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"Claud: 'In mine eye, she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.'"—Much Ado About Nothing.

It is that most satisfactory hour of all the twenty-four—dinner-hour. Even yet the busy garish day has not quite vanished, but peeps in upon them curiously through the open windows—upon Lady Chetwoode mild and gracious, upon the two young men, upon airy Lilian looking her bravest and bonniest in some transparent gown of sombre black, through which her fair young neck and arms gleam delicately.

Her only ornaments are roses—rich, soft white roses, gathered from the gardens outside: one, sweeter and happier than its fellows, slumbers cozily in her golden hair.

Cyril and she, sitting opposite to each other, smile and jest and converse across the huge bowl of scented flowers that stands in the centre of the table, while Guy, who is a little silent, keeps wondering secretly whether any other woman has skin so dazzlingly fair, or eyes so blue, or hair so richly gilded.

"I have seen the widow," he says at length, rousing himself to a sense of his own taciturnity. "On my way home this morning, before I met you,"—turning to Lilian—"I thought it my duty to look her up, and say I hoped she was comfortable, and all that."

"And you saw her?" asks Cyril, regarding Guy attentively.

"Yes; she is extremely pretty, and extremely coy—cold I ought to say, as there didn't seem to be even the smallest spice of coquetry about her."

"That's the safest beginning of all," says Cyril confidentially to his mother, "and no doubt the latest. I dare say she looked as though she thought he would never leave."

"She did," says Guy, laughing, "and, what is more unflattering, I am sure she meant it."

"Clever woman!"

"However, if she intended what you think, she rather defeated her object; as I shan't trouble her again in a hurry. Can't bear feeling myself in the way."

"Is she really pretty?" Cyril asks, curiously, though idly.

"Really; almost lovely."

"Evidently a handsome family," thinks Cyril. "I wonder if he saw my friend the sister, or step-sister, or companion."

"She looks sad, too," goes on Guy, "and as though she had a melancholy story attached to her."

"I do hope not, my dear," interrupts his mother, uneasily. "There is nothing so objectionable as a woman with a story. Later on one is sure to hear something wrong about her."

"I agree with you," Cyril says, promptly. "I can't bear mysterious people. When in their society, I invariably find myself putting a check on my conversation, and blushing whenever I get on the topic of forgeries, burglaries, murders, elopements, and so forth. I never can keep myself from studying their faces when such subjects are mentioned, to see which it was had ruffled the peace of their existence. It is absurd, I know, but I can't help it, and it makes me uncomfortable."

"Does this lady live in the wood, where I met you?" asks Lilian, addressing Guy, and apparently deeply interested.

"Yes, about a mile from that particular spot. She is a new tenant we took to oblige a friend, but we know nothing about her."

"How very romantic!" says Lilian; "it is just like a story."

"Yes; the image of the 'Children of the Abbey,' or 'The Castle of Otranto,'" says Cyril. "Has she any one living with her, Guy?" carelessly.

"Yes, two servants, and a small ill-tempered terrier."

"I mean any friends. It must be dull to be by one's self."

"I don't know. I saw no one. She don't seem ambitious about making acquaintances, as, when I said I hoped she would not find it lonely, and that my mother would have much pleasure in calling on her, she blushed painfully, and said she was never lonely, and that she would esteem it a kindness if we would try to forget she was at the cottage."

"That was rather rude, my dear, wasn't it?" says Lady Chetwoode mildly.

"It sounds so, but, as she said it, it wasn't rude. She appeared nervous, I thought, and as though she had but lately recovered from a severe illness. When the blush died away, she was as white as death."

"Well, I shan't distress her by calling," says Lady Chetwoode, who is naturally a little offended by the unknown's remark. Unconsciously she has been viewing her coming with distrust, and now this unpleasing message—for as a message directly addressed to herself she regards it—has had the effect of changing a smouldering doubt into an acknowledged dislike.

"I wonder how she means to employ her time down here," says Cyril. "Scenery abounds, but lovely views don't go a long way with most people. After a while they are apt to pall."

"Is there pretty scenery round Truston?" asks Lilian.

"Any amount of it. Like 'Auburn,' it is the 'loveliest village of the plain.' But I can't say we are a very enterprising people. Sometimes it occurs to one of us to give a dinner-party, but no sooner do we issue the invitations than we sit down and repent bitterly; and on rare occasions we may have a ball, which means a drive of fourteen miles on a freezing night, and universal depression and sneezing for a week afterward. Perhaps the widow is wise in declining to have anything to do with our festive gatherings. I begin to think there is method in her madness."

"Miss Chesney doesn't agree with you," says Guy, casting a quick glance at Lilian: "she would go any distance to a ball, and dance from night till morning, and never know depression next day."

"Is that true, Miss Chesney?"

"Sir Guy says it is," replies Lilian, demurely.

"When I was young," says Lady Chetwoode, "I felt just like that. So long as the band played, so long I could dance, and without ever feeling fatigue. And provided he was of a good figure, and could dance well, I never much cared who my partner was, until I met your father. Dear me! how long ago it seems!"

"Not at all," says Cyril; "a mere reminiscence of yesterday. When I am an old gentleman, I shall make a point of never remembering anything that happened long ago, no matter how good it may have been."

"Perhaps you won't have anything good to remember," says Miss Lilian, provokingly.

"Guy, give Miss Chesney another glass of wine," says Cyril, promptly: "she is evidently feeling low."

"Sir Guy," says Miss Chesney, with equal promptitude, and a treacherous display of innocent curiosity, "when you were at Belmont last evening did you hear Miss Bellair say anything of a rather rude attack made upon her yesterday at the station by an ill-bred young man?"

"No," says Sir Guy, rather amazed.

"Did she not speak of it? How strange! Why, I fancied——"

"Miss Chesney," interposes Cyril, "if you have any regard for your personal safety, you will refrain from further speech."

"But why?"—opening her great eyes in affected surprise. "Why may I not tell Sir Guy about it? Poor Miss Bellair! although a stranger to me, I felt most genuine pity for her. Just fancy, Sir Guy, a poor girl alone upon a platform, without a soul to take care of her, what she must have endured, when a young man—apparently a gentleman—walked up to her, and taking advantage of her isolated position, bowed to her, simpered impertinently, and was actually on the very point of addressing her, when fortunately her cousin came up and rescued her from her unhappy situation. Was it not shameful? Now, what do you think that rude young man deserved?"

"Extinction," replies Guy, without hesitation.

"I think so too. Don't you, Lady Chetwoode?"

Lady Chetwoode laughs.

"Now, I shall give my version of the story," says Cyril. "I too was present——"

"And didn't fly to her assistance? Oh, fie!" says Lilian.

"There was once an unhappy young man, who was sent to a station to meet a young woman, without having been told beforehand whether she was like Juno, tall enough to 'snuff the moon,' or whether she was so insignificant as to require a strong binocular to enable you to see her at all."

"I am not insignificant," says Lilian, her indignation getting the better of her judgment.

"Am I speaking of you, Miss Chesney?"

"Well, go on."

"Now, it came to pass that as this wretched young man was glaring wildly round to see where his charge might be, he espied a tall young woman, apparently in the last stage of exhaustion, looking about for some one to assist her, and seeing no one else, for the one he sought had meanly, and with a view to his discomfiture, crept silently behind his back——"

"Oh, Cyril!"

"Yes, I maintain it; she crept silently behind his back, and bribed her maid to keep silence. So this wretched young man walked up to Juno, and pulled his forelock, and made his very best Sunday bow, and generally put his foot in it. Juno was so frightened by the best bow that she gave way to a stifled scream, and instantly sank back unconscious into the arms of her betrothed, who just then ran frantically upon the scene. Upon this the deluded young man——"

"That will do," interrupts Lilian, severely. "I am certain I have read it somewhere before; and—people should always tell the truth."

"By the bye," says Guy, "I believe Miss Bellair did say something last night about an unpleasant adventure at the station—something about a very low person who had got himself up like a gentleman, but was without doubt one of the swell mob, and who——"

"You needn't go any further. I feel my position keenly. Nevertheless, Miss Bellair made a mistake when she rejected my proffered services. She little knows what a delightful companion I can be. Can't I, Miss Chesney?"

"Can he, Lady Chetwoode? I am not in a position to judge."

"If a perpetual, never-ceasing flow of conversation has anything to do with it, I believe he must be acknowledged the most charming of his sex," says his mother, laughing, and rising, bears away Lilian with her to the drawing-room.