of his mission, and, wandering about with the
document, in his hand. speculated within
himself how on earth Cupid's postmen usually
executed their office.

During his hesitation the letter-bag arrived,
uncommonly full. A moment afterwards, the
footman entered with some breakfast articles.

"Master's coming down, Mr. Fanshaw."

"Is he? Anchovy toast. Run, Thomas
—quick!" said the butler, hurriedly. His eye
had rested on the silver muffin-dish, and an
idea, bright as its own beaming cover, occurred
to him. He lifted it, hesitated — would it
grease? Sir George's step approached. In
his flurry, Mr. Fanshaw dropped the note on
the muffin There was no time to recover it;
he replaced the cover.

The baronet entered, glanced hastily over
the ranks of letters, looked relieved, and sat
down to breakfast. At this instant, Mr.
Fanshaw, standing opposite, caught sight of the
portly figure of Mrs. Turnover, executing,
outside the half-open door, a series of wild and
agitated movements, the object of which he
could only interpret as either a request to
know if he had yet presented the letter, or an
injunction to do it, if he had not. So earnest
grew the pantomime, that Mr. Fanshaw made
a movement to withdraw, and join her.

"Stay a moment, Fanshaw," said his master,
who had opened a letter.

Unable to explain further, the butler gave
Mrs.Turnover a reassuring smile, and
significantly pushed the muffin-dish an inch or so
nearer to his master. Finding this had not the
tranquillising effect he expected, Mr. Fanshaw,
observing that Sir George was still absorbed
in his letter, ventured to raise the lid, just
sufficiently to afford the anxious lady an opportunity
of noticing the promising aspect of affairs,
while at the same time he directed a triumphant
glance through the door. In acknowledgment,
Mrs. Turnover threw up her arms in
some species of ecstasy, flung her apron over
her head, and staggered away. Mr. Fanshaw
stared after her in some perplexity.

"Now, that didn't seem sim like j'y," was his
reflection. He began to wish he could regain
the letter.

"Fanshaw!"

"Yes, Sir George."

"Fanshaw! Oh, you will present my
compliments to Miss Vann, and beg her, when she
has fully recovered, to afford me an opportunity
of expressing my acknowledgments of the great
service she has this day rendered to me, and,
indeed, to all my household."

"Yes, Sir George."

"Stay, give me a muffin."

"Muffin, Sir George ?"

"Muffin."

At that supreme moment the butler was
conscious of the reappearance of Mrs. Turnover,
now in an unmistakable attitude of despair,
while Dolly, equally agitated, peeped over her
shoulder. It was, however, too late. Mr.
Fanshaw had placed the fatal dish within reach,
and was preparing to beat a precipitate retreat,

"Take off the cover," said George.

Mr. Fanshaw obeyed. One glance revealed
the fact, that the steam-saturated letter had
begun to imbibe the rich fluid below, and,
having once tasted thereof, was rapidly
becoming inebriated.

"Why, what in the name of——- " began
George, lifting it curiously with his fork. "Here,
take this away! Something has got into it."

"Bless me, so there be!" cried the butler,
as he whipped off the dish, muttering
something about "the baker."

"Lor! "What a providence!" gasped Mrs.
Turnover, as Mr. Fanshaw presented her with
the recovered treasure, dish and all. Snatching
off the letter, the good woman hurried away.

For some time after he had finished both his
letters and his breakfast, the young baronet
remained at the table, immersed in thought.
With an effort, he rose and went into his study.
There he took two or three restless turns, then
rang the bell, and flung himself into a chair.

"Now for my fate," he muttered.

A servant appeared.

"Desire the coo——" George checked
himself. "Say to Mrs. Turnover that I shall be
glad to see her for a minute."

"Mrs. Turnover's awaitin', Sir George," was
the prompt reply.

"Beg her to come in."

Mrs. Turnover, quietly attired, came in.
Though on a large scale, and of that general
aspect which a fastidious critic might have
described in the not uncommon expression "vulgar,"
the worthy cook was, for her style, a personable
woman. It may further be that the consciousness
of a generous purpose had imparted to her
countenance and manner a degree of softness
and dignity not usually to be found there.  At
all events, her young master thought he had never
seen her look so comely since the days when, as a
schoolboy, he had not disdained to receive
surreptitious dainties at that large and liberal
hand.

"Sit down, I beg," said Sir George.

Mrs. Turnover bobbed a curtsey, and
remained standing.

"Sit, sit, my good friend," said Sir George, a
little impatiently.

"Beggin' your pardon, Sir George," was the
reply, "I prefer standin'."

Sir George rose.

Mrs. Turnover cleared her throat, twitched
her apron nervously, and began:

"I was wishful, Sir George, to give hanser,
so quick as I could, to what you was a-saying
of, last night. I've been considerin' of it, as you
hordered, Sir George, and, with my respectful
dooty and thanks, I shall be most 'appy"—
George's heart stood still — "for to remain your
cook; but as to being your wife, I'd rayther,
when I doos marry, keep to my hone spear."

"Of your feelings on such a point, my good
Barbara, you must, of course, be the best
judge," said the much relieved suitor; "but do
not decide hastily."

"'Tis settled, Sir George; and I'm very
glad to see you take it so kindly, sir. I was