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By Root 1651 0

were not half as grand as the Dysarts, would have been a great deal too grand to come and see her up in her room like this, but here everyone was as friendly as they could be, and not a bit stuck-up. It was certainly a good day for her when she came down to Lismoyle, and in spite of all that Uncle Robert had said about old Aunt Mullen’s money, and how Charlotte had feathered her own nest, there was no denying that Charlotte was not a bad old thing after all. Her only regret was that she had not seen the dress that Miss Dysart had on this after-noon before she had got herself that horrid ready-made pink thing, and the shirt with the big pink horse-shoes on it. Fanny Hemphill’s hitherto unquestioned opinion in the matter of costume suddenly tottered in her estimation, and, with the loosening of that buttress of her former life, all her primitive convictions were shaken.

The latch of the gate clicked again, and she leaned forward to see who was coming. “What nonsense it is keeping me up here this way!” she said to herself; “there’s Roddy ambert coming in, and won’t he be cross when he finds that there’s only Charlotte for him to talk to! I will come down to-morrow, no matter what they say, but I suppose it will be ages before the officers call again now.” Miss Fitzpatrick became somewhat moody at this reflection, and tried to remember what it was that Mr. Hawkins had said about “taking shooting leave for the 12th;” she wished she hadn’t been such a fool as not to ask him what he had meant by the 12th. If it meant the 12th of July, she mightn’t see him again till he came back, and goodness knows when that would be. Roddy Lambert was all very well, but what was he but an old married man. “Gracious!” she interrupted herself aloud with a little giggle, “how mad he’d be if he thought I called him that!” and Hawkins was really a very jolly fellow. The hall-door opened again; she heard Charlotte’s voice raised in leave-taking, and then Mr. Lambert walked slowly down the drive and the hall-door slammed. “He didn’t stay long,” thought Francie; “I wonder if he’s cross because I wasn’t downstairs? He’s a very cross man. Oh, look at him kicking Mrs. Bruff into the bushes! It’s well for him Charlotte’s coming ups-tairs and can’t see him!”

Charlotte was not looking any the worse for what she had gone through on the day of the accident; in fact, as she came into the room, there was an air of youthfulness and good spirits about her that altered her surprisingly, and her manner towards her cousin was geniality itself.

“Well, me child!” she began, “I hadn’t a minute since dinner to come and see you. The doorstep’s worn out with the world and his wife coming to ask how you are; and Louisa doesn’t know whether she’s on her head or her heels with all the clean cups she’s had to bring in!”

“Well, I wish to goodness I’d been downstairs to help her,” said Francie, whirling her feet off the sofa and sitting upright; “there’s nothing ails me to keep me stuck up here.”

“Well, you shall come down to-morrow,” replied Charlotte soothingly; “I’m going to lunch with the Bakers, so you’ll have to come down to do your manners to Christopher Dysart. His mother said he was coming to inquire for you to-morrow. And remember that only for him the pike would be eating you at the bottom of the lake this minute! Mind that! You’ll have to thank him for saving your life!”

“Mercy on us,” cried Francie; “what on earth will I say to him?”

“Oh, you’ll find plenty to say to him! They’re as easy as me old shoe, all those Dysarts; I’d pity no one that had one of them to talk to, from the mother down. Did you notice at the picnic how Pamela and her brother took all the trouble on themselves? That’s what I call breeding, and not sitting about to be waited on like that great lazy hunks, Miss Hope-Drummond! I declare I loathe the sight of these English fine ladies, and my private belief is that Christopher Dysart thinks the same of her, though he’s too well-bred to show it. Yes, my poor Susan,” fondling with a large and motherly hand the cat that was sprawling on her shoulder;