persons passed a very agreeable afternoon together.

The romping, happy children, with that disregard for any "plurality of worlds" theory which belongs to their age, accepted the whole arrangement as being ordained for their sole and peculiar enjoyment. Under this impression they declined to allow Owen to remain lounging beside their mother in the shade, but imperiously required him "not to be lazy," but to "come and play." He withstood the clamour of the boys for some time; but when three-year-old Enid toddled up to him, and gravely seized one of his hands with both hers, evidently under the conviction that she was quite able to drag him off with her by main force, it was impossible to resist any longer. A very noisy game—known to the younger Bransbys under the alliterative appellation of "Tiggy, Tiggy, touchwood," and which involved a great deal of confused rushing about, and shrill vociferation—was proceeding in the liveliest manner, when forth from the long window of the drawing-room stepped a figure at sight of whom Martin, the eldest boy, stopped short in a headlong course, and Bobby and Billy were so surprised that they checked a wild halloo in their very throats.

It was Theodore. He was dressed in travelling garb (Theodore had appropriate costumes for every department of life; and adhered to them as punctiliously as a Chinese), and was advancing with his usual erect gravity towards his step-mother, when, catching sight of May and Owen, he stopped, surprised in his turn.

"Dear me, Theodore, is that you?" said Mrs. Bransby, rising and coming forward. "When did you arrive? We did not expect you. You did not write, did you?"

"No; I took a sudden resolution to run down for a week. I wished to consult my father about a little matter of business, and I wanted change of air besides."

In answer to Mrs. Bransby's nervous inquiries whether the servants had attended to him, and whether she should order his room to be prepared, he replied—

"Thanks; I have given the necessary orders. My valise has been carried upstairs. I will go and wash my hands, and then I shall ask you for a cup of tea, if you please," glancing at the table already spread beneath the trees. Then he marched up to May, who was standing on the lawn, with a look of little less dismay than the children ingenuously exhibited. He raised his hat with one hand, and shook her reluctant hand with the other, saying in his deliberate accents—

"This is truly an unexpected favour of Fortune. I knew you were in Oldchester, but I scarcely hoped to find you here. How do you do, Rivers?" (This in an indefinable tone of condescension.) Then again addressing himself to May, he said, "You have not had any communication from town this morning?"

"No."

"Nor from Combe Park?"

"Oh no!"

"Ah! I imagined not. May I beg the favour of a word with you presently? I am only going to get rid of some of the dust of travel. You will still be here when I return?"

May was tempted to declare that she positively must go home immediately. But before she could speak Mrs. Bransby answered for her: "Oh, of course Miss Cheffington will be here still. I do not mean to let her run away just yet."

Then, with another formal bow, Theodore returned to the house and disappeared through the drawing-room window.

There was an awkward silence, broken by Martin's exclaiming, in a solemn tone, "He's just like the vampire."

The laugh which followed came as a relief to the embarrassment of the elders.

"Martin!" exclaimed his mother reprovingly.

"Well, mother, he is," persisted Martin, who was unspeakably disgusted at the sudden quenching of the festivities. "What does he come stalking and prowling like that for? He's exactly like the vampire!"

May and Owen avoided each other's eye, feeling a guilty consciousness that Martin had in a great measure expressed their own sentiments. Certainly, the whole party appeared to have been suddenly iced. The three younger children were dismissed to the nursery; and Martin and his sister Ethel voluntarily withdrew, feeling that all the fun was over. A large slice of cake apiece was looked upon as very inadequate amends, and accepted under protest.

"I should think he might have stayed in London when he was there," grumbled Martin, as he walked away, viciously digging his heels into the turf at every step by way of a vent to his injured feelings. "Nobody wants stalking, prowling vampires here. Why couldn't he stop in London?"

As though "stalking, prowling vampires" were generally admitted to be popular members of society in the metropolis.

Mr. Rivers and the two ladies beguiled the time until Theodore should return, by drinking tea and discussing Miss Piper's forthcoming musical party. Curiously enough no one said a word about young Bransby. They all seemed to avoid the topic by a tacit understanding. But though out of sight, he was not out of mind—at any rate, he was not out of May's mind. She was secretly wondering what he could have to say to her. Could he possibly intend to renew his offer of marriage? The idea seemed a wild one; nevertheless, it darted through her mind. One could never tell, she thought, what his obstinate self-conceit might lead him to do. However, May resolved, come what might, to cling tightly to Mrs. Bransby's sheltering presence so long as she remained in that house; and in going home she would have the protection of Mr. Rivers's escort. Even Theodore Bransby could scarcely propose to her before these witnesses!

At length Theodore reappeared, brushed and trim, in speckless raiment. He took his place at the tea-table; and after the exchange of a few commonplace remarks, silence stole over the company. Theodore seemed to be waiting for something; and from time to time he looked at Owen as though expecting him to take his leave. Finally he cleared his throat, and said gravely, "Miss Cheffington, I see you are not taking any more tea; may I crave the favour of a few words with you?"

"Oh, please, I think I will have some more tea," said May, hastily pushing her cup towards Mrs. Bransby. Theodore, who had half risen from his chair, bowed, resumed his seat, and folded his arms in a waiting attitude. Then May added, with desperate resolution, "Will you not be kind enough to say what you have to say, now? I must be going home immediately; and I'm sure there can be no secrets to tell." She buried her face in her teacup to hide the colour which flamed into her cheeks as she said the words.

"If you desire it," returned Theodore stiffly, "of course I shall obey. I merely thought you might prefer to receive painful tidings in——"

"Painful!" cried May, turning pale, and suddenly interrupting him. "Is anything the matter with Granny?"

A glance at his raised eyebrows reassured her, for the next moment she said, "Oh, how stupid I am! Of course you could know nothing, you have only just arrived. It isn't—it isn't my father, is it?"

"Pray do not alarm yourself, Miss Cheffington. Captain Cheffington is, so far as I know, perfectly well."

"Wouldn't it be better to speak out?" said Owen. As soon as he had spoken, he felt that he had no right to put in his word. But he could not help it; Theodore's self-important slowness was too exasperating.

"Yes; do, please," said May.

"There is no cause for alarm, as I said," returned Theodore, trying to look as if he had not heard Owen's suggestion. "But a shock—a slight shock—is apt to be felt at the announcement of sudden death, even in the case of a total stranger."

"Sudden death!"

"Yes; I regret to inform you that your cousin, George Cheffington, has been killed by the accidental discharge of a gun, when he was on a shooting expedition up the country."

All three of his listeners drew a deep sigh of relief.

"Oh!" sighed May, the colour returning to her cheeks and lips, "I felt a horrible fear for the moment about Aunt Pauline!"

"This is a very important