Tales and Sketches.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 999, 24 April 1891, Page 8

Tales and Sketches.

Bv Robert Buchanan. . Author of * The Shadow of the Sword,’ •God aad the Man,’ * Stormy Waters, &o.

[NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.] The Wedding' Ring. A TALE OF TO-DAY. .

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. Chaptera I and ll.—Mr and Mrs O’Mara, both of them artists, occupy rooms in Peter Street, Westminster, with their infant child, Dora. The husband is somewhat of a spendthrift and idle to boot, but the wife manages to keep the wolf from the door as well as she can by miniature painting. Maddened by misfortune, O’Mara descends to cheating at cards, but i* detected at his friends’ chambers, and leaves in disgrace. As he arrives home he hears the voice of his wife and that of a strange man. Charters 111. and IV.—Mr Bream, the clergyman, who takes the greatest interest in Gillian, is the gentleman on a visit to her on her husband’s return. He insists on being her banker, and lends her £lO for the purpose of providing medicine and change of air for herself and little one. O'Mara hears the conversation, and after. Mr Bream’s departure he "asks for the money from her. She refuses, and a struggle ensues. She falls and cuts her temple. O’Mara takes the money from her clenched hand and .decamps. Mrs O’Mara is taken to St. Thomas’ Hospital, and recovers to hear that she is a heiress to £20,000, left - her by an uncle. CHAPTER V* Summer Days. Two gentlemen attired in clerical costumes were walking together along a pleasant lane, bordered on one hand by a long line of lofty elms, swathed to mid-height in trailing ivy, and on the other by a low hedge, odorous with wild roses, over which was visible a wide reach of the rich pasture lands of Essex, shining in a chequered pattern of deep emerald and dull gold. It was verging on a midsummer evening, and both time and place were beautiful in deep serenity. One of the wayfarers was considerably his companion’s superior in years. He was a hale, ruddy-faced gentleman of sixty or so, portly and comfortable of presence, and very lightly touched by time, save that bis hair, which he wore rather longer than is the fashion of the present day, was snow white. He had a mild, clear eye, and his habitual expression was one of rather absent-minded benevolence. Some peculiarities of his dress, which was dusty with long walking in the summer lanes, and which, though of the last cut and the finest material, had a lack of complete neatness which proclaimed its wearer a bachelor, gave the learner in such matters the idea that the Revei’end Marmaduke Herbert was a Higb Churchman. His companion, something over twenty years his junior, we have met before. Time-had dealt not unkindly with Mr Bream, as it does with all men of simple lives who regard existence as a sacred gift in trust from a great Master, and are zealous to give a good account of its utmost minute. His cheerfully resolute face and manly figure were as of old, and only the thinnest possible lines oi gray in his thick brown hair proclaimed the passage of seven years since we last ""met him. ‘We will close our round of visits, Bream,’ the elderly clergyman was saying in a full and genial voice, * at Mrs Dartmouth’s, who will, I daresay, give us a cup of tea. I expect you to be—ah ! charmed with Mrs Dartmouth, Bream. A .most amiable and admirable lady.’ ‘I shall be happy to make her acquaintance, sir.* ‘ A most superior woman,’ said Mr Herbert, ‘and a true—ah ! daughter of the church. She is a widow, with one child. A daughter. _When she first came among us some six or seven years ago this summer, there was—ah ! she excited considerable interest.’ * Indeed ?’ ‘ Yes, she had, if I may so- express myself, the—ah ! the charm of mystery. Nobody knew who she was or whence she came. In a small community like ours in Crouchford a stranger is likely to excite—ah ! comment. That, however, passed away—and Mrs Dartmouth was accepted as what she is, my dear Bream, a most amiable and accomplished lady.’

Mr Bream again expressed his pleasure at the prospect 'of making Mrs Dartmouth’s acquaintance.

‘That,’ said Mr Herbert, pointing with the polished stick of ebony ho carried in his hand to a cluster of red brick chimneys visible above the trees; *is her home. We are now passing the outskirts of her freehold. She farms her own acres—an excellent woman of business. ’

The line of elms had given place to a twisted hedge, separated from the high road by a deep ditch. As the two friends walked on a little shower of wild field blossoms fell at their feet, and a light childish laugh drew their eyes to a spot where, the hedge being thinner, the figure of a little girl in a white summer dress touched here and there with fluttering pink ribbons, was standing above them. ‘ Ah ! little mischief !’ cried the elder cleric. ‘ You are there. We are going to call upon mamma. Is she at home V . ‘Yes,’ answered the child, looking shyly at Mi' Bream, ‘ mamma is at home.’ ‘That is well. ‘This, Dora,’ continued Mr Herbert, ‘is Mr Bream, who bas come to Crouchford to be my curate. As I am introducing you to your pai'ishioners, Bream, let me seize th—all 1 opportunity, and present you to Miss Dora Dartmouth, the Reverend Mr John Bream.’ The little girl bowed with a wonderfully demure aspect, and then, fearful of her own gravity, said, ‘ I’ll go and tell mamma,’ and was off at the word, like a flash of varicoloured light among the bushes.

‘A pretty child,’ said Bream. ‘ A delightful little thing, my dear Bream. A real child, a rarity nowadays. The precocious infant is—ah ! unendurable and its commonness is one of the saddest features of the degeneracy of our times.’ Mr Bream had an almost imperceptible dry smile at moments, and it crossed his face now. A wooden gate set in a red brick wall, and leading to a short gravelled carriage drive, led to the house, a pretty and pleasant two-storied building, swathed about to its chimney cowls in rose vine and creepers. A glassroofed verandah ran the entire length of the house, supported on square wooden pillars, and covered also with the same sweet-smelling growths. The still summer air was heavy with their breath. A fire of roses, roses white and red and pink and yellow, burned on the lawn before the house, and sun smitten roses glowed like lamps all over its front. The door stood open, and Mr Herbert entered, like a frequent guest certain of his welcome.

Bream, following him, founnd himself in a wide, old-fashioned entrance hall, occupying the whole depth of the house back to the open French windows leading to a second and wider lawn. A mighty chestnut tree, in full leaf, stood in its centre, and on either hand it was bound by the sweeping curve of the shrubbery, through a wide gap of which the corner of a hayrick and fields of tall green wheat were risible. The ball was solidly and comfortably furnished as a reception room, and on the left a door led to another apartment, on the right was a huge open chimney with a wide tiled hearth and wooden settles. The place was a curious and pleasant mixture - of old architecture and modern conveniences, and of old and modern decorations. Strange monsters, born of the fancies of Chinese and Japanese artists, encumbei'ed the high mantel-shelf, and delicately coloured fans and exotic plaques of earthenware shone against the fully polished black oak of the walls. 4 What a delightful room,’ said Bream. Mr Herbert, with a sigh of content, sank his portly frame into an armchair. ‘ I shall really be very glad of a cup of tea,’ be remarked. ‘ Dora !’ called a clear feminine voice on the lawn outside. * Dora, my darling !’ Dora’s voice was heard in answer from a distance, and a quick patter of light feet on a gravel path showed that she and her unseen summoner were close to the open French window. Bream, who had taken a seat behind his vicar, started and stared with a sudden wonder and doubt in bis face. Mr Herbert, flicking the dust from bis shoes and gaiters with his pocket handkerchief, took no notice of these signs of perturbation. ‘Go and tell Johnson;’ the voice proceeded, ‘to pick some strawberries for tea,’

‘ Oh, mamma, can I help V ‘I think you had better not,’ said the voice. ‘ You had better go to Barbara, and get her to dress you. Look at your shoes, and oh ! what hands. There, run away, and tell Johnson.’ The little feet were heard fading in the distance. ‘ Am I mad V Bream asked of himself, ‘or dreaming ? I should know that voice among a thousand.’ A lady, clad like the child to whom she had been overheard speaking, in a white summer dress, entered at the open window and glided towards the two visitors. Bream’s face, as he rose, was against the light, and only dimly visible. Mr Herbert had stepped forward to their hostess. ‘ I have taken the liberty ’ he began. ‘ Which is not at all a liberty to begin with,’ said Mrs Dartmouth, with a pleasant smile. ‘ Thank you—l have done myself the honour, let me say, to make known to you the Reverend Mr Bream, my future assistant in the duties of my parish. You will remember that 1 mentioned his name to you a day or two ago. ’ ‘I remember very well,’ said Mrs Dartmouth, extending her hand frankly to Bream. He took it with a curious clumsiness. 4 AVelcome to Crouchford, Mr Bream. ‘You are here,’ she said to Mr Herbert, ‘just in time for tea.’

‘ Then I am here, Mrs Dartmouth,’ said the reverend gentleman, ‘just at the time I wanted to ai'rive at. We have had a long walk and the roads are —ah ! dusty. ‘lt is laid on the lawn. Will you come out V She led the way to where, under the spreading shade of the great chestnut tree, a table gleamed, set with the whitest of cloths and the prettiest of glass and china, to which a stout, homely, brown-faced woman of thirty, dressed in a neat cotton print, in contrast with the ruddy brown of her face and her bare arms, was just putting the finishing touches. ‘That’ll do, Barbara, thank you,’ said her mistress. ‘ Will you see that Miss Dora changes her shoes V Barbara, with a curtsey to the reverend gentlemen, which Mr Herbert repaid with a fatherly nod and smile, and Bream passed unheeded, went into the house.

‘Mr Herbert tells me. Mr Bream,’ said Mrs Dartmouth, when the little party were seated in the rustic chairs set about the table, ‘ that your last curacy was in London in Westminster, I think V * Yes,’ Brea.m answered. ‘ You will find this a pleasant change, I hope, the country is really delightful in this neighbourhood. Bream, a little more collected, replied, ‘ Beautiful, indeed.’ ‘ Bream,’ said Mr Herbert, ‘ is hardly altogether a stranger here. He is, to a certain extent—ah ! en pays de connaisance. He is an old friend of Sir George Venebles.’ ‘ Indeed!’ said Mrs Dartmouth ‘ You know Sir George, Mr Bream V

‘ We are old friends. We were at Rugby together, and at one time were inseparable. We have seen little of each other of late, from many causes. I believe he has spent most of the past five years almost entirely abroad. I have to thank him for my appointment of curate here, for it was' he who introduced me to Mr Herbert, and induced him to engage me.’ ‘ Sir George and I are old friends. I was bis tenant here, before he consented to allow me to buy the freehold,’ said Mi’s Dartmouth. Dora arriving at this instant with an enormous glass dish of strawberries, and Barbara following her with the teapot, Mi’ Dartmouth busied herself in distributing the materials of the pleasant meal, additionally pleasant amidst such surroundings. Had Mr Herbert been a man of quick observation, which he decidly was not, his curate’s strangeness of manner since their hostess’ appearance could hardly have escaped him. They had made many visits together that day, and Mr Bream had come through them all with flying colours, and was at that moment being lauded in a dozen different Crouchford households as a delightful companion. Here he was decidedly stiff and embarrassed, and though he had recovered from, the first shock of the condition with which he had met Mrs Dartmouth, he was still constrained in voice and manner, looked harder and longer at the lady than was altogether polite or necessary. Mrs Dartmouth seemed quite at ease I under his scrutiny, unless a livelier

flush of colour on her face, which may have been equally accounted for by the heat or by the shado of the large pink Japanese umbrella attached to the back of the chair she sat in, was called there by his protracted reading of her features. She addressed her conversation, after the beginning of the meal, mainly to Mr Herbert, who answered with a rather high-flown clerical gallantry in the intervals of absorbing a vast amount of tea, now and then bringing Bream into the talk, until after a \vhile he found his tongue and his forgotten manners simultaneously, and came into it himself naturally and easily. The shadows lengthened on the green as they sat and talked, when Barbara came to her mistress’ side with a card. She bent her head for a moment to her visitors, and after glancing at it said to Barbai'a:

‘ Certainly, ask him to join us here, and bring another cup and saucer. Sir Geoi’ge Venebles, ’ she announced to her visitors. * You have not met him since you arrived, Mr Bream ?’ ‘ No,’ said Bream, ‘ though I have a standing invitation to the Lodge. I expect I shall get a blowing up for not having availed myself of it on my first coming here.’ Barbara appeared, followed by the new comer. Sir George Venebles was a man in the eai'ly thirties, one of those happy people who seem to radiate health as a lantern does light. He had the fair skin, bronzed by constant exercise in the fresh air, and the light brown hair common among Englishmen of pure strain. He was, as he looked, as hard as nails all over, and had not an ounce of superfluous flesh anywhere about him, though his breadth was rather more than proportionate to his height, which was five feet eleven in his stocking feet. He wore a short clipped moustache and a crisp brown beard of a golden bronze tinge, which admirably finished a face more remarkable for its evidences of health, pluck, and kindliness than for accurate beauty of line, though he was a handsome fellow, too, judged even by that standard. He was dressed in cords and spurred boots, literally powdered by the dust of. the road, and carried a riding crop. « You’re a pretty fellow, don’t you think,’ he asked Bream, after greeting Mrs Dartmouth, ‘to have been more than twenty-four hours in the place and never to have given me a call ! I called at your diggings just now—just fancy, Mrs Dartmouth, ‘ he’s gone and taken Mrs Jones’ first floor, over the Supply Stores in the High-street, when he might have had the free run of the Lodge as long as he liked.’ ‘ I shall come over there presently,’ answered Bream. * It’s a maxim of mine to work upwards, not uownwards. When I know all the oi polloi of the district I shall claim acquaintance with the lord of the manor.’ ‘Do I belong to tbe oi polloi V asked Mrs Dartmouth, a question which created a diversion by sending Mr Herbert’s tea the wrong way.

CHAPTER VI. Mrs Dartmouth. The meal finished, Mrs Dartmouth rose and invited her guests to a stroll about the grounds. In the dead quiet of the evening air the trees stood silent, no breath of wind waked their leaves to the faintest rustle. The sun was sinking in a placid splendour of rose and gold, and in the opposing heavens a crescent moon was faintly glimmering in an ocean of tender sapphire. A riot of birds came from tbe winding hedge, blackcap, and thrush, and linnet and blackbird merrily piping their adieu to the departing sun. The little party passed through the gap in the semicircle of trees on to a broad garry terrace separating the house domain from tbe farm. They had split into two groups, Sir George and Mr Herbert, and JNlrs Dartmouth and Bream, while little Dora flitted from one to the other, and from bush to bush like a butterfly. ‘ Mr Bieam,’ said Mrs Dartmouth, when they had got beyond earshot of the others, ‘ I have to beg your forgiveness. Believe me, I do so most sincerely. ’ t For what V asked Bream. ‘ For taking no farewell of the only friend I had, seven years ago.’ ‘ Surely, Mrs O’M 1 peg pardon Mrs Dartmouth, you have no need to ask my forgiveness for that. You have, I suppose, in common, with other people, the right to choose your own acquaintances.’ ‘ Ah !’ said Mrs Dartmouth, ‘ let there be no conventional phrases between us. I acted wrongly, and I have

repented of it many a time. When I heard from Mr Herbert and Sir George that you were coming here I was glad, not merely at the prospect of renewing an old acquaintance, but of apologising and explaining if you think my explanation worth listening to.’ ‘I cannot see that you have anything to apologise for,’ said Bream, ‘ but I shall be glad to hear anything you have to sav.’ * You cannot know,’ said Mrs Dartmouth, ‘ even your sympathy cannot guess, what I suffered before and during the time you knew me in London. I look back on that time now as a soul escaped from purgatory might be supposed to look back on its experience there. I wonder that I came out of it with life and reason. It was only last night—pei'haps the mention of your name and the knowledge that you were coming here may account for it— I dreamed that I was back in Westminster, and I woke, crying and sobbing like a child. I woke in that way often for monchs after I had left London. All that time comes back upon me as a hideous nightmare. I have set myself resolutely to forget it —striven hard to banish any thought of it from my mind, but every detail is as clear in my memory to-day as if it had all happened only a week or two ago. I cannot even look at my child, healthy and strong as she is, thank God, without remembering—■’ She passed her hand across her eyes, as if to clear away some shadow that offended them. r ‘ Why distress yourself by recalling it V said Bream.

‘Because the only way for you to forgive my ingratitude is by your knowing as much as anyone, other than myself, can know, what a mad desire 1 had to cancel, to root out, destroy, cast aside, all that reminded me ofthat time. My one desire was to get free of it, to get beyond it all, to persuade myself, if possible, that it bad never been. 1 passed tbe first year of my freedom abroad, moving from place, trying, in the bustle and movement of travel, to forget. Forget? How could I, when the one thing in the world that was left to me to love, my little Dora, brought back memories of that time at every minute of the day ? The very pleasure I felt in seeing her grow back to health recalled the agony I had known in seeing her dying—dying of hunger, Mr Bream, as you saw her.’ No hardness of voice or passion of gesture gave any force to her speech. They were not needed. Her voice throbbed as an even note of pain, her face was white, her eyes looked straight before her with something of the wild look Bream remembered in them seven years ago in the garret in Westminster* —when be had warned her that Dora’s life was in danger. , ‘ I returned to England, not to London, I have never entered London since that day I left the hospital, and with God’s help, I never will. I resolved to try some kind of occupation, some steady, daily task, some work that must be done at its appointed hour, and see if that would not banish the memories which had clung to me all over the continent. This house and farm were advertised to let. I am country bred, and had passed most of my early years on a farm, and a longing for the dear old innocent life, for the fields and woods where I had been so happy as a child, came back to me. I took the farm, at first on a lease, and threw my whole heart into the management. The experiment succeeded, well enough at least, to give me hope that it might succeed altogether if I gave it time. Sir George consented to sell me the place—it is an outlying piece of property, bought by his father only a few years ago, and since then I have remained here working and educating Dora. You are the only person in the world, Mr Bream who knows my secret. I know that I have no reason to keep it, but I do ask you to pardon my ingratitude in being silent all these years.’ ‘ Are you quite sure,’ asked Bream, ‘ that you have been silent V She looked at him questioningly. ‘ Do you remember the date on which, you left the hospital 1 it was the eighth of April. On the eighth of April of every year I have received a £SO note, with a slip of paper bearing the words, ‘ For the poor of your parish, from a friend grateful for past kindness.’ It was not your hand, but I have always thought it came from you.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, quietly, ‘lt came from me. Conscience money, Mr Bream. 5 ‘ More than enough,’ said Bream, to buy you all the absolution you ever

needed. I hardly required your explanation, I understood from the first. I am sorry that circumstance has brought me here, since my presence awakes unwelcome memories.’ fBo not think that,’ she answered. * Since I have never forgotten you cannot charge it to yourself that you have made me remember. You are as welcome to me now as you will be, before long, to every one of your parishioners.’ It was some little time before silence was broken between them again. 1 lien Bream asked. ‘ You have never had no news of—him?’ He shrank from mentioning O’Hara’s name, remembering that she had avoided it. * Hone whatever I .’ ‘You have made no inquiries, caused none to be made ?’ * God forbid.’ * But is that wise ? You may be a free woman now, not free merely in the sense of his absence, but for altogether, by his death.’ ‘lt is best,’ she said, ‘to let sleeping dogs lie. Besides, in what direction could I look for news ? He has dis appeared utterly, leaving not the smallest trace. And it is seven years ago.’ ‘lt is some comfort,’ said Bream, that the scoundrel committed his greatest villainy just at that moment, and when he thought he was shifting a burden from his shoulders, was in reality, robbing himself of a fortune.’ She made no answer to his remark. They had reached the end of a long, shaded alley. They turned, and she held out her hand. * Then—we are friends again, Mr Bream V *We were never anything else,’ he answered, as he took the proferred hand. ‘ I have never thought of you all the time but with respect and pity. I am glad, gladder than I can tell you, that the need for pity is past, and that you are happy at last.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, looking wistfully down at the summer snow of acacia leaves with the path was strewn, ‘ I suppose I am as happy as one has a light to be in this world. But that is enough of me and my affairs. Tell me of yourself. What have you been doing all this long time V 1 Beally,’ he said. ‘ I have nothing to tell. Coming here has been the only event in my life since we last met.’

‘ Well,’ she said, ‘ I suppose men are like nations—and those are happiest that have no history.’ «We all have histories,’ he said, *of one sort or another. Mine is finished, for the present at least. ’ She remembered the words later, though they had little enough meaning at the moment. Her other guests came in sight, Mr Herbert and Sir George Venables strolling side by side, the latter with Dora perched upon his shoulder, like a tropical bird, busy in weaving wild flowers around his hat. ~

‘There,’ said Sir George, depositing her on the ground, * you’ve had a long ride, and I want to talk to Bream. He and I are old friends 4 you know.’ * But I haven’t finished the hat,’ said Dora, pouting, ‘ and I was making it so pretty.’ - ‘Very well. There’s the hat. Work your own sweet will upon it,’ he continued, taking the curate’s arm, and drawing him apart from Mrs Dart mouth and Mr Herbert, ‘ have you any engagement to-night?’ ‘ Hothing that I know of, unless Mr Herbert should want me.’ * Then come over to the Lodge and dine with me, there’s a good fellow, and stay till morning. Why on earth you wanted, to go and stick yourself into that hole in the village, when you might have come and put up with me, is more than I can understand.’ * It is nearer my work, for one thing,’ said Bream, ‘ I want to get to know my parishioners, and to be within easy call of the vicar until I have learned the routine of the place. But I’ll come over to-night and dine with you.’ ‘ Good,’ said Sir George, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘ I’ll get Mrs Dartmouth to lend you a horse and send it back in the morning by a groom. It will be like old times having you about me again, old fellow. I’m devilish solitary, all alone in that great rambling place since the old man died.’ . * Solitude,’ said the curate, *is not an incurable disorder, I should think, for a man with ten thousand a year, and one of the best estates and oldest -names in the country.’

Sir George made no answer, but flicked at his boot with his riding-whip in an absent-minded fashion. ‘You seem to have been getting on very well with Mrs Dartmouth,’ he said abruptly. * What do you think of her ?’ * She seems a very pleasant, amiable woman,’ answered Bream, rather constrainedly. ‘ She bought this place from you, she tells me ;’ he said, merely for the sake of saying something to continue the conversation.

‘ Yes,’ said Sir George. ‘ I sold her the place. Pretty, isn’t it ?’ ‘ Very pretty.’ Their talk languished after this, though they were old and close friends, who had not met for many years. Bream’s mind was busy with the matter of his recent talk with Mrs Dartmouth, and Sir George walked beside him in moody silence, slapping his boot at intervals. ‘lt is time we were going,’ he said at last, referring to his watch. They turned and rejoined Mrs Dartmouth. ‘ Bream is going over to the Lodge to dine with me, sir, if you have no objection,’ said Sir George to the vicar. ‘By no means,’ said Mr Herbert. ‘ Our work for the day is over. You will meet me at the school to-morrow morning at eleven, Bream.’ ‘ I am mounted,’ said Sir George, ‘ and Bream is not. I wonder, Mrs Dartmouth, if you could lend him a horse until the morning ? You could ride him back yourself, Bream.’ ‘ I will lend him Jerrica,’ said Mrs Dartmouth. ‘ Barbara,’ she called across the lawn to the servant, who was clearing away the table under ths chestnut tree, ‘ get Jerrica saddled for Mr Bream.’

They strolled back across the lawn, Dora chatting to Sir George as she added the finishing touches to the decorations of his hat, and getting absentminded monosyllables in reply. ‘ There,’ she said, ‘ now it’s lovely. Stoop down and I’ll put it on for you.’ He stooped, obedient to the small tyrant, and when she had put on the hat, took her up in his arms and kissed her. His sombre face contrasted oddly with the festive appearance of his headgear. ‘ What makes you look so solemn ?’ she asked him. ‘ Do I look solemn ?’ he asked in return. ‘ Oh, dreadful !’ said Dora. ‘ I can guess,’she added, * shall I ? It’s because mamma was talking such a long time to that new gentleman, Mr Bream, instead of to you. I saw you watching them. ’

Sir George blushed a fiery red, and shot a quick glance at the others to see if they showed signs of having noticed the wisdom of this precocious infant. ‘ Little girls should not talk nonsense he said severely. ‘ I’m not little,’ said Dora, I’m almost grown up. I’m eight. If you call me little again I’ll take the flowers out of your hat.’ This dread threat brought them to the house. Sir George was glad of the obscurity in the wide hall, which hid his still blushing face, and he lingered there talking a little at random, till Jerrica and his own horse were announced as waiting. Then he gave Dora a final kiss and shook hands with Mrs Dartmouth and the vicar. ‘You surely are nob going to I’ide home with those flowers in your hat,’ said the hostess. ‘ Till I get out of sight of the house,’ he answered. ‘lt pleases Dora.’ She laughed and turned to the curate. ‘ Dora and I always take tea at five o’clock,’ she said, ‘and we shall always be glad to see you.’ He thanked her and rode away with the Baronet. The road was solitary, and they had gone a mile or more before Sir George untwined Dora's garland. Even then he rode on with it in his hand for some distance, and it was with an audible sigh that he let it fall from his fingers to the dust. (To be Continued.)