On the following day Lady Crawford calls to congratulate Mrs. Armstrong and her sister on the success of their first appearance. She is the prime busy-body, scandal-monger, matrimonial agent of Nutshire, who, having most successfully secured partners for three sons, five daughters, and innumerable nephews and nieces, has turned her energies and interests to the manipulating of her neighbors' affairs, and is quite eager to take the "new people" in hand, seeing a promising figure in Miss Lefroy.

"You did very well, very well indeed, my dears," she says, in a tone of friendly encouragement. "That dress of yours, Miss Lefroy, was particularly well made—Armine, wasn't it? Yes, so I thought. Just a leetle too much trimming to my mind; but then I believe I'm very antiquated in my tastes, and do not care to see a young girl at her first ball dressed like a bride. Autres temps, autres modes, you will say; and I dare say you are right. Girls nowadays would rather overdo a thing ten times than run the risk of looking a little dowdy."

"I hope, Lady Crawford," says Addie meekly, though with twinkling eyes, "that you do not think we overdid it?"

"Oh, no, no, my dear young lady!" protests the dowager, with gracious empressement. "Pray do not imagine such a thing. I thought you both looked and behaved charmingly, I am sure."

"You are very kind indeed."

"Not at all, not at all. I would not say so if I did not think it. And I must say"—turning quickly to Pauline, who is quite unprepared for the attack—"that I was especially struck with the judgment and discernment you showed, Miss Lefroy, in your marked encouragement of young Everard of Broom Hill."

"Lady Crawford!"

"You danced with him four times, wasn't it?—and let him take you down to supper," she says emphatically, her eyes fixed on Pauline's blushing face.

"I—I don't remember; I believe so," she stammers, too taken aback to defend herself.

"And my daughter, Mrs. Stanley Roberts, overheard him offering you a mount for the meet next week. I hope you accepted. Let me tell you, my dear, that I consider there is not a more eligible young fellow in the county for a girl circumstanced as you are than Jack Everard of Broom Hill."

"Lady Crawford," breaks in Addie, with spirit, "let me thank you in my sister's name for the kind interest you take in her welfare; but I'm greatly afraid she does not deserve your encomiums on her judgment. She is very young—not eighteen yet—and is not up to the point of looking at her partners in the light of future husband, I fancy."

"Isn't she?" returns her ladyship, no whit taken aback. "Then she'll soon learn sense. At any rate, she cannot do better than encourage young Everard. She couldn't get a husband to suit her better; and for a girl circumstanced—I mean that he is a right good-hearted little fellow, and Broom Hill is a nice sunny spot, the house in perfect order, fit for a bride any day. He paid off the last charge on the property last Christmas, when his sister married Fred Oldham—wretched match it was too for her; and now he has a clear rent-roll of two thousand five hundred, and not an acre mortgaged. I have it on the best authority. You may trust me, Miss Lefroy; I never make a mistake in these matters."

"You are very kind, Lady Crawford, but I have no intention—"

"Of course not, of course not, my child!"—tapping Pauline's shoulder good-humoredly as she rises to depart. "No girl has the slightest intention of getting married until she is asked point-blank; we all know that. However, don't snub poor Jack, for he has been badly used already. He was, you must know, devotedly attached to my daughter Alice, now Lady Frampton; but she preferred Sir Charles, and of course I couldn't interfere; besides, he was the better match. Still poor Jack felt the blow keenly, gave up society for a time, and all that; but now I am happy to see he is getting cured by degrees, and you must not throw him on the sick-list again—ha, ha! Good-by, Mrs. Armstrong, good-by; I'll soon give you a friendly call again. By the bye, you're not going to the Arkwrights on Friday? No, of course not—I forgot. Foolish woman that Susan Arkwright, keeping up—Well, well, I must be off. Au revoir, don't forget my advice, either of you."

"There, Addie," laughs Pauline—"your snub did not have the least effect! I wouldn't try it again, if I were you. After all, she means well, and I'm sure is a most good-natured old soul on the whole. Oh!"—drawing back suddenly from the window.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing—I mean only a dog-cart driving up the avenue, with two men in it. I—I—think they are Mr. Everard and a cousin who is stopping with him."

"They are coming here!" exclaims Addie. "Send down word at once to say 'Not at home,' Pauline."

"Not at home! Why should we say that?"

"Oh—well—because neither of the boys nor my husband is in! I—I don't care about receiving young men I scarcely know in their absence."

"What absurd nonsense! Why, you are a married woman, Addie; you can receive as many men as you like! Fancy saying 'Not at home' after their driving such a distance to see you! Absurd!"

So the young men enter, warm their frozen hands at a cozy fire, are fed on hot tea and "cushiony" muffins, and, what they relish most, bask in the welcoming smile of Miss Lefroy's beautiful face.

"Do you know, Mrs. Armstrong," says Everard presently, when the stiffness due to their first appearance has worn off, "you were very near not having the pleasure of our society this afternoon. It was touch and go with you, I can tell you, five minutes ago."

"How was that, Mr. Everard?"

"Why, just outside your gate we came full tilt against Lady Crawford's equipage, coming out, and I turned to Cecil and said, 'My boy, if we're wise, we shall beat a retreat, for I expect we've not a shred of character left;' but he, fearless in his innocence, callous to the breath of calumny, urged me onward. What are you laughing at? Mrs. Armstrong, Miss Lefroy, I was right; she did backbite me—said something about me—eh?"

"'Conscience makes cowards of us all,' Mr. Everard," says Addie. "I do not say Lady Crawford mentioned your name."

"Oh, but she did!" he persists, in an anguish of apprehension. "I can see it in both your faces; I know she did. Miss Lefroy"—turning a crimson face and pair of imploring blue eyes to that young lady—"say you don't believe a word she said. Don't judge me on her report; every one knows that she's the most infer—I mean outrageous gossipmonger, the most extravagant—"

"Mr. Everard, Mr. Everard," laughs Pauline, "you are putting your foot deeper and deeper into the mire with every word! If you go on longer in that strain, I shall be inclined to believe that you are a villain of the deepest stage-dye."

"Turn your eyes my way, Miss Lefroy," pleads Mr. Cecil Dawson, a handsome saucy Oxonian. "I challenge your closest scrutiny. Gaze into my limpid countenance, and tell me can you detect therein the faintest trace of uneasiness or apprehension? Could anything be more calm, more effulgent with the glow of seraphic virtue and—and—"

"Inordinate conceit! No, Mr. Dawson. I think not."

He draws himself up in mock indignation, and then, deeming it wiser to leave the field to his more eligible cousin, strolls languidly over to Addie, whom he seeks, with but scant success, to entice into a light flirtation, that young person being quite unversed in the art of persiflage or delicately-flavored "chaff" in which he excels.

"You'll tell me what she said, won't you, Miss Lefroy?" implores Everard, hanging ardently over the low chair where Pauline sits diligently working in the breast of a crewel-stork. "You'll give a fellow a chance, won't you? In common fairness you must. Just an idea, a hint—that's all I want—and I'll make her eat her own words—by Jove, I will! Tell me, tell me!"

"But, Mr. Everard, what am I to tell you? I never said that Lady Crawford even—"

"No, no; but you looked it, and you can't deny that she mentioned my name. You can't look me in the face now, and say she didn't. No; I thought not. By Jove, it's an awful fate to be at the mercy of a woman of that kind, to be taunted with—with sins you don't even know the name of, with crimes you never—"

"Mr. Everard, am I taunting you?"

"Yes, you are, Miss Lefroy—you know you are," he answers bitterly. "Your eyes are taunting me, your laugh is taunting me; you—you are making me utterly miserable."

"Am I really?" answers Pauline, jumping up and moving across the room. "Then I had better leave you at once."

He makes no effort to follow her, but sits staring blankly out at the chill winter landscape, for the poor young fellow is wofully in love and full of despondent diffidence.

"Don't look so sad," says a small mysterious voice at his side. "I heard what she said, and it was not very bad, after all."

"You did, you jolly little girl?" he exclaims eagerly. "You'll tell me what it was, won't you?"

"Oh, I daren't! I'm forbidden to open my lips when there are visitors. I always say the wrong thing, you know. They'd be mad if they knew I was talking to you now. I've been hiding behind the curtain for the last hour, and heard everything."

"You'll tell me? I'll swear, if you like, that they shall never know. Do, do, you dear little girl! I will promise to bring you the biggest box of sweets you ever had in your life, if you do."

"When?" asks Lottie skeptically.

"To-morrow."

"Will there be 'chocolate-cream' and 'Turkish delight' in it?"

"There will—pounds of both!"

"Then she only said that you were a very nice eligible young man, that your property was worth two thousand five hundred pounds, and that you had been frightfully in love with her daughter Alice, Lady Something or Other, but that you were beginning to get over it now."

"It's a lie—a shameless, impudent lie, a most confounded lie!" cries the faithless Everard, striding quickly to Pauline's side, his face crimson with wrath. "Don't believe a word of it, Miss Lefroy—don't. I never cared a straw for Alice Crawford—never! A little, pale-faced, snub-nosed chit—she's the last girl in Nutshire I'd wish to marry! Say you don't believe it!"

"Who—who told you?" stammers Pauline, with flaming face, suddenly guessing the truth. "I know it was my sister."

She darts across to the curtains, seizes the culprit in a vicious grip, and leads her to the door, where she pauses to take breath and review her position.

Having come to the conclusion that she has tried her lover sufficiently, Miss Pauline takes another course, which is so soothing and satisfactory that in a very short space of time the clouds have disappeared from Everard's ruddy brow and he is in Paradise again.

The short afternoon wanes, twilight advances, then dusk; still Mrs. Armstrong's guests linger.

"I wish they'd go!" she thinks a little uneasily. "This is not a visit, but a visitation; and we look so—so familiar grouped round the fire in this easy way. I wish Pauline would sit on a chair, and not loll on the rug playing with the kitten; I wish that ridiculous boy would not sprawl at my feet in that affected high-art attitude—it looks too idiotic. What will Tom say when he comes in? Dear me, six o'clock, and not a move between them yet! Will they never go?"

When Tom comes in, he seems startled for a moment by the strange invasion of his hearth; but what he says is courteous and hospitable in the extreme. When the dressing-bell sounds, and the young men rise at last to their feet, full of confused apologies, he begs them to remain to dinner, which they do unhesitatingly.

It is midnight before they leave; Armstrong, who has been seeing them off, meets his sister-in-law going to bed. She stops him, and lays her hand coaxingly upon his arm.

"What a jolly little evening we've had, haven't we, Tom? Do you know, I think I enjoy a little family gathering like this quite as much as a big ball; and so does Addie. What spirits she was in this evening, wasn't she?"

"Yes," he says, in half soliloquy, "I think she enjoyed herself; society suits her."

"Of course it does; it suits all healthy-minded young people. It's the best tonic she could have. You must remember, Tom, she's very young—only two years older than me."

"Why do you say that to me?" he asks, fixing his somber eyes on her face. "Do you think my years weigh on her life? Do I—oppress her?"

"Oh, no, no! I only meant that, though she is married, she still can enjoy fun and—and society just as well as any of us; and, as for dancing, I know she delights in it."

"You think so?"—eagerly.

"I am sure of it. I am sure, too, that though she sometimes tries to put on heavy matronly airs before you and others, she has the same wild fund of spirits in reserve as ever, and is at heart, as I've said before, just as fond of fun and society as any of us."

"Thank Heaven for that!" he mutters to himself. "Patience! A few years—nay, a few months more, and all these shadows will have passed away. I must give her society." Then, aloud—"You think she enjoyed herself this evening, Pauline, and, if I proposed giving a few dinner parties, and perhaps a dance occasionally, she would not think it a trouble, a bore—eh?"

"I am certain there is nothing would give her greater pleasure; but at the same time, Tom," says Miss Pauline, with wily impressiveness, "if she thought, suspected even, that you were doing it solely for her sake, she would be the first to oppose it, to say she hated entertaining, thought it a bother, and so on."

"I see."

"So, Tom, you must not pay the least attention to her if she pretends to dislike gayety, for I, who have known her all her life, can assure you that there is nothing she is so fond of, or that agrees so well with her. And, as for the trouble of writing invitations and entertaining guests, why, there are always Bob and I at hand to take our share of the labor and make ourselves as useful to you and Addie as we can, Tom."

"What a good girl you are, Pauline," says Armstrong, patting her shoulder approvingly, with a smile which she does not quite understand—"quite a fireside treasure!"