CHAPTER II.

IT was long past five o'clock on the following
afternoon, when the third- class train,
dragging its slow length along, crawled into
the gas-lighted station belonging to the large
and important county town of Brigham.
Mary Mackworth was chilled, and cramped,
and hungry, and weary, but nevertheless
full of delight, which had been increasing
for the last hour or two, as the names of
well-known places were shouted out, and
as now and then through the darkness
dimly loomed the outline of hills, towers,
and churches, all familiar landmarks.

As her bright face appeared at the window,
a hand was laid on the door, and a tall,
well-grown lad, a year or two younger than
herself, and very like her, helped her eagerly
from the carriage.

"Well, Mary!" "Well, my dearest old
Harry!" were the greetings of the brother
and sister; and then followed the inevitable
questions and answers about luggage; and
then followed the rush to secure it; and
then they emerged into the street where
several vehicles were waiting.

"There is the van!" exclaimed Mary,
"and old Dobson and his old horse, all just
as ever."

"Yes; but you're not going in the van,"
said Harry, importantly; " Dobson will take
your box, but I have borrowed Farmer
Murch's gig for you and me. Here it is;
you haven't forgotten how to climb into a
gig, Mary, have you?"

"Not I," laughed Mary, as she scrambled
into her place, and let Harry draw the
leathern apron over her knees; " jump in,
Harry, I long to be off; how are they all?"

"All flourishing except Cilly—she's a
poor piece of goods this winter—but there's
nothing much the matter with her."

"And Jack and Laurry?"

"Oh! they're all right—grown like
beans," answered Harry.

"How home-like it all looks!" cried Mary,
with sparkling eyes, as they left the town,
and emerged into the dark country road.

"Better than all the swell London shops,
eh?" said Harry with a smile. " Hollo!"

The exclamation was caused by a mail
phaeton, drawn by a pair of high stepping
horses, which met them at the moment. A
groom was driving; otherwise the carriage
was empty.

"What a grand affair for this part of the
world!" cried Mary. " Who can it belong
to, Harry?"

"Can't imagine. Oh, yes, I can, though.
The great banker, Mr. Langley, has bought
Nettlehurst, and I dare say it is one of his
concerns going to meet the down express,
at five-fifty."

"Mr. Langley who has the Bank of Brigham?
Why I thought he was dead?"

"To be sure: he died a year ago—the
old man did, that is—and left the bank and
money, and all the rest of it, to his cousin,
who was as rich as Croesus before, they say.
The London bank of the same name belongs
to him; but that's always the way. Wealth
attracts wealth."

"And the new man has bought Nettle-
hurst! Then the poor old Hathaways are
quite gone out of the land, I suppose! That
seems sad."

"A precious good thing, bad lot that they
were. There have been painters and paperers,
and all sorts of doings there, all the summer,
and the banker is coming to take possession
now, they say. I bet anything he's coming
to-night."

"I dare say it will be a good change for
all the poor people about Nettlehurst,
especially if his wife is nice."

"He has no wife, I believe, another old
bachelor, like Mr. Langley. But he's going
to give a ball, I heard some people saying,
by way of house-warming, so I suppose he
must have some sort of womankind
belonging to him to do the honours."

"Oh how I should like to go!" cried
Mary, eagerly.

"Much chance of that! Do you suppose
he'll ever hear of your existence? Why,
Nettlehurst isn't even in our parish, you
know; it's right over the hill; and we don't
know this man, nor anything about him,
except that he's first cousin to old Langley,
—and beastly rich," concluded the boy,
giving a vicious cut to Farmer Murch's
steady old Dobbin.

"But how delicious it would be! Fancy
seeing Cilla at a ball! She would be the
prettiest girl there, and how I should enjoy
watching her, and hearing what people
said!"

"My dear, you don't suppose any of us
could ever go to a ball.? Why a fly from
Brigham would cost fifteen shillings, let
alone clothes and gloves ard things. Balls
are not much in our line, nor anything else
worth having."

The tone was even more desponding than
the words, and Mary leaned forward to look
into his face, which he immediately turned,
so that the light of the gig lamps should
not fall on it.

"What is it, dear old boy?"

"Oh! nothing—only the old story," said
the lad in the same tone. " I'm sure you've
heard enough of it, Polly, in my letters;