LITMIR.BIZ

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apron, which completed Mrs. Penfold's conquest.

      With a song upon her lips she burst into the kitchen and caught up the rolling pin.

      "Am I not awfully late?" she exclaimed. "I was afraid you would have done it all before I came, but you wouldn't be so mean as to take an advantage, would you?"

      Mrs. Penfold grunted.

      "It's all nonsense, Miss Stella, there's no occasion for it."

      Stella, with her hand in the flour, elevated the rolling-pin in heroic style.

      "Mrs. Penfold!" she exclaimed, with the air of a princess, "the woman, be her station what it may, who cannot make a jam roley-poley or an apple tart is unworthy the name of an Englishwoman. Give me the jam; stop though, don't you think rhubarb would be very nice for a change?"

      "I wish you'd go and play the organ, Miss Stella, and leave the rhubarb alone."

      "Man cannot live on music," retorted Stella; "his soul craves for puddings. I wonder whether uncle's soul craves for jam or rhubarb. I think I'll go and ask him," and dropping the rolling-pin – which Mrs. Penfold succeeded in catching before it fell on the floor – she wiped her hand of a fifteenth part of the floor and ran into the studio.

      "Uncle! I have come to lay before you the rival claims of rhubarb and strawberry jam. The one is sweet and luscious to the taste, but somewhat cloying; the other is fresh and young, but somewhat sour – "

      "Good Heavens! What are you talking about?" exclaimed the bewildered painter, staring at her.

      "Rhubarb or jam. Now, noble Roman, speak or die!" she exclaimed with upraised arm, her eyes dancing, her lips apart with rippling laughter.

      Mr. Etheridge stared at her with all an artist's admiration in his eyes.

      "Oh! the pudding," he said, then he suddenly stopped, and stared beyond her.

      CHAPTER VI

      Stella heard a step on the threshold of the window, and turning to follow the direction of his eyes, saw the stalwart form of Lord Leycester standing in the window.

      He was dressed in a suit of brown velveteen, with tight-fitting breeches and stockings, and carried a whip in his hand with which he barred the entrance against a couple of colleys, a huge mastiff, and a Skye terrier, the last barking with furious indignation at being kept outside.

      Even at the moment of surprise, Stella was conscious of a sudden reluctant thrill of admiration for the graceful figure in the close-fitting velvet, and the handsome face with its dark eyes regarding her with a grave, respectful intenseness.

      "Back dogs!" he said. "Go back, Vix!" then as they drew back, the big ones throwing themselves down on the path with patient obedience, he came into the room.

      "I beg your pardon," he said, standing before Stella, his head bent. "I thought Mr. Etheridge was alone, or I should not have entered in this rough fashion."

      As he spoke in the lane, so now it was no meaningless excuse, but with a tone of most reverential respect and proud humility, Stella, girl-like, noticed that he did not even venture to hold out his hand, and certainly Mr. Adelstone's self-satisfied smile and assured manner rose in her mind to contrast with this stately, high-bred humility.

      "Do not apologize; it does not matter," she said, conscious that her face had grown crimson and that her eyes were downcast.

      "Does it not? I am forgiven," and he held out his hand.

      Stella had crossed her hands behind her as he entered with an instinctive desire to hide her bare arms and the flour, now she put out her hand a few inches and held it up with a smile.

      "I can't," she said.

      He looked at the white hand – at the white arm so beautifully molded that a sculptor would have sighed over it in despair at his inability to imitate it, and he still held out his hand.

      "I do not mind the flour," he said, not as Mr. Adelstone would have said it, but simply, naturally.

      Stella gave him one small taper finger and he took it and held it for a moment, his eyes smiling into hers; then he relinquished it, with not a word of commonplace compliment, but in silence, and turned to Mr. Etheridge.

      "It is quite hopeless to ask you to forgive me for interrupting you I know, so I won't ask," he said, and there was in his voice, Stella noticed, a frank candor that was almost boyish but full of respect. At once it seemed to intimate that he had known and honored the old man since he, Leycester, was a boy.

      "How are you, my lord?" said Mr. Etheridge, giving him his long, thin hand, but still keeping a hold, as it were, on his beloved easel. "Taking the dogs for a walk? Are they safe? Take care, Stella!"

      For Stella was kneeling down in the midst of them, making friends with the huge mastiff, much to the jealous disgust of the others, who were literally crowding and pushing round her.

      Lord Leycester looked round and was silent for a moment; his eyes fixed on the kneeling girl rather than on the dogs. Then he said, suddenly:

      "They are quite safe," and then he added, for Stella's behalf, "they are quite safe, Miss Etheridge."

      Stella turned her face toward him.

      "I am not afraid. I should as soon think of biting them as they would dream of biting me, wouldn't you?" and she drew the mastiffs great head on to her lap, where it lay with his big eyes looking up at her piteously, as he licked her hand.

      "Great Heavens, what a herd of them!" said Mr. Etheridge, who loved dogs – on canvas.

      "I ought not to have brought them," said Lord Leycester, "but they will be quite quiet, and will do no harm, I assure you."

      "I don't care if they don't bite my niece," said Mr. Etheridge.

      "There is no fear of that," he said, quietly, "or I should not allow her to go near them. Please go on with your work, or I shall think I am a nuisance."

      Mr. Etheridge waved him to a chair.

      "Won't you sit down?" he said.

      Lord Leycester shook his head.

      "I have come to ask you a favor," he said.

      Mr. Etheridge nodded.

      "What is it?"

      Lord Leycester laughed his rare laugh.

      "I am trembling in my shoes," he said. "My tongue cleaves to my mouth with nervousness – "

      The old painter glanced round at him, and his face relaxed into a smile as his eyes rested on the bold, handsome face and easy grace of the speaker.

      "Yes, you look excessively frightened," he said. "What is it?"

      It was noticeable that, excepting in his first greeting, the old man had not given him the benefit of his title; he had known him when Leycester had been a boy, running in and out of the cottage, always followed by a pack of dogs, and generally doing some mischief.

      "I want you to do a little scene for me."

      The old man groaned and looked at his picture firmly.

      "You know the glade in the woods opening out opposite the small island. I want you to paint it."

      "I am sorry," began the old man.

      Lord Leycester went on, interrupting him gently:

      "Have you seen it lately?" he said, and as he spoke Stella came into the room enticing the mastiff after her, with a handful of biscuits she had taken from the cheffonier. "It is very beautiful. It is the loveliest bit on the whole river. Right up from the stream it stretches green, with the young Spring leaves, to the sky above the hill. In the open space between the trees the primroses have made a golden carpet. I saw two kingfishers sailing up it as I stood and looked this morning, and as I looked I thought how well, how delightfully you would put it on canvas. Think! The bright green, the golden foreground, the early Summer sky to crown the whole, and reflected in the river running below."

      Mr. Etheridge paused in his work and listened, and Stella, kneeling over the dog, listened too, with down-bent face, and wondered how the

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