HIS ONLY DAUGHTER.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XL, Issue 12272, 16 May 1903, Page 3 (Supplement)

HIS ONLY DAUGHTER.

RtlbywQod was the west portion of an agricultural slope of laud lying amongst the souttern hills of Bucks and Berks.

Farmer Holt,, bad he wanted to sell Rubywood Farm, its premises and tenements, fit!) the land pertaining, would have described it as a land flowing with milk and honey, and, allowing the necessary makeweight for a metaphorical dscription, he would not have spoken far from the truth.

The land of Rubywood was goodarable and pasture. There was no more comfortable homestead than Rubywood House in England ,* the Holt cattle carried the highest price in the Monday Sherwood market, and the- Rubywood grain always rated at sixpence a bushel more than the neighbouring growers'. The reason for all this lay in Farmer Holt himself as much as in the excellence of his land. He was squire, as we have said, but he disdained, or, at least, ignored, the title. The appellation of "farmer" smacked in his ears of the majesty of " emperor." "I'm a fanner, that's what I am," he would say, striking the thick oaken table in Ms dining-room, " and I'll trouble you to call me that. ' Squire' is for them as likes it; I don't. My father was Farmer Holt before me, his father was Farmer Holt before him. and if fanner was good enough for them, I'd like to know why it ain't good enough for me?"

Farmer by name and nature, no man threw himself so heartily into the routine of his business, no man put so much of himself into his work as did Farmer Holt.

"Want a thing done, give it to somebody else and pay another man to stand by and ■watch him not do it. Want a thing done well, do it yourself, or stand by and see that it is done."

On this principle Farmer Holt walked through life, sowing, reaping, breeding, shearing, selling. He always did what was to be done himself, or saw that it was done.

At six o'clock in th morning, if you were within a mile of Rubywood, say on the hill that rose like a bear's head behind the homestead, you would see Farmer Holt tramping across the twenty-acre, waking his men up in a strawyard, or overseeing iu the threshing-barn, as surely as you would see the smoke winding away from the broad chimneys 'that struggled through thte roof of thatch.

Being such a man, so linn, so steadfast, 50 thorough, it -was not to be wondered at that for ten miles, and for much farther, round Rubywood Farmer Holt was esteemed and respected. Great county magnates, when they came flustering down from smoky London to canvass the district, went, k&t in hand, straight to Farmer Holt to beg for his vote and interest; arid, if they were Tories, they got rfc; if not, if they happened to be rascally Whigs or scoundrelly Radicalsas Farmer Holt called them—why, they stood a good chance of something more substantial—say, in the shape of a cartwhip or the great pump in the strawyard. Though hard-featured and sharp of eye— lharp, too, of tongue sometimeshe was kind of heart, and his peopleman, woman, and —loved him.

When they were strong and able, he made them work, and hard, too ; but when they were old. clown in sickness, or weary with trouble, he shielded, helped, and comforted them, like the true feudal lord he was. Agricultural agitators—if there were .any in the day? of which we write— careful to avoid Ruby wood, and so, perchance, avoided, at the same time, the horse-pond on the village green. Farmer Holt's portrait, done in oils, most execrably, hangs in the parlour of the "King's Arms," and. if you want to see the man, you cannot do better than consult it. ■ Rather short, rather stout, rather goodlooking, but very, very firm; red of complexion, with clean-shaven face, and a mouth that, shows some sign of grim humour in the little curves at the corners; eyes clear grey, and oh, so sharp ! Many and many ,» skulker has wished those eyes dim or asleep when the farmer's hand awoke him from a nap in which the far-seeing orbs hod detected him. One of the old school in face and dress. A dark-blue cutaway coat forms his upper garment, gaiters serviceable ™ of fawny hue, and irreproachable* of that style which Lord John Russell declared belonged exclusively to the squirearchy. Farmer Holt was a wealthy man, and of all his possessions he rated his daughter Muriel the highest. % She was the farmer's " woldest and wonly daughter"'—indeed, hisonly child, and, next to his farm, perhaps before it, her father loved her best of all things on earth. There is no picture of Muriel Holt, so we must imagine Iter. Please, then, to fancy a maiden of medium "sight, neither thin nor adipose, but of true, maidenly substance, a fair, oval face, with well-formed mouth—though rather large, as ah expressive mouths are—small, dainty wrpia bows are for wax dulls and women Without ideas— straight,' aquiline nose, and eyes very dove-like, and yet harbouring amt suspicion of mischief ;' eyes with just that twinkle in thorn that proclaims their owner not quite dove, nor altogether magpie, but a description of medium which no bin] hath yet been. Those eyes, to say nothing of the expressive mouth, had done great execution at Kuoywood, but thev had as vet, like talismanic charms, preserved their mistress from harm.

Muriel Holt had a hteart—that fact the eyes were bail for—but it was as vet all aer own, and though swains had cried ; and town gentlemen had sighed, tears and upneavings of the manly breast were all in vain.

Muriel was heart whole and invulnerable *° any of the darts which love had as vet toed at her. 3 Mrs Holt had died five vears after Muriel s birth. Now Muriel "kept house «» her father, and was called "mistress" uy the servants, and obeved as such pretty nearly as implicitly as was the farmer himself.

In cataloguing my heroine, I had forgotten to add that she possessed that great rarity, a pretty, musical voice—speaking voice, I mean—which is as delicious to the as the singing one; and that she had all that grace which belongs to vouth when it 18 added to strength and health. It was a revelation and a liberal education «> the finer senses to see the young girl at her duties at the breakfast-table, and the lariner, as he strode into the small parlour which did duty as a morniug-room at the •arm, paused at the table with his hat in Ms hand to look at her. It was a fine, spring morning, and the sua poured in through the window and lit Up the golden-bronzed braids of Muriel's hair.

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"Well, lass, said her father. "you look as -fresh as t' fields."-

BY CHARLES GARVICE, tUor of " Nell of Sliorne Mills," " A Coro * >*°Yof Shame," " The Story of a Passion," "*' etc., etc

CHAPTER I. My ear reader, if you love country, the green glades, greener trees, simple plea- ' OKI, and simpler bit true-hearted folk, Lke my hand— have wandered many a day ere this and through strange lands, therefore you may trust me—and I will take iyiju from the giddy world into the sylvan glades and sweet repose of a great farming k.-' There, if it- so please you, you shall look noon as'pure and high-minded a love as that "bicn our great-forefather felt for our greatforemother. There you shall find women who can still Hush and men who have not yet discovered that truth is contemptible and honour fit only for slaves. There, 'midst the smaller occurrences of ,ach retired life, you may learn, perhaps, some greater liking for unfashionable people, and twist the phrase " only country love" to & new meaning. With this preface let us proceed to Farmer Holt, Fanner Holt was the squire of Rubywood.

"That's a poor compliment, ' father," laughed Muriel, showing her white, even teeth through her gates of red coral. "T .0 fields are rather dirty after the rains." "Dirty?" exclaimed the father, dropping into the stout beech chair with a passive force that would have smashed furniture of an advertising house to smithereens. " Dirty! They're never dirty, lass. The loam's as precious as gold. Would ye have it dr> as road dust and perish t' xrain? Where's that loafing Jane o' youfi? She a-near broke my shins with her cod-scuttle again. Drat the girl; She'll never a-done till she's broke my neck, I do believe." Muriel made a gesture of annoyance through the smile. This Jane, alluded to so irately, wis a new housemaid, who had contracted—presumably at her last place— inveterate habit of depositing the coal-scuttle in unlikely places while she ran on other business. The farmer knocked his shins against or stumbled over that coal-scuttle on the average six times a day. "And wear's the bacon?" asked the farmer.

"Here, father," said Muriel, lifting the cover from a dish of that comestible, which smoked, not in thin, tissue rashers, but in good, solid, stomach-comforting slicen which the London Cockney knoweth not of. The farmer helped himself to a huge slice of the ham, then as bountifully served Muriel, received his cup of coffee with a " Thankee, my clear loss," and set to work heartily, as a man should do who has been hedging over thick fields for two hours. The bird, a pet canary, chirped loudly and cheerfully. Snip, Muriel's dog—who could do everything but speak, and only refrained from that because he knew that if he exercised his latent talent Farmer Holt would put him to work directly—sat up and begged, and occasionally gave vent to a sharp, dismal howl.

The fire crackled, and the kettle hissed in accord ; all was harmony and comfort. Presently the farmer looked up from the demolition of the bacon, and, wiping his mouth on an immense crimson silk handkerchief, that would have served as a flag for a matador in a Spanish bullfight, said : " Lass, I just met young Heatherbridge." Young Alfred Heatherbridge lived at the Howe, and was one of her lovers. "Yes," said Muriel. "And what has he to say?" " Not much," said the farmer, with a short laugh. " He's like the sailor's parrot, a quiet one, but I dunno whether he thinks the more. But he's a svraight youth and a' says what he has to say pleasantly, not like that Cockney chap in t' cottage, who never opens his ugly mouth without some foreign word or fly-away expression that nobody understands but himself." Again Muriel blushed, for the same reason. Mr. Calcot Vandike was another of her lovers.

"Mr. Vandike is very pleasant, too, father," said Muriel.

The farmer growled. " Yes, soft and silky, like that new gown o' yours. I hate your fine London gentlemen, all purr, like a tom-cat, and snigger, like a barn-door rooster. Give me another cup of coffee, dear lass." " And so Mr. Heatherbridge had nothing to say for himself," remarked Muriel. *' No news?"

"Oh, aye, I'd forgot; that London chap put it out o* my head. Young Heatherbridge had newsright good news for the Dexter peonf.e. The Holme's let." ' You don't- say!" exclaimed Muriel. " After remaining empty so long! Poor, deserted old place ; how glad it must be!" " Stuff and nonsense! D'ye think the old house can feel, lass, like a human creetur?"

"Well, I don't know, father. Sometimes I think they can; houses and carts and churches, and that sort, especially when they're old—they look so knowing." She laughed merrily, then ran on blithely as a bird chirraping over her odd fancy: " Look at the Holme now! I never pass it but I seem to think the old, duststained, broken windows are eyes crying, and that the old door off its hinges is the mouth speaking out. 'Will anybody come and live in me?, Please, somebody, do!'" The squire laughed and threw himself back in his chair with tremendous force.

" You've got a strange head, lass. Ido think you've got that the matter with you the painter chap was purring about— didn't he call it? Fancy the old Holme with eyes and mouth! Ha! ha!" "Well, never mind, father; I'd rather you'd laugh at me than cry for me; and as to the genius, well, that's one of the foolish things you blame Mr. Vandike for talking about, you know. And so the Holme's let!"

' " Aye, house and landlong lease, too, and good rent. So we'll have a neighbour, lass, at last.' "Let us hope a pleasant one." " Amen!" responded Farmer Holt. "And who has taken it, father?" " A man by the name of Leigh." "Young or old?" " Young," said the farmer; " leastways I reckon him such. He comes from the North. His father and mother a' just died there." " Pooi young man!" said Muriel, softly, her pitiful heart full of sympathy directly. "Aye, died and left him not o'er rich, tl.ey say, and his taking the Holme proves it." " To make a living there one needs to work hard, father, you nay?" "Aye, morn, noon, and night, lass," replied the farmer, standing up with his back to tire fire, and turning over the leaves of the "Agricultural Almanac." "Morn, noon, and night. It's a poor place, and nobody ever prospered there. Old Scroggins starved the land, the timber which the Dexters won't cut down cumbers the ground, and the sheds ain't fit for a jackal, leave alone a kindly heifer." " Poor young man!" said Muriel again. "And when is he coming, father?"

" I don't know; young Heatherbridge met him in the market yesterday, and he mentioned accidentally that he'd taken the Holme and meant to be a neighbour." " Is he good-looking?" asked Muriel. " I didn't ask Heatherbridge," said the farmer, drily. "We don't ask the colour of other men's eyes, or if their mouths are cut on the square; we leave that to your kind, lass. Besides, what does it matter to ye if he be good-looking or ill-favoured?" "Nothing, indeed, father," laughed Muriel, "only that as I shall see him, no doubt, every time I put my head out of door or window, I'd rather he were wellfavoured. Another cup of coffee? No? Tliten I'll ring for Jane. You'd like a strawberry roly-poly pudding to-day, father?"

" Aye, lass, anything. Now, girl"—this to Jane—" do 'ee take that confounded scuttle out o' the doorway. Do 'ee ever fall over it yourself, I wonder? No, I'll go bail you don't, or ye'd have more regard for other folks' shins."

And, with a sharp nod of his head, out strode Farmer Holt to count off twenty sheep for next day's market. Muriel tripped off to the kitchen, rolled up the sleeves of her dainty morning-dress to the elbows of her white, shapely arms, and plunged with great fervour and earnestness into the composition of the strawberry roly-poly. Presently there came a tap at the kitchen door, followed by an uplifting of the latch. and finally the appearance of a good but rather lazy-looking face in the opening between the door and lintel.

"May I come in?" asked the visitor. " Oh, yes," said Muriel, " if you are not afraid of flour, Mr. Vandike." And the owner of the head conveyed it and his bony, velvet-clad body hi by means of a pair of long legs. Mr. Vandike, as Mr. Holt described him, was an artist. He was staying at the cottage attached to tlte town farm, as that' portion of the Holt establishment which was situated in the village was called, professedly to paint studies from life for the London picture dealers, but in reality to loaf about, flirt with the prettiest village girls, and make too-warm artistic love to beautiful Muriel Holt.

"I'm not afraid of flour, Miss Muriel," he said, leaning against a projection near the window, and making himself comfortable. "I'm not afraid of flour, and, mind, that's saying more than appears on the surface. I know some swells whe had rather face gunpowdei than a flour dredger, especially when they are got up for the morning park." Muriel paused in her manipulation of the dough and looked over her shoulder at him with a laugh. "'Swells! What are they? What queer words you use, Mr. Vandike! Morning park, too! Do you mean to say that they have two parks in London, one for the morning and another for tbt afternoon?" "All! you're quizzing me, Miss Holt," replied the artist, lifting his eyeglass, fixing it into his left eye, and looking mournful as well as the necessary grimace would

let him. "You're a dreadful quiz. By Jovel I think you are always laughing at me. I say, what a delicious picture you would make!"

" Thank you. That's above my ambition. Father will be better pleased if I make a delicious pudding." " Such lights, with that flour about you, such a delicious shadow! Really, Miss Holt; you can't imagine what a delightful model you make." "Oh! i see,' said Muriel. "It's a compliment you are meaning. Thank you, Mr. Vandike." And with a roguish smile she dropped hjm a curtsey. " Perhaps you will sketch me on your thumb-nail, or on the shutter yonder ; here's a piece of whiting. Oh, Mr. Vandike. how many times you have said that same thing! You must really go up to London and buy another compliment for me. This poor piece of flattery is quite threadbare ; you have worn it quite out."

Mr. Vandike sighed and laughed. "Well, Teally, Miss Holt, it's the truth, and you don't know how hard it is to refrain from sketching you. But there, you have forbidden me, haven't you? and I cannot but obey. By the way, how do you get the jam into that pudding"? Hem! Ah! I see. How absurd, of course—spread it on like that, and then roll it round. Of course, I sha'n't be so ready to laugh next time I hear the anecdote about King George wondering how the apple got into the dumpling. I say, lam sorry that Mr. Holt is savage about that pig."

"What pig?'" queried Muriel, spreading out the pudding-cloth. "Oh, don't you know? A wretched pig one of those black little dev mean fellows that squeak about the strawyard. He got out somehow or other, and finished up a pot of paint I'd put outside the cottage to air. It disagreed with him, it seems. Very rum that, though, isn't it? I thought a pig could eat anything." " Save the stuff you compose your pictures of, Mr. Vandike," said Muriel, demurely. "Ah, you're quizzing me again, I really believe," muttered the artist exquisite. "Well, the squire— beg his pardon, Farmer Holt—thinks it hard for his pig to die, and says so to me— me, who am filled with despair at the loss of my only pot of sienna, my only pot, and this is —how many miles from London?"

"What sienna is I don't know. 'What do you use it —trees?"

"Trees? No; cows and that sort of thing." " Oh, come," said Muriel, consolingly, " there are different sorts of cows, you know. You must paint them all red and black and white, till some more sienna comes down. I thought sienna was a sort of medicine." Mr. Vandike groaned. What a pity it was that this beautiful Phyllis was not more artistic. "And now you've done?" he said, as she tied the pudding up. " Now I'm going to boil it," said Muriel, " and then it will be done, too." "And then Farmer Holt will eat it and it will be done for," said the London wit. Muriel laughed. " No," she said, " not four, but ate!" "Oh, come." he retorted, "you've beat me at puns; I'm afraid of you. Will you come into the garden—the larks are up and soaring? Do come for one turn!" "No," she said, shaking her head, "I'm too —besides," glancing through the window, " here's Mr. Heatherbridge coming up tie path, he will keep you company. Good-bye." And with a merry laugh she ran from the kitchen, and so gave both her lovers the slip. CHAPTER 11. Mr. Alfred Heatherbridge was master of the Howe, and fanned about nine hundred acres, some of them running parallel with Farmer Holt's.

Nine hundred acres represented a tolerable capital; therefore Mr. Alfred might be considered a wealthy man, as men went in that agricultural district, and in every way an eligible ■• suitor for Miss Muriel's hand.

Generally the match was considered as good as made, but as yet, though Farmer Holt could have no objection to the arrangement, Mr. Heatherbridge had not asked Miss Muriel for her opinion, and the young lady was so discreet and uncommunicative that it was impossible to guess what opinion she held.

Between Mr. Vandike and the young landowner of course there was no love lost.

The artist called the young fanner a man without ideas, and the young farmer called the painter a loafing manufacturer of daubs. This morning they nodded and smiled, as men do who dislike eacn other and are yet compelled to be polite, and Mr. Vandike, as he stretched himself and prepared to vacate his position, said: "Fine morning. Farmer Holt's out — "I want to see Miss Holt," said young Heatherbridge, thinking Mr. Vandike might have kept the information till he was asked for it, "And she's very busy," said the artist. "Just run away upstairs. Hope you may get her. Good morning. I'm going to make a study of these old beeches. Glorious lights across the tops. Oh, I forgot, though; you don't go in for that sort of thing." And, with a cool nod, but an aggravating one, the London dandy strolled away. Mr. Heatherbridge, very red in the face, muttered : " Confound that jackanapes' insolence ! ' Study of the beeches!' His impudence is study enough for other folk." Then he turned to Jane, and asked: "Is Miss Muriel here'!

" No, she bean't sir," replied Jane, smiling at the absurdity of the question, considering that, unless her mistress bad been up the wide chimney, Mr. Heatherbridge could not have failed to have seen her had she been in the kitchen.

"Will you tell her I wantthat is, I should like a word with her?"

" Yes, I'll tell her," said Jane; and, leaving Mr. Heatherbridge standing at the gate, she ran upstairs to acquaint her young mistress of the arrival of lover No. 2. " Oh, dear!" sighed Muriel, "I wish they wouldn't come in the morning when I'm so busy. It's rather nice in the afternoon, because one can sew and work on while they are fidgeting; but in the morning— Oh, Jane! don't you think he'll go if I say I'm very busy?" "That I'm sure he won't, miss," said Jane, shaking Her head. " I.know it by the looks of him. Besides, he's just run up against Mr. Vandike, and it's made him angry-like. He do look as obstinate as the old piebald pig." " There ! Til see him ; and do you make this bed. lif I don't come up in five minutes, call meloudly, mind ;" and, laughing at the obstinacy of the human piebald pig, she ran down the house stairs into the kitchen.

Mr. Heatlieibvidge came forward with his hand outstretched and a look of undisguised admiration on his still rather Hushed face.

"Im afraid I've called you away— afraid you're busy. Miss Holt." "Well, I am, rather," she said, candidly, but not coldly. " Oh," he said ; then, smitten with lovers' nervousness, hesitated, struck his leg with .his walking-stick, looked at the ceiling, and then, as if in desperation, at her waiting face again. " I've looked in about the calf," he said. "The calf?" she repeated. " What calf?" Then, seiing the look of great disappointment which her lorgetfulness had produced, she added, quickly: " Oh, I remember! Thank you so much." " Yes", it's doing well, and looks healthy, and I just came in to say that I've driven it into the yard, and if you will be kind enough to accept it—" "Oh, thank you! That I will," said Muriel, accepting the gift as freely as it was offered. "How very kind of you! Such a dear, pretty-coloured thing, and an Alderney, too! I did so long for an Alderney. How very kind of you! I'll run down and see it directly." "Now?" said Mr. Heatherbridge, eagerly. "Well, no, not this minute," said Muriel, knowing 'or dreading if she ran down to the yard with Mr. Heatherbridge to see the gift that she might say good-bye to all work for the remainder of the morning. "No, not directly. lam at work. You won't mind, will you? Father's gone down to the sheep." But Mr. Heatherbridge had not come to see "father," and he stood staunchly and stared at her. "I'd hoped vou would come down, Miss Holt, for I wanted to say a word to you." Muriel leaned against the table and looked up into his face. As yet she had no idea of what the something was.

" Yes?" she said; and then, quickly "Oh. will you not sit down? It is so rude of me not to have asked you before. Bo sit down." So Mr. Heatherbridge very unwisely sat down, for to commence a proposal on your feet and then to change your position is to lose the thread of your argument. Besides, you are 'at a disadvantage sitting in a low chair and looking up pathetically at a girl's bright face three feet above you. . He had come down to the house halfinclined to say the momentous something — only half-inclined ; but Mr. Vandike, and Mr. Vandike's impudence, had tilted the balance, and now he was ' determined to go through with it and snatch his mistress from every such jackanapes. " I wanted to say something to you," he commenced. "Indeed"—indeed was a favourite word with Mr. Heatherbridge—" indeed, to ask you a question. Mu—l mean Miss Holtcannot you guess what it is?" Indeed Muriel could, and she turned first hot, then cold.

Was the man actually going to ask her to marry Mm? With the rapidity of a flash of lightning she asked herself the question: "Do I love him?" And with like rapidity was she herself Answered:

" No, you do not." _ She stared at him with a pained expression growing on her face, which intensified as he continued, rising now, and so bringing his good-looking face above hers. "Muriel, I came to ask you the most important question a young fellow can ask a girl. We have known each other for a good many years—no, not that exactly, for of course you're not very —not old at all, indeed," he stumbled. "I mean to say that we have known each other since we were children. We know each' other's tempers, and we know each other's—that is—not faults, for you haven't any—" Here Muriel shook her head sadly, but very decisively. "And I came to ask you, remembering all this, if you think you' could "Miss Muriel! Miss Muriel!" shrieked the obedient Jane.

Muriel blessed the simple handmaiden from her very heart, and, "drawing a long breath/, put out her hand to stop him. " Forgive me ! Don't say any more. Let me go back. Jane is calling—she wants me, perhaps." It went much against her to tell a direct falsehood, like most women; she did not scruple at the whiter kind of deception. " Let me go, please. —I—" Miss Muriel! Miss Muriel shouted the dutiful Jane.

"There, I must go!" said Muriel; and, with a pleading glance for forgiveness, she darted away from him and sped up the staircase.

Mr. Heatherbridge sighted, put on his hat, and, like a sensible young man, walked out. " Little witch Heatherbridge muttered. " I don't know whether she loves me or she doesn't. Thought she didn't at first, but then girls are so coy. Aunt Betsy says they want a lot of wooing; and then she'd have given me the 'no' straight away instead of bolting. Little witch ! Oh, I feel all right! She can't make a better match, and I've got the old boy on my side, too. Yet I wish she'd say yes; then I could come it over that idiot of a painter. By Sampson! when I have got her I'll let her understand I want her to give the cold shoulder to such chaps as him. There he is, the idiot, making a study of the trees. Trees and horses and cows on canvas ! He d be a better man if he'd srot 'em in his pocket," and, with a sneer quite lost on the artist, who was wrapped up in his work and whistling the scenery out of countenance, Mr. Heatherbridge trudged past on his way to the Holme.

As for Muriel she sank upon the newlymade bed and gasped for breath. Alfred Heatherbridge had actually asked her to be his —or very nearly! What was to come of it? How could she say no? and yet she felt that she could not nay, would not, say yes. And her father? though she had never mentioned the subject directly' or by way of hint still she had a presentiment that a " Yes" would please him and a " No" give him disappointment. " And yet I can't say ' Yes,' can I, Jane?" she sighed. "What to, miss?" queried Jane, who, utterly ignorant of her mistress' thoughts, had been standing surveying her and wondering why she should be so beautiful while other folk—she herself, for instance so plain. nothing; there, run away, girl. I'll tidy the room, and—and— Here, as Jane took her departure, she broke off and burst into silent tears.

"Tears, idle .tears," says Tennyson, and very thoughtlessly. No tears are idle; to women they are the channel for the relief of all sorts of vagaries and passionate emotions. Tears are women's best weapons, and in some cases —Constance's, for instance —her greatest charm. Tears are good for fretful children and sulky women, but to men they are more agonising than the spear-thrust of a Roman centurion. When the tears were over and the flushed cheeks dried Miss Muriel attired herself promptly and put on her hat. She'd go and see the calf before she sent it back, for of course she'd send it back; she wouldn't throw Mr. Heatherbrige's love back to him and keep his love offering. Looking marvellously pretty and fresh in her dainty yet well-worn hat and tweed cape, she tripped over the farm court and into the yard. Yes, there was the calf, and very lovable and acceptable it was. She stroked its neck and kissed its nose, murmured a. " good-bye," and then, with a sigh, wandered through the lane of wellstocked barns and water-tight outhouses on to the avenue.

The avenue was the pride of Rubywood, and Parmer Holt valued its possession very highly— more highly for that possession having one flaw. It was not an exclusive right-of-way to Rubywood, but served as a high road to the Holme, which lay in the hollow to the left of Farmer Holt's farm.

So long had the Holme been .unoccupied that Farmer Holt had grown to look upon the broad, elm-sheltered road as entirely his own, and had almost forgotten that soon another man's carts .and wains, cattle and sheep must be driven down it. Muriel passed into the avenue and looked up and down it. Mr. Heatherbridge might be still lingering about, and it behoved her to be careful of him. She did not want to fall into the hands of her tormentor.

The other swain was lost in his picture and dead to his mistress' near proximity. Seeing the coast clear Muriel made her way, with Snip at her heels, to a green lane which ran down to the brook and was a favourite walk of hers.

At the end of it, by standing on the stile, she tould see both Rubywood and the Holme.

One looking so prosperous and well-to-do, the other so deserted and dilapidated. At the. stile she stood on tip-toe and looked at the two places, and, listening to an unhinged shutter that flapped against the walls of the empty farmhouse, she naturally fell to thinking of it and its new tenant. " Poor young fellow !" she sighed. " How lonely and miserable he will feel, his mother and father just died, leaving his native place and old friends and coming to such a dreary, uncanny place as that. I wonder — She got oft' the stile as she spoke and broke off suddenly, for close at her elbow, so close that he made her start, stood a gentleman, young, tall, and grave-looking. (To bo continued.) [Another instalment of this interesting story will be given in these columns on Wednesday next, and it will in future appear in Saturday's and Wednesday's issues until completion.] ; ; ;