expectations. It's all right now. Quite safe.
You must get poor old aunty an engagement to
play the Nurse to your Juliet, when you're a
great actress in London, setting the town on
fire."

"Oh, Aunt Mary!"

"Yes, to be sure you must. But in all seriousness,
Mabel, I've no doubt in the world that
Moffatt will gladly engage you for next season;
and I think you are pretty sure of getting to
Dublin for the winter."

Mabel went to rest with a thankful heart,
and her last thought was of her mother and
Dooley. Her last thought, but not her sole
thought. There ran through her mind a
lurking wonder as to what Clement Charlewood
would say and think if he could have seen her as
Ophelia. Whether he would have been pleased,
or shocked, or indifferent.

"I'm afraid he disapproves of the whole thing
so much, that he would rather I was unsuccessful
than the reverse," thought Mabel. "At
least he would have felt in that way three months
ago. Perhaps it might be different with him
now—now that—other things are all different
too!"

CHAPTER X. LADY POPHAM's LETTER.

"WHY, goodness me, Aunt Dawson, look at
this now! I declare here's a letter from my
fairy godmother."

The words were uttered in a frank ringing
voice, and with the least touch of an Irish
accent, and the speaker was Miss Geraldine
O'Brien, first cousin to Augusta Charlewood's
affianced husband. Miss O'Brien was a tall
elegant-looking young woman, whose finely-
formed though somewhat massive figure was
admirably set off by the closely-fitting riding
habit which she wore. Her face was not strictly
handsome, but beaming with health and good
humour, and lighted by a pair of merry intelligent
blue eyes, and she had a great abundance
of glossy chesnut hair bound tightly round her
well-shaped head.

The inmates of Bramley Manor were assembled
at an early luncheon, and the party consisted of
the Charlewood family—including Walter, who
was at Hammerham on leave of absence—Mrs.
Dawson, with her son and niece, and the
Reverend Decimus Fluke and his two elder
daughters. Jane Fluke, indeed, was staying at
Bramley Manor, for she was to have the
distinguished honour of being one of Augusta's
bridesmaids, and was to remain in the house
until after the wedding. Miss Fluke and her
father had been invited to luncheon on this day,
for an excursion had been arranged to some
famous ruins about ten miles from Hammerham,
and they had been asked to be of the party. At
first it had been proposed to take refreshments
with them, and make a sort of pic-nic. But
Mrs. Charlewood had strongly objected to this
plan, saying that she never could enjoy her food
out in the open air, and especially on the grass,
where the insects swarmed over the dishes, and
one never could use one's knife and fork
comfortably. And as Mrs. Dawson seemed inclined
to agree with this view of the case—although
she by no means stated her reasons with the
same downright simplicity as her hostess—the
idea of the pic-nic had been abandoned, and it
had been arranged that they should start for the
ruins immediately after luncheon, and after
rambling about there, return comfortably in the
evening to dinner. Miss O'Brien, Walter, and
Clement were to go on horseback, and therefore
the former appeared at the table ready equipped
in her riding-habit, which was to her the most
becoming costume possible.

"A letter from my dear, delightful, ridiculous,
old fairy godmother!" exclaimed Miss
O'Brien, gleefully, as she opened a letter which
the servant had just brought in, together with
a large packet of correspondence for Mr. Charlewood.
"I hadn't heard from her for an age,
and was getting quite uneasy about her, for her
ladyship is generally the most indefatigable and
voluminous of correspondents. She prides
herself on her letters, and they certainly are capital
fun."

"Her ladyship?" said Mr. Charlewood,
pausing in the act of opening a large square
blue business-looking envelope, and looking
across at his guest. Mr. Charlewood caught at
the sweet sound of the title as a hungry pike
snaps at a bait. "Her ladyship, Miss O'Brien?"
said he.

"Lady Popham, Mr. Charlewood. My
godmother, and, I believe, some relative on my
mother's side into the bargain. We consider
ourselves quite close relations in Ireland, when,
I suppose, you cold-blooded Saxons wouldn't
make out that there was any kinship at all. But
she is the most charming old woman, to those
she likes, bien entendu. I call her my fairy
godmother, because she's so tiny, and so bright,
and so odd, and because when I was a child
she seemed always able and willing to bestow
upon me whatever I took it into my head to
desire, from a coral necklace to a Shetland
pony."

Mr. Charlewood returned to the perusal of
his blue business letter with a complacent smile
on his face. It afforded him great pleasure to
know that a young woman about soon to be
connected by marriage with his family, had a
godmother who was called "my lady."

"What does Lady Popham say, Geraldine?"
asked Mrs. Dawson, a thin fair woman dressed
in widow's weeds—though her husband had
been dead many years—and with a somewhat
stiff cold manner.

"Oh, all kinds of things, Aunt Dawson. But
I must decipher the letter myself before I can
tell you much about it. You know she writes
the queerest little cramp hand in the world, and
her spelling is unique."

"Law dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Charlewood,
with naïve astonishment, "you don't mean to
say she can't spell? And she a lady of title
too! 'Ow curious!"

Nobody responded to this little speech. But
Penelope shot a glance at her mother across the