seldom that Gertrude achieved such a long
sentence, or delivered one with so much
force. It was quite plain that Mrs. Ashurst
was a favourite of hers.

"Oh," said Tom, "all right! Old Mother
Ashurst's coming here on a visit is she?
All right!"

"And Miss Ashurst comes with her,"
said Maude.

"Oh Lord!" cried Tom Creswell.
"Miss Prim coming too! That'll be a clear
saving of the governor's vinegar and olives
all the time she's here. She's a nice creature,
she is." And he screwed up his mouth
with an air of excessive distaste.

"Well, at all events she's going to be
your father's guest, and we must all do our
best to make the visit pleasant to them,"
said Gertrude, who, like most people who
are most proud of what they do least well,
thought she was playing dignity admirably.

"Oh, I don't care!" said Tom. "If the
governor likes to have them here, and you
two girls are so sweet upon them all of a
sudden, I say, all right. Only look here—
no interference with me in any way. The
sight of me mustn't make the old lady break
down and burst out blubbing, or anything of
that sort, and no asking me how I'm
getting on with my lessons, and that kind of
thing. Stow that, mind!"

"You needn't trouble yourself, I think,"
said Maud; "it is scarcely likely that
either Mrs. or Miss Ashurst will feel very
keen interest in you or your pursuits."

And out of Maud's flashing eyes, and
through Maud's tightly compressed lips,
the sarcasm came cutting like a knife.

But when their visitors had been but a
very short time established at Woolgreaves,
it became evident not merely to Mr. Creswell,
but to all in the house, that Master
Tom had at last met with some one who
could exercise influence over him, and that
that some one was Marian Ashurst. It was
the treatment that did it. Tom had been
alternately petted and punished, scolded and
spoiled, but he had never been turned into
ridicule before, and when Marian tried that
treatment on him he succumbed at once.
He confessed he had always thought that
"he could not stand chaff," and now he
knew it. Marian's badinage was, as might
be supposed, of a somewhat grave and serious
order. Tom's bluntness, uncouthness,
avarice, and self-love were constantly betraying
themselves in his conversation and conduct,
and each of them offered an admirable
target at which Marian fired telling shots.
The girls were at first astonished and then
delighted, as was Mr. Creswell, who had a
faint hope that under the correction thus
lightly administered his son might be
brought to see how objectionable were
certain of his views and proceedings. The
lout himself did not like it at all. His
impossibility of standing "chaff", or of answering
it, rendered him for the first time a
nonentity in the family circle; his voice,
usually loud and strident, was hushed whenever
Marian came into the room. The domestic
atmosphere at Woolgreaves was far
more pleasant than it had been for some
time, and Mr. Creswell thought that the
"sweet little girl" was not merely a "dead
hand at a bargain," but that she possessed
the brute-taming power, in a manner hitherto
undreamed of. Decidedly she was a very
exceptional person, and more highly gifted
than any one would suppose.

Tom hated her heartily, and chafed
inwardly because he did not see his way to
revenging himself on her. He had not
the wit to reply when Marian turned him
into ridicule, and he dared not answer her
with mere rudeness, so he remained silent
and sulky, brooding over his rage, and
racking his brains to try and find a crack
in his enemy's armour—a vulnerable place.
He found it at last, but, characteristically,
took no notice at the time, waiting for his
opportunity. That came. One day, after
luncheon, when her mother had gone up
for a quiet nap, and the girls were
practising duets in the music-room, Marian set
out for a long walk across the hard, dry,
frost- covered fields to the village; the air
was brisk and bracing, and the girl was in
better spirits than usual. She thoroughly
appreciated the refined comforts and the
luxurious living of Woolgreaves, and the
conduct of the host and his nieces towards
her had been so perfectly charming, that
she had almost forgotten that her enjoyment
of those luxuries was but temporary,
and that very shortly she would have to
face the world in a worse position than she
had as yet occupied, and to fight the great
battle of life, too, for her mother and herself.
Often in the evening, as she sat in
the drawing-room buried in the soft
cushions of the sofa, dreamily listening to
the music which the girls were playing,
lazily watching her mother cozily seated in
the chimney corner, and old Mr. Creswell
by her, quietly beating time to the tune;
the firelight flickering over the furniture,
and appointments bespeaking wealth and
comfort, she would fall into a kind of half-
trance, in which she would believe that the