

"I know that," said Blair, with a good-humored laugh. "You've found it out already, have you? Didn't I tell you that she was as clever as she was beautiful? My Margaret!"

"Your Margaret is far too clever to let you say such silly things!" murmured Margaret, blushing.

Austin Ambrose rose and smiled down upon them, and his cold eyes seemed to grow really benevolent, as if he were blessing them.

"I will go now," he said. "Miss Hale, this has been a happy day for me, as well as for Blair. He has found a sweetheart, and I have found, I trust, a friend. May I say that?" he asked, as he held out his hand.

"Yes," said Margaret, trying to speak heartily.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

"Then you must let me prove myself one. You are both young, and perfectly imprudent. You must promise to do nothing without coming to me first. This is all I ask. Is it too much?"

"Not a bit, old fellow!" said Blair, promptly, showing his delight at the impression Margaret had made upon the wise and critical Austin Ambrose. "We are a couple of spoons, you know, and not fit to be trusted to act alone, eh?"

"Honestly, I don't think you are," said Austin Ambrose, smilingly.

"All right!" said Blair. "We've taken your advice—at least Margaret has—and the least you can do, having accepted the responsibility, is to see us squarely through, eh?"

Austin Ambrose nodded.

"Yes," he said, simply. "I'll go and see if the dog-cart is ready, and drive it to the end of the lane. You will find me there. You have no idea the precautions we have taken, Miss Margaret," he added, with a smile. "We just drew the line at coming down in disguise! Good-bye!" and with a wave of his hand he pushed through the underwood and left them.

He stopped at a distance of a hundred yards to get a cigarette, and was putting it to his mouth with a smile of cynical satisfaction, as he thought of the way in which he had gained his point, when his quick eyes saw something moving at a little distance between him and the spot where he had left the lovers.

He thought it was a rabbit at first, but looking intently he saw it was a man's fur cap.

"A cap doesn't move without a head in it," he murmured, and putting his cigarette in his pocket, he made a detour round some trees and crept close to the object.

As he did so he saw a man was lying full length in the long bracken, through which he had made a clearing just before his face, so that he could watch Blair and Margaret. Austin Ambrose grew interested, and crept a little nearer.

Poachers do not work in the daytime, and besides, this man had no gun, but a thick stick lay near his hand.

Austin Ambrose watched him thoughtfully, then a look of intelligence flashed into his face. Blair had described the man he had thrashed on Leyton Green; this was he, this was Jem Pyke! Amongst Austin Ambrose's great gifts was a faculty of never forgetting a face or a name.

Lowering himself noiselessly, he sat down just behind the man, and after waiting a minute or two, coughed slightly.

The man looked round with a start, then sprung to his feet and grasped his stick.

Mr. Ambrose looked him squarely in the face.

"Don't speak a word, my friend, or I shall call," he said.

Pyke looked uncertain, and then made ready for a spring; but the cold eyes—and they were like glittering steel now—held him fascinated.

"Not a word," said Austin, in a low, distinct voice, "unless you want another thrashing, Mr. Pyke!"

Jem Pyke started, and he lowered the stick.

For a moment the two men looked into each other's faces, then, with a smile, Austin got up leisurely and sauntered off, beckoning him to follow.

Austin Ambrose led the way until they had gone out of hearing of Blair and Margaret, then he sat down on a fallen tree, and lighting a cigarette, coolly and critically surveyed the captive.

"I'm rather curious to know what you were doing just now, my man," he said, when he had finished his examination.

"I was watching for a rabbit," replied Pyke, promptly but sullenly, and without looking up.

Austin Ambrose smiled.

"Oblige me by looking at me," he said.

Pyke raised his eyes slowly.

"Thanks. Do I look like a fool?" demanded Austin Ambrose, politely.

"No," replied Pyke, reluctantly, and with an oath.

"Thanks again, though your language is unnecessarily emphatic. Then, not being a fool, how do you expect me to believe you? Shall I tell you what you were doing?"

No reply, but Pyke shifted one leg uneasily.

"You were watching my friend, Lord Blair. I am right, I think? Silence denotes assent. Thanks," suavely; "and why were you watching him?"

Pyke, tortured as much by the tone as the question, growled out an imprecation under his breath.

"Shall I tell you? Because you are anxious to get a little revenge for that beating he gave you. Am I right? Thanks again. I am good at guessing, you see. And as you can't pay him back in a fair stand-up fight you are hoping later for an opportunity to give him one in the back. Y—es," slowly and suavely, "I think that is the whole case in a nutshell. Now, my friend, you are a fool."

Pyke raised his eyes and scowled evilly, and Austin Ambrose shook his head and smiled.

"No use scowling, my friend. I know what you are feeling, and I can sympathize with you; I can indeed. It is so unpleasant to be caught, isn't it? And it is so tempting to see me sitting here without even a stick, and to know that you could dispose of me so easily, if my friend with the big fists that you felt so lately were not within call."

Pyke's face grew livid, and he grasped his stick till the veins started out like string in his wiry and sunburnt hands.

"Curse you!" he snarled at last. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

"Gently," said his tormentor. "One question at a time, and though you don't put them politely, I'll give you a true answer. My name is Ambrose—Austin Ambrose. Say it over to yourself once or twice, and you won't forget it. And what do I want? Well, I want a strong, active young ruffian like you, a man who has pluck enough to remember an injury and burns to pay it back. And that's your case again, isn't it?"

He lit his cigarette, and blew a ring in the air, and watched it until it had faded away.

"And now I'll explain why you are a fool. You are a fool because you lay in wait with a big stick to bang your enemy about the head. No one but a fool would do that, my dear Pyke; firstly, because he might not hurt his enemy——"

Jem Pyke scowled fearfully.

"Well, yes, you might hurt him, but—and that brings me to my secondly—you couldn't do it without its being traced to you. There might be a struggle, there would be blood and other unpleasant traces, and, all Lombard Street to a china orange, the police would have you by the heels before an hour was passed, and then——!" The speaker wound up the sentence by a playful gesture indicative of strangulation.

Pyke's face was a study. At first, from hate and the desire to crush his tormentor it displayed the emotion of murder, and then a reluctant admiration; and at last he stood, the stick hanging loosely in his hand, his small, evil eyes fixed with a fascinated stare on his companion's face.

"I am right, you see," said Austin Ambrose. "Now, if I owed a man a grudge—I don't, I am happy to say, for I have not an enemy in the world, my dear Pyke—but if I owed a man a grudge, I shouldn't set to work in your clumsy fashion. No; I shouldn't dog him and knock him about the head just outside my own door, because I should feel assured that the police would track me down. No; I should wait until he had got some distance off—to London, for instance, or another part of the country—and then, some dull evening, I should bring him down with a gun or a pistol from a safe distance, and then quietly"—he blew a cloud of smoke into the air and pointed to it—"vanish!"

The man stood and listened with every sense on the alert, absorbed and rapt.

Then he drew a long breath.

"That's what you'd do, guv'nor, is it?" he said at last, hoarsely.

Austin Ambrose nodded.

"Yes. And if I had a friend who could point out to me my best way of doing it, and help me to choose the time and place, why, I should feel very grateful to that friend."

Pyke looked somewhat mystified for a moment, then he started, and a look of cunning flashed from his eyes.

"Why, you hate him, too, guv'nor!" he exclaimed, hoarsely, with an oath.

Austin Ambrose looked at him and smiled.

"After all, you are not such a fool as you looked, my friend," he said.

Pyke stood eying him stealthily and curiously, then he slapped his knee cautiously.

"I've got it!" he said with a leer. "He's after your girl, guv'nor!"

Austin Ambrose smiled again.

"You are really an intelligent person, Mr. Pyke," he said, suavely. "And now that we understand each other—and we do, I think?"

Pyke swore horribly for assent.

"Exactly. Then I think we had better part. Take my advice, and don't—watch for rabbits any more! Go home and rest until your friend sends you word that the time has come to pay back old scores. When he does so, well—be ready, and strike home!"

"I will!" Pyke declared, setting his teeth.

Austin Ambrose flung his cigarette away.

"Poaching is a hard trade," he murmured, looking up at the sky, which shone blue as a turquois through the trees. "One should pity the poor fellow who is driven to it, rather than condemn him. There, my poor man, take this small coin and find some honest work. You are strong and able, get some employment. Believe me, honesty is the best policy!" And he held out a sovereign.

Pyke took it, examined it, and put it in his pocket. But he stood still, waiting like a well-trained hound, for further orders.

Suddenly Austin Ambrose raised his hand and pointed to the road.

"Go!" he said sternly.

Pyke started, just as a dog would start, fingered his fur cap, and muttering, "Yes, guv'nor, yes," disappeared.

Austin Ambrose remained seated for some minutes, his brows knitted, his eyes fixed on the ground, then he murmured:

"Yes, I shall win this! Everything goes with me! Everything! It is a bold game, but I shall win it! A man gets all the trump cards dealt him, or breaks the bank at faro, once in a lifetime; it is his one chance! This is mine! Even this country clown makes one. Yes, I shall win, and then, Violet! and then——"

He walked quickly through the wood. The dog cart he and Blair had engaged was waiting, and he dismissed the boy who was holding the horse. They had driven from Harefield, the nearest large town, to which they had come by rail, and were going to drive back and take the return train there.

As he had said, they had taken every precaution to keep their visit a secret.

After he had been waiting five or ten minutes, Blair came striding toward him. He was rather pale and very quiet, and signed to Austin to drive.

"I should drive you into a ditch," he said; "my hands are all shaky! Austin, she is an angel!" and his voice was shaky, whatever his hands may have been.

"Meaning Miss Margaret? She is better than an angel! She is a lovely and a charming lady," said Austin Ambrose.

"Isn't she?" exclaimed Lord Blair. "Austin, I did not exaggerate?"

"No; you did not even do her justice! I never saw a more beautiful and bewitching young creature! I don't wonder at your infatuation."

"Infatuation! I don't like the word. Infatuation is not love, and I love her more than ever a man loved yet, I think."

"And you are right," said Austin Ambrose, emphatically. "Blair, my boy, you are in luck. I'm not given to raving about women, but, upon my word, I could do a little raving about Miss Margaret!"

"Rave away, then!" said Blair, bluntly. "You won't bore me. Ah, Austin! if you knew how I hate all this secrecy and deception! I tell you I hate it! Why should not I declare my love for her to all the world? I tried to persuade her to let me go to the earl after you had left us, but she wouldn't let me."

"You are a fool!" burst from Austin Ambrose's lips; then, as Blair looked at him with astonishment, he added quickly, "I beg your pardon, Blair; but it does make me mad to see you so bent upon destroying that sweet girl's future in the way that you propose to do. Why, man, what harm does it do her or you keeping it quiet for awhile? The earl is an old man, any year—a month, a day—he may die, and then—why, then you may tell all the world, when you have got his money safe at your banker's for you and your wife and children! Miss Margaret is more sensible than you."

"Yes, after she had heard you," said Blair, slowly. "Well, I suppose it's the best thing to do, but I hate it, all the same. Though, after all, I don't care; it's enough for me to know she loves me."

There was silence for a moment, then Austin Ambrose said smoothly:

"If I were you, Blair, I should secure that beautiful creature as soon as possible."

"What do you mean?" demanded Blair, awaking from a reverie.

"I should marry her."

The hot blood mounted to Lord Blair's face, then left it pale.

"If she would," he murmured, in a low voice.

"Oh, yes, she would," said Austin Ambrose, in a quiet tone of confidence. "I think I could help you to that, Blair. Honestly, I think her such a treasure that, if I were in your place, I should never rest easy for a day until she were mine! A prince might long to make her his consort! To tell you the truth, I am as bewitched as you are. I had expected to see—well, I won't tell you what, but I will tell you what I did see, a lovely girl, who was not only lovely, but a refined and gifted lady. Marry her, Blair, and at once!"

"I'd marry her to-morrow if she'd let me," said Blair hotly; then he relapsed into silence, and Austin Ambrose was content to let the seed he had dropped take root.

"Will you come to the club and dine with me?" he said, when they walked home. Lord Blair shook his head.

"No, thanks, old fellow," he said. "I want to be alone. Don't think me a bear."

"No, no, I understand," said Austin Ambrose, as he shook hands; "go and dream of Margaret, and remember what I say, my dear fellow. A prize like that is never too quickly secured."

Blair wandered to his rooms, to pace up and down his sitting-room, and think over every word Margaret had said. Austin Ambrose went to his chambers, and having dressed carefully and leisurely, dined luxuriously at his club, and at half-past ten called a cab and had himself driven to Lady Marabout's, who had an "evening" that night. Lady Marabout's rooms were filled to overflowing when he entered, and he had to make his way through a crush that extended as far as the hall and stairs; but in his cool and leisurely fashion he reached the principal saloon at last, and having shaken hands with the hostess, who greeted him with a brave though tired smile, he bent his steps toward a small crowd that surrounded some favored person at the end of the room.

The favored person was Violet Graham, the heiress. The dragoon, Colonel Floyd, the Marquis of Aldmere, and other well-known men were round her—one holding her fan, another proffering her an ice, and a third looking over her ball carte in the hope of finding a vacant space; and she leant back on the settee smiling absently, and listening, "with half an ear," to their compliments and flattery.

Austin Ambrose made his way to her slowly, his opera hat under his arm, his clean-cut face serene and perfectly self-possessed.

"Is the dancing all over, or just begun?" he said, as he inclined his head before her. "I am too late for anything, I suppose?"

Nothing could have been cooler or more matter-of-fact than his words, or the tone in which they were uttered; but she looked up with a sudden flush.

"I don't dance the next; it is a square dance," she said. "Take me to some cool place—if there is a cool place, Mr. Ambrose!"

He held out his arm, and to the mortification of her circle of courtiers, he led her away.

"Confound that fellow Ambrose!" muttered Colonel Floyd. "Why couldn't she ask me to take her into the conservatory?"

"Or me?" muttered two or three others, as they sauntered away ill-temperedly.

Austin Ambrose led her into the conservatory and placed her in a seat, then he broke off a palm-leaf and fanned her patiently, as if it were his sole mission on earth.

"Well?" she said, and it was the first word she had addressed to him since her greeting.

He smiled, a confident smile.

"Meaning our friend Blair?"

"Yes, yes," she said, impatiently. "Where is he? What is he doing? He was invited to-night. I came expecting him to be here."

He smiled again.

"Don't be impatient. At present our friend Blair shuns the revel and the dance——"

She flashed her eyes upon him angrily.

"You have seen him?"

"Yes," he said. "I have seen him. He is still infatuated over his dairymaid. But don't be alarmed. I have nipped that little affair in the bud, I think."

"You have?" she exclaimed, with a quick glance.

"Quite," he said, easily. "Before a week is passed you will find him at your feet again."

"Can I trust you?" she murmured.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"As much as one can trust another seeing that, according to the latest novelist, we are all Judases. But you can trust me. This affair of Blair's will end in smoke, believe me."

Violet Graham drew a long breath.

"Remember!" she panted. "Put a stop to this—this madness of his, and I will give you anything you can ask!"

"I shall not forget," he said. "Let me take you back now."