thanks of Miss Lucy Warrender for his tasteful floral decoration of the little salon, and had then suddenly subsided into an attitude of respectful admiration in front of Haggard's supposed heir. To no man or male person, save perhaps to their own fathers or their medical attendants, are very young infants objects of interest; we may therefore safely presume that Mr. Capt was either really wrapped up in the severe charms of the student of the "Dairyman's Daughter," or that he had some occult and ulterior reason for remaining to study the little group at the fireside.

"Ah, madame," exclaimed the major-domo, as he washed his hands in the air, "you will not think it a liberty when I respectfully felicitate you." But no answering smile appeared on Mrs. Haggard's face.

"Certainly not," burst in the younger girl; "you are the first of our friends to do so, Capt," she said, with an almost perceptible emphasis on the word; "but we are both of us knocked up with the bustle, so get us some tea at once."

The humbly sympathizing friend became once more the respectful servant, and hurried away to carry out his young mistress's behest.

"Rouse yourself, Georgie," exclaimed the younger girl impatiently, "you really look very little like the mother of a possible heir to an earldom," she maliciously added.

But Georgie made no reply to her cousin's taunt, she merely extended her colourless hands towards the blazing fire of logs.

A pile of letters lay upon the table; one by one Lucy's active fingers tore them open, one by one she read them to her silent cousin, enlivening them with a running fire of comment. As she read each one aloud, she planted a fresh dagger in her cousin's heart, but she went steadily on with an occupation which seemed congenial.

They were the usual formal congratulations for the most part: one, from the old squire, gently blamed his daughter for not having taken her father into her confidence; "but the ways of women, my dear, are mysterious, and I suppose that explains it." As Lucy read the words the tears ran down her cousin's face.

One other letter yet remained; it was addressed in a crabbed hand; its contents were as follows:

"Walls End Castle.

"My dear Child,

"Miss Warrender's letter has quite taken me by surprise; I had not the slightest inkling that I should have so soon to congratulate you both on the happy event. It gives me great pleasure to do so; though I have known you, my dear, for so short a time, you have inspired me with feelings of the liveliest affection. I need not say I am greatly gratified to hear that it is a little boy. The great terror of my old age, the not unremote possibility of the extinction of my house, which always preyed upon my mind, is now removed. I shall hope to welcome the little man here ere long, and with affectionate remembrance to your cousin,

"I am, my dear child,

"Yours affectionately,

"Pit Town."

The ladies had retired for the night. A heavy mist hung over the lake, but a red spark moved slowly up and down the little terrace in front of the Villa Lambert; the spark indicated the presence of Mr. Capt, who was awaiting with lover-like impatience the arrival of the discreet Hephzibah. At length she appeared, muffled in a heavy shawl.

"Have done, do, Capt," said the maiden with indignation, as the valet imprinted a salute on her pallid lips.

"I haven't commenced, my beloved, yet," retorted he. "Will it be an indiscretion to hope that Miss Hephzibah has enjoyed herself, and that the separation from her beloved Maurice has produced ever so slight a depression?" said he as he attempted to take her hand.

"Stuff," replied the Englishwoman with an indignant snort.

Here the conversation took a distinctly amatory turn, and would probably hardly interest the reader. But, under the influences of the blind god, the stern student of the "Dairyman's Daughter" seemed to thaw. She took the proffered arm of her adorer, and, like all women in love, seemed to derive a pleasure from the peculiarly pungent aroma of his cigar.

"And how did we pass our time, my Hephzibah; did we amuse ourselves? Have you nothing to tell me, my beloved, nothing to confide to me?"

The lady's maid shook her head. "Except that I've been worked off my legs as you may suppose, what can I have to tell you?"

"Ah!" remarked the valet. "I can fancy that my Hephzibah always fulfils her duties to her mistress, but perhaps my too perfect angel forgets that between betrothed persons there should be no secrets."

"You don't mean to say you're jealous, Capt?" she exclaimed, as she raised her face to his.

"My love, you are discretion itself; I know you never betray a secret."

"If I had one, Capt, you would worm it out of me," she said with a smile and a perceptible pressure on his arm.

"Yes, my love, I should worm it out," he replied with intention.

Hephzibah took no notice of this remark.

"The mist is very damp, and I am very tired, Maurice; I must be going in; my mistress will wonder what has become of me, so good-night."

The valet kissed the girl. "Good-bye, my love," he said. "I think you had better have trusted me. Good-bye."

"Good-night, or good-bye, if you prefer it, Mr. Capt," replied the lady's maid with dignity.

"Good-bye, my dear, good-bye, till we meet again."

Hephzibah hurried into the house.

The valet continued his walk up and down the little terrace; he was immersed in thought, he still smoked his cigar, but unconsciously; he was suddenly roused from his reflections by the fire almost touching his lips. With a curse, he flung the end into the waters, and watched it disappear with a hiss. Then he walked briskly into the house.

The next morning Mr. Capt had disappeared. There was nothing wrong with the plate. On the carefully arranged breakfast table lay an envelope directed to Mrs. Haggard; it contained the man's account book, balanced to a farthing; a small sum of money due from him to his mistress, and his keys.

"What does he mean by this?" said Lucy to her cousin.

Mrs. Haggard made no answer, but turning to Hephzibah, she said coldly, "Where is Capt?"

"Please, ma'am, I don't know; he's taken his things with him, and I think he is gone. I hope there is nothing wrong," said the girl, her pale face working with suppressed emotion.

Then Mrs. Haggard fainted.

CHAPTER II.

AT THE PARSONAGE.

In King's Warren Parsonage the vicar's wife was seated at her little table. Before her was a handsome service of real Queen Anne plate; the square-looking teapot with its solid ebony handle, and the bowl and jug to match, for in those days they were sugar bowls and not sugar basins. Mrs. Dodd was not alone; she had two visitors, old Mrs. Wurzel and her inseparable companion, Miss Grains. The tea was good and strong, the cream perfection; all three ladies were in the best of temper. As a rule even the most cantankerous women are placable after afternoon tea.