Miss Arnott's Marriage. Marsh Richard

been wandering, she received ample proof that Mr Morice's neck still remained unbroken. The gentleman himself was standing not fifty paces from where she was. So disagreeably was she taken by surprise that she would have immediately withdrawn, and returned at the top of her speed by the way she had come, had it not been for two things. One was that he saw her as soon as she saw him; and the other that she also saw something else, the sight of which filled her with amazement.

      The first reason would not have been sufficient to detain her; although, so soon as he caught sight of her, he hailed her in his usual hearty tones. The terms of courtesy-or rather of discourtesy-on which these two stood towards each other were of such a nature that she held herself at liberty wholly to ignore him whenever she felt inclined. More than once when they had parted they had been on something less than speaking terms. For days together she had done her very best to cut him dead. Then, when at last, owing to his calm persistency, the acquaintance was renewed, he evinced not the slightest consciousness of its having ever been interrupted. Therefore she would not have hesitated to have turned on her heels, and walked away without a word-in spite of his salutation, had it not been for the something which amazed her.

      The fence had been moved!

      At first she thought that her eyes, or her senses, were playing her a trick. But a moment's inspection showed her that the thing was so. The old wooden, lichen-covered rails had been taken away for a space of sixty or seventy feet; and, instead, a little distance farther back, on the Oak Dene land, a solid, brand-new fence had been erected; standing in a position which conveyed the impression that the sheltered nook to which-in her ignorance of boundaries-Miss Arnott had been so attached, and in which Mr Morice first discovered her, was part and parcel of Exham Park instead of Oak Dene.

      It was some seconds before the lady realised exactly what had happened. When she did, she burst out on Mr Morice with a question.

      "Who has done this?"

      The gentleman, who stood with his back against a huge beech tree, took his pipe from between his lips, and smiled.

      "The fairies."

      "Then the fairies will soon be introduced to a policeman. You did it."

      "Not with my own hands, I assure you. At my time of life I am beyond that sort of thing."

      "How dare you cause my fence to be removed?"

      "Your fence? I was not aware it was your fence."

      "You said it was my fence."

      "Pardon me-never. I could not be guilty of such a perversion of the truth."

      "Then whose fence was it?"

      "It was mine. That is, it was my uncle's, and so, in the natural course of things, it became mine. It was like this. At one time, hereabouts, there was no visible boundary line between the two properties. I fancy it was a question of who should be at the expense of erecting one. Finally, my uncle loosed his purse-strings. He built this fence, with the wood out of his own plantations-even your friend Mr Baker will be able to tell you so much-the object being to keep out trespassers from Exham Park."

      "Then, as you have removed your fence, I shall have to put up one of my own. I have no intention of allowing innocent persons, connected with Exham Park, to trespass-unconsciously-on land belonging to Oak Dene."

      "Miss Arnott, permit your servant to present a humble petition."

      He held his cap in his hands, suggesting deference; but in the eyes was that continual suspicion of laughter which made it difficult to tell when he was serious. It annoyed Miss Arnott to find that whenever she encountered that glimmer of merriment she found it so difficult to preserve the rigidity of decorum which she so ardently desired. Now, although she meant to be angry, and was angry, when she encountered that peculiar quality in his glance, it was really hard to be as angry as she wished.

      "What objectionable remark have you to make now?"

      "This-your servant desires to be forgiven."

      "If the fence was yours, you were at liberty to do what you liked with it. You don't want to be forgiven for doing what you choose with your own. You can pull down all the fence for all I care."

      "Exactly; that is very good of you. It is not precisely for that I craved forgiveness. Your servant has ventured to do a bold thing."

      "Please don't call yourself my servant. If there is a ridiculous thing which you can say it seems as if you were bound to say it. Nothing you can do would surprise me. Pray, what particular thing have you been doing now? I thought you were going to Southampton on your car?"

      "The car's in trouble."

      "What's the matter with it?"

      "One man says one thing; another says another. I say- since this is the second time it's been in trouble this week-the thing's only fit for a rummage sale."

      "I have never concealed my opinion from you."

      "You haven't. Your opinion, being unbiassed by facts, is always the same; mine-depends. What, by the way, is just now your opinion of your own one? Lately it never seems to be in going order."

      "That's preposterous nonsense, as you are perfectly well aware. But I don't mean to be drawn into a senseless wrangle. I came here hoping to escape that sort of thing."

      "And you found me, which is tragic. However, we are wandering from the subject on to breezy heights. As I previously remarked, I have ventured to do a bold thing."

      "And I have already inquired, what unusually bold thing is it you have done?"

      "This."

      They were at some little distance from each other; he on one side of the newly-made fence, she, where freshly-turned sods showed that the old fence used to be. He took a paper from his pocket, and, going close up to his side of the fence, held it out to her in his outstretched hand. She, afar off, observed both it and him distrustfully.

      "What is it?"

      "This? It's a paper with something written on it. We'll call it a document. Come and look at it. It's harmless. It's not a pistol-or a gun."

      "I doubt if it contains anything which is likely to be of the slightest interest to me. Read what is on it."

      "I would rather you read it yourself. Come and take it, if you please."

      He spoke in that tone of calm assurance which was wont to affect her in a fashion which she herself was at a loss to understand. She resented bitterly its suggestion of authority; yet, before she was able to give adequate expression to her resentment, she was apt to find herself yielding entire obedience, as on the present occasion. In her indignation at the thought that he should issue his orders to her, as if she were his servant, she was more than half disposed to pick up a clod of earth, or a stone, and, like some street boy, hurl it at him and run away. She refrained from doing this, being aware that such a proceeding would not increase her dignity; and, also, because she did what he told her. She marched up to the fence and took the paper from his hand.

      "I don't want it; you needn't suppose so. I've not the faintest desire to know what's on it." He simply looked at her with a glint of laughter in his big grey eyes. "I've half a mind to tear it in half and return it to you."

      "You won't do that."

      "Then I'll take it with me and look at it when I get home, if I look at it at all."

      "Read it now."

      She opened and read it; or tried to. "I don't understand what it's about; it seems to be so much gibberish. What is the thing?"

      "It's a conveyance."

      "A conveyance? What do you mean?"

      "Being interpreted, it's a legal instrument which conveys to you and to your heirs for ever the fee-simple of-that."

      "That?"

      "That." He was pointing to the piece of land which lay within the confines of the newly-made fence. "That nook-that dell-that haven in which I saw you first, because you were under the impression it was yours. I was idiot enough to disabuse your mind, not being conscious, then, of what a fool I was. My idiocy has rankled ever since. However, it may have been of aforetime your lying there,