The Quiver, 2/ 1900. Various

croquet," suggested Harold; "shall we play at that?"

      And, though in general she detested croquet, May assented quite eagerly, only anxious to shake off Mr. Lang. Miss Waller could not well interfere again, and Mr. Lang did not play croquet, but he and the spinster sat on a garden seat close by till the game was finished, rendering it difficult for Harold to say a word which the watchful pair did not overhear. Divining from her erratic play that May's mind was still running upon her sick child, he seized the opportunity, when they were both searching for a ball which had rolled into the shrubbery, to say kindly: "Don't fret about Doris. I assure you there's no need. The malady must run its course, and she'll be all right afterwards. Only you must be careful she doesn't get a chill."

      "I wish she could have you to attend her, instead of Dr. Ellis. She detests him because he once deceived her about a powder she had to take. But my aunt likes him——"

      "I believe he is a very clever man," hurriedly interposed Harold, mindful of professional etiquette. "Doris will be quite safe with him; indeed, she hardly needs a doctor."

      "My aunt is always at home on Tuesdays—I hope you will come to see us," responded May, grateful for his manifest sympathy. She knew he had few friends in Beachbourne, and resolved to do what she could to introduce him.

      His face lighted up unmistakably. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Burnside! I shall be delighted to come, and I'll not forget Tuesday."

      Miss Waller was in a most complacent frame of mind as they drove home through the beautiful June evening. "What a fortunate thing I forbade you to be so foolish as to stay at home to nurse Doris!" she began. "Mr. Lang is a man worth knowing; he made an enormous fortune in South Africa—a million at least—and Mrs. Stevenson says his house in Palace Gardens is simply lovely. I'll ask him to dinner, to meet some nice people."

      May's delicate face flushed. "He's not a gentleman!" she said.

      "I daresay he was not of much extraction originally, but what does that matter nowadays? Money levels all distinctions; and I can see Mrs. Stevenson would be only too glad to catch him for Edith."

      "I thought his manner insufferably rude!"

      "My dear, that's because he's so run after in London; it always spoils a man to have dozens of girls angling for him. But he was undoubtedly struck by you; and I don't think you were very wise to go and play croquet with that Dr. Inglis as you did. He has agreeable manners, but he has not a penny-piece; and I don't believe he'll ever get a practice here."

      "I'm sorry for him, aunt, and—and I thought it only civil to ask him to call——"

      Miss Waller's brow contracted. "I think you might have consulted me first. At best he is only a detrimental, and there are far too many here already; but you always were quixotic, May!"

CHAPTER IV.

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Lulu.

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      Whit Sunday—which was late that year—was simply glorious, the heat being tempered by a delicious sea breeze. A vivacious, dark-eyed girl, who accompanied Harold Inglis along the parade after morning service, stopped again and again to gloat over the sapphire sea, tumbling in, foam-crested. "How jolly for you, Harold, living in this delicious place!" she exclaimed. "You ought to look better than you do; you are much thinner than you were."

      He evaded the subject, not wishing to sadden his favourite sister, Lulu, with his shifts and privations. She had come down to Beachbourne to spend Whitsuntide with her brother, glad to escape from the stuffy London office in which she had to work hard for a living.

      "Oh, Harold! who are these smart people coming along?"

      They had already passed many well-dressed groups of residents, but none presenting so imposing an appearance collectively as did stately Miss Waller, in heliotrope, May Burnside, in an exquisite costume of pale grey silk and chiffon, Doris, a vision of childish prettiness in white muslin, and two or three equally well-dressed men, conspicuous amongst whom was Mr. Lang. Harold's colour rose as he lifted his hat, whilst Lulu eagerly exclaimed, "Oh! who is that pretty girl in grey? She looks quite fit for the Park!"

      He explained, secretly glad that his sister should admire his divinity; but it was fortunate he could not hear what Miss Waller was meanwhile saying to her niece: "Who is that common-looking girl with Dr. Inglis? She is most atrociously dressed."

      It must be confessed that poor Lulu, who had little money for dress, fell far below the Victoria Square standard. "Looks like a little dressmaker," sneered one of the men.

      "A dressmaker would have better clothes," observed Miss Waller. Her eyes dwelt complacently on her niece's graceful figure, as she spoke, and she was pleased to see how close Mr. Lang—who had overtaken them in coming out of church—kept to May's elbow, despite the black looks of Doris, who disliked him. The child was now quite well again, some days having elapsed since the garden party.

      "What are you going to do this afternoon. Mrs. Burnside? Will you come for a drive?" presently asked Mr Lang.

      But May did not approve of Sunday driving. "I promised to take Doris to the flower service, thank you."

      "Why, you've been to church once already, Doris! You'd much better persuade your mother to bring you for a drive with me," cajoled he; but the child burst out, "No, I don't like you, and I don't want to drive with you!" so resolutely that he could not press it.

      Miss Waller frowned angrily. "Really, May, the way you spoil Doris is beyond all reason. She is the rudest little girl I ever saw!" And, to soothe the plutocrat's wounded feelings, she insisted upon his coming home to luncheon with her. He was now a constant visitor in Victoria Square, for, having terminated his stay with the Stevensons, he had taken rooms at the principal hotel.

      Whilst May, in her costly gown, sat chafing beneath Mr. Lang's glances of insolent admiration, at her aunt's luxuriously appointed table, Harold and Lulu Inglis were very merry and happy over the plainest fare in his bare sitting-room. They had not met for a long time, and a cheap Whitsuntide excursion was the reason of her presence now. As soon as they had finished, they started for the shore. Sitting on a big stone, beneath the shade of the cliffs, they had a delightful chat, until Lulu suddenly exclaimed: "Oh, Harold! Here's that pretty girl in grey we saw this morning!"

      Doris, who loved the sea, had coaxed her mother to come down on the shore after the service, and, seeing his companion, May bowed to Harold, and would have passed on, but he detained her. "May I introduce my sister, Miss Lucy Inglis, Mrs. Burnside?"

      There was something so frank and friendly about Lulu that very soon, as Doris announced she was tired and wanted to rest, they were all seated upon the big stone, upon which Miss Inglis insisted on spreading her jacket, to protect May's dainty dress. Whilst his sister expatiated on the delights of Beachbourne, and wondered why her raptures evoked so little response from the young widow, Harold sat pondering whether he dare invite Mrs. Burnside to come to tea in his bare and shabby rooms.

      To his delight, she instantly accepted the invitation; eager, in truth, to escape from the hated society of Mr. Lang. Harold then turned to Doris, gaily asking whether she would come too.

      "Yes, I will," she answered with childish bluntness. "I like you, but I don't like Dr. Ellis—nasty man!—and I hate Mr. Lang."

      "You shouldn't hate anybody, Doris," reproved May.

      "But Mr. Lang calls me Little Crosspatch, and it's very rude of him to call me names, mummy."

      "Bravo, Doris!" cried Lulu mischievously, as they turned to go. "Stick up for your rights—you'll be a 'New Woman' when you grow up."

      "I hope so," said May, in a low voice, to the amazement