the consistency of the rest of the world. She could not always steer skilfully between her so-called friend and her jest. She had been known to sacrifice the former to the latter, though it was an exceptional imprudence.

It was that fresh season of the year when spring is still glad, and not yet growing languid as it passes into the heat of summer. Chequers of sunshine and shade were woven on the floor of the pleasant room, where the fire still gleaming on the tiles was tempered by the open door into the little conservatory, bringing wafts of fragrance from violets, liliesof-the-valley, and jonquils. A far-away window open to the garden admitted the full-throated singing of blackbirds and thrushes in the early joy of mating. The silvery light crossing the soft gloom, kindled up here and there in chair-covers, portières, and cushions, admirably blended lines of cool blue and white creton, mellow olive velvet and deadgold plush. There was an effect like the wavering motion of leaves on the dull reds, and blues, and greens of the Turkey carpet, an ivory-tinted softness and delicacy in the revived satin-wood with its fine hand-painting of flowers and fruit, contrasted with the rich

black of ebony in the framework of the piano, chairs, and settees. Of the pictures on the sober grey walls, that of old Sir John, padded, buttoned up, and looking as if he had just come from successive visits to his barber and his tailor, was in the merciful shadow; while Lady Thwaite's likeness, in the light, showed her considerately crowned with a small cap, and draped in a shawl so as not to look younger than her husband's daughter. There was also a careful representation of a baby shrouded in a cloak, not to be superseded by a bluff or prim little boy sitting on his pony or standing by his dog, the ordinary style for the heirs of the family as preserved at Whitehills.

Though April days invite to dawdling idleness out of doors, the April sun shone on manifold signs of busy idleness within the house. The temperate beams scattered themselves freely on newspapers and books, a well-filled music-stand, the paraphernalia of easel and colour-boxes, and a dainty worktable containing half a dozen pieces of pretty work-all of which were necessaries of life to Lady Thwaite.

Sir William, late private in one of her

Majesty's infantry regiments, remained an incongruous figure, not at home in such an entourage. It must be confessed that he was not in himself entertaining, so Lady Thwaite had therefore ensconced him in one of those torturing, retreating, subsiding seats of the second-last fashion, in which no man who was not to the manner born could have settled himself otherwise than uncomfortably and awkwardly. She was talking to him in her smiling, fluent manner on subjects of which he could know nothing. If he answered at all, he must either express the most refreshing ignorance, or perpetrate the most grotesque mistakes. She asked him to help her with the arrangement of some of her silks and wools, and he did not see how he could refuse to oblige her by declining to comply with her demurely-put request. But his proceedings, while she would take care that they did no harm to her property, must be more ludicrous than those of of Hercules with Omphale's spinning-gear; for Hercules had the unfettered mien of a demi-god, while Omphale's establishment was sure to have been simplicity itself. Sir William's spasmodic actions in the Netherton drawing-room bore

more resemblance to the uncouth demonstrations of a bull in a china-shop.

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you can.

Ah! there is somebody coming,' Lady Thwaite cried, interrupting her little game, as a shadow crossed the window. I believe it is Iris Compton. Don't go, Sir William,'detaining him when he sought to accomplish a shame-faced retreat. You may rise if you will, that is if Let me give you my hand. Dear! dear! I must bid Charles take away these low chairs, with their sloping backs. They are a snare to half the people who sit down in them. Miss Compton ought to be one of the belles of the neighbourhood, though her fine figure is rather slight even for a girl.' She favoured him with a preparatory criticism, sitting serene in her own. becoming matronly bountifulness of outline.

There is certainly a suspicion of red in her hair-ill-natured people call it red—and her face is too small; it is even inclined to be chubby. But in spite of trifling defects she would be one of the county beauties if she were properly seen. She goes out very little, however; her relations are very old and don't live in the world; all the same you must know her like everybody else some day, and I

am charmed that the encounter should take place here. I am fond of young people meeting and making themselves at home at Netherton. It is not so very long since I was young myself, but my youth passed soon,' remarked Lady Thwaite with an echo of pensiveness in the reflection, pausing as if she expected to be contradicted, and then going on with a furtive smile, faintly acidulated, at the omission of any contradiction, 'Poor dear Sir John liked the society of his contemporaries, naturally, and I was only too happy to accommodate myself to his tastes. It was no less my pleasure than my duty, and you cannot think the comfort it is to me to remember that now. Ah! here she comes.'

Sir William recollected perfectly what he had heard of Miss Compton and her grandmother, Lady Fermor. He had struggled out of the cramping chair, and, as he stood stiffly, feeling very much in the way, he glanced up, expecting to see a woman like Lady Thwaite, but younger. His eyes fell on the tall, erect figure of a girl like a straight, slim sapling. She wore a dark blue velveteen gown and jacket, with a little cap of the same colour. Beneath it was the loveliest silken

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