well? She came in looking radiant, and
took her seat at the table with all her usual
composure. Lady Hetherington looked at
her in surprise, and said, "Anything the
matter, Caroline?"

"The matter, Margaret! Nothing in the
world. Why?"

"You told Mr. Joyce to come in to luncheon
without you, and Thomas said you
had gone up-stairs. I feared you had one
of your faint attacks!"

"Thanks for your sympathy! No! I
knew Mr. Joyce would be leaving almost
directly after luncheon, and I had a letter
to write which I want him to be good
enough to take to town for me. So I seized
the only chance I had, and ran off to
write it."

"Deuced odd that!" said Lord Hetherington;
"here's British post-office, greatest
institution in the country. Rowland Hill,
and that kind of thing; take your letters
everywhere for a penny—penny, by Jove,
and yet you'll always find women want
fellows to make postmen of themselves, and
carry their letters themselves."

"This is a special letter, West," said
Lady Caroline. " You don't understand!"

"Oh yes, I do," said his lordship with
a chuckle; " women's letters all special
letters, hey, hey? order to the haberdasher
for a yard of ribbon, line to Mitchell's for
stalls at the play; all special, hey, Mr.
Joyce, hey?"

When luncheon was over Joyce imagined
that Lady Caroline would return with him
to the library, and renew their conversation.
He was accordingly much surprised,
when she suggested to Lord Hetherington
that he should show Mr. Joyce the alterations
which were about to be made in the
park. His lordship was only too glad to
be mounted on his hobby, and away they
went, not returning until it was time for
Joyce to start for the station. He did not
see Lady Hetherington again, but his
lordship in great delight at the manner in
which his agricultural discourse had been
listened to was very warm in his adieux,
and expressed his hope that they would
meet in town. " Politics always laid aside
at the dinner- table, Mr. Joyce, hey, hey?"
and Lady Caroline, after bidding him farewell,
placed a note in his hand, saying " This
was the letter I spoke of!" He glanced at
it and saw it was addressed to himself, and
the next instant the carriage started.
Addressed to himself! Did she not say at
luncheon that she had been writing a note
which she wanted him to take to town
for her, and yet there was the address,
Walter Joyce, Esq., in her bold firm hand.
There must be an enclosure which he was
to deliver or to post! And then he did what
he might have done at first—broke open the
seal of the envelope and took out the contents.
One sheet of note paper, with these words:

"I think you will be doing rightly in
acting as you propose. Miss Creswell
is handsome, clever, and exceptionally
' thorough.' From what I have seen of her
I should think she would make you an
excellent helpmate, and you know I should
not say this were I not tolerably certain
about it. I may not see you again for a
few weeks, as I detest this specially cold
spring, and shall probably run away to
Torquay, or perhaps even to Nice, but
letters to Chesterfield- street will always find
me, and I shall always have the warmest
and deepest interest in your welfare.
Good-bye. C. M."

"She is a woman of extraordinary
mental, calibre," said Joyce to himself, as he
refolded the note and placed it in his
pocket. " She grasps a subject immediately,
thinks it through at once, and writes
an unmistakable opinion in a few terse
lines. A wonderful woman! I've no doubt
she had made up her mind, and had written
that note before she came down to luncheon,
though she did not give it to me until just
now."

Walter Joyce was wrong. The interval
between leaving him and her arrival in the
dining-room had been passed by Lady
Caroline on her bed, where she fell, prone,
as the door closed behind her. She lay
there, her face buried in the pillow, her
hands tightly clasped behind her head, her
hair escaped from its knot, and creeping
down her back, her heart beating wildly.
Ah, what minutes of agony and humiliation,
of disappointment and self-contempt!
It had come upon her very suddenly, and
had found her unprepared. She had never
dared to analyse her feeling for Joyce; knew
of its existence, but did not know, or would
not admit to herself, what it was. Tried to
persuade herself that it was " interest" in
him; but laughed contemptuously at the
poor deceit when she found her heart
beating double pace as she read of his
progress at the election, or her cheek flaming
and her lip quivering as she did battle against
Lady Hetherington' s occasional impertinences
about him. Those were the signs
of something more than interest— of love,