The Revellers. Tracy Louis

ye may, an’ welcome,” she said in her hearty way.

      Angèle murmured something in French, but her mother gave a curt answer, and the child subsided, being, perhaps, interested by the evident amazement and admiration she evoked among the country people. To-day, Angèle was dressed in a painted muslin, with hat and sash of the same material, long black silk stockings, and patent-leather shoes. She looked elegantly old-fashioned, and might have walked bodily out of one of Caran d’Ache’s sketches of French society.

      Suddenly she bounced up like an india-rubber ball.

      “Tra la!” she cried. “V’là mon cher Martin!”

      The prayer meeting had ended, and Martin was speeding home, well knowing who had arrived there.

      Angèle ran to meet him.

      “She’s a rale fairy,” whispered Mrs. Summersgill, mistress of the Dale End Farm. “She’s rigged out like a pet doll.”

      “Ay,” agreed her neighbor. “D’ye ken wheer they coom frae?”

      “Frae Lunnon, I reckon. They’re staying wi’ t’ Miss Walkers. That’s t’ muther, a Mrs. Saumarez, they call her, but they say she’s a Jarman baroness.”

      “Well, bless her heart, she hez a rare swallow for a gill o’ ale.”

      This was perfectly true. The lady had emptied her glass with real gusto.

      “I was so hot and tired,” she said, with an apologetic smile at her hostess. “Now, I can admire your wonderful store of good things to eat,” and she focussed the display through gold-rimmed eyeglasses.

      Truly, the broad kitchen table presented a spectacle that would kill a dyspeptic. A cold sirloin, a portly ham, two pairs of chickens, three brace of grouse – these solids were mere garnishings to dishes piled with currant cakes, currant loaves and plain bread cut and buttered, jam turnovers, open tarts of many varieties, “fat rascals,” Queen cakes, sponge cakes – battalions and army corps of all the sweet and toothsome articles known to the culinary skill of the North.

      “I’m feared, my leddy, they won’t suit your taste,” began Mrs. Bolland, but the other broke in eagerly:

      “Oh, don’t say that! They look so good, so wholesome, so different from the French cooking we weary of in town. If I were not afraid of spoiling my dinner and earning a scolding from Françoise I would certainly ask for some of that cold beef and a slice of bread and butter.”

      “Tek my advice, ma’am, an’ eat while ye’re in t’ humor,” cried Mrs. Bolland, instantly helping her guest to the eatables named.

      Mrs. Saumarez laughed delightedly and peeled off a pair of white kid gloves. She ate a little of the meat and crumbled a slice of bread. Mrs. Bolland refilled the glass with beer.

      Then the lady made herself generally popular by asking questions. Did they use lard or butter in the pastry? How was the sponge cake made so light? What a curious custom it was to put currants into plain dough; she had never seen it done before. Were the servants able to do these things, or had they to be taught by the mistress of the house? She amused the women by telling of the airs and graces of London domestics, and evoked a feeling akin to horror by relating the items of the weekly bills in her town house.

      “Seven pund o’ beäcan for breakfast i’ t’ kitchen!” exclaimed Mrs. Summersgill. “Wheä ivver heerd tell o’ sike waste?”

      “Eh, ma’am,” cried another, “but ye mun addle yer money aisy t’ let ’em carry on that gait.”

      Martin, who found Angèle in her most charming mood – unconsciously pleased, too, that her costume was not so outré as to run any risk of caustic comment by strangers – came in and asked if he might take her along the row of stalls. Mrs. Bolland had given him a shilling that morning, and he resolved magnanimously to let the shooting gallery wait; Angèle should be treated to a shilling’s worth of aught she fancied.

      But Mrs. Saumarez rose.

      “Your mother will kill me with kindness, Martin, if I remain longer,” she said. “Take me, too, and we’ll see if the fair contains any toys.”

      She emptied the second glass of ale, drew on her gloves, bade the company farewell with as much courtesy as if they were so many countesses, and walked away with the youngsters.

      At one stall she bought Martin a pneumatic gun, a powerful toy which the dealer never expected to sell in that locality. At another she would have purchased a doll for Angèle, but the child shrugged her shoulders and declared that she would greatly prefer to ride on the roundabouts with Martin. Mrs. Saumarez agreed instantly, and the pair mounted the hobby-horses.

      Among the children who watched them enviously were Jim Bates and Evelyn Atkinson. When the steam organ was in full blast and the horses were flying round at a merry pace, Mrs. Saumarez bent over Jim Bates and placed half a sovereign in his hand.

      “Go to the ‘Black Lion,’” she said, “and bring me a bottle of the best brandy. See that it is wrapped in paper. I do not care to go myself to a place where there are so many men.”

      Jim darted off. The roundabout slackened speed and stopped, but Mrs. Saumarez ordered another ride. The whirl had begun again when Bates returned with a parcel.

      “It was four shillin’s, ma’am,” he said.

      “Thank you, very much. Keep the change.”

      Even Evelyn Atkinson was so awed by the magnitude of the tip that she forgot for a moment to glue her eyes on Angèle and Martin.

      But Angèle, wildly elated though she was with the sensation of flight, and seated astride like a boy, until the tops of her stockings were exposed to view, did not fail to notice the conclusion of Jim Bates’s errand.

      “Mamma will be ill to-night,” she screamed in Martin’s ear. “Françoise will be busy waiting on her. I’ll come out again at eight o’clock.”

      “You must not,” shouted the boy. “It will be very rough here then.”

      “C’la va – I mean, I know that quite well. It’ll be all the more jolly. Meet me at the gate. I’ll bring plenty of money.”

      “I can’t,” protested Martin.

      “You must!”

      “But I’m supposed to be home myself at eight o’clock.”

      “If you don’t come, I’ll find some other boy. Frank Beckett-Smythe said he would try and turn up every evening, in case I got a chance to sneak out.”

      “All right. I’ll be there.”

      Martin intended to hurry her through the fair and take her home again. If he received a “hiding” for being late, he would put up with it. In any case, the squire’s eldest son could not be allowed to steal his wilful playmate without a struggle. Probably Adam reasoned along similar lines when Eve first offered him an apple. Be that as it may, it never occurred to Martin that the third chapter of Genesis could have the remotest bearing on the night’s frolic.

      CHAPTER V

      “IT IS THE FIRST STEP THAT COUNTS”

      Mrs. Saumarez and Angèle returned to The Elms, but Martin had to forego accompanying them. He knew that – with Bible opened at the Third Book of Kings – John Bolland was waiting in a bedroom, every downstairs apartment being crowded.

      He ran all the way along the village street and darted upstairs, striving desperately to avoid even the semblance of undue haste. Bolland was thumbing the book impatiently. He frowned over his spectacles.

      “Why are ye late?” he demanded.

      “Mrs. Saumarez asked me to walk with her through the village,” answered Martin truthfully.

      “Ay. T’ wife telt me she was here.”

      The explanation served, and Martin breathed more freely. The reading commenced:

      “Now