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THE next day Mr. Carrington calls again—this time ostensibly on business matters—and papa and he discuss turnips and other farm produce in the study, until the interview becomes so extended that it occurs to the rest of us they must be faint. Mamma sends in sherry as a restorative, which tranquillizes our fears and enables us to look with more cheerfulness towards the end.

Before leaving, however, Mr. Carrington finds his way to the drawing-room, where Dora and I are seated alone, and, having greeted us, drags a chair lazily after him, until he gets within a few feet of Dora. Here he seats himself.

Dora is tatting. Dora is always tatting; she never does anything else; and surely there is no work so pretty, so becoming to white fingers, as that in which the swift little shuttle is brought to bear. Nevertheless, though he is beside my sister, I never raise my head without encountering his blue eyes fixed upon me.

His eyes are very handsome, large and dark, and wonderfully kind, eyes that let one see into the true heart beyond, indeed, his whole face is full of beauty. He makes no unwise attempt to hide it, beyond the cultivation of a fair brown mustache that does not altogether conceal the delicately-formed mouth beneath, the lips of which are fine and almost sensitive enough to be womanish, but for a certain touch of quiet determination about them and the lower jaw. He is tall and rather slightly molded, and has a very clean-shaped head. His hands are white and thin, but large, his feet very passable.

"Do you know," he is saying to sympathetic Dora, while I take the above inventory of his charms, "I have quite an affection for this house? I was born here, and lived in it until my father died."

"Yes, I knew that," said Dora softly, with a liquid glance. "And all yesterday, after you had left, I kept wondering whether you felt it very strange and sad, seeing new faces in your old home."

"Did you really bestow a thought upon me when I was out of sight?" with mild surprise. "Are you in earnest? Do you know, Miss Vernon, I begin to believe it is a foolish thing to stay too long away from one's native land—away from the society of one's own countrymen; a man feels so dangerously pleased with any little stray kind word that may be said to him on his return. I have been living a rather up-and-down sort of life, not quite so civilized as might have been, I fear, and it now seems absolutely strange that anyone should take the trouble to think about me." He says all this in a slow, rather effective tone, looking pensively at Dora the while.

Here is an opportunity not to be wasted, and Dora instantly blushes her very best blush; then becoming charmingly confused, lets her glance once more fall on her tatting.

"That is awfully pretty work you are doing," says Mr. Carrington, taking up the extreme edge of it and examining it with grave interest. "I like to see women working, when their hands are soft and white. But this looks a difficult task: it must have taken you a long time to master the intricacies."

"Oh, no. It is quite simple—just in and out, you see like this. Any one could learn it, if they just put their mind to it."

"Do you think you could teach me, if I put my mind to it?" asks Mr. Carrington. And then their eyes meet; their heads are close together over the work; they smile, and continue the gaze until Dora's lids droop bashfully.

I am disgusted. Evidently they regard me in the light of a babe or a puppy, so little do they allow my presence to interfere with the ripple of their inane conversation. I am more nettled by their indifference than I care to confess even to myself, and come to the uncharitable conclusion that Mr. Carrington is an odious flirt, and my sister Dora a fool.

"When you left this house, where did you go then?" asks Dora presently, returning to the charge.

"To Strangemore—to my uncle. Then Ada—that is my sister, Lady Handcock—married, and I went into the Guards. You see I am determined to make friends with you," he says pleasantly, "so I begin by telling you all I know about myself."

"I am glad you wish us to be your friends," murmured Dora innocently. "But I am afraid you will find us very stupid. You, who have seen so much of the world, will hardly content yourself in country quarters, with only country neighbors." Another glance from the large childish eyes.

"Judging by what I have already seen," says Mr. Carrington, returning the glance with interest, "I believe I shall feel not only content, but thoroughly happy in my new home."

"Why did you leave your regiment?" I break in, irrelevantly, tired of being left out in the cold, and anxious to hear my own voice again, after the longest silence I have ever kept.

Dora sighs gently and goes back to the tatting. Mr. Carrington turns quickly to me.

"Because I am tired of the life; the ceaseless monotony was more than I could endure. So when my uncle died and I came in for the property, five years ago, I cut it, and took to foreign travelling instead."

"I think if I were a man I would rather be a soldier than anything," I say, with effusion. "I cannot imagine any one disliking the life; it seems to me such a gay one, so good in every respect. And surely anything would be preferable to being an idler."

I am unravelling a quantity of scarlet wool that has been cleverly tangled by Cheekie, my fox-terrier, and so between weariness and the fidgets—brought on by the execution of a task that is utterly foreign to my tastes—I feel and have pointed my last remark. Dora looks up in mild horror, and casts a deprecating glance at our visitor. Mr. Carrington laughs—a short, thoroughly amused laugh.

"But I am not an idler," he says; "one may find something to do in life besides taking the Queen's money. Pray Miss Phyllis, do not add to my many vices one of which I am innocent. I cannot accuse myself of having wasted even five minutes since my return home. Do you believe me?"

I hasten to apologize.

"Oh, I did not mean it, indeed," I say earnestly; "I assure you I do not. Of course you have plenty to do. You must think me very rude."

I am covered with confusion. Had he taken my words in an unfriendly spirit I might have rallied and rather enjoyed my triumph; but his laugh has upset me. I feel odiously, horribly young, both in manner and appearance. Unaccustomed to the society of men, I have not had opportunities of cultivating the well-bred insouciance that distinguishes the woman of the world, and therefore betray hopelessly the shyness that is consuming me. He appears cruelly cognizant of the fact, and is evidently highly delighted with my embarrassment.

"Thank you," he says; "I am glad you exonerate me. I felt sure you did not wish to crush me utterly. If you entertained a bad opinion of me, Miss Phyllis, it would hurt me more than I can say."

A faint pause, during which I know his eyes are still fixed with open amusement upon my crimson countenance. I begin to hate him.

"Have you seen the gardens?" asks Dora musically. "Perhaps to walk through them would give you pleasure, as they cannot fail to recall old days, and the remembrance of a past that has been happy is so sweet.'' Dora sighs, as though she were in the habit of remembering perpetual happy pasts.

"I shall be glad to visit them again," answers Mr. Carrington, rising, as my sister lays down the ivory shuttle. He glances wistfully at me, but I have not yet recovered my equanimity, and rivet my gaze upon my wool relentlessly as he passes through the open window.