For some days past, ever since Verneede's fiasco in fact, Leavesley had been very much down in the mouth.

There is a tide in the affairs of man that when it reaches its lowest ebb usually takes a turn. The tide had been out with Leavesley for some time, and acres of desolate mud spoke nothing of the rolling breakers that were coming in.

The first roller had arrived by the first post on this very morning. It was a letter from his uncle.

"Gordon Square.

"Dear Frank,—I am in bed with a bad foot, or I would ask you to call and see me.

"I want that five pounds back. I made a will some years ago, by which you benefited to the extent of two thousand pounds; I am destroying that will, and drafting another.

"It's this way. I don't intend to die just yet, and you may as well have the two thousand now, when it will be of use to you. Call on Bridgewater, he will hand you shares to the amount in the Great Western Railway. Take my advice and don't sell them, they are going to rise, but of course, as to this you are your own master.—Your affectionate uncle,

"James Hancock."

"Two thousand pounds!" yelled Leavesley, "Belinda!" (he had heard her foot on the stairs).

"Yessir."

"I've been left two thousand pounds." Belinda passed on her avocations; she thought it was another of Mr Leavesley's jokes.

He ate a tremendous breakfast without knowing what he was eating, and in the middle of it the second roller came in.

It was a telegram.

He felt certain it was from Hancock revoking his legacy. It was from Miss Lambert.

"Only just found your letter. Please call this morning. Good news to tell you."

"Fanny!" cried Leavesley, as he stood before her in the drawing-room of "The Laurels" (she had just entered the room, having returned from posting her letter).

"Think—I've got two thousand pounds this morning!"

"Mercy!" cried Miss Lambert. "Where did you get it from?"

"Uncle."

"Mr Hancock?"

"Yes; he was going to have left me it in his will, but he's given me it instead."

"How good of him!" said Fanny. She was about to say something else, but she stopped.

"That's my good news," continued Leavesley. "What's yours?"

"Mine? Oh—just think! Father's engaged to be married."

"To be married?"

"Yes, to a Miss Pursehouse; she's awfully rich."

He did not for a moment grasp the importance of this piece of intelligence. Then it broke on him. Now that Fanny's father was provided for, she would be free to marry any one she liked.

* * * * *

"I was nearly heart-broken," mumbled Leavesley into Fanny's hair—they were seated on the couch—"when you didn't reply."

"The letter was on the kitchen dresser all the time," replied Fanny in a happy and dreamy voice, "behind a plate."

"And then when old Verneede called, and you seemed so indifferent—at least, he said you did."

"Who said I did?"

"Verneede; when he called here that day."

"He never called here."

"Verneede never called here?"

"Never in his life."

"He said he did, and he saw you, and told you I was going to Australia, and you didn't care."

"Oh, what a horrid, wicked story! He never came here."

"He must have been dreaming then," said Leavesley, who began to see how matters stood as regards the veracity of Verneede. "No matter, I don't care now. Hold me tighter, Fanny."

* * * * *

Till some one discovers the art of printing kisses, asterisks must serve.

"But," said Leavesley after an interval of sweet silence, "what I can't make out is how Bridgewater found out about you and me."

"Bridgewater!"

"Yes; he told my aunt all about us, and our going to Epping Forest: only the old fool said we went to the Zoo."

Fanny was silent. Then she said in a perplexed voice: "I want to tell you something. I did go to the Zoo."

"When?"

"The other day."

"Who with?"

"Guess!"

"Not—not Bevan?"

"No," said Fanny, "with your uncle."

Leavesley laughed.

"What a joke! Are you really in earnest?"

"Yes; he wrote to ask if I'd like to go, and I went. We met Mr Bridgewater."

"Oh, that accounts for it; he's mixed me and uncle up together—he must be going mad. Every one seems a little mad lately, uncle especially—taking you to the Zoo, and giving me two thousand, and—and—no matter, kiss me again."

* * * * * *

"Now," said Fanny, suddenly jumping up, "I must see after the house. Father wired this morning that he was bringing Miss Pursehouse here to-day to see the place, and I must get it tidy. Who's there?"

"Miss Fanny," said Susannah, opening the door an inch. Miss Lambert left the room hurriedly and closed the door. There was something in Susannah's voice that told her "something had happened."

"He's downstairs in the library."

"Oh, my goodness!" murmured Fanny with a frown; visions of Mr Hancock in all the positions of love-making rose before her. "Why didn't you say I was out?"

"I did, miss, and he said he'd wait."

Fanny went downstairs and into the library, and there before her stood Mr Bevan on the hearthrug.

Her face brightened wonderfully.

"I am so glad—when did you come? Guess who I thought it was? I thought it was Mr Hancock."

"Hancock?" said Charles, who had held her outstretched hand just a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. "Oh, that affair is all over. I stopped the action—by the way, I believe old Hancock's cracked; sent your father a most extraordinary wire, saying I was—what was it he said?—a duck, I think."

"Where have you seen father?"

"Why, I was staying in the same house with him down in Sussex for a day."

"At Miss Pursehouse's?"

"Yes."

"How awfully funny! Did he tell you?"

"What?"

"That he's engaged to be married to Miss Pursehouse. I had the letter this morning—oh, of course he couldn't have told you, for he only proposed yesterday afternoon. He wrote in an awful hurry, just a line to say he's 'engaged and done for.' Isn't he funny? There was another man after her, and father says he has 'cut him out.' Do tell me all about them; did you see the other man? and what did you think of father—isn't he a dear?"

"Yes," said Mr Bevan abstractedly. He was flabbergasted with the news and irritated, although he was not in love, and never had been in love, with Miss Pursehouse, still, it was distinctly unpleasant to think that he had been "cut out."

"I thought he seemed fond of her in Paris," continued Fanny, "but one never can tell. I'm glad he got the telegram all right. It was I that sent it. I was going to the Zoo with Mr Hancock——"

"I beg your pardon?" said Mr Bevan.

"I was going to the Zoo with Mr Hancock. Oh, I have such a lot to tell you, but promise me first you'll never tell."

"Yes."

"Well—guess what's happened?"

"Can't think."

"Well, Mr Hancock proposed to me—but you won't tell, will you?"

Mr Bevan gasped.

"Hancock!"

"Yes; he wrote such a funny, queer little letter. It made me cry."

"Hancock!"

"Yes, but you've promised never to tell. Every one seems to have been proposing to me in the last three months, and I wish they'd stop—I wish they'd stop," said Miss Lambert, half-talking to herself and half to Bevan, half-laughing and half-crying all at the same time; "it's got on my nerves. James will be the next—it's like the influenza, it seems in the air——"

"I came to-day," said Mr Bevan with awful and preternatural gravity, "to speak to you, Fanny—to tell you that ever since I saw you first, I have thought of nobody else——"

"Oh, stop," said Fanny, "stop, stop—oh, this is too bad! I never thought you would do it. I thought I had one f-f-friend."

"Don't cry; Fanny, listen to me."

"I can't help it, it's too awful."

"Fanny!"

"Yes, Charles?"

"Dry your eyes, and tell me this; am I so very dreadful? Don't you think if you tried you could care for me? I know I'm not clever and all that—look up." He took her hand, and she let him hold it.

Then she spoke these hope-destroying words:

"If I h—hadn't met him, I believe I—I—I'd have married you—if you'd asked me."

"Oh, my God!—it's all up then," said Bevan.

"We're both so poor," said Fanny, "that you needn't envy us, dear Cousin Charles; all we've got in the world is our love for each other."

"He's a painter, is he not?"

"Yes," said Fanny, peeping up; "but how did you know?"

"Miss Morgan, that American girl, told me something about him." Mr Bevan stood silent for a moment, and then went on: "Look here, Fanny, just think this matter over and tell me your mind. I'll put my case before you. You like me, I think?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I am not so very old, and I am rich; between one thing and another I have about eight thousand a year. We might be very happy together—don't interrupt me, I am just stating my case—money means a lot in this world; it's not everything, I admit—there are some men richer than I, that I would be sorry to see any girl married to. Well, on the other hand, there is this other man; he may be awfully jolly, and all that sort of thing, but he's poor—very poor, from what I can gather. Before you kick me over, think of the future—think well."

"Do you know," said Fanny, "that if you had come yesterday, and had asked me to marry you, I believe I would have said 'yes,' and then we would have been always miserable. I would have married you for your money; not for myself, but to help father. But you see now that he is going to be married to Miss Pursehouse she'll take care of him."

"He is not married to her yet," said Charles, thinking of Lulu Morgan's words, and cursing himself for having let days slip by, for he could have called yesterday, or the day before, but for indecision—that most fatal of all elements in human affairs.

"No, but he will marry her, for when father makes up his mind to do a thing he always does it."

"So then," he said, "you have made up your mind irrevocably not to have anything to do with me?"

"I must, I must—Oh dear, I wish I were dead. I will always be your friend—I will always be a sister to you."

"Don't—don't say anything more about it, please. You can't help yourself—it's fate."

"You're not angry with me?"

"No—let us talk of other things. How are you getting on, has that man been giving any more trouble?"

"James—oh, he's been dreadful. His wife has run away from their lodgings; and now he says she was not his wife at all, and Susannah is breaking her heart, for she can't bring him to the point. When she suggests marriage he does all his things up in a bundle and says he's going to Australia. I'll get father to turn him out when he comes back."

"Let me," said Charles, who felt an imperative desire to kick some one—himself, if possible—that being out of the question—James.

"No," said Fanny, as he rose and took his hat preparatory to departing, "for she'd follow him, and I'd be left alone. Who is this?"

A hansom cab was crashing up the gravel drive.

"It's father—and Miss Pursehouse."

"Who do you say?" cried Bevan.

"Miss Pursehouse."

"Fanny!" cried Mr Bevan in desperation.

"Yes?"

"Don't let them in here, don't let them see me."

"Then quick," said Fanny, not knowing the truth of the matter, but guessing that Charles as a rejected lover had his feelings, and preferred not to meet her father.

She led him across the hall and down some steps, then pushed him into a passage, which, being pursued, led to the kitchen, whence through the scullery flight might be effected by the back entry of "The Laurels."