Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

She had but to lash her mare and dash by him. She could have turned and cantered off with ease. But she did neither, merely sitting paralysed, as it were, with her eyes fixed upon the great dark-bearded fellow, who came boldly up, laid his hand upon the rein, and the mare stopped short.

“Why, my beauty,” he said, in a low deep voice, as he passed his arm through the rein, and placed his great hands upon the trembling girl’s waist, “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

Julia did not answer, though her lips parted as if to utter a cry.

“There,” he said, “don’t look frightened. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. I’ve got you safe, and the mare too. I don’t know which is the prettiest. There, you’re all right; they won’t be back this half-hour. I’ve got you safe; jump?”

As he spoke he lifted her out of the saddle, and the next moment she was clasped tight in the fellow’s arms – the dove quite at the mercy of the hawk.

Part 2, Chapter X.
At Kilby

Winter came in early that year, but none the less fiercely. Cyril and his young wife stayed on, Sage eagerly agreeing to her aunt’s proposal that the visit should be prolonged, and consequently the rabbits on the farm had a very hard time, especially when the snow came, and their footprints could be tracked with ease.

John Berry brought his young wife and children, to the great delight of the Churchwarden, of whom they made a perfect slave, for he was never weary of petting them.

Lord Artingale came over once, and won golden opinions of Mrs Portlock by what she called his condescension; and as to his nominee at the next election, the Churchwarden was ready to support him through thick and thin for the interest he took in Rue Berry’s little children.

Harry Artingale was not the only gentleman visitor who found his way to the farm, for Frank Mallow came one evening soon after the Berrys had arrived, and that night, when Sage had gone up with her sister to her room, Rue suddenly burst into a hysterical fit of weeping.

“Why, Rue, darling,” exclaimed her sister, “what is it?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” she cried hastily, wiping her eyes and cheering up. “Only one of my foolish fits, Sagey. There, there, good night.”

“But you are ill,” said Sage, anxiously.

“Ill, dear? No; it is only a little hysterical feeling that I have sometimes,” and wishing her sister good night in the most affectionate manner, Sage left her bending over the little bedstead where her children slept, and as Sage closed the door she saw Rue sinking down upon her knees.

It was not a pleasant time, for Cyril had grown short and sulky whenever Frank came, and seeing this, Frank laughed, and became unpleasantly attentive to his brother’s young wife.

“If he won’t be polite to you, Sage, I will,” he cried. “I want you to have pleasant memories of me when I am gone.”

“But are you going soon?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, I shall go soon,” he replied; “I’m tired of this narrow country. Ah, Portlock, you should come with me.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Mrs Portlock, excitedly. “My husband could not think of such a thing.”

The Churchwarden, who was puffing away at his pipe when this was said, gave Frank Mallow a peculiar look, to which that gentleman nodded and stroked his dark beard.

“Well, I don’t know, mother,” he said; “farming’s getting very bad here, and those who emigrate seem to do very well.”

“Oh, no, Joseph; I don’t believe they do,” cried Mrs Portlock, plaiting away at her apron, so as to produce the effect since become fashionable under the name of kilting.

“Why, look at young Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden; “he’s emigrated to London, and they say getting on wonderful.”

“Home’s quite good enough for me, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, “and I wouldn’t go on any consideration.”

Frank Mallow took up the ball here, but the Churchwarden saw that Sage had turned pale and was bending over her work, so he stopped, and Frank went on painting the pictures of Australian life in the most highly-coloured style.

This visit became an extremely painful one to Sage, for, to Cyril’s great annoyance, Frank came more and more, bantering his brother on his ill-humour, taking not the slightest notice of Mrs Berry, who had turned very cold and reserved to him now, and evidently trying to pique her by his attentions to Sage.

The latter began to look upon him with horror, and dreaded Cyril’s absences, which were very frequent, there always being something to shoot over at Gatley, or a trip to make somewhere; and at last it became almost a matter of course, as soon as Cyril had gone, for Frank to come sauntering in to have a chat with the Churchwarden upon sheep.

As a rule the Churchwarden would be absent, and Mrs Portlock would begin to exert herself to make the visitor’s stay comfortable, always contriving a little whispered conversation with him in the course of his visit, and begging him not to induce Portlock to emigrate. For it would be such a pity at his age, she whispered. And then, as soon as he got free, he would begin chatting to Sage, who sat there afraid to seem cold, but all the time being ill at ease, for a horrible suspicion had come over her, and fight against it how she would, she could not drive it away.

A great change had come over Rue, and it seemed to Sage so horrible, that she reproached herself for harbouring the idea that her sister’s affection had come back for her old lover; that he was trying all he could to win her from her duty as a wife and mother; and that she, Sage, was being used as a blind to hide the real state of the case from her aunt and uncle. As for John Berry, there was no need to try and blind him, for in his simple, honest fashion he had the fondest trust in his wife; and if any one had hinted that she was falling away from him, if it had been a man, he would have struck him down.

A fortnight passed, and the frost still lasted. The Churchwarden, in his genial hospitality, said that it was a glorious time, but to Sage it was one of intense mental pain. Cyril had gone back to London, but was to come back and fetch her; but even if he had been there, Sage would have shrunk from speaking to him, seeing what a horrible accusation she would be making against her own sister and his brother; and she shrank from it the more from a dread of saying or doing anything to estrange Cyril, who had certainly been of late colder than his wont.

“Should she tell Julia?”

No, she seemed ill, and to avoid her now, and Sage was too proud to attempt to force herself upon her sister-in-law if she wished to keep away.

It was a terrible time for her, as she realised more and more, from various little things she saw, that Frank Mallow had, from old associations, regained his old power over Rue, and to her horror she felt certain that they had had stolen interviews.

“What should she do?” she asked herself; and now she wished that Cyril was back, for suddenly, just as Sage was praying that John Berry would make up his mind to go home, he announced his intention of going alone.

“It’s bitter cold there after the place has been shut up, Churchwarden, and if thou does not mind I’ll leave Rue and the little ones, and come over and fetch them in about a week’s time.”

Frank glanced at Sage, and their eyes met, sending a thrill of horror through the latter, as she felt more and more sure that her sister was growing weaker; and Sage closed her eyes, and bitterly reproached her husband for leaving her alone at such a time.

She formed a dozen plans, but rejected them all, and tried to invent others. She felt that she could not speak to her uncle and aunt; she dared not accuse her sister, for she was not sure, and hour after hour she was praying that she might have been deceived; but all the same she felt bound to act, and finally she determined that she would never leave Rue alone when Frank Mallow was in the house.

Sage’s plan was good, but she could not keep to it; and one day, as she was about to enter the dining-room, where she had left her sister alone for a few moments, she heard her say, in a piteous voice —

“Oh, Frank, spare me! I cannot – I dare not?”

“It is too late now,” he said. “All is arranged. You must!”

Sage did not enter the room, but stood there trembling as she heard her aunt go in by the farther door, and begin chattering to them both; but, with her blood seeming to run cold, she hurried up to her own room, and threw herself on her knees to pray for strength and wisdom at this crisis.

If she told her uncle or her aunt, the consequences seemed to be terrible. If she spoke to Rue, she foresaw that her sister would deny all.

She now determined what to do. She would attack Frank himself, and insist upon his leaving the house at once, never to return; but on going down to put her plan into effect, she found that he was gone, and he did not return.

To her surprise, Rue seemed to have grown calmer now, and as the evening wore on she was almost cheerful, as if a load was off her mind.

Her equanimity almost disarmed Sage, and about eight o’clock, as they were sitting with their aunt and uncle, listening to the roaring of the wind, the precursor of a snow-storm, Sage sat quite still as her sister rose and said that she wanted to go up and see if the children were asleep.

Taking a candle, Rue lit it, and her face seemed very bright as she stood for a moment looking at the little party in the room.

“Let me see,” said the Churchwarden; “I forgot to tell you, my dear. I saw the parson this afternoon. He had had a letter from Cyril.”

“From Cyril?” cried Sage, eagerly.

“Yes, my dear; and he said it was just possible that he might be down to-night.”

“And he did not write and tell me,” thought Sage, as her sister left the room.

“It will be a roarer to-night,” said the Churchwarden, as the wind howled in the broad chimney, and the soft dull patting noise of falling flakes could be heard upon the window-panes. “Shouldn’t wonder if we had a power o’ snow.”

“And he did not write and say he was coming,” thought Sage again, as a curious pang seemed to be followed by a dull aching in her breast.

“Ah!” continued the Churchwarden, tapping his pipe on the great dog-irons, and meditatively putting the burning wood together with his boot, “I thought it was coming, mother. We shall be snowed up safe. If Cyril Mallow is under a good roof anywhere, he’ll stay there for the night, if he’s got the brains I give him the credit for.”

Just then a curious wailing noise made by the wind fell upon Sage’s ear, and it seemed to her as if she had received a sudden shock, for from old associations with this her youthful home she knew what caused that sound – the side door had been opened and softly closed.

Sage sat there for a few moments motionless, and felt as if turned to stone, for she knew, as surely as if she had seen it all, that her sister had opened that door and had gone to join Frank Mallow somewhere close at hand.

The terrible nightmare-like feeling passed off as quickly as it had come, and, how she hardly knew, Sage left the room, went straight to the side door, catching down her hat and cloak from the pegs, and passed out into the bitter night.

The wind nearly snatched the cloak from her as she flung it on, and then ran along the path towards the lane, for there were fresh footprints in the newly-fallen snow; and so quickly did she run that at the end of ten minutes she was within sight of a dark figure hurrying on before her with bended head, and the driving snow rapidly making it invisible as it hurried on.

The storm was rapidly increasing, and the wind and drifting snow confused her; but she ran on now, and with a despairing cry flung her arms round the figure, crying —

“Rue – sister! Where are you going? Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop!”

“Sage!” she cried, hoarsely, and she struggled to free herself; but Sage clung to her tightly, and she stumbled, slipping on the hard ground beneath the snow, and sinking to her knees.

Sage knelt beside her upon the snow, and, clasping her waist, she sobbed —

“Yes, yes, upon your knees, Rue – sister, pray, pray with me – for strength. God hear our cry, and save my sister from this sin!”

For a few moments, as she heard the passionate cry, Rue knelt there trembling, but she began to struggle again.

“Don’t stop me. It is too late now. I cannot help it, Sage; I must go.”

“You shall not go. I know all. He has tempted you to do this wrong, and you are mad; but think – for God’s sake, think. It will break John’s heart.”

“Oh, hush, hush!” Rue cried, with a shiver. “Hush, hush! I must go now!”

“You shall not; I will never leave you. Rue, dear, there are two little children lying there in their bed, silently calling you to come to them and avoid this sin. Sister – mother – wife, will you leave them for that cruel, reckless man?”

“Oh, hush!” cried Rue, struggling with her fiercely. “You do not know. You cannot tell. He’s waiting for me, and I must – I will go.”

“Never while I have breath,” Sage panted, and then she uttered a shriek of affright, for Rue made an effort to escape her, running for some distance, and then falling heavily in the snow.

This was her last struggle, for as Sage overtook her, the weak woman rose, and, trembling and moaning, to herself, she allowed her sister to lead her back towards the farm.

How Sage managed to get her sister along she never afterwards knew, but by degrees she did, and up to her room unheard, hiding away all traces of the snowy cloaks and boots before summoning Mrs Portlock to her help, for as soon as Rue reached the bedroom she threw herself upon her knees by her sleeping children, moaning, sobbing, speaking incoherently, and passing from one terrible hysterical fit into another that seemed worse.

“Go and tell uncle she’s better now,” said Mrs Portlock, at last; “I can hear him walking up and down like a wild beast. There, there, now, my child,” she said soothingly to Rue, “try and be calm.”

Sage went down to find the Churchwarden buttoned up and with the old horn lanthorn lit, ready to walk over to the town and fetch Doctor Vinnicombe.

“I’m afraid it’s no use to put a horse to, my dear,” he said; “the snow’s drifting tremendously.”

“I don’t think you need go, uncle,” said Sage, and here she stopped short and clung to him, for there was a sharp knocking at the front door, and in her confused, excited state Sage’s heart sank, for she felt that it was Frank Mallow grown impatient, and come to insist upon Rue keeping her word.

“There, there, my pretty, don’t you turn silly too,” said the Churchwarden. “By jingo, what a night!” he cried, as the outer door was opened, and a rush of snow-laden wind swept into the hall and dashed open the big parlour door.

The sound of a rough voice gave Sage relief, for it was John Berry who had arrived.

The relief was but momentary, for Sage’s conscience said that the husband had gained some inkling of the intended flight, and had come to stop it.

Just then the broad-shouldered, red-faced farmer entered the room.

“How are ye?” he cried in a bluff tone that set Sage’s heart at rest for the moment. “I scarcely thought the mare would have got me through it,” he continued. “It’s a strange rough night, master, and if you’ve any sheep out, I’d have ’em seen to. Eh? what? My darling ill?” he cried, as he heard the Churchwarden’s announcement. “Then thank the Lord I did come.”

“No, no; don’t go to her now,” panted Sage, as John Berry took off his coat and threw it out into the hall.

“Not go up to her? Nay, lass, that I will,” he cried, and Sage followed him up-stairs.

“Why, Rue, my lass,” he cried, tenderly, “what’s wrong wi’ you?”

At the sound of his voice Rue started from the bed and flung herself into his arms.

“Jack, Jack!” she cried, “take me – hold me – husband, dear. God have mercy on me! I must be mad.”

Sage stayed with them in obedience to a sign from John Berry, and stood there trembling as she saw her sister’s fair brown hair tumbled upon her husband’s breast, to which she clung in an agony of remorse.

Over and over again Rue kept raising her head, though to gaze piteously at her sister, and then hide her face again.

A couple of hours went on like this, but when at last Sage found her opportunity, and clasping her sister to her breast, whispered – “Rue, may I trust you now?”

“Yes, oh, yes,” she sobbed. “I pray God I may never see his face again.”

“Then that is our secret, Rue,” Sage whispered. “It is for ever buried in our breasts.”

She left them after some hours, Rue lying upon the bed, sobbing at times, and seemingly asleep, while John Berry sat beside her, holding her little white hands.

Sage went down softly, but began to tremble as she heard voices in the room; but summoning up her courage, she entered, to find Morrison, the wheelwright, standing there, with the Churchwarden placing a glass of hot spirits and water in his hand.

“Go back, go back, my darling,” cried Mrs Portlock, excitedly.

“No, no, my dear,” said the Churchwarden, firmly; “Sage is no coward, and she must know. My darling, try and be firm, and hope for the best. The cart will be here directly, and were going to force our way through and bring him in. Yes, there it comes.”

“What – what is it?” panted Sage. “Is – is Frank – ”

“Oh, pray be silent, Joseph,” sobbed Mrs Portlock.

“Why?” said the Churchwarden, firmly. “She must know the worst. Get hot water and blankets ready, my dear, and we’ll soon bring him round. Come, Morrison,” and hurrying out, the door was pushed to, forcing back with it a quantity of the soft white snow.

“For heaven’s sake tell me, aunt!” sobbed Sage.

“But am I to?” said the old lady, trembling before her niece.

“Yes, yes,” cried Sage. “I must know. Is he dead?”

“No, no, my darling,” said Mrs Portlock, piteously. “Tom Morrison was going home, but he could not get round by the ford. The cutting in Low Lane was full, so he came round our way; and – oh, dear me! oh, dear me!”

“For heaven’s sake, aunt, go on,” cried Sage, half fiercely now.

“Yes, my darling,” sobbed Mrs Portlock; “and they’ll be here directly, I hope and pray. And he came upon Cyril.”

“Cyril!” shrieked Sage.

“Lying buried in the snow, just at the corner where he fought Luke Ross.”

Sage stood gazing at her with a blank white face, shivering violently as her aunt went on in a voice choked with tears.

“Tom Morrison tried to carry him on here, but he could not get him through the snow, so he came for help, and – heaven be thanked, here they are!”

The room seemed to swim round Sage as she heard the sound of voices above the roaring of the wind, and going with her aunt and the two affrighted servants to the door, they stood their ground in spite of the beating and driving snow, till a stiffened white figure was borne into the great parlour and laid before the fire, the Churchwarden giving orders in all directions.

“We could never get Vinnicombe across to-night, so we must bring him round ourselves. Quick, every one. Hot blankets, and let’s get these snowy things away. Why in God’s name don’t some one shut that door?” he roared, as the wind and snow followed them into the room, making the fire roar furiously and the sparks stream up.

“Don’t be downhearted,” cried the Churchwarden, setting the example, as John Berry came in to see what was the matter.

“Hey, and what is it?” he said, laying his hand upon the wheelwright’s arm.

“Mr Cyril Mallow, Master Berry; we found him in the snow.”

It was just as Sage’s heart gave a great bound of relief, for as the mist cleared from her eyes and the giddiness passed away, she found herself kneeling beside her husband’s brother, frozen stiff where he had been waiting for hours at the trysting-place. And as Sage gazed with a strange feeling of awe at the stern white features set in death, the Churchwarden said softly, “Nay, Morrison, thou’rt wrong, my lad; it is Mr Frank. He must have been coming here.”

Part 2, Chapter XI.
Lovers’ Words

Time flies.

Not an original remark this, but perfectly true.

Decorous mourning had been worn for Frank Mallow, the invalid mother had grown more grey, and the lines in her forehead deeper, while as the Rector thought of the fate of his firstborn, and shut his ears to little bits of scandal that floated about, he sighed, and turned more and more to his daughters, for Cyril, fortunately for himself, had quite forsaken Lawford since his brother’s death, having troubles of his own to contend with, while his wife had hers.

Rue Berry’s adventure remained a secret between the sisters, and though at the weekly-meetings at the King’s Head there were a good many nods and shakes of the head as to the reason why, on the night of his death, Frank Mallow had engaged a fly and pair of horses, such matter was never openly discussed, Tomlinson sagely remarking that when a man died there was a thick black mark ruled across the page of his ledger, and it was not worth while to tot up an account that there was no one to pay.

Then, as time went on, the inquest was forgotten, and the tablet placed in the church by the Rector, sacred to the memory of Frank, the beloved son, etcetera, etcetera, only excited notice during one weekly meeting, when Fullerton wondered what had become of the fortune Frank Mallow had made in Australia.

His fellow-tradesmen wondered, and so did Cyril Mallow to such an extent that he borrowed a hundred pounds from Portlock the churchwarden to pay for investigations and obtain the money.

“Seed corn, mother,” said Portlock, grimly; “seed corn for Cyril Mallow to sow; but hang me, old lady, if I believe it will ever come to a crop.”

As soon as possible after the terrible shock Mrs Mallow had received, the Rector took her abroad, and for eight months they were staying at various German baths, changing from place to place, the Rector now and then – handsome, grey-bearded, and the very beau ideal of an English clergyman – drawing large congregations when he occupied the pulpit of the chaplain at some foreign watering-place.

It was a pleasant time of calm for him, and he sighed as he thought of returning to England; but this return was fast approaching for many reasons. One reason was the Bishop. Certainly the Rev. Lawrence Paulby was indefatigable with the business of the church, but the Bishop seemed to agree in spirit with the meeting at the King’s Head, that it was not quite right for one clergyman to draw fifteen hundred a year from a parish and not do the duty, while another clergyman only drew ninety pounds a year and did do the duty, and did it well.

Another reason was, both Lord Artingale and Perry-Morton had been over again and again, and after a decent interval had pressed hard for their marriages to take place.

The last visit had been to a popular place of resort, where poor Mrs Mallow was, by the advice of the German physician, undergoing a process of being turned into an aqueous solution; at least she was saturated daily with an exceedingly nauseous water, and soaked in it hot for so many hours per week as well. The same great authority recommended it strongly for Julia, who drank the waters daily to the sound of a band. He also advised that the Fraulein Cynthia should take a lesser quantity daily also, to the strains of the German band, at intervals of promenading; but Cynthia merely took one sip and made a pretty grimace, writing word afterwards that the “stuff” was so bad that if the servants at home had been asked to use it to wash their hands there would have been a revolt.

There were other reasons too for calling back the Rev. Eli Mallow, and he sighed, for it was very pleasant abroad, and he foresaw trouble upon his return – parish trouble, the worry of the weddings, contact with Cyril, with whom he had quarrelled bitterly by letter, refusing to furnish him with money, a fact which came hard upon Churchwarden Portlock, who bore it like a martyr, and smoked more pipes as, for some strange reason, he raked up and dwelt strongly upon every scrap of information he could obtain about the progress of Luke Ross in London, even going over to the marketplace occasionally to have a pipe and a chat with old Michael his father.

There was no help for it, and at last the luggage was duly packed, and after poor Mrs Mallow had been carefully carried down, the family started for home, and settled for the time being in one of a handsome row of houses north of the park.

“Yes, my dear, it is – very expensive,” said the Rector, in answer to a remark, almost a remonstrance, from the invalid; “but we must keep up appearances till the girls are married. Then, my dear, we shall be alone, and we will go down to the old home, and there will be nothing to interfere with our quiet, peaceful journey to the end.”

Mrs Mallow turned her soft pensive eyes up to him as he leaned over the couch, and he bent down and kissed her tenderly.

“Well, my darling, who can say?” he whispered. “If more trouble comes, it is our fate, and we will try and bear the burden as best we can.”

“But you will go down now and then to Lawford, Eli?” she said, and the Rector sighed.

“Yes, my dear, I will,” he said; “but at present we must stay in town.” And he placed his hands behind him and walked up and down the room, wishing that he could understand the Lawford people, or that they could understand him, and looking forward with anything but pleasurable anticipations to his next visit.

Just then Julia, looking very pale and dreamy in her half-mourning, entered the room, to come and sit with and read to the invalid, a visitor being below, and her presence not being in any way missed.

Henry, Lord Artingale was the visitor, and as soon as she had left the room Julia became one of the principal topics, for she had seemed of late to have fallen into a dreamy state, now indifferent, now reckless, and Cynthia declared pettishly that she gave her sister up in despair.

“I don’t know what to make of her, Harry,” said Cynthia one morning after they had been back in town some time; “one day she will be bright and cheerful, another she seems as if she were going melancholy mad.”

“Oh, no; come, that’s exaggeration, little one.”

“It is not,” cried Cynthia, “for she is wonderfully changed when we are together.”

“How changed? Why, she looks prettier than ever.”

“I mean in her ways,” continued Cynthia. “We used to be sisters indeed, and never kept anything from one another. Why, Harry, I don’t believe either of us had a thought that the other did not share, and now I seem to be completely shut out from her confidence; and if it were not for you, I believe I should break my heart.”

Of course Harry Artingale behaved as a manly handsome young fellow should behave under such circumstances. He comforted and condoled with the afflicted girl, who certainly did not look in the slightest degree likely to break her heart. He offered his manly bosom for her to rest her weary head, and he removed the little pearly tears from under the pretty fringed lids of her large bright eyes. There were four of them – tears, not eyes – and Harry wiped them away without a pocket-handkerchief, the remains of one damaged tear remaining on his moustache when the process was over, and poor little Cynthia seemed much better.

“Well,” said Artingale, “there is one comfort, Cynthy: we did scare away the big bogey. She has not seen him any more?”

“No – no!” said Cynthia softly, “I suppose not. She has never said anything about him since we were at Hastings. I have fancied sometimes that she has seen him and been frightened; but she never mentions it, and I have always thought it best never to say a word.”

“Oh, yes, far the best,” said Artingale, who was examining Cynthia’s curly hair with as much interest as if it was something he saw now for the first time. “Didn’t you say, though, that you thought she saw him that day the mare bolted with you?”

“Nonsense! she did not bolt with me, Harry. Just as if I should let a mare bolt with me. Something startled her, and she leaped the hedge, and as we were off the road, and it was a chance for a gallop, I let her go across country. But you know; I told you.”

“Yes, dear,” said Artingale, one of whose fingers was caught in a sunny maze. “But now, Cynthy, my pet, revenons à nos moutons.”

“Very well, sir,” she said shyly, “revenons à nos moutons.”

“So the wedding is to be on the fourth?”

“Yes,” said Cynthia, with a sigh, “on the fourth – not quite a month, Harry. Where’s James Magnus?”

“Shut up in his studio, splashing the paint about like a madman. He never comes out hardly. He has cut me, and spends most of his time with that barrister fellow who was to have married Sage Portlock.”

“Luke Ross! Oh! Are they friends?”

“Thick as thieves,” said Artingale. “I suppose they sit and talk about disappointed love, and that sort of thing.”

“Do they?” cried Cynthia.

“Oh, I don’t know, of course. By Jove, though, Cynthy, that Ross is a splendid fellow; no one would ever have thought he was only a tanner’s son.”

“I don’t see what difference it makes whose son a man is,” said Cynthia, demurely. “I’ve always noticed though that poor people’s sons are very clever, and noblemen’s sons very stupid.”

“Horribly,” said Artingale, laughing. “Why, you saucy little puss!”

Matters here not necessary for publication.

“I don’t want to say unkind things,” said Cynthia, pouting now, “but I’m sure poor Sage Portlock would have been a great deal wiser if she had married Luke Ross; and if you were in your right senses, Harry, you would never think of marrying into such an unhappy family as ours.”

“Oh, but then I’ve been out of my mind for long enough, Cynthy. The wise ones said I ran mad after the Rector’s little daughter.”

“When you might have made a most brilliant match or two, I heard,” cried Cynthia.

“Yes, pet, all right,” he said, laughing; “but you’re in for it. I won’t be pitched over.”

“I’m sure the state of Cyril’s home is disgraceful.”

“I dare say, my darling; but we are not going to live there.”

“Don’t be so stupid,” cried Cynthia. “But tell me, Harry, has James Magnus cut you?”

“No. Oh, no; only I am so much away now that instead of being regular chums we don’t often meet. Hah! what jolly times I used to have with him, to be sure!”