"the guests are met, the feast is set;

may'st hear the merry din."

—ancient mariner.

"teddy is coming to-day," is molly's first thought next morning, as, springing from her bed, she patters across the floor in her bare feet to the window, to see how the weather is going to greet her lover.

"he is coming." the idea sends through her whole frame a little thrill of protective gladness. how happy, how independent she will feel with her champion always near her! a sneer loses half its bitterness when resented by two instead of one, and luttrell will be a sure partisan. apart from all which, she is honestly glad at the prospect of so soon meeting him face to face.

therefore it is that with shining eyes and uplifted head she takes her place at the breakfast-table, which gives the pleasantest meal at herst—old amherst being ever conspicuous by his absence at it.

philip, too, is nowhere to be seen.

"it will be a tête-à-tête breakfast," says marcia, with a view to explanation. "grandpapa never appears at this hour, nor—of late—does philip."

"how unsociable!" says molly, rather disappointed at the latter's defection. "do they never come? all the year round?"

"grandpapa never. but philip, i presume, will return to his usual habits once the house begins to fill,—i mean, when the guests arrive."

"this poor little guest is evidently of small account," thinks molly, rather piqued, and, as the thought crosses her mind, the door opens and philip comes toward her.

"good-morning," he says, cheerfully.

"you have breakfasted?" marcia asks, coldly, in a rather surprised tone.

"long since. but i will take a cup of coffee from you now, if you will allow me."

"i hardly think you deserve it," remarks molly, turning luminous, laughing eyes upon him. "marcia has just been telling me of your bad habits. fancy your preferring your breakfast all alone to having it with——"

"you?" interrupts he, quickly. "i admit your argument; it was bearish; but i was particularly engaged this morning. you shall not have to complain of my conduct in the future, however, as i am resolved to mend my ways. see how you have improved me already."

"too sudden a reformation, i fear, to be lasting."

"no. it all hinges on the fact that the iron was hot. there is no knowing what you may not do with me before you leave, if you will only take the trouble to teach me. some more toast?"

"no, thank you."

marcia grows a shade paler, and lets one cup rattle awkwardly against another. have they forgotten her very presence?

"i have not much fancy for the rôle of teacher," goes on molly, archly: "i have heard it is an arduous and thankless one. besides, i believe you to be so idle that you would disgrace my best efforts."

"do you? then you wrong me. on the contrary, you would find me a very apt pupil,—ambitious, too, and anxious to improve under your tuition."

"suppose," breaks in marcia, with deadly civility, "you finish your tête-à-tête in the drawing-room. we have quite done breakfast, i think, and one wearies of staring at the very prettiest china after a bit. will you be good enough to ring the bell, philip?"

"our tête-à-tête, as you call it, must be postponed," says philip, smiling, rising to obey her order; "i am still busy, and must return to my work. indeed, i only left it to pay you a flying visit."

although his tone includes both women, his eyes rest alone on molly.

"then you do actually work, sometimes?" says that young lady, with exaggerated surprise and uplifted lids.

"now and then,—occasionally—as little as i can help."

"what a speech, coming from an ambitious pupil!" cries she, gayly. "ah! did i not judge you rightly a moment ago when i accused you of idleness?"

philip laughs, and disappears, while molly follows marcia into a small drawing-room, a sort of general boudoir, where the ladies of the household are in the habit of assembling after breakfast, and into which, sooner or later, the men are sure to find their way.

marcia settles down to the everlasting macrame work on which she seems perpetually engaged, while indolent molly sits calmly, and it must be confessed very contentedly, with her hands before her.

after a considerable silence, marcia says, icily:

"i fear you will find herst royal dull. there is so little to amuse one in a house where the host is an invalid. do you read?"

"sometimes," says molly, studying her companion curiously, and putting on the air of ignorance so evidently expected.

"yes? that is well. reading is about the one thing we have to occupy our time here. in the library you will probably be able to suit yourself. what will you prefer? an english work? or"—superciliously—"perhaps french? you are without doubt a french scholar."

"if you mean that i consider myself complete mistress of the french language," says molly, meekly, "i must say no."

"ah! of course not. the remote country parts in which you live afford, i dare say, few opportunities of acquiring accomplishments."

"we have a national school," says molly, with increasing mildness, and an impassive countenance.

"ah!" says marcia again. her look—her tone—say volumes.

"you are very accomplished, i suppose," says molly, presently, her voice full of resigned melancholy. "you can paint and draw?"

"yes, a little."

"and play, and sing?"

"well, yes," modestly; "i don't sing much, because my chest is delicate."

"thin voice," thinks molly to herself.

"how fortunate you are!" she says aloud. "how i envy you! why, there is positively nothing you cannot do! even that macrame, which seems to me more difficult than all the other things i have mentioned, you have entirely mastered. now, i could not remember all those different knots to save my life. how clever you are! how attractive men must find you!" molly sighs.

a shade crosses marcia's face. her eyelids quiver. although the shaft (be it said to molly's praise) was innocently shot, still it reached her cousin's heart, for has she not failed in attracting the one man she so passionately loves?

"i really hardly know," miss amherst says, coldly. "i—don't go in for that sort of thing. and you,—do you paint?"

"oh, no."

"you play the piano, perhaps?"

"i try to, now and then."

("'the annen polka,' and on memorable occasions 'the battle of prague,'" thinks marcia, comfortably.) "you sing," she says.

"i do," with hesitation.

("'rosalie the prairie flower,' and the 'christy minstrels' generally," concludes marcia, inwardly.) "that is charming," she says out loud: "it is so long since we have had any one here with a talent for music."

"oh," says molly, biting a little bit off her nail, and then examining her finger in an embarrassed fashion, "you must not use the word talented, that implies so much, and i—really you know i—— why," starting to her feet, and regaining all her usual impulsive gayety, "that is surely philip walking across the lawn, and he said he was so busy. can we not go out, marcia? the day is so lovely."

"if you want philip, i dare say one of the servants will bring him to you," says marcia, insolently.

just before luncheon the darleys arrive. henry darley, tall, refined, undemonstrative; mrs. darley, small and silly, with flaxen hair, blue eyes, pink and white complexion, and a general wax-dollyness about her; and just such a tiny, foolishly obstinate mouth as usually goes with a face like hers. she is vain, but never ill-natured, unless it suits her purpose; frivolous, but in the main harmless; and, although indifferent to her husband,—of whom she is utterly unworthy,—takes care to be thoroughly respectable. full of the desire, but without the pluck, to go altogether wrong, she skirts around the edges of her pet sins, yet having a care that all those who pass by shall see her garments free of stain.

"i understand my husband, and my husband understands me," she is in the habit of saying to those who will take the trouble to listen; which is strictly true as regards the latter part of the speech, though perhaps the former is not so wise an assertion.

with her she brings her only child, a beautiful little boy of six.

she greets marcia with effusion, and gushes over molly.

"so glad, dear, so charmed to make your acquaintance. have always felt such a deep interest in your poor dear mother's sad but romantic story. so out of the common as it was, you know, and delightfully odd, and—and—all that. of course you are aware there is a sort of cousinship between us. my father married your——" and so on, and on, and on.

she talks straight through lunch to any one and every one without partiality; although afterward no one can remember what it was she was so eloquent about.

"tedcastle not come?" she says, presently, catching marcia's eye. "i quite thought he was here. what an adorable boy he was! i do hope he is not changed. if india has altered him, it will be quite too bad."

"he may come yet," replies marcia; "though i now think it unlikely. when writing he said to-day, or to-morrow; and with him that always means to-morrow. he is fond of putting off; his second thoughts are always his best."

"always," thinks molly, angrily, feeling suddenly a keen sense of sure disappointment. what does she know about him? after all he said on parting he must, he will come to-day.

yet somehow, spite of this comforting conclusion, her spirits sink, her smile becomes less ready, her luncheon grows flavorless. something within compels her to believe that not until the morrow shall she see her lover.

when they leave the dining-room she creeps away unnoticed, and, donning her hat, sallies forth alone into the pleasant wood that surrounds the house.

for a mile or two she walks steadily on, crunching beneath her feet with a certain sense of vicious enjoyment those early leaves that already have reached death. how very monotonous all through is a big wood! trees, grass, sky overhead! sky, grass, trees.

she pulls a few late wild flowers that smile up at her coaxingly, and turns them round and round within her fingers, not altogether tenderly.

what a fuss poets, and painters, and such-like, make about flowers, wild ones especially! when all is said, there is a terrible sameness about them; the same little pink ones here, the same little blue ones there; here the inevitable pale yellow, there the pure warm violet. well, no doubt there is certainly a wonderful variety—but still——

looking up suddenly from her weak criticism, she sees coming quickly toward her—very close to her—teddy luttrell.

with a glad little cry, she flings the ill-treated flowers from her and runs to him with hands outstretched.

"you have come," she cries, "after all! i knew you would; although she said you wouldn't. oh, teddy, i had quite given you up."

luttrell takes no notice of this contradictory speech. with his arms round her, he is too full of the intense happiness of meeting after separation the beloved, to heed mere words. his eyes are fastened on her perfect face.

how more than fair she is! how in his absence he has misjudged her beauty! or is it that she grows in excellence day by day? not in all his lover's silent raptures has he imagined her half as lovely as she now appears standing before him, her hands clasped in his, her face flushed with unmistakable joy at seeing him again.

"darling, darling!" he says, with such earnest delight in his tones that she returns one of his many kisses, out of sheer sympathy. for though glad as she is to welcome him as a sure ally at herst, she hardly feels the same longing for the embrace that he (with his heart full of her alone) naturally does.

"you look as if you were going to tell me i have grown tall," she says, amused at his prolonged examination of her features. "john always does, when he returns from london, with the wild hope of keeping me down. have i?"

"how can i tell? i have not taken my eyes from your face yet."

"silly boy, and i have seen all the disimprovements in you long ago. i have also seen that you are wearing an entirely new suit of clothes. such reckless extravagance! but they are very becoming, and i am fond of light gray, so you are forgiven. why did you not come sooner? i have been longing for you. oh, teddy, i don't like marcia or grandpapa a bit; and philip has been absent nearly all the time; you said you would come early."

"so i did, by the earliest train; you could hardly have left the house when i arrived, and then i started instantly to find you. my own dear darling," with a sigh of content, "how good it is to see you again, and how well you are looking!"

"am i?" laughing. "so are you, disgracefully well. you haven't a particle of feeling, or you would be emaciated by this time. now confess you did not miss me at all."

"were i to speak forever, i could not tell you how much. are you not 'the very eyes of me'?" says the young man, fondly.

"that is a very nonsensical quotation," says molly, gayly. "were you to see with my eyes, just consider how different everything would appear. now, for instance, i would never have so far forgotten myself as to fall so idiotically and ridiculously in love, as you did, with beautiful molly massereene!"

at this little touch of impertinence they both laugh merrily. after which, with some hesitation, and a rather heightened color, tedcastle draws a case from his pocket, and presents it to her.

"i brought you a—a present," he says, "because i know you are fond of pretty things."

as she opens the case and sees within it, lying on its purple velvet bed, a large dull gold locket, with a wreath of raised forget-me-nots in turquoises and enamel on one side, she forms her lips into a round "oh!" of admiration and delight, more satisfactory than any words.

"do you like it? i am so glad! i saw it one day, quite accidentally, in a window, and at once it reminded me of you. i thought it would exactly suit you. do you remember down by the river-side that night, after our first important quarrel, when i asked you to marry me?"

"i remember," softly.

"you had forget-me-nots in your hands then, and in your dress. i can never forget you, as you looked at that moment; and those flowers will ever be associated with you in my mind. surely they are the prettiest that grow. i call them 'my sweet love's flower.'"

"how fond you are of me!" she says, wistfully, something like moisture in her eyes, "and," turning her gaze again upon his gift, "you are too good: you are always thinking how to please me. there is only one thing wanting to make this locket perfect," raising her liquid eyes to his again, "and that is your face inside it."

at which words, you may be sure, luttrell is repaid over and over again all the thought and care he has expended on the choosing of the trinket.

"and so you are not in love with herst?" he says, presently, as they move on through the sweet wood, his arm around her.

"with herst? no, i have no fault to find with herst; the place is beautiful. but i confess i do not care about my grandfather or marcia: of the two i prefer my grandfather, but that is saying very little. philip alone has been very nice to me,—indeed, more than kind."

"more! what does marcia say to that?"

"oh, there is nothing between them; i am sure of that. they either hate each other or else familiarity has bred contempt between them, and they avoid each other all they can, and never speak unless compelled. for instance, she says to him, 'tea or coffee, philip?' and he makes her a polite reply; or he says to her, 'shall i stir the fire for you?' and she makes him a polite reply. but it can hardly be called a frantic attachment."

"like ours?" laughing and bending his tall slight figure to look into her face.

"in our case you have all the franticness to yourself," she says; but as she says it she puts her own soft little hand over the one that encircles her waist, to take the sting out of her words; though why she said it puzzles even herself: nevertheless there is great truth, in her remark, and he knows it.

"then philip is handsome," she says: "it is quite a pleasure to look at him. and i admire him very much."

"he is a good-looking fellow," reluctantly, and as though it were a matter of surprise nature's having bestowed beauty upon philip shadwell, "but surly."

"'surly!' not to me."

"oh, of course not to you! a man must be a brute to be uncivil to a woman. and i don't say he is that," slowly, and as though it were yet an undecided point whether philip should be classed with the lower creation or not. "do not let your admiration for him go too far, darling; remember——"

"about that," interrupts she, hurriedly, "you have something to remember also. your promise to keep our engagement a dead secret. you will not break it?"

"i never," a little stiffly, "break a promise. you need not have reminded me of this one."

silence.

glancing up at her companion stealthily, molly can see his lips are in a degree compressed, and that for the first time since their reunion his eyes are turned determinedly from her. her heart smites her. so good as he is to her, she has already hurt and wounded him.

with a little caressing, tender movement, she rubs her cheek up and down against his sleeve for a moment or two, and then says, softly:

"are you cross with me, teddy? don't then. i am so glad, so happy, to have you with me again. do not spoil this one good hour by putting a nasty unbecoming little frown upon your forehead. come, turn your face to me again: when you look at me, i know you will smile, for my sake."

"my own darling," says luttrell, passionately.

the morrow brings new faces, and herst is still further enlivened by the arrival of two men from some distant barracks,—one so tall, and the other so diminutive, as to call for an immediate joke about "the long and the short of it."

captain mottie is a jolly, genial little soul, with a perpetual look on all occasions as though he couldn't help it, and just one fault, a fatal tendency toward punning of the weakest description with which he hopes in vain to excite the risibility of his intimates. having a mind above disappointment, however, he feels no depression on marking the invariable silence that follows his best efforts, and, with a perseverance worthy of a better cause, only nerves himself for fresh failures.

nature, having been unprodigal to him in the matter of height, makes up for it generously in the matter of breadth, with such lavish generosity, indeed, that he feels the time has come when, with tears in his eyes, he must say "no" to his bitter beer.

his chum, mr. longshanks (commonly called "daddy longlegs," on account of the length of his lower limbs), is his exact counterpart, being as silent as the other is talkative; seldom exerting himself, indeed, to shine in conversation, or break the mysterious quiet that envelops him, except when he faithfully (though unsmilingly) helps out his friend's endeavors at wit, by saying "ha! ha!" when occasion calls for it. he has a red nose that is rather striking and suggests expense. he has also a weakness for gaudy garments, and gets himself up like a showy commercial traveler.

they are both related in some far-off manner to their host, though how, i believe, both he and they would be puzzled to explain. still, the relationship beyond dispute is there, which is everything. enfin they are harmless beings, such as come in useful for padding purposes in country houses during the winter and autumn seasons, being, according to their friends' account, crack shots, "a1 at billiards," and "beggars to ride."

it is four o'clock. the house is almost deserted. all the men have been shooting since early morning. only molly and marcia remain in possession of the sitting-room that overlooks the graveled walk, mrs. darley having accompanied mr. amherst in his customary drive.

the sound of wheels coming quickly down the avenue compels molly to glance up from the book she is enjoying.

"somebody is coming," she says to marcia; and marcia, rising with more alacrity than is her wont, says, "it must be lady stafford," and goes into the hall to receive her guest. molly, full of eager curiosity to see this cousin of tedcastle's whose story has so filled her with interest, rises also, and cranes her neck desperately round the corner of the window to try and catch a glimspe of her, but in vain, the unfriendly porch prevents her, and, sinking back into her seat, she is fain to content herself by listening to the conversation that is going on in the hall between marcia and the new arrival.

"oh, marcia, is that you?" says a high, sweet voice, with a little complaining note running through it, and then there is a pause, evidently filled up by an osculatory movement. "how odiously cool and fresh you do look! while i—what a journey it has been! and how out of the way! i really don't believe it was nearly so far the last time. have the roads lengthened, or have they pushed the house farther on? i never felt so done up in my life."

"you do look tired, dear. better go to your room at once, and let me send you up some tea."

"not tea," says the sweet voice; "anything but that. i am quite too far gone for tea. say sherry, marcia, or—no,—moselle. i think it is moselle that does me good when i am fatigued to death."

"you shall have it directly. matthews, show lady stafford her room."

"one moment, marcia. many people come yet? tedcastle?"

"yes, and captain mottie, with his devoted attendant, and the darleys."

"maudie? is she as fascinating as ever? i do hope, marcia, you have got her young man for her this time, as she was simply unbearable last year."

"i have not," laughing: "it is a dead secret, but the fact is, he wouldn't come."

"i like that young man; though i consider he has sold us shamefully. any one else?"

"my cousin, eleanor massereene."

"the cousin! i am so glad. anything new is such a relief. and i have heard she is beautiful: is she?"

"beauty is in the eye of the beholder," quotes marcia, in a low tone, and with a motion of her hand toward the open door inside which sits molly, that sends lady stafford up-stairs without further parley.

"is it lady stafford?" asks molly, as marcia re-enters the room.

"yes."

"she seems very tired."

"i don't know, really. she thinks she is,—which amounts to the same thing. you will see her in half an hour or so as fresh as though fatigue were a thing unknown."

"how does she do it?" asks molly, curiously, who has imagined lady stafford by her tone to be in the last stage of exhaustion.

"how can i say? i suppose her maid knows."

"why? does she—paint?" asks molly, with hesitation, who has been taught to believe that all london women are a mixture of false hair, rouge, pearl powder, and belladonna.

"paint!" with a polite disgust, "i should hope not. if you are a judge in that matter you will be able to see for yourself. i know nothing of such things, but i don't think respectable women paint."

"but," says molly, who feels a sudden anger at her tone, and as sudden a desire to punish her for her insolence, opening her blue eyes innocently wide, "you are respectable, marcia?"

"what do you mean by that?" growing pale with anger, even through that delicate soupçon of color that of late she has been compelled to use to conceal her pallor. "do you mean to insinuate that i paint?"

"i certainly thought you did," still innocent, still full of wonder: "you said——"

"i would advise you for the future to restrain such thoughts: experience will teach you they show want of breeding. in the meantime, i beg you to understand that i do not paint."

"oh, marcia!"

"you are either extremely impertinent or excessively ignorant, or both!" says marcia, rising to her full height, and turning flashing eyes upon her cousin, who is regarding her with the liveliest reproach. "i insist on knowing what you mean by your remarks."

"why, have you forgotten all about those charming water-color sketches in the small gallery up-stairs?" exclaims molly, with an airy irrepressible laugh. "there, don't be angry: i was only jesting; no one would for a moment suspect you of such a disreputable habit."

"pray reserve your jests for those who may appreciate them," says miss amherst, in a low angry tone: "i do not. they are as vulgar as they are ill-timed."

"but i took a good rise out of her all the same," says molly to herself, as she slips from the room full of malicious laughter.

before dinner—not sooner—lady stafford makes her appearance, and quite dazzles molly with her beauty and the sweetness of her manner. she seems in the gayest spirits, and quite corroborates all marcia has said about her exhibiting no symptoms of fatigue. her voice, indeed, still retains its sad tone, but it is habitual to her, and does not interfere with the attractive liveliness of her demeanor, but only adds another charm to the many she already possesses.

she is taller than tedcastle has led molly to believe, and looks even smaller than she really is. her eyelids droop at the corners, and give her a pensive expression that softens the laughter of her blue eyes. her nose is small and clever, her mouth very merry, her skin exquisite, though devoid of the blue veins that usually go with so delicate a white, and her hair is a bright, rich gold. she is extremely lovely, and, what is far better, very pleasing to the eye.

"i am much better," she says, gayly, addressing marcia, and then, turning to molly, holds out to her a friendly hand.

"miss massereene, i know," she smiles, looking at her, and letting a pleased expression overspread her features as she does so. "marcia told me of your arrival; i have heard of you also from other people; but their opinion i must reserve until i have become your friend. at all events, they did not lie in their description. no, you must not cross-examine me; i will not tell what they said."

she is a decided addition to the household; they all find her so. even mr. longshanks brightens up, and makes a solitary remark at dinner; but, as nobody catches it, he is hardly as unhappy as otherwise assuredly he would have been.

after dinner she proves herself as agreeable in the drawing-room (during that wretched half-hour devoid of men) as she had been when surrounded by them, and chatters on to marcia and molly of all things possible and impossible.

presently, however, the conversation drifting toward people of whose existence molly has hitherto been unaware, she moves a little apart from the other two, and amuses herself by turning over a book of byron's beauties; while wishing heartily those stupid men would weary of their wine,—vain wish!

by degrees the voices on the other sofa wax fainter and fainter, then rise with sudden boldness, as marcia, secure in her french—says in that language, evidently in answer to some remark, "no; just conceive it,—she is totally uneducated, that is, in the accepted meaning of the word. the very morning after her arrival she confessed to me she knew nothing of french, nothing to signify of music, nothing, in fact, of anything."

"but her air, her whole bearing,—it is inconceivable," says lady stafford. "she must have had some education surely."

"she spoke of a national school! consider the horror of it! i expect her brother must be a very low sort of person. if she can read and write it is as much as we need hope for. that is the worst of living in one of those petty villages, completely out of society."

"what a pity, with her charming face and figure!" says lady stafford, also (i regret to say) so far forgetting herself as to speak in the language she believes falsely to be unknown to molly.

"yes, she is rather pretty," admits marcia, against her will; "but beauty when attached to ignorance is only a matter of regret, as it seems to me."

"true," says lady stafford, pityingly, letting her eyes fall on molly.

the latter, whose own eyes have been fixed vacantly on some distant and invisible object outside in the dark garden, now rises, humming softly, and going toward the window presses her forehead against one of the cool panes. so stationed, she is out of sight and hearing.

the door opens, and the men come in by twos. luttrell makes straight for molly, and as an excuse for doing so says out loud:

"miss massereene, will you sing us something?"

"i don't sing," returns molly, in a distinct and audible tone,—audible enough to make marcia raise her shoulders and cast an "i told you so" glance at cecil stafford.

luttrell, bewildered, gazes at molly.

"but——" he commences, rashly.

"i tell you i don't sing," she says, again, in a lower, more imperative tone, although even now she repents her of the ill-humor that has balked her of a revenge so ready to her hand. to sing a french song, with her divine voice, before marcia! a triumph indeed!

all night long the conversation between her cousin and lady stafford rankles in her mind. what a foolish freak it was her ever permitting marcia to think of her as one altogether without education! instinct might have told that her cousin would not scruple about applying such knowledge to her disadvantage. and yet why is marcia her enemy? how has she ever injured her? with what purpose does she seek to make her visit unpleasant to her?

and to speak contemptuously of her to lady stafford, of all people, whom already she likes well enough to covet her regard in return,—it is too bad. not for worlds would she have had her think so poorly of her.

at all events she will lose no time in explaining, on the morrow; and with this determination full upon her she retires to rest, with some small comfort at her heart.