One Maid's Mischief. Fenn George Manville

we are.”

      “Than we should be if you would not do such foolish things, Arthur,” said the little lady, sharply.

      “Foolish things, my dear?” he replied, rather blankly.

      “Yes, foolish things. I don’t mind your being so fond of your garden and natural history, but it doesn’t look becoming for you to come back as you did yesterday, with a bunch of weeds in one hand, a bundle of mosses in the other, and your hat pinned all over with butterflies. The people think you half mad.”

      “But I had no pill-boxes, my dear Mary, and Thompson, of the Entomological, asked me to get him some of the large sulphurs.”

      “Then I wish Thompson, of the Entomological, would come down and catch his butterflies himself. Give me a bit more fat.”

      “For my part I should never wish to change.”

      “Well, I don’t know,” said the elderly lady, slowly, as she made a very hearty breakfast. “Little Magnus is very nice and the garden very pretty, but there seems to be a something wanting. Tilt the dish and give me a little more of that gravy, Arthur. Why don’t you pass your cup?”

      “And yet we have an abundance of the good things of this life, Mary, that we could not enjoy in a town.”

      “Ye-es,” said the little lady, dubiously; “but still there seems to be a something wanting.”

      “I think we shall have plenty of honey this year, my dear Mary.”

      “So we did last year, Arthur.”

      “The mushrooms are coming on very fast in the pit. By the way, what did you do with those Saint George’s agarics I brought home yesterday?”

      “Threw them away.”

      “My dear Mary!”

      “And the best thing too, Arthur. Now, once for all, mushrooms are mushrooms; but I’m not going to have you poison yourself nor me neither with all kinds of toadstools, to gratify your love of experiment.”

      The curate sighed, and there came a pause, broken by Miss Mary Rosebury saying:

      “Yes, I suppose we ought to be perfectly contented, and I think I am; but sometimes it seems a pity that we should always go on like this without any change. Oh, here’s Brown.”

      Volume One – Chapter Two.

      A Dangerous Visitor

      Miss Mary Rosebury left her chair at the breakfast-table and hurried out to the rose-covered porch as a heavy step was heard upon the gravel; and directly after a sturdy-looking man, with half-a-dozen leather bags slung from his shoulder, appeared at the door.

      “Fine morning, miss. Two letters – three letters – four letters. ‘Stan’ard,’ ‘Gar’ner’s Chronkle,’ ‘Beekeep’s Junnel;’ that’s all, miss;” and before the little lady had had time to speak, the heavy step was receding over the gravel. “Four letters for you, Arthur. Shall I open them?”

      “Please, my dear Mary,” said the Reverend Arthur, without evincing the slightest interest in the arrival of the post, for he was carefully filling up the holes in some well-made dry toast with the freshest of fresh butter.

      Miss Mary Rosebury laid the letters upon the table while she fished a spectacle-case from her pocket, balanced her glasses upon her rather decided-looking nose, gave the two little bunches of curls on either side of her white forehead a shake, and opened the first letter, reading aloud:

      “‘Messrs Spindle and Twist beg to call your attention to a very curious sherry, and’ – um – um – um – um – Ah! you don’t want to lay down sherry, do you, Arthur?”

      “No, my dear Mary,” said her brother; and letter number two was opened.

      “‘Mr Hazelton is now prepared to make advances upon personal security to the clergy, gentry – ’ Bah! money-lenders!” exclaimed Miss Mary Rosebury, throwing aside the second letter. “I wish these people wouldn’t bore us with their applications. What’s this?”

      As she spoke she took up a large blue official-looking envelope.

      “Looks important, my dear Mary,” said the Rev. Arthur, displaying a little more interest.

      “Yes,” said his sister, turning the letter over. “Oh! Arthur, suppose it means preferment at last – a vicarage somewhere.”

      “I don’t think I should be very much pleased, my dear Mary. I am very happy here.”

      “Oh, yes, of course we are, Arthur; but as I have often said, there does seem to be a something wanting, and – ‘The directors of the New Polwheedle and Verity Friendship Tin Mining’ – Oh, dear, dear, just as if we had money to throw down Cornish mines. What’s this? I don’t know this hand. There’s a crest upon the envelope, and ‘H.B.’ in the corner. Oh! it’s from Doctor Bolter.”

      “Postmark Penang?” said the Reverend Arthur. “Wondered I had not heard from him.”

      “No, it’s from London. Let me see. All about specimens, I suppose.”

      My Dear Rosebury, —

      I’m in England for a month or two, and am coming down to see you and chat over old times. Don’t make any fuss, old fellow! Bed on a sofa will do for an old campaigner like me. I’ve got business your way – to see some young ladies at Mayleyfield – daughters of two people out in the Peninsula. Been educated at home, and I am going to be their escort back. Nuisance, but must do it; expect me to-morrow.

Yours very truly, —Harry Bolter.

      The Reverend Arthur Rosebury.

      “Why, Arthur, he’s coming here!”

      “Yes, my dear. I’m very glad!”

      “But to-day, Arthur! What shall I do?”

      “Do, my dear Mary? Nothing! Bolter never wants anything done for him, unless he’s very much altered, and I don’t think he will be.”

      “But the young ladies at Mayleyfield? Why that must be at Miss Twettenham’s establishment!”

      “Very probably, my dear!” said the Reverend Arthur, getting up to walk up and down the room. “I shall be very, very glad to see Harry Bolter. I wonder whether he has brought any specimens?”

      “To be sure, I’ve heard that the Misses Twettenham have several young ladies there whose parents are in India.”

      “Not India, my dear. Henry Bolter has been in the Malay Peninsula. He was at Singapore and then at Penang.”

      “And the house in such a terrible muddle!” exclaimed Miss Mary. “Whatever shall I do?”

      “What a little world this is,” said the Reverend Arthur. “How strange that Henry Bolter should, so to speak, have friends as near as Mayleyfield!”

      “Oh, Arthur, Arthur, you really have no thought whatever! To-day is baking day!”

      “I am very glad, my dear Mary! Henry Bolter was always, I remember, fond of new bread. We used to call him Hot-roll Bolter at college.”

      “Arthur!”

      “Yes, my dear Mary.”

      “I really am thankful that you never married! You would have worried any reasonable woman into her grave!”

      “I am very sorry. I hope not, my dear Mary! I think if I had ever seen any lady I should have liked to call my wife, my whole study would have been to make her happy!”

      “Yes, yes, my dear Arthur!” said the little petulant lady, placing her hands upon her tall, thin brother’s shoulders once more to pull him down to be kissed, “I know you would; but you are so tiresome.”

      “I’m – I’m afraid I am, my dear Mary. I think sometimes that I must be very stupid.”

      “Nonsense, Arthur; you are not. You are one of the best and cleverest of men; but you do get so