LITMIR.BIZ

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aunt, dear.”

      “Hold that wrapper to the fire, my dear, ready for your uncle,” and she threw down a great white cashmere belcher to her niece.

      “Here! Hoi! I say, old girl, I’m not going to wear that thing.”

      “Yes, dear, it’s a very long drive, and the air is very cold.”

      The Churchwarden sank into a chair, and, raising the lid of the tankard, gazed into it despondently.

      “Tyranny, tyranny, tyranny!” he groaned. “Oh! why did I ever marry such a woman as this?”

      “Now don’t talk nonsense, Joseph,” cried his wife, rustling down into the room so wrapped up that she looked double her natural size, what with cloak, and boa, and a large muff. “Put it round your uncle’s neck, Sage, the frost is very severe.”

      The Churchwarden threw his head back ready for Sage to tie on the wrapper, uttering a low moan the while, and then sighed as he stood up and walked – at first slowly and then with alacrity – into the hall to put on his hat.

      “I can’t get into my coat with this thing on,” he roared. “Come and give us a lift.”

      Sage ran laughingly into the hall to help the greatcoat on to his broad shoulders just as the four-wheeled chaise came crunching to the front door, Dapple giving a loud snort or two, and stamping upon the frozen gravel.

      Just then the Churchwarden gave a comical look at his niece, rushed to the corner by the eight-day clock, and made a great deal of rattling as he took up the whip and gave it a sharp lash through the air, and a crack on the broad balustrade.

      Sage heard her aunt start, and her uncle chuckled.

      “Now, old lady,” he said. “That’s right, Sage, plenty of rugs, or we shall have her frozen. That’s it, old girl, right leg first. Hold his head still, Dicky. There you are; tuck that rug round you. There, that’s better,” he cried, taking his seat and fastening the apron. “Let him go, Dicky. Tck!”

      He started Dapple, and then stood up in the chaise with a quick motion, raising the whip as he set his teeth, and seemed about to strike the cob a tremendous blow, making Mrs Portlock jump and seize his arm, when he subsided, looking round at Sage with a comical expression in his eye, but pulled up short.

      “Here. Hi! I say. Yah! artful. Here you, Luke Ross, you’re three hours before your time,” he cried.

      “Yes, sir. I thought I might help a little, and – ”

      “You thought you might help a little, and – G’on with you – get out. G’long!” and the Churchwarden flicked and lashed at Luke Ross, as he stepped to the side of the chaise and shook hands, while Sage, with her heart beating fast, drew back into the porch, seeing her uncle begin poking at the new arrival with the butt of the whip-handle.

      Then the cob was started again with another pretended furious cut, which made Sage’s aunt catch at her uncle’s arm; and then as, frightened, fluttering, and yet happy, she saw Luke coming towards her, the Churchwarden’s voice came roaring through the wintry air —

      “Here! I say, Luke Ross, remember what I said. I mean it – seriously.”

      “Sage, my dear Sage!” Those were the next words Sage Portlock heard, as Luke took her hand to lead her, trembling and nervous, into the hall.

      “I hardly hoped for such good fortune,” he cried, as Sage gently disengaged herself from his clasp, and stood gazing rather sadly in his face; “but oh! pray, pray don’t look at me like that, darling, I’m here to go down on my knees to you, Sage. There,” he cried, “I will, to beg pardon – to tell you I was a weak, jealous fool – that I know you could not help Cyril Mallow coming and admiring you (he’d have been a fool if he hadn’t!) – that you’re the best, and dearest, and truest, and sweetest, and most innocent-hearted of girls – that I love you more dearly than ever, and that I’ve been a miserable wretch ever since last night.”

      “Don’t do that, Luke,” she said, as he literally went upon his knees; “it hurts me.”

      “And I’d suffer anything sooner than give you a moment’s pain,” he cried, springing to his feet; and they stood now in the middle of the old parlour. “But you haven’t forgiven me, Sage,” he said, piteously.

      “Yes, Luke, I’ve forgiven you, but I want you to know and trust me better. Your words seemed so cruel to me, and if you knew me you would not have said them. I did not know that Cyril Mallow when he called did so that he might see me, and we hardly exchanged a dozen words.”

      “And if you had exchanged a thousand, sweet, what then?” cried Luke, proudly. “I was a jealous idiot, and ought to have known better; but it has been a lesson to me on my weakness, and now I am going to wait patiently till I can say what your uncle wishes.”

      Sage was silent, for she was thinking it was her duty to tell him that, after the sad little trouble that had come between them, it would be better for them to be more distant for a time; but she could not say it with his eyes looking appealingly at her. She had felt so proud of him for his manly bearing and straightforward honesty of purpose. The words would not come, and somehow the next minute she was sobbing in his arms as he whispered those two words, but in such a tone —

      “My darling!”

      She started from him guiltily the next moment, and ran up-stairs, and stayed till there was a fresh crunching of wheels and the trampling of a horse’s hoofs, when she came down again to welcome her sister and her husband, John Berry – a bluff, middle-aged farmer to whom Rue had been married some five years, and they had come now to spend a few days, bringing their two little girls.

      “Ah, Luke, my man of wisdom, how are you? Sage, my dear, give us a kiss. Bless you, how well you look. How am I? Hearty, and so’s Rue.”

      Sage was kissing her sister affectionately the next moment, heartily glad to see her looking so rosy and well, but blushing redder as she whispered merrily —

      “Oh! I am sorry we came and interrupted you. You look so guilty, Sagey. When’s it to be?”

      “Not for years to come, dear,” said Sage, as she busied herself with Lotty and Totty, their two golden-haired little children, who were so wrapped up that they were, as John said, warm as toasts.

      He plumped himself into a chair directly, to take one on each knee. Then Sage and Rue busied themselves in taking off pelisses and woollen leggings, and reducing the little things into a less rounded shape, while John sat as stolid and serious as a judge, evidently being very proud of his two little ones, as he was of his handsome young wife.

      “And now, John, you’d like a tankard of ale, wouldn’t you?” cried Sage.

      “Well, I don’t know,” said John, quietly; “a mug of squire’s ale is nice, if Luke there will have one too.”

      “Oh! I’ll join,” said Luke, heartily; and, after drawing it, Sage went up with Rue to her room, and she began to tease her about Luke, but ended with an affectionate embrace.

      “I’d marry him any time, dear,” she said, “for I think he’s a good fellow, and if you are as happy as I am with dear old John you will be satisfied.”

      “But uncle has said that it is not to be till Luke has five hundred a year,” said Sage, dreamily, “and that will not be for a long time; and – and, Rue, dear,” she faltered, “I – I don’t think I feel quite happy about it.”

      “Stuff and nonsense, Sagey! Uncle will come round. He wants to see us quite happy.”

      “But you misunderstand me, dear,” said Sage, thoughtfully. “I mean that I’m half afraid I’m not doing right in letting Luke Ross believe I love him, because – because – ”

      “Because – because you are a goose,” cried Rue, merrily. “I felt just the same about John, and was ready to break it off, and now I think him the dearest and best fellow under the sun. Sage, dear.”

      “Yes, Rue.”

      “You

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