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I remember how my poor dear old father used to wonder at it, when our hounds met close by, in a better country. I'm afraid I forgot to tell him what a pretty creature 'Gipsey' was, and how well she was ridden."

"But Tom is only twenty, and he must go into a profession."

"Yes, yes; much too young, I know -too young for anything serious. We had better see them together, and then, if there is anything in it, we can keep them apart. There cannot be much the matter yet."

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'Well, dear, if you are satisfied, I am sure I am."

And so the conversation turned on other subjects, and Mr. and Mrs. Brown enjoyed their moonlight drive home through the delicious summer night, and were quite sorry when the groom got down from the hind-seat to open their own gates at half-past twelve.

About the same time, the festivities at Barton Manor were coming to a close. There had been cold dinner in the tent at six, after the great match of the day; and, after dinner, the announcement of the scores, and the distribution of prizes to the winners. A certain amount of toasts and speechifying followed, which the ladies sat through with the most exemplary appearance of being amused. When their healths had been proposed and acknowledged, they retired, and were soon followed by the younger por tion of the male sex; and, while the J. P.'s and clergymen sat quietly at their wine, which Mr. Porter took care should be remarkably good, and their wives went in to look over the house and have tea, their sons and daughters split up into groups, and some shot handicaps, and some walked about and flirted, and some played at bowls or lawn billiards. And soon the band appeared again from the servants' hall, mightily refreshed, and dancing began on the grass, and in due time was transferred to the tent, when the grass got damp with the night dew, and then to the hall of the house, when the lighting of the tent began to fail. And then there came a supper,

dinner; after which, papas and mammas began to look at their watches, and remonstrate with daughters, coming up with sparkling eyes and hair a little shaken out of place, and pleading for "just one more dance." "You have been going on ever since one o'clock," remonstrated the parents; "And are ready to go on till one the next day," replied the children. By degrees, however, the frequent sound of wheels were heard, and the dancers got thinner and thinner, till, for the last half-hour, some halfdozen couples of young people danced an interminable reel, while Mr. and Mrs. Porter, and a few of the most good-natured matrons of the neighbourhood looked on. Soon after midnight the band struck; no amount of negus could get anything more out of them but "God save the Queen," which they accordingly played and departed; and then came the final cloaking and driving off of the last guests. Tom and Mary saw the last of them into their carriage at the hall-door, and lingered a moment in the porch.

"What a lovely night!" said Mary, "How I hate going to bed!"

"It is a dreadful bore," answered Tom; "but here is the butler waiting to shut up; we must go in."

"I wonder where papa and mamma are."

"Oh, they are only seeing things put a little to rights. Let us sit here till they come; they must pass by to get to their rooms."

So the two sat down on some hall chairs.

"Oh dear! I wish it were all coming over again to-morrow," said Tom, leaning back, and looking up at the ceiling. "By the way, remember I owe you a pair of gloves: what colour shall they be?"

"Any colour you like. I can't bear to think of it. I felt so dreadfully ashamed when they all came up, and your mother looked so grave; I am sure she was very angry.'

"Poor mother, she was thinking of my hat with three arrow holes in

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'Now, I won't have sensical compliments. they enjoyed the day ?"

any of your nonyou think

Do

"Yes, I am sure they did. My father said he had never liked an archery meeting so much."

"But they went away so early." "They had a very long drive, you know. Let me see," he said, feeling in his breast-pocket, "mother left me a note, and I have never looked at it till now." He took a slip of paper out and read it, and his face fell.

"What is it?" said Mary, leaning forward.

"Oh, nothing; only I must go tomorrow morning.'

"There, I was sure she was angry." "No, no; it was written this morning before she came here. I can tell by the paper."

"But she will not let you stay here a day, you see."

"I have been here a good deal, considering all things. I should like never to go away."

"Perhaps papa might find a place for you, if you asked him. Which should you like, to be tutor to the boys, or gamekeeper?"

"On the whole, I should prefer the tutorship at present; you take so much interest in the boys.'

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Yes, because they have no one to look after them now in the holidays. But, when you come as tutor, I shall wash my hands of them."

"Then I shall decline the situation." "How are you going home to-morrow?"

"I shall ride round by Englebourn. They wish me to go round and see Katie and uncle Robert. You talked about riding over there yourself this morning."

"I should like it so much. But how can we manage it? I can't ride back by myself."

"Couldn't you stay and sleep there?" "I will ask mamma. No, I'm afraid it

Mary leant back in her chair, and began to pull to pieces some flowers she held in her hand.

"Don't pull them to pieces; give them to me," said Tom. "I have kept the rosebud you gave me at Oxford, folded up in "

"Which you took, you mean to say. No, I won't give you any of them-or, let me see-yes, here is a sprig of lavender; you may have that."

"Thank you. But, why lavender?" "Lavender stands for sincerity. It will remind you of the lecture you gave me."

"I wish you would forget that. But you know what flowers mean, then? Do give me a lecture: you owe me one. What do those flowers mean which you will not give me, the piece of heather for instance?"

"Heather signifies constancy."
"And the carnations?"
"Jealousy."

"And the heliotrope?" "Oh, never mind the heliotrope." "But it is such a favourite of mine. Do tell me what it means?"

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'Oh, I'm not the least tired, and I couldn't go without wishing you and papa good night, and thanking you for all the trouble you have taken."

"Indeed, we ought all to thank you," said Tom; "everybody said it was the pleasantest party they had ever been at."

"I am very glad it went off well," said Mrs. Porter gravely; "and now, Mary, you must go to bed."

"I am afraid I must leave you tomorrow morning," said Tom.

"Yes; Mrs. Brown said they expect you at home to-morrow."

"I am to ride round by uncle Robert's; would you like one of the boys to go

“Oh, dear mamma, could not Charley and I ride over to Englebourn? I do so long to see Katie."

"No, dear; it is much too far for you. We will drive over in a few days' time."

And, so saying, Mrs. Porter wished Tom good night, and led off her daughter.

Tom went slowly upstairs to his room, and, after packing his portmanteau for the carrier to take in the morning, threw up his window and leant out into the night, and watched the light clouds swimming over the moon, and the silver mist folding the water meadows and willows in its soft cool mantle. His thoughts were such as will occur to any reader who has passed the witching age of twenty; and the scent of the heliotrope-bed, in the flower-garden below, seemed to rise very strongly on the night air.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A CRISIS.

In the forenoon of the following day Tom rode slowly along the street of Englebourn towards the rectory gate. He had left Barton soon after breakfast, without having been able to exchange a word with Mary except in the presence of her mother, and yet he had felt more anxious than ever before at least to say good bye to her without witnesses. With this view he had been up early, and had whistled a tune in the hall, and held a loud conversation with the boys, who appeared half-dressed in the gallery above, while he brushed the dilapidated white hat, to let all whom it might concern know that he was on the move. Then he had walked up and down the garden in full view of the windows till the bell rang for prayers. He was in the breakfast-room before the bell had done ringing, and Mrs. Porter, followed by her daughter, entered at the same moment. He could not help fancying that the conversation at breakfast was a little constrained, and particularly remarked that nothing was said by the

vociferously bewailed his approaching departure, and tried to get him to name some day for his return before their holidays ended. Instead of encouraging the idea, Mrs. Porter reminded Neddy and Charley that they had only ten days more, and had not yet looked at the work they had to do for their tutor in the holidays. Immediately after breakfast Mrs. Porter wished him goodbye herself very kindly, but (he could not help thinking) without that air of near relationship which he had flattered himself was well established between himself and all the members of the Porter family; and then she had added, "Now, Mary, you must say good-bye; I want you to come and help me with some work this morning." He had scarcely looked at her all the morning, and now one shake of the hand and she was spirited away in a moment, and he was left standing, dissatisfied and uncomfortable, with a sense of incompleteness in his mind, and as if he had had a thread in his life suddenly broken off which he could not tell how to get joined again.

However, there was nothing for it but to get off. He had no excuse for delay, and had a long ride before him; so he and the boys went round to the stable. On their passage through the garden the idea of picking a nosegay and sending it to her by one of the boys came into his head. He gathered the flowers, but then thought better of it, and threw them away. What right, after all, had he to be sending flowers to her-above all, flowers to which they had attached a meaning, jokingly it was true, but still a meaning? No, he had no right to do it; it would not be fair to her, or her father and mother, after the kind way in which they had all received him. So he threw away the flowers, and mounted and rode off, watched by the boys, who waved their straw hats as he looked back just before coming to a turn in the road which would take him out of sight of the Manor House. rode along at a foot's pace for some time, thinking over the events of the

He

purposeless, and somewhat melancholy, urged his horse into a smart trot along the waste land which skirted the road. But, go what pace he would, it mattered not; he could not leave his thoughts behind. So he pulled up again after a mile or so, slackened his reins, and, leaving his horse to pick his own way along the road, betook himself to the serious consideration of his position.

If

The more he thought of it the more discontented he became, and the day clouded over as if to suit his temper. He felt as if within the last twenty-four hours he had been somehow unwarrantably interfered with. His mother and Mrs. Porter had both been planning something about him, he felt sure. they had anything to say, why couldn't they say it out to him? But what could there be to say? Couldn't he and Mary be trusted together without making fools of themselves? He did not stop to analyze his feelings towards her, or to consider whether it was very prudent or desirable for her that they should be thrown so constantly and unreservedly together. He was too much taken up with what he chose to consider his own wrongs for any such consideration.— 66 Why can't they let me alone?" was the question which he asked himself perpetually, and it seemed to him the most reasonable one in the world, and that no satisfactory answer was possible to it, except that he ought to be, and should be, let alone. And so at last he rode along Englebourn street, convinced that what he had to do before all other things just now was to assert himself properly, and show every one, even his own mother, that he was no longer a boy to be managed according to any one's fancies except his own.

He rode straight to the stables and loosed the girths of his horse and gave particular directions about grooming and feeding him, and stayed in the stall for some minutes rubbing his ears and fondling him. The antagonism which possessed him for the moment against mankind perhaps made him appreciate the value of his relations with a well

the house and inquired for his uncle. He had not been in Englebourn for some years, and the servant did not know him, and answered that Mr. Winter was not out of his room and never saw strangers till the afternoon. Where was Miss Winter then? She was down the village at Widow Winburn's, and he couldn't tell when she would be back, the man said. The contents of Katie's note of the day before had gone out of his head, but the mention of Betty's name recalled them, and with them something of the kindly feeling which he had had on hearing of her illness. So, saying he would call later to see his uncle, he started again to find the widow's cottage, and his cousin.

The servant had directed him to the last house in the village, but, when he got outside the gate, there were houses in two directions. He looked about for some one from whom to inquire further, and his eye fell upon our old acquaintance, the constable, coming out of his door with a parcel under his arm.

The little man was in a brown study, and did not notice Tom's first address. He was in fact anxiously thinking over his old friend's illness and her son's trouble; and was on his way to farmer Grove's, having luckily the excuse of taking a coat to be tried on, in the hopes of getting him to interfere and patch up the quarrel between young Tester and Harry.

Tom's first salute had been friendly enough; no one knew better how to speak to the poor, amongst whom he had lived all his life, than he. But, not getting any answer, and being in a touchy state of mind, he was put out, and shouted

"Hullo, my man, can't you hear me?" "Ees, I beant dunch," replied the constable, turning and looking at his questioner.

"I thought you were, for I spoke loud enough before. loud enough before. Which is Mrs. Winburn's cottage?"

"The furdest house down ther," he said, pointing, "'tis in my way if you've a mind to come.' Tom accepted the

"Mrs. Winburn is ill, isn't she?"
he asked, after looking his guide over.
"Ees, her be-terreble bad," said the
constable.

"What is the matter with her, do
you know?"

Her've

"Zummat o' fits, I hears.
had em this six year, on and off."
"I suppose it's dangerous. I mean,
she isn't likely to get well?"

""Tis in the Lord's hands," replied the constable, "but her's that bad wi' pain, at times, 'twould be a mussy if 'twoud plaase He to tak her out on't."

"Perhaps she mightn't think so," said Tom superciliously; he was not in the mind to agree with any one. constable looked at him solemnly for a The moment and then said

"Her's been a God-fearin' woman from her youth up, and her's had a deal o' trouble. Thaay as the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and tisn't such as thaay as is afeard to go afore Him."

"Well, I never found that having troubles made people a bit more anxious to get 'out on't,' as you call it," said Tom.

"It don't seem to me as you can 'a had much o' trouble to judge by," said the constable, who was beginning to be nettled by Tom's manner.

"How can you tell that?"

"Leastways 'twould be whoam-made, then," persisted the Constable, "and ther's a sight o' odds atween whoam"and made troubles and thaay as the Lord sends."

"So there may be; but I may have seen both sorts for anything you can tell."

"Nay, nay; the Lord's troubles leaves His marks."

"And you don't see any of them in my face, eh?"

The constable jerked his head after his own peculiar fashion, but declined to reply directly to this interrogatory. He parried it by one of his own.

"In the doctorin' line, make so bould?"

No," " said Tom. "You don't seem to have such very good eyes, after all.” "Oh, I seed you wasn't old enough

to be doin' for yourself, like; but I thought you med ha' been a 'sistant, or summat."

"Well, then, you're just mistaken," said Tom, considerably disgusted at being taken for a country doctor's assistant.

"I ax your pardon," said the constable. "But if you beant in the doctorin' line, what be gwine to Widow Winburn's for, make so bould?"

"That's my look out, I suppose," said isn't it?" and he pointed to the cottage Tom, almost angrily. "That's the house, already described at the corner of Englebourn Copse.

"Ees."

"Good day, then."

"Good day," muttered the constable, not at all satisfied with this abrupt close prolong it. of the conversation, but too unready to He went on his own way slowly, looking back often, till he saw the door open; after which he seemed better satisfied, and ambled out of sight.

"The old snuffler!" thought Tom, as he strode up to the cottage door-" a ranter, I'll be bound, with his 'Lord's troubles,' and 'Lord's hands,' and 'Lord's marks.' I hope Uncle Robert hasn't many such in the parish."

He knocked at the cottage door, and in a few seconds it opened gently, and lips. She made a slight gesture of surKatie slipped out with her finger on her prise at seeing him, and held out her hand.

"Hush!" she said, "she is asleep. You are not in a hurry?"

"No, not particularly," he answered abruptly; for there was something in her voice and manner which jarred with his humour.

"Hush!" she said again, "you must not speak so loud. We can sit down here, and talk quietly. I shall hear if she moves."

little porch of the cottage. She left the
So he sat down opposite to her in the
door ajar, so that she might catch the
least movement of her patient, and then
turned to him with a bright smile, and
said,-

66

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What good wind blows you here?"
Well, I am so glad to see you!

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