Her Lord and Master. Martha Morton

to her abroad."

      "Kind attention is no name for it," said Mrs. Bunker. "They gave me the best time I ever had. And now that I've caught them on American ground, I intend to repay it with interest."

      "I assure you, Mrs. Bunker, you need feel no sense of obligation," said Lord Canning. "Your companionship was a source of unfailing pleasure."

      "What do you think of this big town, Lord Canning?" said Mr. Stillwater, indicating his surroundings by a comprehensive wave of the hand.

      "Extraordinary!" answered Lord Canning.

      "How long are you going to be here?" inquired Mrs. Bunker of Lord Stafford, while her son-in-law was probing Lord Canning's recently acquired views of America.

      "Oh, we're only birds of passage, Mrs. Bunker."

      "So are we; but isn't it delightful to meet on the wing?"

      "On the wing; ha, ha! Delightful, Mrs. Bunker! Delightful!"

      "We start to-morrow for California," said Lord Canning.

      "And the day after we return to Indiana," added Mrs. Bunker.

      "In the summer we intend to investigate Colorado."

      "I have a ranch up in the Rockies," said Stillwater. "Why, this little girl," he brought his hand down on Indiana's shoulders, "learned to shoot up there."

      "Indeed!" said Lord Canning.

      "Well, you just ought to have seen her once cornering a grizzly. She shot him, too—sure as I stand here."

      "Extraordinary!" exclaimed Lord Canning.

      "Oh, that's a small matter," remarked Indiana modestly.

      "Indeed!" said Lord Canning.

      "We shoot bears every day in America," she added airily.

      At these words Lord Canning looked about him as though he fully expected one to appear that moment, for the purpose of allowing him to see Miss Stillwater dispatch it with all possible speed, and just as she stood there in her long white opera cloak, holding a bunch of hyacinths.

      "Not here!" exclaimed Indiana.

      "No?" answered Lord Canning, looking absently at her blonde pompadour, every hair of which seemed to quiver with a distinct life and individuality of its own.

      Indiana gave vent to a long peal of merriment.

      "No—of course not!" Lord Canning hastened to add. "Not here."

      "We used to spend most part of our summers in the Rockies," said Stillwater, "but the last two or three years the ladies have preferred the Adirondacks."

      "We thought of giving ourselves a month there in the autumn, before we return to England," said Lord Canning.

      "Now's my chance," exclaimed Mrs. Bunker; "you must stay with us, and we'll give you fine hunting."

      "Plenty of deer in the North Woods," added Stillwater. "You'll be heartily welcome if you care to rough it with us. Camp life, you know."

      "I should be only too delighted," said Lord Canning. "What do you say, Uncle?"

      "Charmed!"

      "I'm sure we'll make you feel at home," said Mrs. Stillwater.

      At these words, uttered with such heartfelt sincerity, the two Englishmen felt at home that very moment. There was a soft domesticity about Mrs. Stillwater, which made itself perceptible even in the brilliant crowded corridor of the Waldorf.

      "Now, Lord Stafford," said Mrs. Bunker, "take out your note book; and I'll give you all necessary instructions to reach us."

      "I generally manage to get up there in September," said Mr. Stillwater. "But, if anything detains me for a short while—you'll be in good hands."

      "Yes, we'll take care of you," said Indiana.

      Lord Canning smiled. Indiana immediately decided that his face, though stern in repose, was not unattractive.

      "Well, good-bye till the fall," said Mrs. Bunker. "Lord Stafford, do you remember that odd trick you had abroad, of turning up unexpectedly, wherever I happened to be?" She tapped him playfully with a carnation from her bouquet.

      "Ha, ha, ha! You see, I haven't lost that trick yet, Mrs. Bunker!" He took the carnation and fastened it in his buttonhole.

      "Good-bye, Lord Canning," said Indiana. "Don't forget to look us up, when you come to the woods. I'll show you the sights."

      Lord Canning bowed, blushing with embarrassment. No young lady, of the tender age of Indiana, had ever before spoken to him with such freedom, or looked at him with such unconscious, unabashed eyes.

      "Lively woman, Mrs. Bunker," remarked Lord Stafford, looking after the party, and inhaling the fragrance of the carnation.

      He met with no response.

      "Lively woman, eh?" he repeated in a louder tone.

      "Yes," answered Lord Canning absently, "very, very young; little more than a child, in spite of her self-assurance—and there's something about her—something—quite—er—different!"

CHAPTER III.

       Table of Contents

On a Model Farm

       Table of Contents

      "The peas are sprouting pretty lively. The tomatoes are as perky as the young generation. The strawberries—well, they're saying, 'To-day we're here, to-morrow we're gone.' You shall have strawberries and cream for supper this evening."

      After delivering this report in his own neat style, Stillwater rolled down his shirt sleeves, threw aside his big straw wide awake, and sank into a rocker.

      "What are you making, mother?"

      "A little dimity dress for Indiana to wear about the farm."

      "Well, history repeats itself on this place. Are you commencing to make dresses for Indiana again? I suppose you're imagining she's a little fat tot, and we've always been just here."

      "Not when I look at all this goods," said Mrs. Stillwater laughing, "though she's small, compared to what I was at her age."

      "Why don't you send to town for some dresses," asked Stillwater.

      "Oh, because it's a pleasure to make it myself, father, and the child loves to see me do it."

      "Bye the bye." Stillwater took a handkerchief from his pocket, and unfolding it, carefully disclosed what to ignorant eyes was simply an ordinary potato. "I'll have something to show at the next county fair, that'll make neighbor Masters feel like very small potatoes."

      Mrs. Bunker, who was embroidering red roses on white linen, handled the potato with the air of a connoisseur.

      "Father, you're working as hard on this farm as if your living depended on it," said Mrs. Stillwater.

      "My living does depend on it; I'd have been under the ground before long, if I hadn't taken to this. I consider every potato which costs me ten dollars, is equivalent to a doctor's pill."

      Mrs. Bunker laughed.

      "My dear grandmother, a man who works as hard as I'm working on my farm, makes a living and nothing more. I sat in my office and doubled my capital without turning a hand, but that's the pace that kills. Halloa, Glen," as a young, good-looking fellow in knickerbockers opened the gate. "Leave your wheel right there."

      "Good morning, Mrs. Stillwater."

      "Good