was very thick hereabouts, but at one spot there
was a clearing, in the midst of which stood an
old pheasant-house, built of boughs and thatched
with reeds, which had not been used for a year
or two, and was fast falling into unsightly ruin.
The place, altogether, was lonely and unattractive,
without sunshine and without flowers, and
Jack Wyvill was, therefore, no little surprised
when from the distance he saw Minnie Conyers
and her friend just vanishing within the hut.

They did not perceive him, and for a moment
he halted, too much startled to analyse his
emotions; but even while he halted, he saw Minnie
issue forth again, and peer cautiously about, as
if watching for some one, or looking out for
spies; but her examination was very brief, and
she retreated apparently satisfied without
discovering her lover, who, between fear, suspicion,
and rage, hardly knew what he did. He drew
nearer the pheasant-house, however, keeping in
the rear of it, until, being within a few yards of
the ragged spot, once more that fragrance of a
capital cigar, blended with the sweet softness
of the May morning, assailed his senses; and,
before he had time to rally from the shock of it,
he heard Miss Wharton's voice observing, with
unctuous deliberation, "There is no better cigar
than the Lopez—none!"

So there was some one with them in the
pheasant-house! It was an appointment, and
Minnie was scout! He did not suspect her, but
he could have strangled Miss Wharton, that his
sweet, guileless darling should be tainted even
by the knowledge of her clandestine affairs! He
would not surprise their secret, whatever it might
be, but gave himself a vigorous shake and tramped
on, heedless whether he was heard or not; and
probably he was heard, and even seen through
the gaps of the rotten boughs, for when he gained
the open ground, on the edge of the wood, there
was Minnie, arm in arm with her friend, sauntering
leisurely towards him, and looking as innocent
as if nothing wrong had happened since the
Flood!

But there was storm in his face that he could
not hide, and Minnie's heart sank as she read the
unmistakable signs of it. He had always been
so good to her, so truly tender and loving, that
the reappearance of last night's gloom in this
morning's sudden displeasure frightened her, she
hardly knew why. She dreaded explanations
and scenes at all times; there was a large
measure of feminine unreasonableness and cowardice
in her composition; and instead of making an
opportunity for him to tell her what was on his
mind, she detained Miss Wharton as a screen
until they met the squire, who carried Jack off
to the stables, sorely against his will, to assist
at a consultation over the four-year-old, which
was expected to do such wonderful things, and
bring such glory to the Skelton stud at the next
York Meeting. But Jack was not his own man
at all, and he only earned himself the trainer's
contempt by his vague remarks, while he
considerably lowered the squire's jubilation.

He was experiencing a feeling of intense
mortification that Minnie, who had hitherto never
sought to dissemble her simple pleasure in his
society, should now, within a few days of their
marriage, positively avoid him. "I'm not a
clever fellow, I know I'm not," thought he,
humbly, "but I'll be shot if that friend of hers,
who is so wise and witty, and desperately sly,
shall come between us, making mischief!" And
thus thinking, he answered the squire twice or
thrice at cross-purposes, until the impetuous old
gentleman asked what the devil ailed him that
he was so short. "Had Minnie and he got
wrong ?"

"No, we have not got wrong, but there is no
telling what we may do if that Miss Wharton is
for ever in the way," replied Jack, blurting out
his wrath in one angry gust. "I don't like her
for Minnie's friend, and I'll be hanged if I'll have
her at Heathside as my wife's friend!" The
squire reddened; he saw the young man's blood
was up, and his own warmed too; he felt that
Jack meant what he said, and that he had, or
believed himself to have, excellent grounds for
it; but for a few days past there had been some
indistinct sentiments hovering sheepishly about
the old gentleman's fancy that made this fiery
speech anything but easy or pleasant to digest.
He stammered something about Miss Wharton's
being his guest, and then went on to say, in a
tone of almost eager defence:

"She is a good fellow is Harry Wharton,
Jack; not sweetly feminine and that sort of
thing, but a downright good fellow, and a bit of
capital company! I'll tell you what—if she
had been old Ralph's son, instead of that ne'er-
do-weel of a Tom, she would have set the estate
on its legs again. Such a headpiece as hers is
lost on a woman's shoulders. Hang it, Jack,
what have you got to say against her? Lady
Wallace didn't like her once, but even she is
coming round; and I call Mary one of the most
prejudiced women alive."

Jack Wyvill did not consider that he had any
right to mention such suspicions as rose merely
out of cigar-smoke; if Miss Wharton had her
secrets, she might keep them for him; but
Minnie's quiet heart and conscience should not be
marred and sullied by being made the
confidential keeper of them; he, therefore, simply
reiterated, in a dogged manner, what he had
said before; and then abruptly changed the
subject. The squire felt huffed for a moment;
but, after an inarticulate growl or two, he
followed the irritated lover's lead, and the hazardous
topic of difference was abandoned. Soon
after they parted company by mutual consent;
the squire went to look after his woodmen felling
timber, and Jack turned his steps towards
the house, where he sat for nearly an hour, waiting
and hoping for Minnie's appearance. Lady
Wallace, who was detained from writing her daily
dues of letters to entertain him, very naturally
wished him away, and at last she proposed
sending a messenger in quest of Minnie—a hint
to depart which he could not but accept.

"We shall see you at dinner this evening,
of course?" added she, with a little kindly
compunction, as he was on the point of going. He