standing" Brydain said quickly. "These are they; you know them as well as I do; I propose to Miss Farrant. She does not refuse me; nor does she accept me. She asks for a fortnight's grace before she answers. I, of course, acquiesce. In the interval I leave town; not having heard from her, I give her my address and hope for my answer. The fortnight goes by, and never a word or a sign do I get. Three months go by, and I meet her; you are witness-she cuts me. The explanation of all this is as plain as a pikestaff: she did not wish, on reflection, to marry me, and took the simplest, and for herself, the easiest way of letting me know that. To-day, she emphasizes that decision. There's nothing there to misunderstand!"

Tredennis gave two long whiffs at his cigarette. He did not speak. Brydain took a prolonged investigation of the ashes at the end of his, and seemed to wait for an answer. But none was forthcoming. "Do you see any room for misunderstanding, yourself, Ted, when you look at it like that?" he enquired, with a slightly cynical smile on his lips.

"I don't know what I see. I don't understand any of it!" was the answer; and a silence followed. Twenty minutes later Tredennis broke it.

Keith," he said, "should you very much mind staying in town another day? As we have missed our chance to-day, there is some work I should very much like to get out of hand to-morrow, if you haven't any great objection to waiting till Thursday?"

"Not a bit!" said Brydain nonchalantly. "I don't suppose my landlady has any little plans for the occupation of my rooms. If she has, they'll be frustrated when she sees me to-night. Which reminds me that I'd better be putting in an appearance," he added, rising.

"Well, then, Thursday; and I'll come to you to-morrow night, and settle about going. Good night, old fellow."

"Good night," Brydain replied; and they parted.

minate mind at any time, but the errand on which he had come was so very difficult and delicate, that a momentary reluctance to enter upon it came to him at this, the moment of facing it. It was only momentary, however, and had vanished when the parlourmaid opened the door.

"Miss Farrant in town?" he asked.
The woman hesitated.

"Yes, sir, she is in town," she said. "But she's not seeing any one. She's only in town just for to-day, sir; she's leaving for France this evening. And Mrs. Farrant's not in town, sir," the woman added, as Tredennis stood his ground, apparently unconvinced.

He took out a card.

"I shall be always grateful if you will let me see you for ten minutes," he wrote beneath his name. "I think Miss Farrant will see me, if you will take her that,” he said, handing it to the woman, who took it upstairs.

A moment or two later she returned.
"Miss Farrant will see you, sir," she
"Will you walk this way?"
Tredennis followed her upstairs.

said.

Two hours later, Tredennis opened the door of Brydain's rooms. Brydain, who was sitting in an easy-chair reading a novel, looked up with a smile of welcome on his face.

"I'm glad to see you," he said; "I'm bored to death! I wish I'd not let you impose twelve extra waking hours of this broiling town on me!"

Tredennis shut the door and came into the room without speaking. There was a curious expression on his face. "Brydain," he said, "I have something very strange to say to you."

Brydain, amazed at his manner, wheeled round rapidly in his chair and stared at his friend.

"I have just come from Miss Farrant," Tredennis went on.

Brydain let the book fall with a bang and started to his feet.

"You have just come from Miss Farrant!" He spoke with pauses between each word; pauses of absolute breathlessness.

"Yes; sit down. There's a lot to tell you. Keith, there has been a most awful mistake somewhere !".

and rang the bell still more slowly.

Tredennis was not a man of indeter

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was. Well, I didn't want to be either dishonest or unkind," said Poppy gravely. "And after all, I don't profess to know anything about painting, nor do you, I suppore. We forgot that. We know nothing; we don't paint, you or I. Nothing makes me so angry as to hear people criticising what they don't understand. In the Academy, for instance, what things one hears! Really, all that is a lesson-not to be afraid to confess one's ignorance."

Aunt Fanny's bright eyes twinkled. "Very well; but we must take care not to admire, as well as not to find fault. Ignorance means that we know nothing in either direction. However, that's all very pretty, but I don't agree with you, my dear. I think the opinion of a cultivated creature is worth something, whether she can paint or not. You shan't persuade me that I don't know a real artist when I meet one, or the contrary. Keep your ignorance to yourself, and bring it out when poor Mr. Thorne shows you more sketches."

Poppy laughed and sighed. Slowly they turned their backs on the Castle hill, and began climbing a lane between low stone walls and meadows, shaded by trees, which without a touch of wind dropped a yellow leaf now and then. They were walking east, and the evening light went on deepening behind them. In the faces of both there was a little disturbance; worry, though in no very definite form, had taken hold upon them both. Poppy was mourning over her artist, perhaps more than she chose to say, not being quite sure of her aunt's full sympathy. The claims of an old friend on her interest, almost on her affection, were intensified, to an extent he did not at all realise, by his belonging to her county and her parish. Poppy had, half secretly, but deep in her nature, the most ancient and feudal ideas about herself as lady of the manor. She had a way of looking on her own people as children waiting to be fed. Much of this feeling, no doubt, could be traced to her ancestors, who had lived for generations as landlords at Bryans, generally good and benevolent. The present day gave Poppy other thoughts and feelings to mix with her feudal ladyship; deep convictions both of the brotherhood of humanity and of the evil of pauperising her neighbours. She had thus grown up a mixture of aristocrat and democrat, with the deepest respect for her own position,

and the strongest feeling of the wants and claims of others. Some people in her own county said that she was undignified and a Radical; others, that she was haughty and gave herself absurd airs. Porphyris followed her own convictions too independently, in too illogically logical a fashion to be quite popular in general society. But the best people understood and loved her.

Miss Fanny Latimer loved her niece dearly without understanding her. She was always a little afraid about Poppy's future, believing her capable of some extravagant foolishness; it would be hard to say why, except that the romantic side of Poppy's character struck her aunt much more than the dignified and self-respecting side. This tendency, of course, was latent, while that was expressed. But Miss Latimer was naturally an anxious woman, given to studying small things, easily made suspicious, fearing danger, one may say, in every bush; and thus she could not know without disquiet that Poppy was inclined to look on this unfortunate artist as a responsibility, a charge of her own. The knowledge that Poppy's thoughts were occupied with him, as they strolled slowly up the lane together, was disagreeable to Mies Latimer. Being a good woman she could not have done anything actively unkind to Geoffrey Thorne, and she wished him no evil, except the speediest possible departure from Herzheim.

Two trains of thought went on in her mind as she walked beside Poppy. One discussed the wisdom of telegraphing to Mrs. Nugent, her dearest friend, who had promised to meet them at Herzheim, to hurry her coming. The other, after a minute or two, found its way into words. It was a real inspiration. Miss Latimer wondered afterwards how she had been worthy to receive it.

"Poppy," she said, "I have an idea. You may not like it, but I think it's clever-and delightful-worth considering, at least."

"About the sketches?" said Poppy absently.

Her aunt made a little face.

"Well, yes, dear. A match. It will take two anxieties off your mind; and really, the more I think of it, the more perfect it seems. The artist and Maggie Farrant. Now, could anything be more charming? Only the other day you wondered whom Maggie would marry,

like to lower hers? You are not a stupid lump who does not understand these things, therefore you ought to let them influence you. Would not she be happier married to a man of her own position in society? What, in fact, do you see in yourself to make yourself worthy to be offered to her?"

To such arguments Geoffrey made some kind of answer, by which common sense was asked to see that no connections, nothing, could affect the high nature and standing of Miss Latimer. That his pride was his own affair, if she cared to accept his love. In that case, of course, she must think it better worth having than other people's. No one else, certainly, Geoffrey reasoned-forgetting a few aberrationshad worshipped her since she was a little child. And after all, the poor fellow thought, this self of his might have really been a worthless thing. He might have had no genius. Genius and work had often enough given men everything they wanted. His genius, in which he believed, and his years of work, which were real, had done little for him, it was true. But if a woman like Porphyria Latimer could love him for himself, these things made him a little more valuable. All this common sense could not contradict. But she did something far more cruel; she laughed. And Geoffrey himself put his head down in his hands and laughed, bitterly and passionately, for with a swift reaction the cold mist had crept into his very soul.

He was sitting now on a bench by the river, under an old plane-tree, with his face to the western sky and mountainsnot those wonderful mountains, to the south of the town, which his studio window looked out upon. Close before him the river came rushing down from the lake; there were rapids here, down which the water boiled and played, a sheet of sparkling foam, then hurrying on, flashing in varied green and blue. The noise seemed deafening, and yet suddenly, through it all, Geoffrey in his dejection was aware of footsteps that came up and stopped beside him, and of a voice beginning in French :

"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but could you have the goodness to tell me

Geoffrey got up, flushing a little with shame, for the accent was English, and he was sensitive to the opinion of his countryHe saw before him a short, slight man of about his own age, carefully

men.

dressed in the most approved fashion for a walking tour, with a small, delicate, but sunburnt face, red hair cut close, and a thin red moustache. The aspect of the man was finicking, and his expression, though polite and intelligent, was not agreeable. His eyes were dark, keen, and peremptory. He looked like a gentleman, a clever man, and a dandy.

"I'm English," Geoffrey shouted, smiling. "What can I tell you?"

The stranger stared at him hard, and smiled a little too. His own voice was so clear and penetrating that it seemed to pierce without effort through that Babel of waters. "Could you

"Ah-thanks," he said.

kindly tell me where the Blumenhof iswhich side of the town, I mean?"

A slight, unreasonable, foolish feeling of annoyance made Geoffrey flush a little deeper, so that the stranger stared at him harder and more satirically. As Geoffrey explained that it lay to the east of the town, and went on in a dry, businesslike fashion to tell him the nearest way to it, the stranger lifted his sharp chin in the direction of Geoffrey's pointing stick, and his expression became milder and indifferently friendly. It had been a little hard on the fellow, he acknowledged, to be caught moping with his face in his hands. No wonder he looked like a fool; but now he was talking like a sensible fellow enough.

"Do you know the hotel?" he condescended to ask. "It is a good one, I suppose?"

"Not so smart as the 'Grand,'" Geoffrey answered. "But I like it very much. I'm staying there. It stands high, you know; it has a nice garden."

"Ah! I suppose," the stranger nibbled his moustache, looked at the river, glanced sharply at Geoffrey again, "I suppose you couldn't tell me whether some English people have arrived there—of the name of Nugent?"

Geoffrey could say positively "No," there were no people of the name of Nugent at the Blumenhof. His new acquaintance looked at him as if he meant to ask some other question; but on second thoughts refrained.

"Thanks; much obliged to you," he said, lifted his cap politely, and walked off with quick steps towards the town.

Geoffrey, sitting down again on his bench, looked after the straight, slender figure, the tight, correct legs doing their