Dover was unusually gay in the year when Barnabas Thorpe held his revival meetings there. Mr. Deane gave a large ball at Ravenshill, all the county magnates attended, and the guests danced in the old picture gallery.

It was a remarkably pretty entertainment, and the host and his three daughters were worthy descendants of the ruffled and powdered Deanes who looked down on them from the walls.

They were a stately family. Mrs. Russelthorpe herself was a most dignified woman, and Kate and Margaret had inherited her grace of bearing.

Margaret in her gold and white dress, with pearls on her white neck, was a good deal admired, but her attention kept wandering from her partners to her father, who was talking and laughing merrily, but who coughed every now and then rather ominously. Consumption, that scourge of so many English families, was terribly familiar in this one.

Meg had been immensely excited about the ball before-hand, and had taken intense interest in all the preparations for it, including her own new dress; but, at the last, something had occurred to change the current of her thoughts, she might be arrayed in sackcloth now for all she cared.

"Margaret's character comes out even in small things," Mrs. Russelthorpe observed cuttingly. "She is unstable as water. One can never depend on her in the least. Where do you think I found her this afternoon? Just emerging from a vulgar crowd on Dover sands, where she had been staring at a singing minstrel or a play-actor or a buffoon of some kind! She came in with her head full of nothing else, and wanted to tease her father into going back with her to listen too."

"Ah! I heard that fellow on the beach; his buffoonery takes the form of preaching," said the lawyer to whom she had made the remark, and who was rather a favourite with Mrs. Russelthorpe. He glanced at Margaret, who was standing a little way off, but was quite unconscious of his observation.

"It is a curious question whether that sort of canter is most knave or fool," he said. "I incline to the former hypothesis; Deane, to the latter. Miss Deane sees him as a sort of inspired prophet, I suppose. A good deal depends on the colour of one's own glasses, you know. After all, hers are the prettiest!"

Mrs. Russelthorpe shrugged her shoulders with a short laugh as she turned away.

"I did not know you had such an innocent taste for bread and butter," she said.

Mr. Sauls looked after her with some amusement; it was not the first time that he had noticed that there was no love lost between Mr. Deane's favourite daughter and her aunt, and he had occasionally felt sorry for the girl, as evidently the weaker of the two.

"If it isn't possible to serve two masters, two mistresses must be a degree more hopeless," he remarked to himself. "I really don't know that I can do without Mrs. Russelthorpe yet—but I'll risk it!" And he walked across the room, and asked Miss Deane to dance.

Meg stared with uncomplimentary surprise; she had always considered that Mr. Sauls "flattered Aunt Russelthorpe," and had despised him accordingly with sweeping girlish severity. She would have refused to dance if she had had sufficient presence of mind, but he (who was never wanting in that quality) took her momentary hesitation for acceptance, and she found herself engaged to him, she hardly knew how.

She could not have discovered a partner more entirely unlike herself if she had ransacked England for her opposite; and her father laughed, but with a little sense of chagrin, when he saw Mr. Sauls offer her his arm.

The Saulses usually came to Dover for a few months in the year. The county people had turned their aristocratic backs on them, till Mr. Deane, in a moment of generous enthusiasm, had ridden full tilt against "pernicious prejudices," and had introduced young Sauls as his dear friend right and left.

This had occurred some time before. County exclusiveness was no longer the subject on which Mr. Deane was hottest, and, to tell the truth, George Sauls was no longer his dear friend; but the young man amused Mrs. Russelthorpe, and had kept his footing in the house.

Nature had not been kind to Mr. Sauls in the matter of looks, but had made it up in brains; he knew his own worth in that respect, and meant to get full market value for his capabilities. He had an assured belief in himself, of which time proved him justified.

When the plums of his profession began to fall to his share, people called him uncommonly lucky; but fortune only pretends to be blind, I fancy, and seldom favours fools.

"You are wishing me at Jericho," he remarked, as Meg unwillingly took his arm. "But your father's daughter ought to be liberal above all things—ought not she?"

Meg, whose generosity was easily wakened, coloured and then smiled, pleased at the implied compliment to Mr. Deane.

"I know that my father is always fair to every one," she said. "I did not mean to be rude to you, but he promised me this dance, and I am so disappointed that he has not come. Of course, it is nicer to dance with father than with anybody."

"Of course," assented Mr. Sauls. He would have disbelieved that statement if any other girl had ventured on it; but he was intelligent enough to appreciate Meg's truthfulness. Indeed, the very essence of George Sauls' cleverness lay in the capability of rightly estimating many diverse sorts of characters.

He persevered in his efforts to interest her, partly because he was in the habit of persevering in anything he undertook, partly because it had occurred to him that Miss Deane was an heiress, and partly because she really attracted him, perhaps by the law of contraries.

He was more than ten years Meg's senior in age, and twenty in experience; therefore he listened to her opinions with respect, and took care not to appear to patronise her. Meg was interested very easily.

Her shyness wore off, and she let him draw out wonderful theories imbibed from her father about Universal Brotherhood, and the Rights of the People, and the New School of Poetry, and heaven knows what besides.

Mr. Sauls led her on, and hid his occasional amusement fairly well.

Miss Deane was a "very transparent little girl," he thought; but yet she touched him.

He felt sorry for any one so crammed with illusions, so terribly sensitive, and so remarkably unpractical—besides, she was remarkably pretty too!

Meg thought him very ugly at first, and first impressions were vivid (though not always lasting) with her. Meg had no "indifference" in her; she always liked or disliked emphatically—and his was not the kind of face to take her fancy.

Mr. Sauls was a heavy-looking man, thick, and rather round-shouldered. He was dark-complexioned, with a coarse clever mouth, and a good forehead.

Eyeglasses happened to be an affectation of the year among young lawyers. Mr. Sauls had a trick of dropping his when he was amused or excited, and opening his eyes, which would brighten as suddenly as an owl's when it startles you by lifting the dull film, and transfixing you by an uncomfortably "wide-awake" gaze.

He was perfectly aware that Meg had disliked him, and that he was changing her opinion, and entertaining her pretty successfully.

The more trouble he took, the more determined he became to make friends with this quixotic maiden, who fancied herself wildly democratic, and who was rather more fastidious in reality than any one he had met, saving the father she occasionally reminded him of.

He led the conversation away from abstract subjects after a time, and fell into two or three small errors, but had wit to see and cover them.

For example, he made a sharp remark at the expense of Mrs. Russelthorpe, whom he felt convinced Meg disliked. Meg raised her eyebrows, drew herself up, and snubbed the witticism.

"All these Deanes are d——d thin-skinned," he reflected, for more than once his own coarser nature had rasped and offended Meg's father, but he did not make that mistake again, and he admired the girl none the less for the rebuff.

He liked her pride, which was quite unconscious, and her inconsistencies amused him.

They looked down upon the waltz (which had only just come in, and which many people saw for the first time that night) from the picture gallery which runs round the great hall.

Mr. Sauls was content with that arrangement, Meg stood tapping her small foot in time to the music.

"Father does not like to see me dance anything but squares, unless it is with him," she said; and Mr. Sauls, following the direction of her wistful eyes, observed that "Mr. Deane approved waltzing only for other people's daughters," but, taught by experience, refrained from making his comment aloud.

He earned his partner's warm gratitude by relinquishing his claim to take her to supper, when (that fast innovation having whirled to its close) Meg's father actually remembered her; but later in the evening he discovered that she had had nothing to eat, and insisted on carrying her off and supplying her with chicken and ice cream as compensation for his former abnegation.

Supper was really over, and they were almost alone in the big dining-room.

Meg had a bright colour in her cheeks now, her eyes and lips both laughed, her spirits had gone up like quick-silver. Mr. Sauls had never seen any one change so quickly and completely; she was radiant for the moment, and joy is a great beautifier.

Her excitement was contagious. It did credit to the man's self-command that he managed to keep his admiration to himself; Meg would be hard to win he knew; he smiled, thinking how exceedingly astonished she would have been if she could have read his mind, and seen that he had set it hard on winning her.

On one point he did allow himself a slightly incautious question.

"Miss Deane," he said suddenly, "I haven't the faintest shadow of right to ask, but—have you come in for a million of money? Or is your worst enemy dead? Or what good fortune has befallen you since the beginning of this evening? There, I am quite at your mercy! I had no earthly business to inquire, only—I should so uncommonly like to know."

Meg laughed ruefully.

"How very bad I must be at keeping my own counsel," she said; "or else you must be very clever. Don't tell any one else, please, for it isn't quite settled yet. I asked my father to let me go with him. He is going abroad after the wedding. I want him to let me live with him altogether. It is so difficult to find father alone in the daytime, and that was why I was so very anxious to dance with him to-night. It is impossible to ask a favour with my—with some one else looking on." She paused a moment; then the pleasure of telling good news brought a still happier curve to her parted lips.

"Isn't it good of him?" she cried. "He has said yes."

"No! how remarkably kind!" said Mr. Sauls, a little drily; but this time Meg was quite unconscious of the possibility of sarcasm.

She enjoyed all the rest of the night with the keen power of enjoyment, that is perhaps some compensation for a keen susceptibility to pain; and when the guests had departed and the lights were all out in the hall, she ran up to her own room humming a dance as she ran.

"Meg is gay to-night," said her father, lifting her face by the chin, and kissing her on the landing. "Good-night, Peg-top; don't dance in your sleep! I wish you would always keep that colour."

"So I will when you take me to live with you," whispered Meg.

She put out her candle, and throwing open her window sat looking out down the moonlit road, spinning fancies as beautiful as moonbeams.

There was no touch of sentiment about them, for the habit she had of comparing the men she met to her father was always to their disadvantage. How very much handsomer, cleverer, and incomparably better he was than all the rest of his sex put together! How charming to keep house for him! How delightful to help him carry out all his ideas! How good she would be, even to Aunt Russelthorpe, when she entered into possession of her castle in the air! Her mood grew graver as she sat there like a ghost in the dark, watching the white clouds chase each other across the deep night sky. She remembered the preacher on the sands again and shivered, half frightened to think how his words had taken hold of her. "Thou who wast poor among men, and travel-stained and weary, shalt be our King."

What would the preacher have thought of them all to-night? What sort of discipleship was this? Meg involuntarily fingered the gleaming gold and white dress, which certainly seemed in pretty strong opposition to the ascetic side of religion.

"But when I live with father, he will explain everything and make things right," she repeated to herself. "Father" had no leisure to listen to her difficulties at present, but in the good time coming it would all be quite different; and in the meanwhile where he saw no harm of course there could be none. It is really such a great comfort to have a pope, that it is no wonder some women keep their eyes shut so long as they possibly can. "I shall read all the books he likes and become very clever, but not at all a 'blue-stocking,' because he doesn't like women who think they know as much as men," reflected Meg. "I shall be able to choose my own dresses, and I think I shall wear sky-blue, for it is his favourite colour. We'll spend very little on eating or drinking, because he doesn't really approve of luxury, and——Oh! what was that?"

She jumped up, rather startled and guilty. Had Aunt Russelthorpe divined her thoughts, and come to knock down her towering palace?

No; it was only Laura, in a dressing-gown, looking comfortably substantial and cheerful. Meg was surprised to see her, for the sisters did not often seek her society.

"I thought I should find you awake, Meg," said she. "Do, for goodness' sake! shut your window. What an uncomfortable child you are! Why, you have not even taken off your ball-room dress, and you have no candle! Don't look at me as if I were a ghost, please. I know it's an odd time of the night to choose, but I hardly ever see you alone in the day, and somehow I wanted to talk to you. Kate likes to have me to herself, you see."

"Yes, I know," said Meg rather sadly; for Kate was jealous of any claim on Laura's affection.

Laura sat down on the bed, resting her hands on her knees, and turning out her elbows. The attitude made her look squarer than ever; but there was an air of purpose about her set little figure that tickled Meg's fancy,—Meg's sighs and smiles were always near together!

"Oh!" she cried, laughing. "Even your shadow on the wall looks as if it had something to say, and meant to say it."

"We settled about the wedding to-night," said Laura, not noticing this irrelevant remark. "Kate and I are going to be married on the same day,—this day month!"

"So soon!" said Meg. "Oh, Laura," she hesitated a moment, being always shy with her sisters, "I hope you will—will like it." "Will be happy" was what she meant, but Laura was apt to snub any expression of feeling.

"I shouldn't do it if I didn't!" said Laura; "if by 'it' you mean matrimony. The sooner we get the wedding over the better, I think. Aunt Russelthorpe is arranging it all, and settling who are to be the bridesmaids. I don't mean to interfere. It is the very last chance she shall ever have of putting a finger into any pie of mine, so she may as well make the most of it; but I came to talk about you, not about myself. Follow my example, Meg, and get away from this house as soon as you can, for if you and Aunt Russelthorpe are left together here, you will drive each other perfectly crazy."

"I spoke to father to-night," said Meg. "I begged him to let me live with him, and he nearly promised that——"

"That which he'll never perform," said Laura. "Oh, Meg, what a baby you are! Can't you see that it's no good depending on father? Oh! you needn't look so angry. He can't help it,—it's not his fault, of course. Aunt Russelthorpe is stronger than he is, that's all, and she is jealous of you. My dear, you think you understand him better than she does, because you sympathise with all his fine ideas, and she doesn't; but she knew him before you were heard of; she can make up his mind for him, and save him trouble, and make him comfortable. On the whole, you'd much better study a man's weaknesses than his nobilities, if you want to have a hold over him; but you'll never take in that bit of wisdom if you live to a hundred, and I expect she was born with it."

"Father hasn't got weaknesses—at least, I don't want to discover them. For shame, Laura, to talk so of him!" cried Meg. And Laura laughed and nodded.

"Just so! That's where Aunt Russelthorpe has the pull over you," she retorted. "Don't quarrel with her, Meg. You'll get the worst of it. Try and keep the peace till you are independent of her. Don't fight for the possession of father, for it's a losing game, but take what offers, and when you are clear of her authority snub her as much as you like. Shan't I enjoy it if she tries to interfere with me after I am married? I hope she will," said Laura, with a twinkle of fun; "but I am afraid she won't. She is too clever for that. Really, I've a great admiration for my aunt."

"Have you?" said Meg. "I hate her! but I shouldn't want to snub her if I were free of her. I only want never to be in the same place, or world, with her again. I shiver when I hear her voice."

"Exactly!" said Laura. "And that is so silly of you, Meg. What is the use of a hate like that? It only gives her another advantage. However, I suppose it's something in the way you are made that makes you take things so. You always did; and you'll go on getting more and more miserable, and you will aggravate her more and more, till she wears you out altogether, unless you get away; and you can't go alone, and you may wait till you are grey or till my aunt is dead before father takes things into his own hands; and I really don't see how I can have you, because——"

"I wouldn't trouble you," said Meg proudly. She stood very upright, and looked at her sister with wondering eyes. What were all these gloomy prognostications leading to?

"Well then, because you would not trouble me," said Laura. "And that leaves one way out of the difficulty. Marry as soon as you can, Meg, because you are too unhappy here! It was bad enough before; but now that you've thrown down your gauntlet (how could you be such a little fool?), and tried to get father away from Aunt Russelthorpe, it will be ten times worse. If it were I it wouldn't matter. I never care twopence what she says; but you'll suffer a martyrdom like St. Sebastian. All her spiteful little arrows will stick. I declare on my honour, Meg, I would give a thousand pounds, as well as my blessing, to hear you were going to marry any decently rich man who would be good to you!"

"Oh Laura!" cried Meg, half amused, half aghast.

"Oh Margaret!" cried her sister, mimicking her. "Yes; I know these are not the right sentiments for a bride to express. If we had a mother I shouldn't offer them; but I kept thinking about you this evening, and I didn't like my thoughts. Don't you wait for impossibilities, Meg. I am sure you believe in an impossible sort of lover, if ever you condescend to think of one at all; half a knight and half a saint; some one who has never loved any other woman, and never will, and yet isn't a milksop; who drinks nothing but water, and doesn't care what he eats, but is as strong as Goliath; who is full of high-flown ideas, and yet madly in love; who is handsome as Adonis, and does not know it. Well! don't expect him; he doesn't exist, and, what's more, he would be a monster of unnaturalness if he did! Take the man who'll fight your battles for you, even though he isn't beautiful. Don't bother too much about his ideals. If he is a good sort at home, and sticks to—well, his vulgar old mother, we'll say—he'll probably stick to you. If he has brains, you'll grow proud of him; if he is ambitious, that will suit you."

She watched Meg while she spoke; but Meg was utterly unconscious: it never occurred to her to put a name to Laura's hypothetical suitor; and Laura (whose shrewd eyes had seen a good deal that evening) could only hope her sage advice might bear fruit later.

"Well, I've said my say," she remarked, taking up her candle and getting off the bed. "Don't forget it! Don't be wretched because you cannot have the moon. Who can? Not one of us gets what he starts by wanting—not one in ten!" said Laura with a half-sigh. "But the people who eat their half-loaves and make the most of makeshifts, are the happy ones—as happiness goes. Good-night!"

She got as far as the door, then turned, with a half comical, half rueful face. "I might have been a better sister, I daresay," she said; "and half a pound of help is worth a pound of good advice, tho' mine's excellent; but, you see, there is Kate, and it doesn't pay to be fond of too many people,—there'd be nothing left for oneself."

Meg made no answer. Laura paused a moment longer. It was odd how her heart softened to-night to the "little sister" she had never taken much account of before.

"Let's kiss each other for once!" she said. And Meg surprised, flung both arms round her neck.

"Oh Laura, you do like me just a little then, don't you?" she cried. "And you don't really believe all you've been saying? I do hate it so! I would rather be unhappy all my life, than think that nobody ever gets anything but half-loaves and makeshifts. It is better to be miserable than satisfied like that."

"Oh Lord!" said Laura, who had a trick of strong language. "This comes of trying to put a modicum of common-sense into your head. Go your own way and be miserable, then. Some people do prefer it, I believe!" And Meg got into bed at last, and had a horrible nightmare, in which she was dancing with an angel who discoursed of the regeneration of the world, till suddenly a horror fell on her, and she saw he was the devil in disguise, and fled shrieking to Laura and Uncle Russelthorpe, who were looking on from a corner, and Uncle Russelthorpe chuckled and remarked:—

"Yes; every one has the original old gentleman under his skin; scratch deep enough, and you'll find the savage instinct at the bottom of all our refinements". A speech which Uncle Russelthorpe had really made years before, and which had puzzled Meg's childish brain at the time; but Laura shrugged her square shoulders, and said:—

"My dear, make the best of him; it is what we all do in the end".

Meg's sisters were married from Ravenshill in the pretty month of May.

The bridal party walked through the garden to the chapel under archways of flowers and flags.

Kate looked beautiful; Laura, very unmoved and like her ordinary self, only as they passed under the church door she slid her hand into her sister's and held it tight. Meg, following, saw the action. Kate hardly noticed it; but that was an old story; indeed, it is a story that goes on from generation to generation.

The sunshine shone between clouds, and there was a light spring shower, just sprinkling the procession as it wound between the beds of anemones and daffodils. The drops clung to Meg's soft hair, and glistened there like diamonds through the service.

There were fourteen bridesmaids chosen by Aunt Russelthorpe, none of them personal friends of either bride. Fourteen maids in green and white,—a goodly company!

Meg walked first, looking rather shy at finding herself in such unwonted prominence; but she forgot that in the solemnity of the occasion when they had entered the cool dark old church, and stood grouped under the stained glass window that was put up by a Deane of the sixteenth century in memory of a husband who died fighting.

How many Deanes had been christened and married within those old walls? George Sauls, standing far back in the aisle, wondered what visions were passing through the chief bridesmaid's brain, and put in imagination a white veil on her graceful bowed head.

Aunt Russelthorpe nudged her suddenly. "Are you asleep, Margaret? Take Laura's bouquet and gloves," she whispered in a sharp undertone; and Meg blushed crimson, and hid her confusion in an armful of blossoms.

"Meg's awkwardness was the only contretemps," as Mrs. Russelthorpe said. "And that no one could provide against," she added.

Everything else went off splendidly, and everything else was the result of her generalship.

Uncle Russelthorpe did not appear in church. "He is getting more eccentric than ever," people whispered; but he was in the porch in cap and slippers when the brides drove off.

"Good-bye, Laura!" he said. "So you've got a husband instead of a sister to take care of! Lord! Lord! how time flies! Twelve years since you all came to us! I hope you'll be happy, my dear."

"I'm sure I shall," said Laura cheerfully. "I mean to be. Good-bye, uncle;" and she kissed him, for the first time in her life. Aunt Russelthorpe had never approved of their kissing their uncle; and Meg could not help wondering whether it was affection or new-born independence that prompted the embrace.

Kate held out her hand coldly. She was ashamed of the queer figure the old man cut.

Laura's face positively beamed when she bid farewell to her aunt.

"Mind you come and see me," she insisted hospitably, and a little patronisingly, "I shall enjoy it!" She kissed Meg hurriedly, but clung a moment to Kate. Kate's face was wet as the two parted.

So they drove off in a shower of rice, and Aunt Russelthorpe stood waving her handkerchief till they were out of sight. She had never felt more kindly towards her nieces; and they, who had come to her as children, and left as women, were glad enough to go. Surely there was something a little tragic about the extreme cheerfulness of that wedding; but no one thought it so, except perhaps their father, who said with a sigh:—

"One wants the mother on these occasions". And when the last carriage had departed and the last guest gone Mrs. Russelthorpe drew a long breath of satisfaction as she reflected again that she certainly had "done well for those girls".

She expressed as much to her brother, while they lingered together in the great drawing-room before dinner. (Mr. Deane was the only member of the family who ever beguiled Mrs. Russelthorpe's restless spirit into dawdling.)

He sighed rather heavily.

"I am sure I don't understand how it is," he said, "but I seem to know very little of them. Laura has always been so reserved, and Kate so cold; and yet I am very fond of my children, and Meg is fond of me. I won't have her marrying,—do you hear, sis? I can't spare poor little Meg, and I really couldn't stand another son-in-law."

"Margaret is neither poor nor little. I cannot imagine why you always call her by baby names," said Mrs. Russelthorpe, with a hard ring in her voice, which made him look up in surprise.

"Parental foolishness, I suppose," he said. "I can't imagine why you should mind if I do." And Mrs. Russelthorpe bit her lip, and repented of her ebullition of impatience.

Apparently her words had given him food for thought; for after a few minutes' pause he said gravely:—

"I am meditating taking her away with me. You have been wonderfully good. I can't think what I should have done with my poor bairns if I had not had you to fall back on years ago; but, after all, Meg is quite grown-up now,—at least, so she constantly assures me; and she does not seem over happy here, though I daresay that is not your fault, and she is exceedingly anxious to come. In fact, I couldn't say her nay. I am afraid you will feel hurt, sis; but——"

"On the contrary, I have no doubt it is a capital plan," said Mrs. Russelthorpe briskly; and he leant back with an air of relief. After all, Augusta was always sensible. Meg had imagined that her aunt would be angry at the idea, but Meg was apt to take fancies.

"Of course, you will give up wandering about the country when you constitute yourself chaperon to a pretty daughter," said his sister, sitting down opposite him, to comfortably discuss the project. "Margaret is very attractive. In fact, to outsiders she is the most winning of the three. I noticed that she excited a great deal of admiration at our ball. She is so innocent she needs very careful guarding. I never let her go anywhere alone, not even into Dover."

"I had thought of showing her Italy," said Mr. Deane doubtfully; "but,—well, perhaps you are right there, sis. I couldn't be constantly at her elbow, and she is very rash. I remember now that I meant to give her a hint about Sauls, who is all very well, and an uncommonly clever man, and excellent company; but the way he stuck to my daughter was—well—" (with a laugh) "was like his impertinence."

"A girl of Margaret's age cannot be expected to have much worldly wisdom. It really is hardly desirable that she should. I did not blame the child," said Mrs. Russelthorpe, with a leniency which would considerably have astonished her niece. "But no doubt you will be cautious for her. You can't be too careful. I suppose you will live here? She is full young to be mistress of such a big establishment, is she not? And at present she is extremely forgetful, and naturally has no idea whatever of housekeeping. But then you could manage things yourself practically, and there are several nice families whom you could invite to the house. Bachelor parties would be out of the question, in the peculiar circumstances; but Margaret needs young society. There are the Ripleys of Ripley Court, and the Melluishes of St. Andrew's, for example."

"Oh no; we couldn't have them," said Mr. Deane hastily. "You know, sis, a very small dose of county magnates goes a long way with me. I don't mind a ball for once, but I couldn't live in their set; besides, Meg swears that she will be perfectly happy in a prolonged tÊte-À-tÊte."

"Yes?" said his sister. She smiled, but a little doubtfully. "It would hardly be fair on her to take her at her word," she remarked. "And I know that you are not selfish, Charles, and don't mean it seriously when you say you don't wish her to marry. Meg isn't cut out for an old maid. Oh, you'll soon see that, in common justice to her, you must entertain the county if you have the responsibility of bringing her out. As for her being happy alone with you, I do not for a moment doubt her truthfulness; she is candour itself, but she is variable, and she takes her own moods seriously. Meg will be ready for a convent one day, and a dance the next. You can never be sure of her. You are a charming companion; perhaps if you amuse her a good deal she will not be moped with you. I have found her fits of depression rather trying, but then I always consider that they arise from delicacy of constitution. You will watch her health, won't you? Her chest is delicate, you know, and——"

"My dear Augusta!" he cried, appalled. "What a fearful number of injunctions! I wonder whether I am equal to all these cares? Don't heap on any more, please!"

"You'll find out the rest for yourself," said Mrs. Russelthorpe cheerfully. "It is an excellent plan, as I said before, and you will not mind a little sacrifice of comfort. You'll stay here with Margaret, when Joseph and I go back to town, then?"

"Well—no—I am not quite prepared for that," he said, and dismay evidently filled his heart. "Especially if Meg hasn't any notion of housekeeping. I suppose it wouldn't do to take her to Florence with me, eh?—No—well, since she is so delicate, and, as you say, so pretty and attractive and guileless, perhaps I could hardly manage that; but she'll be terribly disappointed. I tell you what! I will think it all over, and write to her about it all from abroad. We need not give up the idea of her coming to me some time. No doubt we can arrange something."

Mrs. Russelthorpe acquiesced. "No doubt," she said; but she knew that she had won that game.

Mr. Deane left England a few weeks later.

As he rode through the village with rather a heavy heart, for to do him justice Meg's wistful face haunted him, he came upon an excited group of people, in the centre of which stood a delicate-looking youth, and a big fair-bearded man, who was talking with a strong north-country drawl.

"Why, that is Widow Penge's son, and he is walking without his crutches!" cried Mr. Deane, drawing rein. "And that other fellow must be the preacher little Meg is so mad about."

"I always thought Andrew Penge was a bit of an impostor," said Mrs. Russelthorpe, who accompanied him; "and now I know it! Come, Charles, my horse won't stand, and you'll miss the coach."

The preacher had made a step forward as she spoke.

"Is that Mr. Deane of Ravenshill? I've something to deliver to one o' his family," he said; but Mr. Deane had ridden on.

"He was going to give us a word in season," Mrs. Russelthorpe declared contemptuously. "Charles'" good-natured tolerance for all kinds of enthusiasts irritated her.

Mr. Deane laughed his light kindly laugh.

"Meg wanted me to make acquaintance with him, and I half promised I would. I've lost my chance," he said. And his words were truer than he thought.