John Temple was too much interested on the subject to be content with such crude information.

“The Mayflower,” he repeated, smiling. “What a pretty name for a pretty girl! But I suppose that is not her real name?”

“No, her real name, for I christened her, and so should know, is Margaret Alice Churchill, but she was born in May, and that is how she got her pet name, I suppose.”

“She has a lovely face.”

“Yes, yes, she is well-favored, and is a good girl, too, I believe—a very good girl. They say young Henderson, of the Grange, wants to marry her, but this may be just gossip.”

“And who is he?”

“Oh, he’s a well-to-do young man, very well-to-do. His father died about a year ago, and he came into the family property. It’s not a large estate, but a snug bit of land, and the old man had saved money.”

“Quite an eligible young man then,” said John Temple, a little mockingly.

“Yes, Miss Margaret might do worse. And he’s a nice lad, too; fond of sport and that kind of thing. But you’ll be meeting him, for I suppose now we will often see you at the Hall?”

Mr. Layton looked at John Temple with slight curiosity in his mild face as he said this, for he was remembering the lecture his wife had given him on the subject of the Hall.

“I do not know, I am sure,” answered John; “of course nothing has been said yet on any such subject.”

“Still, Mr. Temple, you are the direct heir, you know, to the squire after poor young Phil is gone. I always understood the Woodlea property was strictly entailed by the squire’s father, on the surviving children of his sons, and you are now the only surviving child, I believe?”

“I believe there was some such arrangement,” said John, rather repressively. He considered it too soon to speak of heirs or heirships, and he was getting rather tired also of the vicar’s company.

“I think I must be going on my way,” he added; “good-day, Mr. Layton,” and he touched his hat.

But the vicar was somewhat loth to be shaken off.

“We will meet again at dinner-time; the squire has asked me to dinner; it’s a sad occasion, but these things must be.”

It was not only a sad occasion, but a very tiresome occasion, John thought, some hours later, when he did meet the vicar again at the squire’s table. And not only the vicar, but Mrs. Layton also, who dined unasked at the Hall. She had indeed spent the day there, and was not a woman to know there was a meal going on in her son-in-law’s house without joining it. She, therefore, took her daughter’s place at the head of the table, also unasked, and talked a good deal to John Temple.

She was a brisk little woman, with a small thin face, and a sharp tongue. She might have been pretty once perhaps, when her eyes were not so hard, if that ever had been. Now she was certainly not pretty, nor sweet with any womanly grace. She had an eager, watchful look, as though always on the alert. She was watching John Temple, as she sat at the squire’s table, and talked to him; watching and speculating as to what he would do after the squire was gone.

“How is Mrs. Temple?” asked John, in a low tone, while the vicar was prosing on to the poor squire.

“Poor dear, what can I say?” answered Mrs. Layton; “she was wrapped up in him; yes, wrapped up. I consider it wrong myself, Mr. Temple, to make an idol of anything; all may go, all may go! My dear squire, may I trouble you for a little more of that salmon? It’s delicious.”

Mrs. Layton got her salmon, and ate her green peas with relish, and all the time went on enlarging about her daughter’s grief. She also tried to extract some information from John as to his past life, but here she signally failed. John was reticent and repressive, and probably, as she remarked afterward to her husband, “he had good reason to be.”

“And the vicar tells me you met Margaret Churchill to-day,” she said, presently. “Well, she’s a pretty girl, but I fear a sad flirt, a very sad flirt.”

“Pretty girls often get that character,” answered John, “because men naturally admire them.”

Mrs. Layton shook her head.

“But Margaret really goes too far,” she said. “Now there’s young Henderson of Stourton Grange, an excellent match for her, and far beyond what she might expect. Yet after letting him run after her for months, and encouraging him in every way, I’m told she’s actually refused him.”

“She may not like him.”

“But then why did she seem to like him, Mr. Temple? Her encouragement was marked, positively marked. And then there’s our curate, Mr. Goodall—certainly he is not much in anyway, and has nothing to offer her, but still she flirts with him. I consider it unwomanly, degrading in fact, to make so little of herself as to take up with everyone, yet this is what Margaret Churchill does.”

“You are very hard on the pretty Mayflower.”

“Yes, now look at that—Mayflower indeed! Such an absurd name. And I’m told she always likes to be called May, but I make a point of addressing her always as Margaret, the name she was christened by.”

“If ever I have the privilege I shall call her Miss May.”

“It’s a privilege you will share with a good many young men, I’m afraid, Mr. Temple. Yes, Margaret Churchill, to my opinion, is a very indiscreet young woman.”

“She’s very handsome, at all events.”

“Yes, in a way; everything depends on taste, you know. James,” this was to the footman, “hand me the stewed chicken again. Try this entree, Mr. Temple; it’s excellent.”

John Temple was exceedingly glad when the dinner was over. Mrs. Layton wearied him to death. She went into small parish details and squabbles, and gave the minutest description of her wrongs.

“A clergyman’s wife has many trials, Mr. Temple, but I try to bear them, and it is such a poor parish, too. My husband and I have toiled here for over thirty-nine years, and we barely can live, and certainly the laborer is worthy of his hire.”

“Certainly,” said John, with a laugh.

“And talking of labor, I do not know what the working classes are coming to,” continued Mrs. Layton, with extraordinary rapidity; “I assure you, Mr. Temple, I can not get a man—just a common working man—to plant and dig my little bit of potato ground, under half a crown a day! I’ve tried a shilling, which I consider fair, eighteen pence, two shillings, all in vain. It’s absurd.”

Thus Mrs. Layton talked on, and then, after having taken two glasses of port wine, she finally withdrew, “to see after my poor dear,” she said, alluding to her daughter. After she was gone John asked leave to go out on the terrace to smoke, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he found himself alone.

The terrace ran round one side of the house, and below it were the gardens. The haze of evening was lying over the glowing flower-beds, and the dew upon the grass. It was all so still; the drone of a late reveler returning from the flowers, the rustle of a bird’s wing among the trees, were the only sounds.

Up and down walked John, thinking of many things. “If this had only happened ten years ago,” he was reflecting; “happened when I was young.”

He did not look very old in the soft light, with the evening breeze stirring the thick brown hair above his brow, for his head was uncovered. A man in his prime; a handsome man, and one well-fitted to please a woman’s eyes. Perhaps he knew this, and somehow his mind wandered to the fair-faced girl he had seen and admired in the country lane.

“So she is a little flirt, is she?” he thought, with a smile. “The pretty Mayflower.”

The name pleased him almost as much as the girl’s beauty had done. She reminded him of the roses he had seen her gather from the hedge. She was so fresh and sweet, he thought, and it amused him to hear of her lovers.

“Of course she has lovers—what girl worth looking at has not?—but I wonder if she has ever loved,” he reflected.

By and by he began thinking of another woman, and as he did so he frowned. He began to whistle to distract his thoughts, and then suddenly remembered how lately this had been the house of death. He felt sorry for the poor mother, with her fresh grief, upstairs; sorry for the gray-haired old man.

“I suppose I should go in and talk to him,” he said, and he did. He found the squire alone.

The vicar had gone home with his wife, and there was no one in the dining-room but the desolate old man.

John tried to talk to him, but he found it very difficult. When two lives have run in completely different grooves, the conversation is apt to be strained. The squire had always lived in the country, John Temple always in towns. They spoke a little on politics, and John easily perceived his uncle’s opinions were opposed to his own. But he did not intrude this on his attention, and it was a subject at least to converse on.

They parted on friendly terms for the night, and the next morning the squire called his nephew into the library, and spoke to him seriously of his change of position.

“It is only right that you should have an allowance out of the estates now, John,” he said, “when you will probably so soon inherit them.”

“Please do not speak of such a thing,” answered John, with an earnest ring in his voice which pleased the squire.

“I must both speak of it and think of it,” he said. “My poor boy’s death has been a great shock to me, and shocks at my age are not easily thrown off. I wish to feel to you, and treat you now as my heir, and I wish you to be quite open to me as regards your affairs. Like most young men I suppose you have debts?”

“No,” smiled John, “I have none.”

“I am glad to hear it,” answered the squire, “though I was quite prepared to pay them if you had. I also propose to allow you one thousand a year out of the property, and I hope you will look on this house in the future as your home.”

“You are most kind and generous, uncle.”

“I am simply just; this house, you know, and the Woodlea property are entailed on you. I have other property which came to me through my first poor wife.” And here the squire sighed.

“But why speak of things which must be distressing to you so soon?”

“Things of this kind are always best settled—life is so uncertain—look at my dear boy.”

“That was a very exceptional case.”

“No doubt, but still I wish everything to be arranged between you and me. I am sorry we have not seen more of each other, but it is not too late. For the present you will stay on here, at least for a time?”

“If you wish it, yes.”

“I do wish it;” then the squire went into further business details, and John Temple knew that he would be a richer man some day than he had ever dreamed of. The squire had saved out of his large rental, and he had not been communicative to his wife’s family as to the real extent of his income. He disliked Mrs. Layton exceedingly, and was barely civil to her for his wife’s sake. If she had known the extent of his wealth her encroachments would have been even greater than they were, and Mr. Temple considered he had quite enough of Mrs. Layton as it was.

During this conversation the uncle and nephew were mutually pleased with each other. And after it was over John Temple went out for a stroll, and with a smile at his own folly, turned his footsteps in the direction of the country lane where he had met “the Mayflower.”

But no pretty girl was to be seen. The lane somehow looked very empty to John, though the roses were still blooming on the hedge-rows, and the meadow-sweet scenting the air. He therefore walked on and on. He saw a belt of trees in the distance, and he determined to walk until he reached them.

He found when he did so a wooded hillside with a gurgling streamlet at its foot. A rustic narrow bridge spanned the rivulet, and ferns grew on either side of it in great luxuriance. It was a pretty shady spot, with a winding dell on one side of the little bridge. Along this John Temple had proceeded a few yards when he caught a glimpse of something white beneath one of the trees. He looked again and saw it was a girl sitting on a camp-stool reading. He drew nearer; the girl heard his approaching footsteps, even on the mossy turf. She looked up. It was the Mayflower, and John Temple felt he had not had his walk in vain!

He stopped when he reached her, and took off his cloth traveling-cap.

“Forgive me addressing you, Miss Churchill,” he said, smilingly; “but I have lost my way.”

The Mayflower smiled, too.

“You are a long way from the Hall,” she said.

“I wanted a good walk, and now will you tell me where I am?”

“This place is called Fern Dene, and the wood beyond, up the hill there, is called Fern Wood. It is famous for its ferns, and there are some very rare kinds growing about here, and there are also some rare kinds of moths, but I never can bear to catch them.”

“No, it’s better to let them have their lives in peace.”

“Yes, and they look so beautiful fluttering about. But I admit I steal the ferns. This is part of the squire’s property, so you must not tell him.”

“You would doubtless be arrested as a poacher.”

“Not quite so bad as that,” laughed the Mayflower; “indeed, I think he knows. Dear Phil Temple,” and her expression changed, “often came here with me to help me to collect them, for I have a fernery at Woodside of which I am very proud.”

“I wonder if we could find some now?” asked John. “I know something about ferns, and can tell the rare ones.”

The Mayflower did not speak; in truth she was considering whether it would be quite proper for her to go fern hunting with a young man of whom she knew so little.

Perhaps John Temple saw, or thought he saw, the reason of her hesitation. He smiled; he looked in her bright fair face, and then he condescended to a subterfuge.

“I feel quite tired with my walk,” he said. “I wonder if you would think me rude or lazy if I were to sit down on the turf?”

Still the girl did not answer, but she smiled.

“May I?” asked John, emboldened by the smile.

“The turf is not mine, but the squire’s,” answered the Mayflower, still smiling; upon which John flung himself on the mossy grass not far from her feet.

“I call this luxury,” he said, stretching out his long limbs. “Fern Dene—so this is Fern Dene? Do you often come here, Miss Churchill?”

“Yes, very often; it’s a nice walk from home.”

“And you read here. May I ask what you were reading when I interrupted you?”

“A novel, of course,” answered the Mayflower, with a blush.

“Yes, of course; that is only natural.”

The Mayflower looked quickly down at the good-looking brown face raised to hers, as John Temple said this, for something in his tone made her think he was amusing himself at her expense.

“Yes, it is only natural,” she answered, with a spirit; “I like to read of lives that I suppose are very often drawn from life.”

“With all its tragedies, its comedies, its subterfuges, and its lies—it’s always the same old story.”

“But there are some lives in which there are no tragedies—nor even comedies?”

“About these, if there be such, there are no stories to tell.”

Just at this moment there appeared coming down the hill through the trees behind them the stalwart form of a young man, carrying a gun, and followed by two dogs. He paused a moment when he saw the white dress of the Mayflower, and smiled; but in another moment, perceiving John Temple lying on the grass at her feet, he frowned.

The dogs ran forward and were approaching the Mayflower’s camp-stool in the manner of welcome and familiar friends, when their master harshly called them back, and, hearing his voice, the Mayflower looked round just in time to see the young man savagely strike one of the dogs with a whip which he had drawn from his pocket.

The poor beast yelled and shrank back, and the Mayflower rose indignantly, her fair face flushing as she did so.

“Oh, Mr. Henderson, what a shame!” she cried. “What are you striking the poor dog for?”

The young man, on being thus addressed, came forward, and there was a flush on his handsome face also, as he approached the girl. John Temple did not move; he lay looking up at two figures before him.

“Why did you strike Juno?” repeated the Mayflower, as the young man drew near.

He raised his cloth cap as he answered, and his brown eyes fell.

“One must keep them in order,” he said, half-sullenly.

“But Juno was doing nothing. Come here, poor Juno; I hate cruelty.”

“Yet you sometimes practice it,” retorted the young man in a low tone.

He was singularly striking looking. Tall and splendidly formed, with features—though he was as brown as a gypsy—of remarkable regularity. It was indeed impossible not to remark on his personal appearance. The one defect on his face, perhaps, was his mouth, which was sensual looking, though shaded by a thick, crisp, brown mustache. Still, he was a splendid specimen of young manhood, and John Temple, from his vantage ground, mentally, distinctly admitted this. Yet, in spite of all his physical advantages; in spite, also, of being undoubtedly well-dressed, there was a certain countrified look about him which was almost indescribable.

The Mayflower turned her pretty head away when he spoke of her cruelty, and his brown eyes followed this slight movement with unmistakable eagerness. But she made no answering sign of interest. She looked down at John Temple lying on the grass, and he rose as she did so.

“So you are fond of God’s dumb creatures?” he said.

“I am very fond of horses and dogs,” she answered; “indeed, I think, of all animals.”

“And, no doubt, they are fond of you?”

The girl laughed softly and blushed a little, and then stooped down and stroked poor Juno’s fawn head, who had once more crept to her side, in spite of her master’s lowering looks.

“What a handsome creature!” said John Temple; “and she evidently knows you.”

“Oh, yes; we are old friends,” answered the Mayflower, and she half glanced at the young man she had called Mr. Henderson as she spoke, but he did not look pleased.

“Perhaps you like new friends better?” he said. “Well, good-morning, Miss Churchill,” and once more touching his cap he strode away, whistling for his dogs to follow him.

“Who is the country Adonis?” asked John Temple, smiling.

“Oh, he is called Mr. Tom Henderson of Stourton Grange,” replied the Mayflower, demurely.

“Ah!” said John, still smiling. He understood now, he thought, the cause of Mr. Henderson’s clouded brow and sullen words.

“He is a handsome fellow, don’t you think, Miss Churchill?” he asked.

“People call him good-looking,” answered Miss Churchill, and she cast down her eyes a little consciously. “But I don’t think he has a nice temper; fancy him striking the poor dog!”

“Perhaps he was jealous because she seemed fond of you.”

“That was very foolish then.”

“Ah, but jealousy is a devouring demon,” said John Temple. “But, of course, you never felt it?”

“Oh, yes, I have!”

“I can not believe it, Miss Churchill, though I am sure you have caused much.”

Again that puzzled look stole over the girl’s face. She could not help feeling as though she knew Mr. Temple very well, and would like to talk nonsense to him, and yet she was conscious that perhaps she should not.

“Do you know Mrs. Layton, the vicar’s wife?” now inquired John Temple, remembering the character she had given Miss Churchill.

“Oh, yes, and she’s such a spiteful old woman!”

“She’s an awful old woman, I think. She bored me to death last night when she dined at the Hall.”

“Did she mention me?” now asked the Mayflower, with a glance of fun in her dark blue eyes.

“Well, to tell the truth, she did,” answered John Temple.

“And she abused me, of course?”

“That was impossible.”

“Oh, but I know she did if she mentioned me. I am one of her pet aversions. She says all sorts of hard things about me, and because they call me May at home she always addresses me as ‘Miss Margaret,’ as she thinks it is an ugly name, and I hate it.”

“The vicar told me they called you the Mayflower,” said John, looking earnestly at the girl’s lovely face.

“Oh! that is a foolish name,” she answered, with a blush and a smile rippling over her rosy lips.

“I think it is a charming name, and forgive me if I say—”

“Please don’t say any nonsense—at least I mean—”

She paused here, and blushed more deeply than before.

“You mean I have not to pay you any compliments? What I was going to say is no compliment, but the simple truth. But I will not tell you even the truth unless you like it.”

“I—I do not care for compliments.”

“You do not need them.”

“That is all right then,” smiled the Mayflower. “And—now I must say good-by, Mr. Temple; it is time I was going home.”

She put out her little hand quite timidly, and John Temple took it in his own.

“May I see you again sometimes?” he said. “Will you come here again?”

“I—do sometimes come here.”

“I shall hope to see you then. Good-by, Miss Churchill.”

He took off his cap and stood bare-headed before her, and as with her light feet the Mayflower turned homeward, she was not thinking of her lover, young Henderson, but of the stranger who had just crossed her path.