.

were reflected in the dark depths of the mirror.

      "No," she admitted; "after all, one can manage without it. I could never see it as a reproach, Susannah," she added.

      Miss Chressham looked at her.

      "Not if one is as pretty as you are," she answered, and smiled half sadly.

      "Oh, fie, my dear! You must not flatter an old woman."

      The Countess sank easily into a brocaded chair and her pearl-coloured satin dress gleamed in the candle-light. The lace over her faint blonde hair and over her shoulder seemed pearl-coloured too. She folded her silks away into a blue and silver bead-bag and when the servant had left the room she spoke again.

      "You are so sensible, Susannah," she remarked in a tone of gentle helplessness; "such a comfort to me, my dear." She sighed, and rested her cheek on her long white fingers. "Rose is heedless, and I really know so little of what he does in London. Of course, I hear things"—she paused, and added placidly—"which, of course, are also no business of mine. But I do wish"—she gave Susannah an appealing look—"that he would come down and look after the place, and I wish he would marry."

      "I dare swear he will do both," answered Miss Chressham cheerfully; "nay, it would be vastly strange if he did not."

      The room was very pleasantly full of candle-light; it sparkled in the folds of Miss Chressham's red silk gown as she moved close to the Countess's chair; through the still open window terrace, trees and sky showed luminous and purple.

      "I have heard the names of several ladies," remarked the Countess, "mentioned by Rose and other people, but not one he could or would marry."

      "Why, when he meets her he will not speak of it," smiled Susannah.

      Lady Lyndwood sighed.

      "Well, I wish he would come. Marius will want to see him about his fortune."

      "Is it in Rose's hands?" asked Miss Chressham, a faint look of surprise on her fair face.

      "Ah—yes," the Countess spoke vaguely, "all the money went to Rose; but Marius has something when he comes of age, which was last October. I am sorry he should have been abroad, and now, I suppose, he will want to leave us again."

      "I suppose so," assented Susannah absently.

      "Nothing else is to be expected," returned Lady Lyndwood. "Rose cannot ask Marius to look after the estate, and really it is very dull here. I think we must all go to town this season."

      Susannah was silent.

      The Countess continued her gentle disconnected talk.

      "Two years ago—how different Marius will be! I hope he will get on with Rose. And—la, my dear, 'tis near seven of the clock!" She rose, her grey eyes agitated and a flush in her cheeks. "Seven he is to be here!"

      "Let us walk to the front and watch for him," said Miss Chressham.

      The elder lady took her arm, and they went into the quiet hall, looked into the dining-room where early moss roses showed between the glass and silver on the table and the candles in their sconces sent flickerings on the portraits of fair gay Lyndwoods, past to the open door, and so on to the wide, shallow steps.

      It was a most beautiful evening, a new moon floated in gauzy vapour above the soft dark lines of the trees; mysterious and beckoning the white road gleamed away into the twilight; the stone vases at the bottom of the steps were dimly visible; a faint sweetness rose from the early pinks they carried.

      Jasmine and roses covered the front of Lyndwood Holt, and their tendrils, lightly stirring now and then, touched the dresses of the two ladies waiting in the dusk.

      The village clock sounded faintly, then from the stable came the chimes of seven.

      "He will be very tired," said the Countess.

      Miss Chressham laughed.

      "He will only have ridden from Maidstone, dear."

      "Of course," answered Lady Lyndwood's sweet vague voice. "I always think of him as coming from Paris—as if he had come straight from there"—she laughed aimlessly. "I wish Rose had been here," she added. "I swear I feel quite nervous."

      "Rose comes to-morrow," repeated the younger lady.

      A little pause, then the Countess spoke again.

      "The place looks very well, does it not? though perhaps after the gaieties of the Continent——"

      "Here he is," interrupted Miss Chressham.

      Down the dusky glimmer of road came the sound of a hurrying horse.

      The Countess advanced impulsively down the steps. A rider galloped up through the twilight—a slender young man in a travelling cloak was kissing Lady Lyndwood, laughing and breathless, before Miss Chressham had freed her skirt from a long rose bough.

      "Susannah!" He held out his hand as she joined them. "May I still kiss her?" he asked his mother.

      "Yes, Marius," smiled Miss Chressham; "to-night, at least."

      He saluted her cheek and her hands. The three came towards the house together.

      "And you are well and safe? And your portmantles? And where is Mr. Hardinge? And—oh, Marius—I fear it will seem so dull!" cried the Countess in a breath.

      Marius Lyndwood laughed an answer.

      "Indeed, I am well, and the man is following with the trunks. I left Mr. Hardinge at Dover. And, now my turn. Where is Rose?"

      "He is coming to-morrow," answered both the ladies, as they passed into the hall.

      "Why, he wrote to me he would be here to-night," said Marius Lyndwood.

      "He could not," replied Miss Chressham hastily. "His engagements."

      The young man flung off his cloak and hat with a pleasant laugh.

      "Rose is the fashion—a town rake. His brother must not hope to see him. Well, I cannot care to-night——"

      He turned into the dining-room, looking about him. The ladies followed, and there, in the strong fair light of the candles, the three cast eager eyes on each other.

      After the gay warmth and joy of their meeting this pause came almost like embarrassment, as if they found themselves, after all, strangers.

      His mother was quick to see the change in the new arrival. At first she did not think this Marius as handsome as the boy who had left her two years ago. The next second she told herself that his powdered hair, his elegant clothes, his graceful bearing, had vastly improved him, and that he was very like his father.

      He came round the table, took her hand and kissed it.

      "How beautiful you are, mother," he said.

      The Countess coloured. That, too, was like his father. Across this scene of the handsome room, with its pleasant appointments, with the figures of young man and woman, rose the picture of a tablet in the parish church. She felt suddenly very lonely.

      "Susannah will show you your room," she said faintly, "and then we will have dinner."

      "The same room?" smiled Marius.

      "Oh, yes!" nodded Susannah.

      "Then I can find it. I have not been away a hundred years, my lady, and I hear them with the portmantles. You must not move for me."

      Laughing, he left the room. They heard his greetings to the servants in the hall, and the agreeable bustle of arrival filled the quiet house.

      The Countess sat down at the head of the table; one of her fair hands lay among the glasses on the shining white cloth. The other drooped in her lap; she looked up at Susannah, and her eyes were wistful.

      "Do you think he has changed?" she asked.

      "Into