LITMIR.BIZ

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heavily mullioned Tudor windows, and inside the tapestry there was a screen of soft muslin.

      "I have not been shooting moose and skunk, or living in a tent," said Christabel, with a forced laugh. She wanted to be amiable to her cousin – wished even to like him, but it went against the grain. She wondered if he had always been as hateful as this. "You can't expect to find much difference in me after three years' vegetation in Cornwall."

      "But you've not been vegetating all the time," said Leonard, looking her over as coolly as if she had been a horse. "You have had a season in London. I saw your name in some of the gossiping journals, when I was last at Montreal. You wore a pink gown at Sandown. You were one of the prettiest girls at the Royal Fancy Fair. You wore white and tea roses at the Marlborough House garden party. You have been shining in high places, Mistress Belle. I hope it has not spoiled you for a country life."

      "I love the country better than ever. I can vouch for that."

      "And you have grown ever so much handsomer since I saw you last. I can vouch for that," answered her cousin with his free and easy air. "How d'ye do, Miss Bridgeman?" he said, holding out two fingers to his mother's companion, whose presence he had until this moment ignored.

      Jessie remembered Thackeray's advice, and gave the squire one finger in return for his two.

      "You're not altered," he said, looking at her with a steady stare. "You're the hard-wearing sort, warranted fast colour."

      "Give Leonard some tea, Jessie," said Mrs. Tregonell. "I'm sure you would like some tea?" looking lovingly at the tall figure, the hard handsome face.

      "I'd rather have a brandy-and-soda," answered Leonard carelessly, "but I don't mind a cup of tea presently, when I've been and had a look round the stables and kennels."

      "Oh, Leonard! surely not yet?" said Mrs. Tregonell.

      "Not yet! Why I've been in the house ten minutes, and you may suppose I want to know how my hunters have been getting on in the last three years, and whether the colt Nicholls bred is good for anything. I'll just take a hurried look round and be back again slick."

      Mrs. Tregonell sighed and submitted. What could she do but submit to a son who had had his own way and followed his own pleasure ever since he could run alone; nay, had roared and protested loudly at every attack upon his liberty when he was still in the invertebrate jelly-fish stage of existence, carried at full-length in his nurse's arms, with his face turned to the ceiling, perpetually contemplating that flat white view of indoor existence which must needs have a depressing influence upon the meditations of infancy. The mothers of spirited youths have to fulfil their mission, which is for the most part submission.

      "How well he looks!" she said, fondly, when the squire had hurried out of the room; "and how he has broadened and filled out."

      Jessie Bridgeman thought within herself that he was quite broad enough before he went to America, and that this filling-out process had hardly improved him, but she held her peace.

      "He looks very strong," said Christabel. "I could fancy Hercules just such a man. I wonder whether he has brought home any lions' hides, and if he will have one made into a shooting jacket. Dear, dearest Auntie," she went on, kneeling by the widow's chair, "I hope you are quite happy now. I hope your cup of bliss is full."

      "I am very happy, sweet one; but the cup is not full yet. I hope it may be before I die – full to overflowing, and that I shall be able to say, 'Lord, let me depart in peace,' with a glad and grateful heart."

      Leonard came back from the stables in a rather gloomy mood. His hunters did not look as well as he expected, and the new colt was weak and weedy. "Nicholls ought to have known better than to breed such a thing, but I suppose he'd say, like the man in Tristram Shandy, that it wasn't his fault," grumbled Mr. Tregonell, as he seated himself in front of the fire, with his feet on the brass fender. He wore clump-soled boots and a rough heather-mixture shooting suit, with knickerbockers and coarse stockings, and his whole aspect was "sporting." Christabel thought of some one else who had sat before the same hearth in the peaceful twilight hour, and wondered if the spiritual differences between these two men were as wide as those of manner and outward seeming. She recalled the exquisite refinement of that other man, the refinement of the man who is a born dandy, who, under the most adverse circumstances, compelled to wear old clothes and to defy fashion, would yet be always elegant and refined of aspect. She remembered that outward grace which seemed the natural indication of a poetical mind – a grace which never degenerated into effeminacy, a refinement which never approached the feeble or the lackadaisical.

      Mr. Tregonell stretched his large limbs before the blaze, and made himself comfortable in the spacious plush-covered chair, throwing back his dark head upon a crewel anti-macassar, which was a work of art almost as worthy of notice as a water-colour painting, so exquisitely had the flowers been copied from Nature by the patient needlewoman.

      "This is rather more comfortable than the Rockies," he said, as he stirred his tea, with big broad hands, scratched and scarred with hard service. "Mount Royal isn't half a bad place for two or three months in the year. But I suppose you mean to go to London after Easter? Now Belle has tasted blood she'll be all agog for a second plunge. Sandown will be uncommonly jolly this year."

      "No, we are not going to town this season."

      "Why not? Hard up – spent all the dollars?"

      "No, but I don't think Belle would care about it."

      "That's bosh. Come, now, Belle, you want to go of course," said Mr. Tregonell, turning to his cousin.

      "No, Leonard, that kind of thing is all very well for once in a lifetime. I suppose every woman wants to know what the great world is like – but one season must resemble another, I should think: just like Boscastle Fair, which I used to fancy so lovely when I was a child, till I began to understand that it was exactly the same every year, and that it was just possible for one to outgrow the idea of its delightfulness."

      "That isn't true about London though. There is always something new – new clubs, new theatres, new actors, new race-meetings, new horses, new people. I vote for May and June in Bolton Row."

      "I don't think your dear mother's health would be equal to London, this year, Leonard," said Christabel, gravely.

      She was angry with this beloved and only son for not having seen the change in his mother's appearance – for talking so loudly and so lightly, as if there were nothing to be thought of in life except his own pleasure.

      "What, old lady, are you under the weather?" he asked, turning to survey his mother with a critical air.

      This was his American manner of inquiring after her health. Mrs. Tregonell, when the meaning of the phrase had been explained to her, confessed herself an invalid, for whom the placid monotony of rural life was much safer than the dissipation of a London season.

      "Oh, very well," said Leonard with a shrug; "then you and Belle must stop at home and take care of each other – and I can have six weeks in London en garçon. It won't be worth while to open the house in Bolton Row – I'd rather stop at an hotel."

      "But you won't leave me directly after your return, Leonard?"

      "No, no, of course not. Not till after Easter. Easter's three weeks ahead of us. You'll be tired enough of me by that time."

      "Tired of you! After three years' absence?"

      "Well, you must have got accustomed to doing without me, don't you know," said Leonard, with charming frankness. "When a man has been three years away he can't hurt his friend's feelings much if he dies abroad. They've learnt how easy it is to get along without him."

      "Leonard! how can you say such cruel things?" expostulated his mother, with tears in her eyes. The very mention of death, as among the possibilities of existence, scared her.

      "There's nothing cruel in it, ma'am; it's only common sense," answered Leonard. "Three years. Well, it's a jolly long time, isn't it? and I dare say to you, in this sleepy hollow of a place, it seemed precious long. But for fellows who are knocking about the world – as Poker Vandeleur and I were – time spins by pretty fast, I can tell you. I'll hoist in some more sap – another cup of tea, if you please, Miss

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