of Arbour was a mile and a half off. The
house was old and yet new—burly and portly,
full and contented, like an old-fashioned well-to-do
gentleman, who yet went with the times, and
wore as much of the modern dress as would fit
him. The red of the bricks was ripe and
genial. As gig or coach drove by on the
high road, the driver or passengers got a peep
of crimson that warmed and comforted them.
The windows were bright, and set off with
fresh clean paint, and over the old roof rose a
little cupola, fresh and trim, though about as
antique as an old cocked-hat. Between the
road and the house was a tiny lawn, with cheerful
beds of scarlet geraniums flowering in huge
hillocks, and a bit of balustrade that gave a
hint of terrace. This was Arbour-hill—as seen
from the top of the passing coach, pronounced
"an uncommon snug place" by the outsides,
and where Mr. Winter, who fanned in a "jolly"
way, and Mrs. Winter, and Miss Lucy Winter,
the jewel of the jewel-case, lived all the year
round.

Inside, too, it was a miracle of comfort and
brightness, airy to a degree, with the old–
fashioned rooms, and the quaint twist of the
stair, but with none of that old-fashionedness
which brings dampness and strange unseen
burrows and decay, and drifts up to a
sensitive nostril sudden and unpleasant gales.
And there were alterations and additions, and
the rather straitened dining-room had been
expanded into a handsome modern room. It
was the most comfortable and compact of
places. They said to Winter, "How did you light
on this place? Where did you hear of it? What
would you take for the plant and good will now,
lock, stock, and barrel?" At which proposal
Lucy Winter cried out in piteous protest,
"Oh, papa!"

With the exception of a little girl only five
or six years old, this Lucy Winter was the
only child, a gay, handsome, impetuous girl of
seventeen, all flash and impulse. Some one
calls her from the hall as she is heard carolling
above, and down she "swings" the little twisted
stair, with a sort of spring, "hand-over-hand,"
as though she were a sailor coming down to
the deck. It is a picture to see her as she
stands with a little tinge of colour in her
cheeks, pushing back her tossed hair, of
which she had abundance of a fine honest
auburn, perhaps a little rough too, and with a
delightful smile of happy interrogation, says,
"What is it, papa?"

A pleasant sight it was to see her running
round the gardens. It was yet more pleasant
to see her alight on the steps between the
little tiers of gorgeous flowers that made
a sort of porch to the house, in her habit
and hat after her ride, when she would turn
round with her cheeks flushed and hair that
would be rebellious and in confusion, to look
at her pony as he cantered round to his stable
without a groom. She would give him a
little touch of her whip, and he would frisk
away, to her delight throwing up his heels as a
sort of salute, the family looking on from the
windows. But it Avas for a horse she sighed—
a grown-up horse, a real horse ; for this pony
was a mere plaything. She longed to go flying
over the fields and ditches to join the Green
Shiels Hunt. But her father, fond and indulgent
in everything, from sheer alarm could
not bring himself to agree to the horse.

Now, was Captain Hallam coming very often,
and brought as often a delicately-shaped mare
with a skin like deep brown satin—a "thing
that a child might ride." And by dint of these
excursions and exercises it had come to the stage
with which the neighbours were now so busy.
Mr. Winter, an "amiable, good man," and a
retired clergyman, had reluctantly given his consent,
for he could not endure the idea of losing his
child. But there were fervent promises of
being always with him, and constantly coming
to stay—a pleasant fiction, which no one
believed in, as Captain Hallam was in "a
marching regiment," whose turn for Indian or
colonial duty was about two years away. However,
there was a long reprieve.

There had been busy times in the bright
house, preparing. But there was no "fuss" or
agitation. The necessary "outfitting" was only
a sort of pleasure and excitement, all the family
taking part and enjoying the selection. There
was no sudden agony, no breaking down in tears
over the finery as it comes home, which makes
each piece of silk and lace, to the fond mother's
heart, a suit of graveclothes. For the arrangement
was, that there was only to be a week's
"honeymoon," as it is called, and then "Lucy
Hallam" was to return, the captain's regiment
being only a short distance away.

It had come very close; the day after tomorrow
was the festival. How many times had
the lively girl flown up and down the little
stairs between the hall and the upper rooms,
where the finery was laid out, and where the
village milliner, employed out of good nature,
but under directions, was doing some good
substantial country work? There, too, was a
sort of little bazaar, where the friends' presents
were laid out. But the excitement of the day
had set in towards three o'clock, when there
was heard a peculiar sound of "pawing" up the
little avenue, and when Lucy, rushing to the
window, proclaimed, in musical tones, to all
the house that "there was a lovely darling of
a horse walking up the avenue led by a man
with a letter!" The horse was a darling, indeed,
with the most elegantly shaped aristocratic
limbs, and an air of true aristocratic breeding.
The letter was from a friendly squire who bred
horses, and had always admired her ardour.
He was an honest old bachelor, and it was a very
delicate little offering, and offered with a rough
affection. No wonder Lucy said openly, and
with fervour, that "she could kiss him."

The day after to-morrow was to be the day.
Mr. Winter was to "marry" his daughter, though
he declared he had forgotten all rites and offices,
it was so long since he had put on a surplice.
It was a long time from the days when he had