There are exceptions to every rule, and this applies to cities as well as to individuals. The meek man may be excited to fierce anger, the quietest and most undemonstrative, may suddenly be moved to enthusiasm. So with Wells, that little city of peace, under the Mendips; had anyone visited it for the first time on the fifth of November, in the year of grace eighteen hundred and twenty-four, they must have been struck by the uproar and confusion which reigned in the usually quiet streets.

Although Mrs. Arundel had been warned by her courteous host, the Bishop, not to be alarmed if the sound of a tumultuous crowd should even reach the seclusion of the palace itself, neither he nor she were at all prepared for the hubbub and uproar, which, beginning before the sun was well above the horizon, lasted till midnight, and, indeed, into the early hours of the next day.

It was the Bishop's first year at Wells, and therefore his first experience of the great demonstration of the fifth of November in his cathedral town; and neither he nor his son had been at all aware that the only place of safety for the whole day, would be within the battlemented walls of the palace, outside of which the tumult and shouting gathered force hour by hour, till the supreme moment of the bull-baiting in the market-place arrived.

The bull-baiting was stopped in 1839, but the fifth of November was for many years later marked in Wells, by the most extravagant expressions of Protestant zeal. Enough gunpowder was let off in the market-place to blow up Bishop, Deans, and Canons! A huge bonfire was piled up in the market-square, saturated with tar, of which large barrels were rolled to the scene of the conflagration from time to time during the day, kindled at last as the final outburst of enthusiastic hatred, which the people of Wells thus showed of that ill-contrived plot, which was to have made an end with one fell swoop of the sagacious King James, and his parliament.

It always seemed a strange form for such zeal to take; for the law-abiding folk in the little city suffered greatly during the demonstration. The windows overlooking the market-place were boarded up at dusk, and all business suspended in the latter part of the day. The whole population seemed to be gathered in the market-square. Effigies of Guy Fawkes were paraded about the streets, accompanied by those of any persons, who had unhappily incurred public displeasure during the year; to be consigned to the flames with shouts and execrations as soon as the big bonfire was lighted.

A company of guests met at the Bishop's hospitable breakfast table on this particular fifth of November, amongst whom were Mrs. Arundel, on the Bishop's right hand, and Gratian Anson, who was levelling her shafts at the chaplain, and declaring her delight at having been so fortunate as to be in Wells at the time of the bull-baiting.

"You were so kind to invite us to see it, my lord," she said; "for, of course, I mean to see it."

"My dear young lady, I am sure you must not venture forth to-day. We must make the time pass as pleasantly as we can, within the precincts of the palace, unless you like to step over to the cloister-door and attend the cathedral service."

"And do you mean to say, my lord, you are not going to see the bull-baiting? Why, Mr. Dacres tells me that the last Dean used to assemble a large party on purpose to see the spectacle; I must see it!"

The gentle bishop seemed a little taken aback by Gratian's determination to have her own way.

"Well," he said, "I leave you in the hands of your guardian, Mrs. Arundel, and you could not be in better keeping."

"Mr. Dacres, Mr. Law, you will take me. I should so love to see the fun, and I can't go alone."

"Gratian," Mrs. Arundel said, "it is not safe to think of it. There will be such a crowd, you must not attempt it."

Gratian smiled, and, turning to Mr. Dacres, said:

"I mean to go; it will be like a scene in Spain."

How the discussion would have ended, and whether Gratian would have carried her point or not, I do not know, had not the bishop's servant approached him with a card, which was followed almost immediately by Lord Maythorne.

"Pray pardon an early visit, my lord, but I am come to see my sister, and conduct her to the bull-baiting, for which, I hear, your city is celebrated."

Mrs. Arundel coloured with vexation as the bishop rose from his chair at the head of the table, and said, reading the name on the card:

"Pardon me, my lord, I have not the honour of your acquaintance."

"My step-brother, my lord." Mrs. Arundel hastened to say. "I do not know whether you ever heard of my father's second marriage."

"My sister will give you my imprimatur, you see, my lord, if not a welcome."

This was said with the insolent assurance which the courtly bishop at once discerned.

"My lord," he said, "any relation of my dear friend, Mrs. Arundel, is welcome to the palace. Now, ladies, will you adjourn to the gallery; for I have some pressing matters of business to-day after cathedral service, for which a special form is provided; but if you desire to brave the tumults without, horses and carriages are at your disposal."

Gratian meantime had gone up to Lord Maythorne, saying:

"The very thing I wanted. I will go and prepare for the bull-baiting now. Come, Miss Dacres, come, Mrs. Pearsall," turning to two quietly dressed ladies, "won't you come with us?"

"Well, we must be quick if we want to secure our places. The windows are commanding a good price, I assure you," said Lord Maythorne.

"I wish you had not come here, Maythorne;" Mrs. Arundel said, "you gave me no warning of your intention."

"My dear Bella, I never give any warning about anything. I thought you knew that. I suppose I have as much right to look at a bull-baiting as his lordship. Evidently he is not going to offer me hospitality. What a party of old fogies he has assembled; no one worth looking at! By-the-bye, does not Gilbert's innamorata live near Wells?"

Mrs. Arundel evaded a reply by turning to Gratian, who had speedily got ready for the expedition.

"I fear it is very imprudent, Gratian, to go out in the crowd. Mr. Dacres thinks so."

"Well, if under good care, I do not know that there is much fear," said Mr. Dacres, "in fact; I will accompany Miss Anson, if she will allow me, and just point out the best place to see the bull pass down under the Chain Gate from East Wells."

"Ah! I thought you would not be able to resist it, Mr. Dacres," Gratian said. "I knew you wanted to see the fun, though you were afraid to say so."

"Really," began poor Mr. Dacres; "really, I—I am only desirous of being of service."

"Of course, I know that," Gratian said, laughing. "Good-bye, Aunt Bella;" and away she tripped, Lord Maythorne following, and Mr. Dacres leading the way under Penniless Porch to the Cathedral-green, where all kinds of people were congregated by the wall, separating the green from the road along which the bull was to pass. The rabble were at this time collected in East Wells, and the more respectable part of the spectators were admitted here. The bell was chiming for service, and as Mr. Dacres ambled across the grass, the Dean, preceded by his verger, was coming out of his gate to the cathedral. Unlike his predecessor, Dean Lukin, who is reported to have made the bull-baiting a festal occasion at the Deanery, even inviting guests to be present at it, the Dean demurred a little at the bull passing under the Chain Gate at all, thus entering the precincts of the cathedral.

"How do, Dacres, how do?" the Dean said; "the crowd is very orderly at present."

"Yes, Mr. Dean, so far; the great proportion of people are in East Wells. This young lady is a guest at the palace, and would like to see the bull pass. Might I escort her and Lord—Lord Hawthorne to the terrace?"

The Dean bowed rather stiffly. He would have thought better both of the young lady and her companion, if they had come to the service and joined in the thanksgiving for the happy deliverance of King James I. and the three estates of England from the most traitorous and bloody-intended massacre by gunpowder; and—looking on some years—as the inscription at the head of the Form of Prayer also went on to say—

"For the happy arrival of His Majesty King William on this day, for the deliverance of our church and nation."

"By all means, Mr. Dacres. I think in future I shall prohibit the procession passing this way. It is scarcely seemly while service is going on within the cathedral walls."

With this the Dean passed on, and Gratian, laughing, said:

"The Dean is hardly as gracious as the Bishop. Let us stand here, because we shall get away sooner to the market-place after the bull has passed."

Mr. Dacres was rather glad to retrieve his character with the Dean, by hastening to the cathedral, after having placed Lord Maythorne and Gratian, in a good place by the wall; and then, after some trial of patience, the sound of shouts and a brass band heralded the approach of the bull.

Decked with ribbons, and with his head well set forward, led by his keepers by a ring passed through the nose, the bull stepped proudly on, followed by the dogs, all in charge of their respective owners.

There was always something pathetic in the sight of a huge animal brought out, not to fight in a fair field, but to be worried almost to death by the onslaught of persistent dogs, all goaded on to make their attack, all backed by betting men, who had an interest in their success or failure.

In Pepys' celebrated 'Diary' there is a description of a bull-baiting to which he seems to have gone to divert his mind from the furious letter which a friend told him was on his way to him from Lord Peterborough, which letter seems to have preyed upon him more than the news recorded on a previous page of three people in one house "dead of the plague."

The bull-baiting, however, was pronounced, even by the sight-loving Samuel Pepys, as a "very rude and very nasty pleasure."

Yet, more than a century and a half later, we find the usually quiet and peaceful city of Wells all agog to witness the bull-baiting in the market square.

It was as Lord Maythorne said; every window was engaged, and the tradespeople commanded high prices for the day.

Ladies in smart dresses, with gentlemen in attendance, were to be seen sitting at the old lattice bay windows, all along the line of houses in the square.

Lord Maythorne had engaged places over the principal draper's shop, where Joyce and Charlotte had made their purchases, on the day of Gilbert Arundel's arrival at Fair Acres.

It was with some difficulty that Lord Maythorne and Gratian made their way through the turnstile by Penniless Porch, and gained the door of the shop to the left, which was kept guarded by a stalwart son of the owner. It was a good position, and if a bull-baiting were worth seeing, perhaps on the principle of comparative value, the place was worth the five guineas which Lord Maythorne had paid for it.

His style and title being known, great respect was shown him and Gratian, and the circular bay window was appropriated to them, while less distinguished people thought themselves honoured to take their position behind them, further back in the room.

The space where the bull was baited was railed off, and the kennels for the dogs prepared behind it.

It was some time before the bull could be got into position, and he showed at first no signs of fight.

Presently Gratian exclaimed:

"There is little Mr. Dacres elbowing through the crowd; I knew he was dying to come. Now he has said his prayers, I suppose he thinks he is free to do so. And do look at that little woman in the yellow hood, pushing and fighting to get a place on the window-sill of the house by Penniless Porch. What a crowd! Who could have believed so many people lived in Wells? There is seldom a creature to be seen. When we drove through the market-place the other day there was only an old woman by the 'Cross,' selling potatoes."

"Ah! madam," exclaimed an old gentleman, who was standing behind Gratian's chair, and heard her remark, "the best days of the spectacle are over—quite over. Now, in Dean Lukin's time, I have known lords and ladies and their suite present, and a really genteel crowd assembled, instead of the riff-raff of to-day." The old man sighed, and taking a pinch of snuff from his tortoiseshell snuff-box, handed it to Lord Maythorne. "The bull-baiting at Wells, sir, was sought after by the Élite of the county and neighbourhood. Why, sir, I have seen coaches with four horses come in from Bath full of lords and ladies and great folks. But the times are changing—the times are changing! And, sir, when a Bishop and a Dean are 'loo warm' about a great spectacle, we can't expect others to be hot!—eh?"

Lord Maythorne laughed cynically; and the old man, a veteran of Wells, whose memory went back to at least sixty fifths of Novembers, felt his sleeve sharply pulled by the master of the shop.

"Have a care—have a care what you say, Mr. Harte. Don't be so free; you are talking to a real lord, who is visiting at the palace."

The poor old man was fairly silenced by the news; he retired to a remote corner, trembling and abashed, and the glory of the bull-baiting was over for him.

"A real lord!" he murmured, "and I've been talking to him as if he were just nobody. Dear, dear—dear me!"

The sport began in good earnest about one o'clock. The backers pricked up the dogs to the onslaught, and cries and shouts resounded.

The bull, at first strangely stoical and unmoved, with its large brown eyes staring calmly at the yelping, bounding dogs, was at length lashed to fury. With a loud and angry bellow he tossed his assailants hither and thither, and again and again the mangled bodies of the dogs were hurled by the horns of the bull outside the barriers amongst the shrieking crowd.

At last, after a pause, while the bull stood, covered with blood and foam, watching for the attack of the next adversary, a brindled terrier, after receiving some cruel thrusts from the tortured animal, sprang with unerring aim at its throat, and clung there with such a desperate grip, that its giant strength, exhausted by the long conflict, gave way. The bull rolled over on his side with a roar of agony, and the victorious dog, with his eyes starting out of his head, and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, was borne off by his backer, amidst the cheers and acclamations of the excited crowd.

"Ah!" Lord Maythorne said, "I had a heavy bet on that dog, so I am in luck's way for once. Now, Gratian, as the play is played out, for the bull will show no more fight to-day, if ever again, shall we make our way back to the palace?"

Even Gratian felt a little sickened and disgusted. She clung to Lord Maythorne's arm, and was thankful when she found herself once more within the palace grounds.

The noise and uproar in the market-place after the bull-baiting had scarcely ceased when the space was cleared for the bonfire, and preparations began for the great finale of the day.

As soon as it was dark, squibs and crackers were flying in every direction, while those who ventured forth were in some danger of having their clothes set on fire by the scattered sparks. A party from the palace went forth about eight o'clock to see the illumination of the bonfire, gaining easy access to the offices of the Bishop's secretary, which were situated between the two gateways, one called Penniless Porch, the other the Palace Eye, both at the top of the market square. Those who had turned away with disgust from the bull-fight, yet felt it almost their duty to be present at the great Protestant demonstration of fire and burning. So that the windows of the office were filled by the palace party, amongst whom were members of the Bishop's family.

It was indeed a sight never to be forgotten when the huge bonfire was lighted, and the flames leaped up to the sky. The quaint old houses in the market square were illuminated with a ruddy glow, and the cathedral towers caught the fitful radiance, and stood up against the murky November sky with a flush of crimson on their hoary heads. The shouting and the tumult reached its height when Guy Fawkes' great effigy fell into the burning mass, and cries of "No Popery!" "Down with the Catholics!" were taken up, by every little screaming urchin, who, with burned fingers and scorched cheeks, thought he was doing good service to some cause, though, if he and half that seething crowd had been questioned as to why they came together, the "more part," as in times of old, could not have given an answer.

A great wrong once done, which fastens on the mind of a nation, and is handed down as a subject of everlasting indignation from generation to generation, must be expected to demand outward demonstration. Thus the fires of Smithfield, and the secret plot of the conspirators beneath the hall at Westminster, have never been forgotten.

The people still hunger for some expression of their wrath, and do not wait to ask if that expression takes a wholesome form.

Although like demonstrations have been very much moderated of late years, and nearly stopped altogether by the authorities in Wells, still there is yet a city of the West whose motto is "Ever faithful," where the same scene is acted even on a larger scale; and woe to the unhappy man who may have incurred the displeasure of the good people of Exeter during the current year. His effigy is still paraded through the streets, followed by mummers in gay attire, and, amidst general execrations, his image tumbles down into the fiery furnace, as a meet companion for that, of the never-to-be-forgotten Guy Fawkes.

Two days later, and Wells had resumed its wonted aspect. The November day was one of exceptional beauty. The sky was blue, the air soft and balmy, and the sunshine lay upon the peaceful city, once more the City of Rest, which the good Bishop had called it when he first viewed the scene of his future labours as chief pastor of the diocese of Bath and Wells.

The noise and tumult of the fifth of November seemed now like a troubled dream. Once more the only sounds which broke the silence were the chime of bells for service, the trickling of streams of water, the cawing of rooks in the elm trees by the moat, the chatter of the Jackdaws as they swung in and out of their nests on the cathedral towers. All within and around the Palace was calm and quiet.

And in the market square every sign of the late uproar was removed, the dÉbris cleared away; the cry of a child, the foot-fall of a pedestrian, or the low rumble of a distant cart, was heard with that wonderful distinctness which is born of surrounding stillness. Here and there a word was exchanged with a customer by the master of a shop, who, standing at the door, looked out upon the world with that quiet patient expectation of custom, unknown in busy, populous towns.

As the Bishop's carriage drove through the market-place, several figures appeared at the doors of the shops. The carriage was watched out of sight, the heads of the watchers were turned right and left, and then the figures disappeared again, like those weather-wise men and women in the old-fashioned barometers now, like many other quaint devices almost unknown.

If the day were fair and beautiful in Wells, it was doubly beautiful in the country. Joyce felt its influence, and, for the first time since her father's death, she sang gently to herself as she went about her household duties.

Since she had received Gilbert Arundel's letter, a ray of brightness had pierced the cloud. She had not answered it, for he had asked for no answer. And Joyce, in the sweet simplicity of her faith in him told herself, that she had given her promise not to forget him, and that in that promise he was resting till the time came for him to ask her that question, which he said he must ask, and to present the petition which he hoped she would grant.

Of course she was ready to give him what he asked for, but there was to her nature, always trusting and transparent, no hardship in waiting.

"If I doubted him I could not wait so patiently," she thought, "but I trust him."

As these thoughts were passing through her mind, she was tying up some branches of a pink China rose which grew against the porch.

"Give me another bit of cloth and a nail, Piers," she called to her brother.

The tap of Piers' crutches was heard in the hall as he went to do her bidding.

As she stood in the sunshine, with her arm raised to secure the truant branch of the trailing rose, waiting for her brother to bring the nail, a figure cast a shadow against the porch, and, turning her head, she saw a gentleman standing near her. Instantly she dropped the branch, and, with a bright colour in her cheek, waited till the stranger spoke.

"Miss Falconer, I think?" he said, his eyes fastening upon her fair young face.

"Yes," she said, simply. "Do you want to see my mother?"

"Nay," he said, "I came to see you. I have heard much of you; I am your brother's friend."

Joyce looked inquiringly at her visitor, and said, with a little quiver in her voice:

"I hope, sir, you have brought no ill news. We have had so much sorrow of late."

"I know it, indeed," the gentleman said. "I bring no bad news of your brother's health; he is abroad, I think."

"Yes, at Genoa; he was at Genoa when we heard last; we have not heard from him since our father's death."

"Ah! that was a sad loss for him and for you all. What a lovely place you have here, but very far removed from 'the world'—the world where you would shine as a bright star of beauty."

This broad flattery was received very differently from what the speaker expected. Joyce's face underwent an instant change, as she said:

"I think, sir, if you please, I must ask you to excuse me, for I have some things which are needing my attention this morning; perhaps," fearing she might seem deficient in courtesy, "you would like to rest a little while."

"You are very kind, fair lady; I will accept your offer, I shall be glad to rest. What a noble hall!" he exclaimed, as he stepped across the threshold, where Piers was leaning against the old oak table, his crutches under his arm.

"Piers," Joyce said, "this gentleman wishes to rest; will you ask Sarah to fetch him some refreshment?" She was thus dismissing the guest to the care of her brother, glad to escape from his prolonged and embarrassing scrutiny of her face, when Lord Maythorne said:

"Pardon me, I want to speak to you on a serious matter. I ought to have introduced myself earlier. I am Lord Maythorne; you will have heard of me?"

"Yes," Joyce said, calmly; "yes, I have heard of you."

"No good report, I will venture to affirm, guessing, as I do with some certainty, from whom the report came. If you tell that little boy—lame, I see, poor fellow!—to leave us, I will briefly relate the circumstances of my friendship with your brother. Come, Miss Falconer, do not be unjust to me, but hear what I have to say. I prefer that our conversation should be private; it is of great importance that you should hear what I have to say, alone."

Joyce hesitated; that instinctive dread of men who are neither honourable nor good, which all pure-minded maidens feel, made Joyce shrink back from the very touch of Lord Maythorne's hand, as he tried to take hers, with a gesture of profound reverence and raise it to his lips.

"I little thought," he murmured, "that I should find in Melville's sister any one so charming, and I confess that I am bouleversÉ at once. Nay, do not look so sternly at me."

"I do not know what right you have, my lord, to come here to alarm and annoy me. If the matter you have to tell me is important about Melville, I would refer you to my brother Ralph, and Mr. Paget, who is my dear father's executor."

Piers, who had been watching the whole scene, now came hastily forward.

"Ralph has gone into the Wells market, and Joyce has no one at home but me to take care of her. She does not wish you to stay, and you ought to see that, and go away."

"You had better try the effect of one of your crutches on me, my boy! I am not going away, at present."

Piers reddened, and was beginning an angry rejoinder, when Joyce said, in a low tone:

"Go and stand at the further end of the hall, Piers, and I will go into the porch. If I want you I will call, but do not let mother know anyone is here. Now," she said, turning to Lord Maythorne, "we will go into the porch, if you please, and you can tell me about Melville."

"Well," Lord Maythorne said. "I had an interest in your brother, and I should have pulled him through his troubles, if it had not been for the meddling interference of a kinsman of mine, a young fellow—great in his own eyes—who cants like any old woman, and can turn up the whites of his eyes with any Methodist in the land. He made a nice mess of it for your brother owes me the money, and if he had left us alone we should have arranged matters. As it was the whole story came out, your brother was 'sent down' and those sharks the tradespeople, poured bills upon your father's head."

"Yes," Joyce said, "which my father, my dear father, paid. What does Melville owe you?"

"A pretty round sum, but I would let it rest at five hundred pounds."

"Five hundred! Oh! it is impossible we could pay that. I will ask Mr. Watson and Mr. Paget——"

"Pray do nothing of the sort," said Lord Maythorne, with lofty superiority; "it is a mere trifle, but just now it happens to be a little inconvenient. The debts are such, as no honourable man would leave unpaid. I promised Melville to keep them secret, and I have no wish to let the town crier go about with the news, but I naturally judged that on the death of his father, your brother would come into his fortune, and repay me."

"I do not think it is possible," Joyce said. "My dear father had so many sons, and it was hard to provide for them. Please let me think about it, and give you an answer. I must consult Ralph, who is in charge here now, till Melville comes home."

"Nay, I would ask as a great favour that you consult no one. If, when your brother returns, you can come to any arrangement, let me know. I would not wish to press my claim unduly. I think you have seen my young nephew, Gilbert Arundel; he got a pitiable hold over your brother. It is not the best taste to abuse one's own relations, so I will forbear giving you Arundel's character in extenso; suffice it to say, he is a hypocrite. He has been playing fast and loose ever since he was a boy, with a fair lady much older than himself; he fancies himself in love with her, and she is so foolish as to believe it. The ten years which separate them in age is a trifle in his eyes. She is handsome enough, and fascinating; knows the world and its ways, and, resents my good sister's pious exhortations, rather laughs at them, in fact. Am I speaking in riddles? Arundel's mother is my step-sister; my father taking it into his head to marry for the second time, when no one expected him to do so. But it was a lucky thing for the world at large that he did marry, for I am the result!" The low satirical laugh had a ring of bitterness in it, and the face that was really handsome, was clouded by a most disagreeable expression.

It was a hard ordeal for Joyce to be thus, as it were, in the hands of a keen-witted man of the world, who, when he had finished his own story, began to pour out the most fulsome flattery, and to appear to take it for granted that Joyce would be won by it. He little knew the strength and courage which the "rustic beauty," as he inwardly called her, could show.

As soon as she could get a word in, she rallied herself, and said, in a low, determined voice:

"I do not wish to hear any more, my lord. I do not think you have any right to come here and offend me by saying what you cannot mean. I will take advice about my brother's debts to you, and, if you please, I will let you know the result."

"What a charming woman of business!" exclaimed Lord Maythorne. "A veritable Portia. A little indignant protest is so becoming. Well, well, we will leave the matter for the present."

And now a figure, clothed in deepest mourning, appeared from the hall behind, and Mrs. Falconer with a curtsey which was profoundly respectful, said:

"May I ask, sir, what brings you to the house of a poor widow? My daughter is very young and very inexperienced; I cannot allow you to remain to annoy her."

"My good lady, I am your daughter's slave. I am ready to lie at her feet. Annoy her, forsooth!"

Joyce, who had endured bravely up to this moment, sprang towards her mother as if instinctively for protection, and Mrs. Falconer took her hand in hers.

"What is it, my dear, what is it? Piers came to call me; I thought you were distressed."

This was really the first time since her sorrow that Mrs. Falconer had roused herself to take an interest in anything; but Piers' summons, with the announcement that there was a man in the porch talking to Joyce, and that he knew by the sound of her voice she was frightened, had not been in vain. The maternal love, deep in Mrs. Falconer's heart, asserted itself, and put to flight for the time the selfish brooding over her sorrow, in which for so many weeks she had indulged.

"Joyce is very young," she said, tenderly, "and she has been left to bear a burden too heavy for her years. I beg you, sir, to say no more to hurt her and annoy her, but to leave the premises."

"My dear madam," Lord Maythorne said, "I came in a friendly spirit to discuss a little business about your elder and very hopeful son. He owes me some eight hundred pounds—a debt of honour, but at the same time a debt;" and, setting his teeth, "One I mean to have paid! It may seem a trifle to the owner of these broad acres, and to the inhabitants of this grand ancestral home, but to me it happens to be no trifle. Good morning."

Lord Maythorne turned away, raising his hat to Joyce, and saying:

"Adieu, mia bella! adieu! but au revoir! au revoir!"

Mrs. Falconer pressed Joyce, trembling and frightened to her side, saying, in a low voice:

"What does he mean? Who is he?"

"He means that Melville has lost money to him by gambling; I think he is Lord Maythorne."

"What is to be done? What is to be done, Joyce?" Mrs. Falconer said.

"We must consult Mr. Paget, dear mother. Oh! how glad I was when you came; he is such a bold, bad man."

"Poor child! Poor Sunshine!" Mrs. Falconer said; "I have been very much to blame to leave you all the burden; I will try to do differently now. Kiss me, Joyce."

"And here is a carriage coming up the road," was Piers' next exclamation; "a carriage full of people."

"Oh! there is an old gentleman in a wig and shovel hat, and—"

"It must be the Bishop," exclaimed Mrs. Falconer; "what shall we do?"

It was too late for Mrs. Falconer to retreat, for the carriage had driven up before the door, and the footman had the handle of the bell in his hand.

"The Lord Bishop," he said, addressing Piers, "Mrs. Arundel, and Miss Anson. Is Mrs. Falconer at home?"

And now Joyce advanced out of the shadow, and stood under the roses by the porch.

The late encounter with Lord Maythorne had heightened her colour, and tears were still upon her long lashes—the tears of vexation she had tried so hard to keep back.

One glance, and Mrs. Arundel felt sure she saw before her her son's "Joyce, Sunshine, Birdie! for they call her all those names," he had said.

She looked just now, with her head drooping, and the traces of tears on her cheeks, very like one of the China roses above her, hanging its head after a shower.

Gratian also examined her critically.

She is beautiful, she thought, but she has no style; while the Bishop leaned forward, and asked:

"May we alight?"

"Yes, my lord," Joyce said, in a low, gentle voice. "My mother has seen no visitors for a long time; but she will be pleased to see you, and—"

"Mrs. Arundel, I hope, also, and Miss Gratian Anson," the Bishop said, by way of introduction, "Madam," he continued, as he went into the hall, "Madam, I have heard of your good husband; I had once the pleasure—I may say the honour—of seeing him at the palace, and I desire to express to you my condolences. My son," he added, addressing a young gentleman in clerical dress, who was as much like his father as youth can resemble age, "my son is also anxious to pay his respects. My wife, Mrs. Law, is yet absent on account of her health, but returns to the palace next week."

Both the Bishop and his son were courtly gentlemen of what we call now "the old school," and they had peculiarly clear and sonorous voices; the old man's set in rather a lower key than his son's.

"Pray, my lord," Mrs. Falconer said, "walk in, and I beg you to excuse a desolate sitting room," opening a door to the right of the hall; "I have never had courage to sit here since—since our trouble. Joyce draw up the blinds and set the chairs." Mrs. Falconer said this, with something of her old quickness.

"Our little parlour would be warmer, mother; this room feels cold," Joyce said, in a low tone, as she obeyed her mother, and noticed the cold, damp, unused atmosphere, which always clings to a room that has been closed for some time.

That room, with its three windows set in thick frames, with deep window-seats beneath, had been Mrs. Falconer's pride. As she looked round now, the furniture seemed dull, and the whole aspect of things changed.

"Yes," she said, sadly, "yes, you are right, Joyce; this room is not fit to sit down in; we will go to our own sitting room, if his lordship will follow me."

The whole party adjourned there, and Piers, with unusual forethought, had already ordered a tray to be brought in; for it was always en rÈgle in country houses in those days to offer refreshment of wine and cake, as calls were paid early, just as afternoon tea is brought in now for visitors later in the day.

Mrs. Arundel left the Bishop to talk to Mrs. Falconer, and Gratian won Piers' heart by professing the deepest interest in his drawer full of birds' eggs, which happened to be opened. That was one of Gratian's strongest weapons; she took, or appeared to take, an interest in everybody's particular hobby, and yet she was listening with one ear to every word that passed between Mrs. Arundel and Joyce. Poor Piers was quite unconscious that he had not her whole attention. When Mr. Law joined the discussion she withdrew and said to Joyce, "I should like to see the grounds, would you show me round." Piers wondered at her abrupt departure from the contemplation of the wren's eggs, and his animated story of the way the little wrens huddle together in a nest in the winter, under ground, in a hedge facing south, and come out to try the air in the first warm days in February, retiring again if it is too cold for them.

Joyce led the way, thankful to see how much more her mother looked like herself, as she told to the sympathetic ear of the Bishop the story of her grief.

Gratian took pains to suit herself to her company; she always did. She linked her arm through Joyce's, and talked in a low voice, instead of her wonted high pitched rattle. She told her how grieved she felt for her; she could easily imagine what such a sorrow must be; for she, a "poor orphan" herself, could indeed sympathise with her.

So she talked, as they paced the gravel walk under the sunny south wall of the old-fashioned garden, where the arms of a huge pear-tree were still heavily laden with brown fruit, and where bushes of pale lilac, Michaelmas daisies, and lavender, still attracted a number of late bees and errant wasps, who, like all the rest of the world, found it hard to believe that this was the November sunshine of a short winter's day, and not the long drawn out heat of July.

"I should like to know more of you; to see more," Gratian was saying. "Of course, I expected you were charming from what Gilbert told me. Gilbert and I are great friends; he tells me everything."

A scarcely perceptible recoil, in the little figure by her side, was not lost on Gratian.

"Yes," she said, "he is a dear boy—a little spoiled by the notions he has taken up lately; but they are spreading everywhere. The Cambridge men are even worse than the Oxford men. However, I won't quarrel with Gilbert about that, and I can take a little preachment from him. Aunt Bella is pleased with anything Gilbert says or does; and as to Maythorne——"

Joyce started, very visibly this time, at that name, and said, withdrawing her hand from her companion's arm, and stooping to gather some sprigs of lavender:

"I suppose Lord Maythorne is a relation of yours?"

"Distant; very distant," was the reply. "A connection is nearer the truth."

"Because," Joyce said, "I think he is a very bad and wicked man, and I wish you could tell him never to come here again."

"Come here! Has he been here," Gratian exclaimed. "What on earth did he come here for?"

"He had not been gone half-an-hour before the Bishop's carriage drove up. He has, as you know, done my eldest brother a great deal of mischief; and, though my dear father thought he had cleared all his debts, this Lord Maythorne says that he still owes him a great deal, and we cannot pay it."

"And is that what he came to say; very kind and pleasant of him, I must confess. I expect he said a great deal more."

Joyce blushed scarlet.

"He was very impertinent," she said, "and talked in a very free way to me, but it is over now, and I wish to forget it. Only, if you can, will you prevent him from coming again; or as he is Mrs. Arundel's brother, could you ask her to prevent him. When I have consulted Mr. Paget, dear father's executor and our trustee, I will try if any of the money can be paid."

"Don't think of paying a farthing," Gratian said, "pray; I will see what I can do in the matter. I will talk to Gilbert. Gilbert is certain to do what I ask him, and I know how much he cared about your brother. Yes, you may depend upon my doing my best, you darling!" Gratian said, stooping down and kissing Joyce's rounded cheek.

Joyce made no response, as Gratian expected, and then they walked silently to the house.

As they drove towards Wells, Gratian, after a pause suddenly said:

"Aunt Bella, Maythorne is still in this neighbourhood. He has been at Fair Acres to-day."

"Maythorne!" Mrs. Arundel exclaimed. Then to herself, but not aloud, she said:

"I must let Gilbert know at once."