‘SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.’

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXI, Issue XXVI, 24 December 1898, Page 817

‘SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.’

Mrs J. N. Stewart, Clinton, Otago. ‘Jack, will you take the daisy-cart to Roiuahapa this afternoon to meet the new nursemaid? Toni's neuralgia is back again and he is afraid of the drive.’ Jack Traill gave a quick glance at the Professor, and the latter, contorting his face, emitted a hollow groan, as if to confirm his wife’s assertion. ‘Yes, I suppose I’ll go,’ Mr Traill answered, ‘but fancy being shut up in a daisy-cart for two long hours with an “impossible female!” Can't I take one of the youngsters with me?’ ‘No, no,’ said Mrs Rae, shaking her pretty little head. ‘lt would be far too late for Dimple to be out, and as for Jots, he would be sure to have one of his bad turns after it.’ Here Dimple entered an animated protest at such a supposition with regard to her, while Jots, a delicatelooking boy of eight, made a mental note of the fact that his new nurse was an ‘impossible female,’ and a mental resolve to find out, as early as possible, what that might mean. ‘Now, Dimple, you can’t go, so be quiet,’ said her mother. ‘lf you are a good girl, you may come with, father and me to the “Nuggets,” and we can have a little picnic.’ ‘I thought Tom had neuralgia,’ Jack remarked grimly. ‘Neuralgia, my dear Jack,’ said the Professor. sententiously, albeit a twinkle in his eye betrayed him, ‘is not a stationary affection.it comes and goes —’

‘Exactly! It came when there was a prospect of your going to Romahapa, and it went when L agreed to sacrifice myself in your stead. By the way, Alice, what is your new Abigail’s name and how shall I know her?’

‘Her name is Marion Grey, and you should have no difficulty in identifying her There are few passengers to Romahapa by the evening train.’ ‘How shall we put in the time during the return journey? Shall we both sit like mutes, or shall I interrogate her kindly as to her “young man,” her mode of spending her evening out. etc., etc.?’

‘My dear Jack!’ exclaimed his sister much scandalised. ‘Remember this is not Home, nor are the servants here like Home girls. Many of them are well educated. My last cook painted beautifully, and —’ ‘Couldn't cook a bit,' murmured the Professor, absently.

‘No,’ Mrs Rae admitted reluctantly. ‘She was not a good eook.’ Then, returning to her former charge, ‘Jack, do try and get rid of these Home ideas of yours. Talk to the girl as you would to any one else. If she is sen-

sible she. will keep her own place, if not —’ she shrugged her shoulders expressively. ‘So much for Marion Grey,’ quoth the Professor. ‘Come along, Jack, and have a dip.’ Professor Rae held the chair of Moral Philosophy in the Dunedin University, and each year it was his custom to spend part of his holiday at Port Molyneux — the Brighton of Otago. This year the party was increased by one, that one being Mrs Bae’s brother—Jack Traill. He had burned the midnight oil too arduously while studying for his degree in Edinburgh and had been ordered to the colony for ‘repairs,’ as his brother-in-law expressed it. Like most, ‘new chums,’ Mr Traill

was rather critical in his attitude towards New Zealand, and somewhat apl to compare her, unfavourably, with his native land. He was particularly severe on what he termed the ‘lack of class distinctions' in the colonies, and often rated his sister soundly for the want of dignity she displayed when speaking to servants, tradespeople, etc. Despite such little foibles, he was a thoroughly good-hearted fellow, devoted to his sister and her two little ones, and—in his more expansive moments —ready to do battle with a newer chum for the honour and glory of New Zealand. The train was late. This rather pleased Mr Traill, for hitherto his as-

persions on the speed of colonial trains had been met with the retort, ‘Well, at any rate, our trains run up to time.* Formerly he had been unable to challenge the assertion, but now he felt that his enemies had lieen delivered into his hand. He tied Fairy to a fence, but scarcely had hr done so than the engine whistled at a distant crossing and .lark betook himself to the starion platform to await the coming of his sister's new handmaid. The train wakened the little station into life for a brief moment; added its quota of human beings to those already on the platform, and then rushed on its noisy way again, towards Catlins. Our hero subjected each woman among the passengers to a sharp scrutiny, but none of them at all realised his preconceived idea of Marion Grey's personality, so he rashly concluded that she had not arrived. As he was preparing to turn Fairy's head homewards a voire behind him said: ‘Excuse me; are you sent by Mrs Rae?' ‘Yes; but you are not I mean—are you Miss Grey?' ‘I am Marion Grey,’ the girl answered quietly, ‘('an my portmanteau get in here?’ Mi Traill recovered himself sutliciently to lay hold of the portmanteau, and also to help its owner into the cart. An awkward silence followed, .lack whipped up Fairy as a relief to his feelings, and meditated on the truth of his sister's words: ‘Home and colonial servants are entirely different.' Certainly it had never been his lot to see at Home a nursemaid like this one. Two well-remembered types presented themselves to his mental vision. 'The first, a trim, neat, somewhat pert and be-ribboned damsel, with a leaning towards the red-coated defenders of our hearths and homes; the second. ‘Old Mary,’ in her large, white ‘mutch,’ capacious apron and ‘crossover' shawl. She had watched over his own and his sister's childhood. Both were complete contrasts tp the girl sitting so composedly by his side. Marion Grey's attire was simplicity itself, consisting as it did of a dark serge costume, surmounted by a severely plain, but very becoming black sailor hat. 'l’he needed touch of colour was given by a tiny knot of crimson which fastened the collar at the throat. The face beneath the hat was not pretty, but it was bright with intelligence, a face to delight neither artist, nor sculptor, but to charm beyond measure the ardent teacher, had it belonged to a pupil. Marion Grey's one beauty was an abundance of soft, dark hair, ‘more black than ash buds in the front of March.' 'This she wore in one massive coil low on her neck, thus affording her present companion a subject on which to expend his admiration. Meanwhile the silence was becoming oppressive, and Mr Traill was casting about for something to say, when Marion spoke. ‘How far is it to Mrs Rae's?' she asked. ‘About seven miles from here. The air is getting* chilly. Do you feel cold?' ‘No, thank you. I am very comfortable.' Then, after a pause. ‘ls Jots stronger since Mrs Rae brought him here?’ ‘Not much, I fear. He seems very delicate. Do you know him?' in some surprise. ‘No; but Dunedin is a small place and one is soon able to identify regular residents. I know Professor Rae by sight, and Jots was often with him on his way to and from the uni versify.’ ‘Dunedin is supposed to be rather like Edinburgh, I believe,' said Jack, with a sarcastic inflection in his voice, which was not lost on his companion. ‘Yes,’ she answered, in the most innocent tone imaginable; ‘but of course it is prettier and cleaner. It is newer, you see.' she continued, for indignation rendered Mr Traill speechless, ‘and that is an advantage.' ‘lt is not always considered so.* .Jack spoke grimly, quite oblivious to the fact that hr was ministering to the silent mirth of the girl beside him. Hr then launched out into a description of his beloved Edinburgh, and his fervour first amused, then fascinated his listener. Siu* eagerly quest ioned him regarding Holyrood. Roslyn, and all the ‘lions’ of the ‘fair citv.*

So deeply absorbed were they in their conversation that their arrival

at the gate of the cottage was some, what of a shock, so quickly had the time seemed to pass. As they turned up the steep ascent leading to the house they Met Professor Rae setting out on one of his evening rambles. He glanced quickly at Mr Traill's companion, and his face assumed a puzzled expression, as if he were seeking in the recesses of memory for a name which should fit in with his new nursemaid's face. Evidently his search was unsuccessful, for with a mechanical lifting of his hat. he passed on. As he did so .Jack heard, or fancied he heard, Marion Grey utter a soft little sigh of relief. Ere he could form in his own mind any idea of the reason thereof they had reached the door of Cliff Cottage, where Jots and Dimple stood, waiting to greet the newcomer. They came shyly forward, and their uncle introduced them to ‘Miss Grey,' hut Dimple exclaimed. ‘Have we to call you that? We never called Lizzie Miss?' ‘No. no. dear.' said the girl hastily. ‘<*all me Marion.’ ‘Come along then, and we'll show you where to put your things.’ and the trio departed indoors, while Mr 'Traill, still a prey to a variety of emotions (chief among them being amazement), proceeded to lead Fairy st able-wards. CHAPTER 11. ’'Tell me another one, Marion,' pleaded Jots, with a soft sigh of content, as Hie girl’s clear voice ceased. ‘Not now dear, it is lunch time, so oil’ we go, or mother will be vexed. We'll have another story in the afternoon.' As Marion and her charge turned the sharp corner of the rock under whose shade they had been sitting, they came full upon Mr Traill lying Hat on the soft sand, with ‘A Brief Political Economy' covering his face from the rays of a January sun. Marion flushed a little, recognising that he must have heard all her chatter to Jots, unless—as she fervently hoped, and rather suspected—he were really asleep. Jots made a movemnt towards his uncle, but at a touch from his nurse, walked quietly on with her.' As soon as the sound of their ret rea fling footsteps had died away, the supposed sleeper cautiously removed the ‘Political Economy* and sat up, revealing a not tin pleasing face, well cut, regular features, a pair of laughter loving brown eyes, and a dark moustache, giving evidence of the care its owner bestowed upon it. ‘By the Powers!' quoth he. ‘but New Zealand is a wonderful country! Here is this nursemaid of Alice's who walks with the dignity of a duchess.

and talks like a first wrangler. I’ll swear that, story was not cribbed from Lernpriere, as I thought at first. It was a memory of the original. I know from the ring of it. Ts there a mystery here, or are New Zealand nursemaids in the habit of regaling their charges with classical stories? I must ask Alice," and lazily bringing

his tall, well-knit figtire into a position more in harmony with his purpose. he sauntered slowly towards the house. The first person he encountered was Jots, and, judging from his appearance that he was in trouble of some sort, his uncle proceeded to interrogate him as to its nature.

"Hullo, Jots! Whose apples have you been stealing now?’ "1 didn’t touch any apples,’ said Jots, who was nothing if not literal; "but. 1 say. Uncle Jack, what is an "impossible female?” ’ .Mr Trail started. ‘Jots!’ Where did you hear that? What have you been saying?’ T heard you call Marion that, and I told her, and asked what it meant?’ ‘What did she say?’ ‘She said “Little boys should not repeat what they hear, it is most dishonourable." but she got pretty red," added this enfant terrible, confiden‘ially. ‘She was quite right. It was most dishonourable of you, and 1 hopewith becoming severity—that this will be a lesson to you.’ ‘But, Uncle Jack— ’ Uncle Jack, however, had taken himself off, in much perturbation of mind, ami some little indignation at himself for being, as he phrased it, so much put out. ‘Jots is a brat!’ he decided mentally, as he paced to and fro on the sward in front of the cottage. ‘I wonder if she is sensitive. 1 wonder what she can think of me. for, of course, Master Jots omitted to explain that I used the phrase before I had seen her. Dear me! what a worry children are! I was dreadfully careless to speak as I did. I must apologise.’ At this point his reflections were arrested by the arrival of Dimple, who eame to inform him that they were to have lunch in the bush beside the creek, and that the rest of the party were already making their way thither.

Taking his little niece’s hand, Mr Traill descended the slope to the beach and crossed the broad expanse of sand which lay between them and their favourite spot by the creek. Tt was an ideal nook for a quiet, picnic party, |K>ssessing as it. did the three elements requisite for scenic beautywood, hill ami water. The bush, glowing just then with the vivid red of the rata, thrown into high relief by the sombre green tints behind it; the

miniature river, born in the bush, yet leaving its leafy covert with gleeful ripple and plash to join the not far distant sea; and across the bay the Khitangata hills, rendered beautiful for the nonce by the combined enchantment of distance and imagination.

Near the source of the brook Dimple and her uncle came in sight of their friends, who had just coaxed the ‘billy’ to boiling point, and soon all were enjoying the al fresco repast. The children elected to take their lunch down to the roeks, and Marion, of course, accompanied them. Dimple quickly despatched her sandwiches, and descending to the smooth sand, began to use her spade with energy. Jots, on the contrary, snuggled up close to Marion, and presently (Jack guessed from the rapt, upturned face) she began to fulfil her promise of the morning and tell him the storv he had pleaded for then. ‘Jots has taken to Marion.’ remarked the professor, to whom everything connected with his invalid boy was of keen interest.

‘Yes,’ assented Mrs Rae, ‘and it is really wonderful to see how she manages him. She tells him all manner of stories —not goody-goody ones,

Tom'—as her husband made an impatient movement, ‘but tales of giants and heroes, and so on. For instance, last night his chest was bad. and 1 had to poultice him back and front. Well, generally he makes a fearful outcry when the hot poultices go on. but last night he just set his teeth and moaned a little. After it grew easier to bear them, he looked up at Marion, who was helping me. and said, ‘I was doing the Spartan boy, Marion, but it was a very hot fox!’ ‘What did she say?’ queried Jack, curiously. ‘Nothing. She just looked at. him and patted his head, smiling as if she understood. T don’t think she could have spoken just then,’ and Mrs Rae's eyes were dimmed for a moment. ‘I heard her telling Jots about Hero and Leander on the beach yesterday,' said Mr Traill suddenly. ‘You did!" exclaimed his brother-in-law. ‘And how did that happen?’ ‘I was reading behind the rock the children call the Arm-chair and must have gone to sleep, for when T wakened from a dream of home T thought I was once again listening to Professor Sellar waxing eloquent on the beauties of Virgil.’ ‘She must be an educated girl. T

wonder how she came to l>e in her present position,' Professor Rae remarked thoughtfully. ‘I have seen her face before, but I cannot remember where. She has singularly intelligent eyes.’

‘She is a very nice girl, and extremely good to the children. lam very fond of her.’ Mrs Rae asserted emphatically as she began to clear away the evidences of lunch. A brief silence followed. Mr Traill’s gaze was fixed on Jots and his nurse, he himselfg unconsciously, in a similar way. being an object of interest to his brother-in-law. who was regarding him curiously. At last the latter spoke. You are growing. Jack. 1 have noticed it lately.' ‘T? Nonsense! T have not grown an inch since T was nineteen.’ ‘T mean mentally. You have advanced considerably since you left Home. You are not so ready now to estimate people by their possession of £ s. d.. position, or even education. Ts that not so? ‘Perhaps it is. T am becoming democratic. Democracy is in the air here.’

‘Say rather you are beginning to realize that the man himself is the first consideration. and that position.

wealth. etc., are mere adjuncts which- ' ’Tom.’ interrupted Mrs Rae. 'Jots must be asleep. Marion is carrying him. Won't you help her? 'I will,’ said her brother, and set off across the bench. As he overtook the nursemaid, and transferred Jots from her arms to his, walking on beside her. Professor Rae, watching them, smiled as one who had received confirmation strong of a late assertion. Meanwhile. Mr Traill had seized the opportunity thus afforded him to cry •I’eecavi!' Marion received his apologetic explanation with a simple dignity that became her well, and impressed the penitent not a little. ‘Were you telling this young man stories?’ he asked as he moved the little boy to an easier position in his arms. 'No. Jots wished to hear all about yesterday's sermon, so I told him what I remembered of it.* ■Yesterday’s sermon? Yes, I remember: a very good one it was.' 'Did you like it?’ ’A es. Why not?’ for he thought he detected a surprised emphasis on flupersonal pronoun. ‘Well, you know it was very democratic and—' she hesitated. ‘How do you know T nm not democratic?' Marion laughed. ‘Jots told me vou had not been long out from Home, and we expect Home people to be rather aristocratic in their tendencies.’ ‘Rut a great many so-called colonials were once like me—‘new chums'’ 1 ‘Oh. .New Zealand air soon turns them into democrats,’ she answered merrily, ‘that is to say. the male portion of them. Women are more conservative. and often retain their Home notions to the last." ‘Mell. I have already adopted democratic principles, so you see T was quite as able to enjoy the sermon as you. quite as able to echo the quotation with which the sermon concluded—• “ 'Tis only noble to be good.” etc.’ ‘Not quite.’ she answered slowly. ‘A our principles are too new to fit you comfortably, whereas mine are part of myself, for I am a colonial.’ This she said with head held high, as one of old might have boasted ‘I am a Roman.’ •So am I.' said Jots suddenly, ‘and so is Dimple. What does this mean? Whenever we say anything queer or funny mother shakes her head and says to father. “Aren't they regular colonials?" ’ ‘Colonials. Jots.’ said his uncle gravely. ‘are the most advanced people under the sun. They are also the most humble and ' But. they had reached the door of the cottage', and Marion, relapsing into the nursemaid, with a slight bow to Mr Traill, bore Jots otf nursery-wards to have his shoes <-hanged. while Jack was left to complete mentally his interrupted sketch of the characteristics of the colonial. CHAPTER 111. ‘Alice, do you want your brother to marry a nursemaid?’ asked Professor Rae that night as his -yife slowly let down her long coils of .lark hair, preparatory to retiring for the night. The question did not seem to startle Mrs Rae. She spoke very quietly. ‘lt, depends altogether on the nursemaid. Tom.’ Iler husband regarded her admiringly. ‘You have unconsciously struck at the root of the matter, my dear. It is not the position, it is 1 lie man him sell, or in this case the woman, we must consider, anil ‘Now. Tom,' protested Mrs Rae. ‘I know it all by heart, and I practise it in my life as the Shorter Catechism says, so spare me!' ’Well, but don't you see how true it is that it all depends on the personality? For instance, vou wouldn't like Jack to marry Jane, the cook who is a very good girl in her way. and nu excellent cook (he added parenthetically) and in position equal to Marion.' •Do you know. Tom. I was thinking you might be able to help Marion to a better position; she must be fairly well educated. We might get her a situation as nursery-governess somewhere. She seems quite lit for it.’ The Professor eyed his wife pityingly. ‘Alice,’ he said at length, ‘according to your lights you are a. good woman, but inconsistency is the bane of your sex. Inconsistency, a want of reasoning- power, and a blind yielding to impulse, are all —’

‘Tom.’ Mrs Rae asked in her most dulcet tones, ‘do you remember Mrs Peyser's dietuni that “the Almighty must have made the women to match the men?’’’ But the Professor was, or feigned to lie, asleep. That evening as Mr Traill was enjoying a ‘weed’ on a little side-verandah which overlooked the beach, he saw Marion, book in hand, slip down to the ‘Arm-chair.’ He was startled at the almost irresistibly' strong impulse which bade him follow her. He threw his half-smoked cigar away and sat for a moment or two half-stunned by the revelation which had thus suddenly burst upon him. Not introspective by’ nature, he was, as he phrased it, in the habit of ‘letting things slide,’ and this lie felt he had been doing lately. He mentally reviewed his conversation with Marion during their drive from Romahapa; he recalled the children's chatter about her; her quiet, dignified wav of receiving his apology for having referred to her as an ‘impossible female’: his sister's tales of her goodness to the children; and lastly their conversation on the way from the beach that afternoon. That was the extent of his acquaintance with her; he had spoken to her on three occasions only; he was a gentleman and she was his sister’s servant; and yet he felt that the great leveller—Love —had passed that way, and things could never be with him as they had been before.

Far into the night Jack Traill sat there meditating on the unpleasant discovery he had made. With his meditations mingled memories of a foolish marriage a fellow-student had made, and he shuddered as he thought of the wife, seen three years after marriage. The pretty, bright girl bad become a faded, slatternly’ woman whose grammatical slips and ignorance of les convenances — almost additional charms before marriage—were a daily torture to the man whose wife she was.

Yet with this memory ever mingled visions of Marion moving with gentle dignity through a well-ordered home, not afraid to soil her hands, yet never appearing with hands soiled or stained. But these were dangerous thoughts, and he forced them from him. striving to concentrate his mind on the one question: ‘Can 1 marry’ a servant?’ Would such a step involve loss of social position? Not in New Zealand with a girl as well educated as Marion Grey. The Professor and his wife, he knew, were singularly’ unworldly people and would offer no objection; the former, indeed, would hail such an event as an opening for a lecture on his favourite theme. His mother, he knew, would lovingly’ welcome any woman for his sake, while his father, after a few sarcastic remarks on his change of ideas, would he gracious enough. No. the only obstacle was his own pride, and it seemed an insurmountable one. ‘I will get over this fancv.’ he said io himself as he rose to his feet. T oust get over it.’ and as for Marion, she will have nothing to suffer: she has never thought of me in that way.’ He looked at his watch, and found to his amazement that it was 4 a.m. TH have a dip. leave a note for Alice,

and catch the morning train at Romahapa.’ he decided. ‘A complete change will cure me of this folly.’ As he neared the ‘Arm-chair’ some passing sentiment drewhim to it, and as he sat down he noticed a small volume in the red-backed binding so familiar to book-lovers whose purses are thin. Picking it up he found it to be ‘Poems by E. B. Browning,’ and turning to the fly-leaf he was not surprised to find in somewhat cramped and crabbed ealigraphy the name ‘Marion Grey.’ As he turned the leaves carelessly over his eye was arrested by the concluding lines of ‘Lady Geraldine’s Courtship’: It shall be as I have sworn. Very rich he Is in virtues, very noble — noble, eertes; And I shall not blush in knowing that men call him lowly born. He threw the book down as if it had stung him, then mov-d b.v another impulse he lifted it tenderly and put it in his pocket. He then hastily prepared for his plunge into ‘the briny.’ CHAPTER IV. ‘Jack is away!’ exclaimed Mrs Rae as she hastily’ re-entered her husband’s bedroom on the following morning, holding an open letter in her hand. ‘Away where?’ queried her husband with that provoking stolidity which even the best of husbands can assume upon occasion.

‘Away by train. He is going first of all to fish at Clinton, then probably up to Pomohaka, and will not rejoin us until we return to Dunedin.’ ‘He’s a. fool,’ said rhe Professor shortly. Then, answering the look of dismay on his wife’s face, he said in a gentler tone, ‘1 beg your pardon, my dear; T shouldn’t have said that, but, candidly, it looks as if Jack had made a discovery whieh frightened him away.’ ‘A discovery. Tom?’ ‘As to the state of his own feelings. I mean, and he has not yet reached the point of saying: “All for love and the world well lost.’’ ’ ‘I see.' Mrs Rae remarked, meditatively. ‘Well, if it is to be, it will be, and I am not going to play Providence." ‘Lucid — very,’ was her husband’s sole comment on this sage resolve, so she left him to complete his toilet in peace. Meanwhile Jane, the cook, had electrified the nursery party with the news of Mr Traill’s departure. The children’s grief was both loud and deep. What Marion’s feelings were no one could have gathered from the way in whieh she received the announeement. Beyond a little surprise she exhibited no other emotion. After the children had gone into breakfast she stood at the window for a moment or two looking out at the beach, then, with a half-laugh, halfsigh, she made the following wholly’ irrelevant remark: ‘I wonder what Cophetua would have thought if the beggar-maid had said ‘I don’t want to be your Queen?’ How long Jack Traill remained in Clinton, deponent knoweth not, but can assert that the number of fish

caught by him was nil. How could it be otherwise when his rod was never unstrapped, nor his fly-book opened? How could it be otherwise when he spent his days in pacing up and down the river-bank, lost in meditation? Finally, thought consolidated into action, and he wrote a letter, the latter part of which we take *he liberty of transcribing:—

‘And now I come to a more important matter. To-morrow, if all is well, T mean to ask Marion Grey to be my wife. (Alice has told you all about her. 1 know, and probably something about me too, for her eyes are keen.) Well, mother, T am not going to describe her, I shall only say that if she accepts me, she will be a God-given gift, for she is a good woman in every sense of the word. Some other time T may tell you of the conflict between Love and Pride, the former proving triumphantly’ victorious! Tn the meantime, forgive this unsatisfactory letter, and believe me still, your loving son. Jack M. Traill.’

How the Mornington cable-car seemed to crawl along! So, at least, thought our hero, who was in a fever of impatience until he found himself at the door of a. little green-blinded cottage which he knew from the directions given him by his sister, must be Marion’s home. ‘ls Miss Grey at home?’ he asked the tall, slim damsel who opened the door. ‘Yes. Please come in,’ and he was ushered into a tiny parlour where Marion Grey sat writing at a table. If Miss Grey were surprised to see him her manner did not betray the fact, as she said ealmly, while she rose to greet him: ‘Good evening, Mr Traill. Have you all returned to town?’ ‘No; I have come alone —I have come—that is—my’ sister asked me to give you this,’ handing her, as he spoke, a note whieh his sister had given him, when he returned to Port Alolyneux, to find Marion gone, and a further journey necessary. ‘Thank you. Tt may require an answer. Will you excuse me?’ Jack gave a murmured assent, and she tore open the envelope, smiling slightly as she read the few, hurriedlywritten words, which bore neither address nor date:

‘Dear Marion, — We have told him nothing. Be kind to him and confess afterwards.—Your friend, Alice Rae.’ While Marion had been occupied with her letter Mr Traill had somewhat recovered himself, and now he crossed the room to where she sat. ‘Miss Grey, Marion, I came here tonight to ask you to marry me.’ ‘Mr Traill: T don't know how to answer you,’ she faltered. ‘I —’ ‘Do you care at all for me?’ he asked. and the look in his eyes robbed the question of half its blur.tness. She hesitated, and ‘the woman who hesitates is lost.’ Mr Traill rpeated his query in a different form, and the answer was a softly breathed ‘Yes,’ followed by ‘that is if you are not ashamed to marry’ a servant.’ He silenced her in a way peculiar to lovers. ‘I am in my sane senses now, and ashamed only’ of a foolish pride.

which once held me in bonds, and now’ is dead —slain by Love.’ And then they talked — the fond, foolish talk which seems inseparable from such circumstances, but suddenly Marion broke off with: ‘Wait! I want to show you something.’ She left the room but returned almost immediately, clad in a black cloak, with a hint of bright colour showing in the hood, which was bordered with white fur. On her dark coils of hair was perched a trencher. In short, she was wearing the costume reserved for those who have the right to inscribe the magic letters M.A. after their names. Mr Traill stood speechless for a moment, scarcely comprehending. Then Marion advanced towards him, asking with a spice of coquetry: ‘Well, do yon think they suit me? Yes. they are mine,’ she added smilingly, answering his look of inquiry. Her lover was dumb; then he broke out with. ‘What a conceited, ignorant wretch you must have thought me! How glad I am that —’ and he drew a long breath, leaving his sentence unfinished, but Marion understood. He was thankful he had made this discovery’ now instead of before he declared himself. ‘But how,’ he began, bewilderingly, and so Marion told her brief tale.

‘My father was a shepherd, who coveted for each of his girls the advantages of a good education. He only lived to see me capped and then died, partly from worry, for all his savings were lost in the failure of the “Bedrock” mine. Since then I have taught and “coached” by’ turns to help mother and the girls, but now two of them are teaching for themselves, so you see, I am not so important as I was.’ ‘How did you go to Port Molyneux?’

‘I saw Mrs Rae’s advertisement for a. nurse pro. tern, and thought the sea air would fit me for the coming year’s work. I had some heavy expenses before leaving town which deprived me of my regular holiday. Professor Rae recognised me the day before Lizzie (whose place I was filling) came back,’ she concluded, laughingly. ‘I see that I have just come in time.’ Jack Traill said a little grimly, for he could imagine something of the hard battle with the world, at which she had scarcely hinted. ‘Now, take me in and introduce me to your mother.’ Next day Professor Rae drove to the Romahapa Post-office for an expected telegram, and received the following concise and enigmatie dispatch: ‘VENT, YIDT, VICI.’

* This story was awarded Fourth Prize <£2> in our Xmas Story Competition.