know, the richest minor in England, and
married Lady Ermengarde Ermine, the day
after he came of age); and, I remember,
poor old Sir William Delaney was so
delighted."

Mrs. Begbie, who was transported with
delight at hearing her friend and visitor
so fluent and familiar with these noble
names, shook her head gently, and said that
that was what came of worldliness. And
how strange it was that parents should
seek heartless grandeur for their children!
For her part, she fervently trusted that
Emmy would choose the better part, and
look for sound principles in her husband,
preferring them to wealth or rank. Though,
on the score of birth (if Emmy were
influenced by such mundane attractions),
there were few families to whose alliance
she might not aspire, her grandfather on
one side having been a Gaffer—and it was
unnecessary to say that the Gaffers were
among the few old pure Saxon families
extant and her paternal great-grandmamma
a De Wynkyn.

"How was it, then?" asked Mr. Snowe,
senior, in his pompous, deliberate tone.
"Do I follow you? Was Lady Tallis's
marriage an inauspicious one, hey?"

"Mercy on us!" cried Betsy Boyce.
"Inauspicious! Her husband is one of the
most dreadful persons! Hilda Delaney
was a pretty, good-natured fool when he
married her. It was like the wolf and the
lamb; he gobbled her up in no time—
crunched her bones."

"Law!" exclaimed Miss Emmy.

Mr. Snowe cast a rolling and rather
bewildered glance around. "That," said
he, impressively, "is shocking, indeed."

"But how do you mean, Miss Boyce?"
said Emmy, who took things a little
literally, and was excessively inquisitive. "Of
course I know that Lady Tallis was not
really gobbled up—he, he, he! you have
such funny sayings—but what did her
husband do?"

Herbert Snowe's song ceased at this
moment, and the conversation at the other
end of the room came to an abrupt close.

Before the party broke up Mrs. Sheardown
came and sat by the vicar of Shipley,
and told him, smilingly, that she had a
petition to prefer to him. She wanted him
to allow Maud to remain at Lowater for a
few days. The captain and she would
bring Maud in to Shipley when they came
to church on Sunday; meanwhile they
would send to the vicarage for anything
she might need. In short, they had set
their hearts on it, and Mr. Levincourt
must not refuse.

"I suspect you are not often accustomed
to have any request of yours refused, Mrs.
Sheardown," said the vicar, gallantly. " If
Maud be willing—as, no doubt, she is—I
consent with pleasure to her remaining."

Presently, Maud made her way quietly
across the room to Veronica. The latter
was seated on a small ottoman, which was
made to hold only two persons, and was so
contrived that one of its occupants must
turn his back on the company in the
drawing-room while the other faced them.
Veronica was leaning back against the
crimson cushion. The dark rich
background enhanced the purity of her white
dress and the pearly tints of her shoulders.
Familiar as her beauty was to Maud, she
yet paused an instant to look admiringly
on the picture presented by the vicar's
daughter. Veronica was radiant with
gratified vanity and the consciousness of
being admired. It heightened the bloom
on her cheek, and made her eyes bright
with a liquid lustre.

As Maud approached, a gentleman, who
had been occupying the other seat on the
ottoman, rose to yield it to her.

"Do not let me disturb you," said Maud.
"I merely wished to say a word to Miss
Levincourt."

The young man bowed, and walked a
few paces apart.

Maud told her friend of Mrs.
Sheardown's invitation.

A strange look passed over Veronica's
face. At first it seemed like a flash of
satisfaction; but then came an expression
of regret; almost, one would have said, of
a momentary alarm. "Shall you stay,
Maudie?" said she, taking the other girl's
hand in both her own.

"Uncle Charles has said that I may,
and— But I will not stay, dear, if you
think it selfish, or if you fancy you will
miss me."

"Of course I shall miss you, Maudie."

"Then I won't stay. I will tell Mrs.
Sheardown so."

At this moment Emma Begbie came up
to them, giggling after her manner, which
was half spiteful, whole silly.

"My goodness, Miss Levincourt!" she
exclaimed, bending over the ottoman,
"what a flirtation you have been having
with that young Lockwood! What is he
like to talk to?"

"Very much like a gentleman," answered
Veronica, with cold hauteur.