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is Miss Leslie making puns," responds Yorke.

      "Now you are getting tired," he says, after a mile or two.

      "How do you know?" she asks, curiously.

      "Because I can see your hands trembling," he replies. "Give me the reins now, and if you are a good girl you shall drive all the way home."

      It is a little thing that he should have such regard for her comfort, but it does not pass unnoticed by Leslie, as she resigns the reins with a "Thank you, your grace."

      His face clouds again, however, and he bestows an altogether unnecessary cut on the horses, who plunge forward.

      "There is St. Martin, and there is the castle," she says, presently. "Is it not pretty?"

      "Very," he assents, but he looks round inquiringly. "I'm looking for some place in which to put the cattle up," he explains. "Horses don't care much for ruins, unless there are hay and oats."

      "There is a small inn at the foot of the castle," says Leslie.

      "That's all right then," he rejoins, cheerfully. "Hurry up now, my beauties, and let's show them what Vinson's nags can do."

      They dash up the road to the inn at a clinking pace, and pull up in masterly style.

      The landlord and a stable boy come running out and Yorke flings them the reins. Then he helps Leslie down, and goes round to the back to assist the duke.

      "I suppose we shall be able to get some lunch here Yorke?" he says, as he leans on his sticks.

      "Lunch indoors on a day like this? Not much!" retorts Yorke, scornfully. "Out with that hamper, Grey, and get this yokel to help you carry it to the tower. You can walk as far as that, Dolph? Miss Lisle will show you the way."

      At the sound of her name Leslie turns from the rustic window into which she had been mechanically looking.

      "Oh, yes. There has been another party here this morning," she adds.

      "How do you know that?" asks Yorke.

      "Because I can see the remains of their luncheon on the table," she says, laughing.

      "Yes, sir," says the landlord. "Party of three, sir; two gentlemen and a lady."

      "Thank goodness they have gone!" says Yorke. "You go on. I'll go and see that the horses are rubbed down and fed; I owe that to Vinson, anyhow."

      He is not long in following them, but by the time he has reached the tower, Grey has unpacked the basket, and laid out a tempting lunch. There is a fowl, a ham, an eatable-looking fruit tart, cream, some jelly, the crispiest of loaves, and firmest of butter, and a couple of bottles with golden tops.

      "Where did you get this gorgeous spread, Yorke?" inquires the duke.

      "Oh, I was out foraging early this morning," he says, carelessly. "Now, Miss Leslie, you are the presiding genius. Of course the salt has been forgotten; it always is."

      "No, it has not!" says Leslie, holding it up triumphantly. "Nothing has been forgotten. You have brought everything."

      "Including an appetite," he says, brightly, and as he opens a bottle of champagne, he sings:

      "The foaming wine of Southern France."

      "Yes, I wonder how many persons who read that in their Tennyson realize that it is champagne?" says the duke, brightly.

      They seat themselves – cushions have been brought from the wagon for Leslie and the duke – and the feast begins.

      "Some chicken, Miss Leslie? This is going to be a failure as a picnic; it isn't going to rain," says Yorke.

      "And I rather miss the cow which usually appears on the scene and scampers over the pie," says the duke. "I suppose your grace couldn't manage a cow on a tower."

      Yorke looks at him, half angrily.

      "Oh, cut that!" he mutters, just loud enough to reach the duke.

      Mr. Lisle looks round with his glass in his hand.

      "I must find a spot for my sketch," he says.

      "All right, presently," says Yorke. "Pleasure first always, as the man said when he killed the tax collector. Miss Lisle have you sworn never to drink more than one glass of champagne?"

      But Leslie shakes her head, and declines the offered bottle, and her appetite is soon appeased.

      "Shall we leave these gourmands, and find a particularly picturesque study for your father, Miss Lisle?" suggests Yorke; "that is if he is bent on sketch – ."

      He stops suddenly, for a woman's laugh has risen from the green slope beneath them. It is not an unmusical laugh, but it is unpleasantly loud and bold, and the others start slightly.

      "That is the other party," says Leslie.

      "It is to be hoped that they are not coming up here. If they should, you will have an opportunity of seeing how I look when I scowl, Miss Lisle," he says.

      Leslie gets up and goes to the battlements.

      "No; they are going round the other side," she says.

      "Heaven be thanked!"

      "Too soon!" she rejoins, with a laugh; "they are coming back. What a handsome girl!"

      Standing talking and laughing beneath her are two men and a girl. The latter is handsome, as Leslie says, but there is something in the face which, like the laugh, jars upon one. She is dark, of a complexion that is almost Spanish, has dark eyes that sparkle and glitter in the sunlight, and raven hair; and if the face is not perfect in its beauty, her figure nearly approaches the acme of grace. It is lithe, slim, mobile; but it is clad too fashionably, and there is a little too much color about it.

      She stands laughing loudly, unconscious of the silent spectator above her, for a moment or two; then, perhaps made aware by that mysterious sense which all of us have experienced, that she is being looked at she looks up, and the two girls' eyes meet. She turns to say something to her companions, and at that moment Yorke joins Leslie.

      He looks down at the group below.

      "That's the party, evidently," he begins. Then he stops suddenly; something like an oath starts from his lips, and he puts his hand none too gently on Leslie's arm.

      "Come away," he says, sharply, and yet with a touch of hoarseness, or can it be fear, in his voice. "Come away, Miss Lisle!"

      And Leslie, as she draws back in instant obedience, sees that his face has become white to the lips.

      At the same moment, a voice – it must be that of the girl beneath, floats up to them, a lively "rollicking" voice, singing this refined and charming ditty:

      "Yes, after dark is the time to lark,

      Although we sleep all day;

      To pass the wine, and don't repine,

      For we're up to the time of day, dear boys,

      We're up to the time of day!"

      CHAPTER IX.

      THE PICNIC

      As the words of the music-hall song rise on the clear air, Leslie turns away. No respectable woman could have sung such a song, and she is not surprised that her companion, and host, has bidden her "come away."

      She steps down from the battlement in silence, and as she does so glances at him. His face is no longer pale, but there is a cloud upon it, which he is evidently trying to dispel. She thinks, not unreasonably, that it is caused by annoyance that she should have heard the song, and she is grateful to him.

      The cloud vanishes, and his face resumes something of its usual frank light-heartedness, but not quite all.

      "We'll give those folks time to get clear away before we begin our exploration, Miss Lisle," he says, casually, but with the faintest tone of uneasiness in his voice. "That is the worst of these show places, one is never sure of one's company. 'Arriet and 'Arry are everywhere, nowadays."

      "Why should they not be?" says Leslie, with a smile. "The

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