The Star-Gazers. Fenn George Manville

to-day, dear. Mamma will be anxious to see me back.”

      “Indeed!” said Glynne, raising her eyebrows slightly.

      “Yes, dear; she is a little anxious, too, about Moray; he has been working so hard lately.”

      “Has he?” said Glynne, half-wonderingly, as if it seemed strange to her, in her placid existence, that people should ever work hard.

      “New discovery?” said the major. “Star-gazing?”

      “I think so,” replied Lucy; “but he is so quiet and reserved, and he does not like to speak until he is sure. If you would not mind coming round our way, I could leave you at the end of the lane.”

      “Mind? No,” cried the major; “but are you sure you will not come home with us to lunch?”

      “Quite sure, please,” said Lucy.

      “Then, we’ll see you right to your door,” said the major, as he shouldered the little easel; “eh, my dear?”

      “Oh, yes, of course, uncle,” replied Glynne; and they continued along the side path for about a quarter of a mile, before crossing a fir wood, whose trunks rose up like so many ruddy, grey-bronze columns, while the ground was made slippery by the thick coating of pine needles beneath their feet.

      “Oh, here’s one of your favourites, Major Day,” cried Lucy, eagerly, as she ran on and picked a curious grey-looking fungus, with a rough efflorescence on the top. “No, no, don’t tell me: I want to see if I recollect what it is.”

      “She doesn’t know, Glynne. Tell her, my dear.”

      “I, uncle?” said Glynne, smiling up at him. “You know I never recollect the names.”

      “I know you won’t rouse up that brain of yours to take an interest in anything,” said the major in a tone of good-tempered reproof. “It’s a great shame, when you are naturally so clever.”

      “I! Clever! Oh, uncle!” said Glynne, laughing.

      “I know – I remember,” cried Lucy, eagerly – “stop a moment, I have it.”

      “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the major, whose eyes sparkled with pleasure, and he seemed sufficiently animated to set a stranger wondering at an old soldier taking up with enthusiasm so strange a pursuit as that in which he engaged. “There, you don’t know, my dear, but I applaud your brave effort to remember. Someone here would not even try.”

      “No, uncle, it is of no use,” said Glynne, quietly, though she evidently took an interest in her companion’s enthusiastic ways.

      “I do know,” said Lucy, “and I won’t be told.”

      “You don’t,” said the major, banteringly.

      “I do,” cried Lucy. “Yes, I have it. It’s an Amanita.”

      “Bravo!”

      “Amanita Rubescens,” cried Lucy triumphantly; “and if you break it the flesh turns red – there!”

      “And she has broken the mushroom in half, and it has not turned red,” said the major, “because she is wrong.”

      “Oh, Major Day!” cried Lucy, “don’t say that. I am right, am I not?”

      “No, my dear, not quite,” said the major, “but very nearly. That is Amanita Pantkerinus, a very near relative of the one I showed you yesterday.”

      “But I have been trying,” cried Lucy.

      “I know you have,” said the major, smiling, “and I’m sure you can tell me what these are,” he continued, pointing to a cluster of flat, greeny-grey buttons, with dimly marked orange rings upon their surface.

      “Oh yes, I know them,” cried Lucy, eagerly picking two or three from the patch of grass in an opening amongst the Scotch firs. “Agaricus Deliciosus; and, oh, it is getting so late. I must make haste back. I can run home now. Good-bye, Glynne; good-bye, Major Day.”

      “Good-bye, little pupil,” he replied, “and you shall have your marks although you were not right.”

      “We’ll stop and watch you till you are safely home,” said Glynne. “Good-bye – good-bye.”

      Volume One – Chapter Five.

      Virgo Asleep

      Glynne Day stood with her uncle at the edge of the dark wood, where the slippery fir-needles lay thickly, and kept every blade of verdure from thrusting forth a relief to the dull, neutral grey that carpeted the ground, amid the tall, bronze-red columns. They gazed down a steep slope, and over the wild heathery waste that lay between them and what looked like a little wooded islet, rising out of the common into quite a mamelon, almost precipitous of side, and crowned with a heavy-looking edifice of brick, with other structures attached, all solid, plain, and terribly out of character with the wild landscape.

      For, from where they stood, as it were on the very verge of the cultivated land, there was a stretch of miles upon miles of rolling surface, here sand, there bog, the one brown and purple with the heather or yellow with the gorse, the other in little patches of vivid green or creamy pink, where the sphagnum grew, and the cotton rushes had their home.

      “What a desolate looking spot it is,” said the major thoughtfully, as they watched the active little figure tripping along the sandy road; “and yet it has its beauties after all.”

      “Ye-es, I suppose it has,” said Glynne, “but I never think about its being ugly or beautiful.”

      “No, my dear, you don’t,” said the major half pettishly; “and that’s what annoys me. Here you are, as beautiful a girl as well can be.”

      “Am I, uncle, dear?” said Glynne, with the same calm, pleasant smile.

      “Are you? Why of course you are, and with a splendid intellect, only you won’t use it.”

      “Don’t scold me, uncle,” said the girl, creeping closer to him, “I don’t want to be clever, I don’t want to know more than I know. I am so happy: why should I change?”

      The old man’s brow grew knotty and corrugated, partly, from perplexity, partly from annoyance, and he gazed sharply down at the sweet face looking lovingly in his.

      “There, there,” he said, “I won’t scold you, my darling. Look, there’s little Lucy waving her handkerchief before she enters Fort Science. Fine fellow that brother of hers.”

      “Yes, Mr Alleyne is nice,” said Glynne, returning her friend’s salute; and then, as Lucy disappeared at the curve of a steep path that ran up the sandy mound, they turned and walked back towards the hall.

      “And so you are very happy, my dear?” said the major, after a thoughtful pause.

      “Oh yes, uncle, so very happy,” replied Glynne quietly. “You and papa both love me.”

      “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said the major. “I’m not so sure that I do.”

      “But I am,” said the girl gently, “quite sure. Then Lucy loves me very much, and our friends are all so kind, and even the servants always smile pleasantly when I want anything done.”

      “Of course they do,” said the major, testily.

      “And it sets me wondering, when people talk about sorrow, and the weariness of the world.”

      “Humph! I suppose so,” the major said, stopping short; “and how about Rolph?”

      “Oh, he loves me too, uncle,” replied Glynne in the same quiet, placid tone and manner. “I was going to tell you: he has asked me if I would be his wife.”

      “And you – you have told him you would be?”

      “Yes, uncle. Papa approves of it, I know; and Robert is so brave and strong and manly. Don’t you think it is right?”

      The major gave his hat a tilt on one side, and scratched