"And so you like her, Bob?"

"Rather, Polly; she's an A 1 specimen, and no mistake! I suspect I should soon be her slave if I saw too much of her," says Mr. Lefroy, smoothing his budding mustache.

The subject of this encomium is Miss Florence Wynyard, who has run over on a tricycle to luncheon, and who has laid herself out to fascinate the whole family, deeming Nutsgrove extremely comfortable quarters in which to establish herself when affairs are uncomfortable at home.

Florence is the only unmarried daughter of the house of Wynyard. Her mother is a weak-minded peevish old lady, entirely under the dominion of her husband, a gentleman of convivial nature, but extremely uncertain temper, whose periodical attacks of mingled rage and gout render him for the time being fit for a menagerie or a lunatic asylum; hence life at head-quarters is not always very pleasant, and Florence has established for herself a firm pied À terre in some half dozen neighboring houses, whither she can fly at the first paternal growl and remain until the storm has blown over. Within ten minutes after her arrival she determined that Nutsgrove shall ere long be included among her harbors of refuge.

"Yes," she thinks, "I should decidedly like the run of this house."

At a glance she takes in the luxury, the comfort, the freedom, the festive atmosphere that reigns throughout, and easily sees that with judicious management she could twist the simple family round her fingers.

Her demeanor under the critical eyes of her host and hostess is admirable. She is lively, amusing, unaffected, almost ladylike, in fact, the faint ring of "loudness" she can not shake off passing for merely the effervescence of youth, robust health, and good temper. When alone with Pauline and Robert she casts off the mask at once, thus thoroughly fascinating those inexperienced young persons with the full flavor of her "fastness" and the quality and compass of her camaraderie and good-fellowship.

Miss Wynyard is a debonair and not unkindly type of the girl of the period, eminently selfish, but not ill-natured. She is not beyond making a friend of one of her own sex if the conquest is an easy one, but her great object in life is to be "all things to all men," to charm all men of all ages, all classes, all conditions of nature, from the schoolboy to the veteran, from the lord of the soil to the serf. She is successful in an unusual degree, her weapon of attack being one which, when skillfully used, seldom fails, for it tickles the most vital part of male human nature—its vanity. Her list of conquests is inexhaustible, varied, and not altogether creditable to her reputation, if the whispers of the county clubs are to be accepted, which fortunately they are not—very generally at least. For instance, the version of her rupture with Lord Northmouth a week before her marriage—which, rumor said, was owing to that infatuated nobleman's discovering the existence of a correspondence with a good-looking railway-guard at Kelvick Junction—was entirely discredited in the county; and, though Miss Wynyard was certainly left lamenting with seventeen trousseau dresses on hand, not even the most exclusive doors were closed to her on that account, and she wore her brilliant weeds so gallantly, alluding to her recreant fiancÉ so easily, lightly, and kindly, that in time it came to be pretty generally accepted that she had thrown him over, not he her.

"And you mean to tell me you are not going to the Arkwrights' on Friday, Polly?" she asks incredulously, when the two girls are exchanging confidences, and examining dresses in the seclusion of Pauline's bedroom. "What a shame. I'll soon make that right for you. Susan Arkwright is a connection of mine, you—"

"You are very kind," interrupts Pauline a little confusedly; "but on the whole perhaps it would be better, Flo, not to—to say anything about it. You see, I—I believe there was some misunderstanding or other between our family and theirs in days gone by, and—"

"Misunderstanding? Ha, ha!" breaks in Miss Wynyard, with her frank bold laugh. "That's a good way of putting it, and no mistake! Don't you know, my dear, that Robert the Dev—I mean your father—nearly drove Syd Arkwright to the wall in their soldiering days, and then invited his wife to elope with him? Susan was a very pretty woman a dozen years ago. Misunderstanding indeed! But that's all past and gone now, and it's ridiculous of them to visit it on you—very bad policy indeed. Just as if scores of others in the county hadn't as deep a grudge against your name as they! Polly, what's the matter? Why do you turn away? You absurd child, to mind my chatter! You can't be such an utter baby as not to know what your father was! Why should you mind talking about him with me, your dearest friend, your own Florrie? It it comes to that, you may discuss my old pater's youthful peccadilloes as freely as you like. I dare say they were not more edifying than yours, only he did not wear such a bold front. Your father, my dear, was one of the handsomest, most reckless, and fascinating scamps of his generation. I was just thinking this afternoon if that very good-looking son of his takes to his ways, the husbands, fathers, brothers of Nutshire ought to rise in crusade and drive him from the soil—ha, ha!"

"Bob is not like that. Bob is a well-minded boy," murmurs the sister, in a rather stifled voice.

"The boy is father to the man, you would say. Well, time will reveal. Now hold up your head and give me a kiss, you absurd little goose! I must soon knock that nonsense out of you; and you'll come to the Arkwrights' if I work the invite? That's right. Jack would never forgive me, he said, if I didn't make you promise to come; and I can't afford to fall out with Jack; he's useful to me in many ways—though I do loathe cousins."

Miss Wynyard "worked the invite" in time. On the very morning of the ball cards came for Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong and Miss Lefroy.

"The eleventh hour in every sense of the word; they hadn't a post to spare. Addie, have you your dress ready? Do you care to go?"

"No, Tom, no," she answers, with downcast eyes, "I would rather not go if you don't mind."

"Certainly not, my dear. Do exactly as you like in the matter. I quite agree with you. I think the invitation rather too unconventional in its delivery. Mrs. Arkwright ought at least to have called on you if she wished you to go to her ball."

"I'll refuse at once, politely of course."

"You needn't refuse for me, Addie," says Pauline lightly, when Armstrong has left. "I mean to go to the ball."

"What—alone, Pauline?"

"No—the Wynyards have offered to take me. I had a note from Flo, telling me to come over early and put up with her for the night—that is in case you refused to go."

"You are wise in your generation, Pauline!" says Addie, with a contemptuous smile.

"Wiser than you in yours, Addie," she retorts angrily. "I think it shows a churlish and ill-bred—yes, ill-bred spirit to refuse the hand of good-fellowship when it is so frankly offered. The Arkwrights and the Lefroys have been at feud for the last generation; for all we know, we may be the parties in fault, and yet they are the first to make an advance which you—you—"

"That is enough, Pauline," says her sister coldly; "we need not discuss the matter further. You evidently mean to accept these people's tardy hospitality, whether I wish it or not; so go—go to this ball and enjoy it, if you can. I dare say your enjoyment won't be much marred by the fact that I am both hurt and deeply disappointed by your conduct."

"It takes very little to hurt and disappoint you nowadays, Addie."

"I don't know that, Pauline," she says wearily. "It seems to me that I have food daily for disappointment, pain, and remorse."

"In other words, Addie, you mean that you are tired of us, tired of your brothers and sisters, who once were all to you! You would like to be rid of us!" says Pauline bitterly.

"Tired of you?" she echoes drearily. "I don't know; I think I'm most tired of myself, of my life, of my fate, of everything."

Pauline is moved, deeply moved for the moment, by the blank hopeless sorrow of the young face. She opens her arms, draws her sister's head on her bosom, and whispers, half crying herself—

"What is it—what is it, Addie, my darling? Are you very unhappy? If—if—you like we will go away all of us somewhere—somewhere where he shall never find you again. Tell me, sister darling—is he unkind to you?"

"Oh, no, no," she answers back, in a torrent of tears, her hot face buried in her sister's neck—"not that—not that! I can not tell you—you would not understand; it is only sometimes I feel so miserable that I should like to die. You must make allowance for me, Polly love, when I'm like that. You must try to bear with my peevishness, my ill-temper, my nastiness, for I can not help it, dear—indeed I can not. I feel so sore, so miserable, so nerveless, that I long to make every one as wretched as myself. I don't know what comes over me, what is the matter with me. I have no cause, no reason—oh, no, no! He is good to me, Polly, good—the best husband any woman could have; never believe anything but that—never! Look into my eyes if you doubt my word. You will read the truth there."

"Then what does it mean? What makes you so miserable and uneasy?"

"I don't know—I can not tell you—I have not an idea. I think I'm possessed!" she answers wildly; then, after a pause, throwing her arms round Pauline's neck in feverish appeal—"But it makes no difference to you, Polly; you love me just the same, don't you, dear sister? You have not changed, or grown cold, or ceased to care for me; you love me just the same? Oh, Polly, Polly darling, say you do!"

Pauline's answer is soothing, tender, and reassuring enough to calm the sudden storm; and the two sisters spend the morning together in loving amity; then, at Lottie's suggestion, they all three adjourn to the kitchen, to make a big plum-cake for Hal's Easter hamper, to the astonishment and dismay of Mrs. Armstrong's accomplished cook, who strongly objects to the "messin' and mashin' and worritin'" of amateurs in her domain.

The woolly snow-clouds clear away in the afternoon, and the leafless branches of the grove are bright with crisp frosty sunlight.

"Lottie, Lottie," calls out Addie from the drawing-room, where she has been finishing letters for the post, a ring of the coming spring in her fresh young voice, "tell Poll to put on her hat and cloak quickly, and we'll all three have a scamper through the grove. The pond behind Sallymount farm ought to be frozen now; we might have a grand slide on the sly."

"Oh, but, Addie, don't you know Poll's gone? She ordered the carriage after luncheon, packed up her ball-dress, and went off to the Wynyards' for the ball. Didn't she tell you?"