grand lady who kept Lord Storton's keys. The little puss had been expecting that a full-length picture would grow by magic out from Paul's fingers, and she felt as if she had fallen into a trap. Seeing that she made no movement towards him, Paul jumped over the low fence, and crossed the bit of garden between it and the porch. Something in her face struck him; she looked disappointed, he thought. Would you like to see the sketch, Patty? - Patty's your name, is it not?" "Yes, sir," and again the words dropped out like round sugar-plums. Paul felt provoked at her apparent stolidity. Patty's eyes fastened eagerly on the page he held to her; her breath came short, and her colour deepened to crimson as she looked. Why, this was worse than she expected. Painting! it was just a sort of pencil scribble that any one could have done as well. Miss Nuna had drawn Bobby Fagg ten times better. It was all porch and flowers, with a few scratches behind that might be meant for any one. Paul was watching her face, and he could not mistake the vexation there. 66 What's the matter?" he said smiling. "Isn't it like?" But Patty was resolved not to tell; she nearly choked in the effort to keep back her tears, but she kept them back. "I was thinking how pleased Father would be to see it, sir. He was going to take the old wood down to light fires with, but I asked him to leave it for the suckle to rest on." "Take it down! why, the cottage would be hideous without it - it's the making of the place." "Yes, sir." "I see; and do you go to the Rectory, or what do you do?" "I stay within and mind the house," said Patty, demurely. She was still framed in by the porch, her dimpled pink fingers playing with the strings of her sun-bonnet, and Paul stood close to her, looking at her. He did not want her to talk now; every instant he was growing more dangerously infatuated with the strange power her beauty had on him- and Patty liked to be looked at. There came a sound of lowing from the back of the cottage, and she started. -- It was long past milking time, she knew that, and Peggy the cow would be cross, and maybe knock both her and the milkpail over; but Peggy must wait, Patty was not going to demean herself by milking before this gentleman: he would think her no better than a common farm servant. Again came the same lowing sound, and fear of Peggy's temper conquered Patty's love of being admired. "I must go, sir, please." Paul roused himself; he had forgotten time and everything else. 66 'I should like to paint you really; if I come this way to-morrow, I shall find you here, shall I?" he said so winningly, that Patty forgave him the pencil-scribble at once. "Yes, sir," and this time she looked at him and smiled while she spoke, looked as if she really wanted to see him again. The smile drove him almost distracted. 66 Good-bye," he said reluctantly. "Won't you shake hands, Patty?" he held out his slender brown hand. Patty blushed with triumph. She put her rosy, plump fingers into his, and looked up in his face once more. This time her eyes did not droop again directly; they took a proud, admiring glance at him. Just then Peggy lowed angrily, and Patty drew her hand from the warm clasp. Paul turned hastily away, and did not look back till he reached the little gate. There he drew a deep breath. "What am I about?" he thought. "I'm a fool: I laughed at Pritchard when he said he had better come down and take care of me among the country girls. Nonsense, I'll go and find the inn." CHAPTER V. 66 MR. FAGG was still nursing his newspaper, but his wife soon caught the sound of an arrival. She came to the open door and curtsied to Mr. Whitmore. Paul took a liking to her at once, but Mrs. Fagg's neat instincts shrank from the sight of his baggage. I want some dinner and a bed-room," he said. "The rest of my luggage is at the station; I suppose you have some one you can send out for it?" The landlady was pleased with his gentle manner, but this request was unusual and irregular; there was a fly at the station, and strange gentlefolks always took the fly and brought their "traps along." "I'm sure I don't know who it is, then, I can send," she said sharply; “Mr. Fagg's asleep, and tired besides, and folks is most all out harvesting. Roger now, if he'd been at home, he'd go for you." Who's Roger?" A dim remembrance of the name made Paul inquisitive. "He's the Rector's man, sir; but afterhours, no matter how hard he's been working, Roger 'ud walk his leg's off to earn a shilling. But come in, sir, please; I oughtn't to keep you standing. This way, sir." She led the way into a small room behind her own parlour, a room like that of any other village inn, except, perhaps, that the muslin curtains looked fresher, the horsehair sofa brighter, and that, instead of the usual tawdry paper flowers in the grate, it was entirely hidden by glistening white deal shavings, from the centre of which rose a plume of shield fern, with a spike or two of late fox-glove here and there. Only an artist knows how irritation of any kind is allayed by an object of beauty, no matter what. Paul had not felt peaceful or contented when he reached the 'Bladebone," and now something, perhaps the exquisite grace of the foxgloves, soothed him at once. He walked on to the window at the end of the room, and looked into the garden, and he breathed freely with a sense of keen enjoyment. of pears and red and russet-cheeked apples so overshadowed it that the eye was baffled as to its extent; and the gay plots of cloves and marigolds and snowy rocket were backed by dwarf hedges, in which large lusty apples lay basking as if the sunshine were made specially to burnish their jolly brown faces; lavender bushes, like middle-aged women with scanty hair all sticking up on end, were frequent: and so were stocks and courtly hollyhocks, suggestive of powder and propriety, and other flowers, quaint old-fashioned darlings which we can never improve on, though we may add to their number. Just below the window grew a huge patch of mignonette, and Paul leaned out to enjoy the fragrance. 66 Will you like to see the bedroom, sir?" said Mrs. Fagg; and when she had shown him into it she left him, promising him his dinner in a quarter of an hour. The bedroom was so exquisitely clean and fresh, with its snowy dimity and neat furnishings, that when Paul had washed away the dust and heat of his journey, he felt quite at home. "I believe I'll stay here," he said as he went down stairs again; "this Bright may be a disagreeable, ignorant fellow, for anything I know. I would not have accepted the introduction, only I thought he lived in the village, and I could see what he was like without going expressly to see him. I hate forcing myself on any one's hospitality; and this place seems full of charming bits- and Gray's Farm may be ugly. And then there's that sweet Patty." He paused a few minutes. "I want my dinner, I expect," he said lightly, “or such absurd fancies would not come into my head. What harm can there be either to the girl or me if I study that lovely face of hers for a few days? Quite a bit of study, and a very rare bit too in point of colour; she would soon make her fortune as a model.” He went to his sitting-room window and looked out. Mr. Fagg was coming across the garden. He was a short stout man, and walked with his legs wide apart; his head was narrow at top, with a massive jowl and throat, so that Mr. Fagg bore in some respects a likeness to the letter A, especially when he walked. His neighbours said he was like a flat fish, but that was probably because of his small dull eyes, and wide thin-lipped mouth. He looked up at the window and touched his hat. A London gardener - the possessor of any conventional garden with close-shaven lawn, rolled gravel-walks, and box-edged flower borders would, I suppose, have shuddered at the irregular mingling of flowers and fruit, and herbs and cabbages, displayed in the garden of the "Bladebone." It was not very wide; the wall that fenced it on one side was gemmed with ruby morellas, some of them so purple that they looked ready to drop into the mouth of anyone who might go near "Good afternoon, sir." enough. It was difficult to guess how far voice still sounded sleepy. the garden reached: golden brown wreaths' these parts, sir?" Mr. Fagg's "Do you know “No, I'm a stranger here." Paul Whitmore had the reserve one often finds in an artist in any mind, in fact, to which concentration of thought has become the necessity it must become to him who creates, and in whom it is often, though not always, a pre-existent faculty. With Paul this reserve was far more apparent towards men than towards women, perhaps because he was more used to the society of the first, and so was more constantly on guard with them; and also, it may be, that the ardent enthusiasm which lay hidden under the somewhat cold manner he had among his equals was so apt to kindle at sight of a beautiful face, that the excitement produced rendered him for the time more what he really could be when moved than that which he really was in daily life. And abrupt and haughty as he could and would be under the slightest attempt at patronage from even the most beautiful woman, there was the spirit of true chivalry hidden somewhere in Paul's heart; the spirit — which either the railway system or the self-assertion of women has done so much to root out of being of true reverence for woman, young or old, simply because she is a creature made not only to be useful to man, but also to be protected by him. -- mere money ever can be. Don't marry a dreamy wife, Paul; you will not be happy with her." He could not speak, but he covered her hands with passionate kisses. We never perhaps become aware of a definite want in our natures except by the loss of that which has suffered by it, and therefore Paul Whitmore had always considered his mother's words as the pure fruit of her unselfish devotion to him, and of her self-blaming nature. He worshipped his mother as men do who have a strong power of tenderness, and now that he had lost her it seemed to him as if he had only half loved her as she deserved to have been loved, he had shown her so little outward affection. It is possible too that he had been more conscious of his mother's silent sympathy than she knew of, for since her death he had been possessed by a kind of recklessness. He rarely made acquaintances; it may have been that, as it was no effort to him to create a favourable impression, he took no pains to effect it; the aeputation he had, both among fellow-artists and others, a was, a very jolly fellow, if he would only let you know him." Paul's father had died when he was sixteen, and his mother had not lingered long after her husband. Dearly as she had loved her boy, he had not had the full association with her, the full monopoly of her time, that is sometimes the portion of sons less dearly loved; for Mrs. Whitmore had been a writer, and it was from her that Paul inherited that power of concentration without which imagination may indeed work, but can never work effectively. So the mother and son had gone on living in the same house, each, although the other knew it not, pining for a more united life, till death had come with awful suddenness one day, and had taken the weary woman to rest. Not so suddenly that she could not speak a few last words to Paul-Paul kneeling horror-struck beside her, unable to realize the truth of that which was going on before him; to him it was all a mocking drama; even he seemed to act that which he did and spoke. Paul," she said, gently, "I have worked only for you. I meant to have tried for more leisure, to be more to you as a companion than I have been. I have loved you, darling, God knows how much, but I see now that was not enough. I might perhaps have been more to you than 66 'If to-morrow 'ud do, sir, I'd go myself.” Fagg had a slow, ponderous utterance; his mind had become overgrown by matter, and so had a weary journey before it could find an outlet. "To-morrow won't do. You don't mean to tell me there is not a single industrious fellow in the village besides this Roger your wife talks about." 66 'Well, sir, you see, Roger - well," Fagg stopped to scratch his head, "he's a wonner, he is. Now, sir, that there chap passes for being poor, and it's my belief that he hoards and saves every farthing instead of keeping things about him comfortable, and letting that pretty lass of his see a little life." Paul's reserve melted on the instant, "Has he a family, then?" He had no intention of owning his acquaintance with Patty. “Well, sir, hardly what you'll call a family. His wife died years ago, and left him with this one girl, and he's brought her up hisself; and I must say," Fagg looked behind him cautiously, and then lowered his voice, "and I'm sure if you come across Patty you'll bear me out in saying, she's as pretty a face as ever you looked on." Dinner if you please, sir." Mrs. Fagg's voice sounded very sharp at Paul's elbow, and then she placed a chair for him at the table, and took her place behind it. Paul had forgotten his hunger, he wanted to hear the rest of Patty's history without the necessity of asking questions; but he knew by a sort of instinct that Fagg was not likely to talk about a pretty girl in the hearing of his wife. He seated himself at the table in silence; he did not even compliment Mrs. Fagg on the excellent cooking of the mutton-chops she took the cover from. tor 66 There came a sound of voices in the passage, and Mrs. Fagg went out of the room. If you please, sir," she said, when she came in again, "Mr. Fagg is going to the station himself with a letter for the Recthere is a later post goes out from the station, you see, sir; so if you'll be so good as to say what your luggage is, Dennis 'ull bring it along; and if you please, sir, the Rector would like a word with you himself." Then in a lower voice, "That was the Rector just now, and I said you was at dinner, sir, and that you will step round to the Rectory after. I'm afraid your chops 'ud have been quite spoiled by such time as the Rector had done with you, if you'd have seen him now." just what he might have said ten minutes sooner. "Your husband says this Roger has a pretty daughter." 66 Mrs. Fagg was changing his plate as he spoke. She never allowed the maid to wait on young gentlemen, for fear of larks," she said, but the plate nearly fell from her dexterous hand. She tossed her head and then shook it. Dennis was foolish sometimes, but she never could have thought of such folly as this; to go making a gentleman -a young one like this, too-curious to see Patty Westropp! " "Oh dear, oh dear!" "Well, sir, I believe my husband do think her pretty; she's too high coloured for my taste, and too much dash about her. You should have seen Miss MaryMiss Beaufort, sir; she was pretty, if you like face and figure and conduct all to match." "Where's she gone to?" said Paul, carelessly. "She's in heaven, sir," Mrs. Fagg said softly. "Do you like your cheese decayed or sound, sir? we have both." "Neither, thank you I've done. Where shall I find the Rectory?" said Paul; he was rather shocked by Mrs. Fagg's abrupt transition. She went to the door and showed him the way; but he had no intention of going there at once. He sauntered into the inn garden, and smoked his pipe among the apple hedges. He did not want to go to the Rectory. Paul looked up half annoyed at being Something about Mr. Beaufort, even in managed for; but there was something that short interview, had smacked of conthoroughly feminine in Mrs. Fagg's face, ventionality, and in the country Paul though it was an intelligent one-some-liked to be free from all restrictions. thing too, so well featured and pleasant that he was mollified. "He's a sort of invalid, you see, sir, the Rector, and he do get just a trifle prosy and slow in his talk. Poor gentleman, he's sadly put about to-day on account of Roger being away; such a thing hasn't happened for years, and wouldn't now, only the old man thought it might be to his advantage. It's his late wife's mother, you see, sir, is dying, and she sent for Roger, so the Rector tells me." "Yes," said Paul; then to himself, "Confound the woman! why can't she talk about Patty." He felt very stupid, he supposed it was the heat; but try as he would, he could not hit on any way of approaching the desired subject indirectly. He waited till Mrs. Fagg's reticence had quite exhausted his slender patience, and then he said, "If I go to the Rectory I shall have to behave myself, and perhaps have to talk to that piece of pale propriety who ran away from me in the lane this morning. How much more really innocent the other little girl was so truly simple!" And with this thought in his head Paul Whitmore went at last to the Rectory to make the acquaintance of Nuna Beaufort. CHAPTER VI. AT GRAY'S FARM. MRS. BRIGHT, as she sits facing her teaurn, is a comfortable representative of the Englishwoman of middle age, not too plump for a certain amount of good looks. She has a fresh bright complexion, and a sweet and kind expression; there are few lines on her smooth forehead, thought being one of the things which Mrs. Bright considers specially intended for mankind qualities - dogged resolution in practical women being made to look nice, be use- duties, and a narrow judgment on folks ful, and do as they are bid, especially by who have less perpendicular principles. their lords and masters; from which con- Will is more awkward than shy; he is siderations the reader will perceive, if he thoroughly self-reliant. His mother has be discerning, that Mrs. Bright is a wo-worshipped him from his cradle with the man of a thoroughly conservative kind, sort of teasing fondness some mothers, with no dangerous modern dogmas about and some sisters too, indulge in. and her. though Will is a good son he sets little store by his mother's judgment. At this moment her pleasant face has somewhat the aspect of a surprised ful! moon; the eyebrows have so raised themselves that her forehead is far from smooth as she listens to her son's news. "Good gracious, Will! you don't mean that Stephen Pritchard has been random enough to send a stranger down upon us without warning? Why"-here the beaming face turns almost the color of a red peony -"dear me, dear me ! and I've just picked my best lace cap to pieces for wash, and I have not got a new shape yet to make it up on again. Stephen really might have a little thought-so clever as he is too!" Mr. William Bright has risen from breakfast before his mother comes to the end of her sentence; he stoops over his leather bag, fastening a strap tightly round it, and his face is flushed by the effort as he looks up again. Will is a fine young fellow, tall and square and deep-chested, with honest clear grey eyes, and the fair hair that goes so well along with them. It is far easier to describe the master of Gray's Farm than to describe Mr. Paul Whitmore; and as one man had much to do in making and marring the happiness of the other's life, it may be well here to speak of them together; and as a true description must always partake of the nature of the person described, that of Paul can only be fitful and uncertain. The charm of his face lay in expression, and this varied as a landscape varies under passing clouds across April sunshine. Words cannot paint Paul's smile; it came like a sudden summer, but when it faded you felt you had a new revelation of the dark-eyed man you had been thinking proud and cold. - 66 Stephen only thinks of the people in his books, mother; you see he knows nothing about dress, and I don't think your cap matters." 66 Dear me, Will, not matter how I look! I thought you liked your mother to look nice." "She always looks nice;" Will stoops and kisses her, much as he would have pacified a child. "But Stephen should have written beforehand. From what Mr. Beaufort said last night, this Mr. Whitmore was coming over to us without any notice at all, just when the Rector met him. Mr. Beaufort says he seems a pleasant fellow; he sent him to the Bladebone,' but I was in a hurry to get home, so I didn't go in there. I sent a message by the Rector to say I was going from home for a day or two, but I would call and drive Mr. Whitmore out here on Monday. Mr. Beaufort seemed to think he should ask him to the Rectory tomorrow." "Ask him to the Rectory!" Mrs. Bright's happy face fills with sudden trouble; "and he an artist! Oh, my dear Will, I'd rather have had him here fifty times-indeed, indeed I would. So fond of sketching as Nuna is too; and who is to say they may not go out sketching together and get flirting over the paints? O Will, I can't tell you how anxious you've made me! "Anxious! what d'ye mean, mother?" Will speaks as surlily as a man is apt to speak when he fully realizes a danger presented to him by another — danger which, because the suggester of it is a woman, he loftily resolves to ignore. "Will, dear, please don't be tiresome. I don't know, but I don't fancy you are quite so sure of Nuna Beaufort as to give every young fellow a chance of pleasing her- and you say this Mr. Whitmore is pleasant." Will Bright is a man to be looked at at any time you please; his face bespeaks him at once no need to wait for the clew given by a smile or a frown. As he stands smiling at his mother's discomfit- "Oh, bother chances!" says Will, all ure, he is as fine a specimen of manhood the sunshine hidden by the cloud that as you can see anywhere; an impersona- shadows his grey eyes. "I know one tion of handsome health and strength, of thing well enough, Nuna will choose only that fair square Saxon type which is often to please herself, and I can't keep her united to two specially English mental from seeing a dozen strangers a week if |