this savage hole far from modern civilization, where the Middle Ages still reigned in all their barbarism; but she saw that the place was strong and could well be held for Edward, and she was sincere in thinking that her young Richard would find here no mean heritage.

Thus passed the first quarter of an hour of that interview. Sir William was at his best, happy and mild; his thin old hand stroked his white beard peacefully; his blue eyes, calm, confident, friendly, reposed on the still beautiful woman who sat upright in the chair opposite to him, her clear-cut face young and distinguished in the flattering light of the fire. Sir William himself had half forgotten, as he rambled on of old times and of his various possessions, the serious business that had brought my Lady to Ruddiford. She found it necessary, at last, to begin herself the subject of Lord Marlowe's strange conduct and disappearance.

"The old man is in his dotage," she said to herself. "Like his kind, he can only remember far-away things-Agincourt and such-battles fought before the world began. Antonio told me less than the truth of the old fool and his folly." Aloud, she made formal apology to Sir William for what Lord Marlowe had done, and explained to him her real wishes, and her amazement at finding in how strange a manner the embassy had failed.

"Ah, your Ladyship's ambassador lost his head," the old man said, smiling. "Your son Richard,-a handsome lad he is, truly-should have come himself to woo my Margaret. She is young, but Lord Marlowe was not the first man to be conquered by her lovely face. There's Jasper Tilney, a wild fellow whose estate borders mine, but I sent him packing, and the faster that Meg did not like him; she hath her fancies. this grandchild of mine."

"In my view," said Lady Marlowe a little dryly, "young men and maidens should have no say of their own in matters of marriage. These things must be arranged by the family, for the advantage of all."

"Surely, surely,-your Ladyship is right-my Meg is a spoilt wench, poor little maid. 'Twas altogether a misfortunate thing, that affair of Lord Marlowe. She set her obstinate heart upon him. I would, my Lady, you had seen it all. There sat my Lord-here stood Meg by my chair-"

Isabel waved her hand, smiling, but a little impatiently. "Sir William," she said, "the excellent Antonio, your secretary, did his best to set the thing before me."

"Ah, did he indeed? And he told you how at last it was his own doing -how my Lord, as Tony guessed, was torn between a sudden love for Meg and loyalty to his mission, and how Tony put the words into his mouth, as he was asking her hand for his brother, Yourself, my Lord?"

A curious look came into the Baroness's face; it was half a smile, curling the lips away from the teeth, but the eyes narrowed unpleasantly. "He did not tell me," she murmured. "Master Antonio did that, and why?"

"Out of pure mischief," the Knight said, nodding wisely. "A small frolic with a great result, which vexed Tony as much as any of us. But after all, to my thinking, the thing was done without any word from Tony. "Twas love, my Lady, sudden and desperate. I was wroth with my poor Meg, and spoke sharply to her, but when I found that her fine lover had changed his mind as quickly as he made it, and gone north without a word, I was sorry for the maid and scolded her no more. For it seemed to me that, saving your presence, certain gossips were right who had whispered to me-but your Ladyship is distracted?"

For Isabel was staring at the fire, and instead of listening to his talk, was muttering to herself with the same unpleasant smile.

"So,-'twas part of the truth after all,-and the question might have served, not too late to punish by and by, a dangerous path to cross is mine, pretty boy!"

Sir William's last words recalled her instantly, and with frank face and clear eyes she turned to him. "All this is past," she said. "Two things I have to say to you. First-it was your wish,-I understood that you had written it in your will-that I should have charge of Margaret, educate her suitably in my own house, protect her from unfitting suitors, marry her well. Your Own life being uncertain,-though I trust you may see a venerable ageyou wished to have a mind at ease as to your granddaughter. I am right, Sir William ?"

"All that was indeed my wish," the old man said.

"Then I pray you to understand that this foolish business shall be to us,to you and me-as if it had never been. I will accept the charge of Margaret, and I will marry her, as soon as may be, to the husband I chose for her on receiving your first letter, my son Richard Marlowe. As to my stepson, no woman has yet come between him and his Queen. He is a strange man, full of quips and turns of fancy, no mate for a fair young girl, such as your Margaret."

Macmillan's Magazine.

I.

"So indeed I think," Sir William said. "But Margaret, my Lady-"

"Leave her to me." Isabel smiled her brightest.

"You will not carry her away now? Nay, nay, I cannot-"

"A moment's patience," she said. "I had a second thing to say. I am plagued with a doubt whether Lord Marlowe ever reached the Queen. Not a word have I had from him since he left Swanlea. I find that his men. having left Ruddiford by his orders to follow him north, never found him. but wandered on the moors, were attacked by outlaws,-as I supposerobbed, killed, scattered. Two of them. by happy chance, met me on my way. Now, Sir William, by your leave, I will stay a while at Ruddiford. We will marry Richard and Margaret, and we will search every hole and corner in this wild country of yours to find my Lord Marlowe. For, though I may be displeased with him, I cannot allow my husband's son, the head of our house, to disappear like an unknown man."

"Surely not," Sir William cried, his pale old cheeks turning red. "This that you tell me is strange, and very terrible. Why, Meg feared as much. Who can have done this? There are wild fellows abroad. But no-he is bad enough, but he would not dare-where are these two men?" He started from his chair and shouted-"Tony, Tony, rascal, where art thou?" while her Ladyship sat still and smiled.

THE

Mrs. Adrian Armyne to her sister. (Extract.)

We have found a most delightful chauffeur, a Frenchman named Achille

Le Bon, who speaks English perfectly. although with a fascinating accent, and is altogether most friendly and useful. He is continually doing little things for me, and it is nice too to have some one to talk French with. Adrian's conver

sational French has always been very rusty. You remember how in that little shop at Avignon in 1880 he said "Quel dommage?" for "What is the price?"

II.

Mr. Adrian Armyne to the Conserva

tive Agent at Wilchester.

Mr. Adrian Armyne presents his compliments to Mr. Bashford, and greatly regrets what must look very like a slight in his absence from the chair at last night's meeting, but circumstances over which he had no control caused him to miss the way in his motor-car and afterwards to break down at a spot where it was impossible to get any other vehicle. Mr. Armyne cannot too emphatically express his regret at the occurrence, and his hope that trust in his good faith as a worker in the cause of Fiscal Reform may not be permanently shattered.

time, and once or twice he has been nowhere to be found at important junctures. For instance, we completely missed Lord Tancaster's wedding the other day. Not that that mattered very much, especially as we had sent a silver inkstand, but Adrian is rather annoyed. Achille plays the mandoline charmingly (we hear him at night in the servants' hall), and he has been teaching me repoussé work.

V.

Mrs. Armyne to Mrs. Jack Lyon. Dear Mrs. Lyon,-My husband and myself are deeply distressed to have put out your table last evening, but it was one of those accidents that occur now and then, and which there is no foreseeing or remedying. The fact is that we were all ready to go and had ordered the car, when it transpired that Achille, our chauffeur, had been called to London by telegram, and had left in so great a hurry that he had no time to warn us. By the time we could have sent to the village and got a carriage your dinner would have been over, and so we decided not to go at all. Achille has not yet returned, which makes us fear that the poor fellow, who has relatives in Soho, may have found real trouble. Yours sincerely,

Emily Armyne.

VI.

Mr. Armyne to Achille Le Bon. Dear Achille,-I am very sorry to have to tell you that it has been made necessary for us to ask you to go. This is not on account of any dissatisfaction that we have with you, but merely that Mrs. Armyne has heard of the son of an old housekeeper of her father's who wishes for a post as chauffeur, and she feels it only right that he should be given a trial. You will, I am sure, see how the case stands. Perhaps we had better say that a month's notice begins from to

Mr. Armyne to Achille Le Bon.
(By hand.)

Dear Achille,-I am afraid that a letter which was posted to you from London when I was last there, a month ago, cannot have reached you. Letters are sometimes lost, and this must be one of them. In it I had to inform you that Mrs. Armyne, having made arrangements for an English chauffeur who has claims on her consideration (being the son of an old housekeeper of her father's, who was in his service for many years, and quite one of the family), it was made necessary for us, much against our will, for we esteem you very highly, to ask you to go. As that letter miscarried I must now repeat the month's notice that I then was forced to give, and the permission for you to leave at any time within the month if you like. I am, yours faithfully, Adrian Armyne.

VIII.

Mr. Armyne to his nephew Sidney

Burnet. (Extract.)

There seems to be nothing for it but to sell our car. This is a great blow to us, but we cannot go on as we are, apparently owning a car but in reality being owned by a chauffeur.

IX.

Sidney Burnet to Mr. Armyne. Dear Uncle,-Don't sell the car. The thing to do is to pretend to sell it, get

rid of your Napoleon, and then have it back. Why not say I have bought it? I will come over one day soon and drive it home. Say Thursday morning. Your affectionate nephew, Sidney.

X.

Mr. Armyne to Mr. Sidney Burnet. My dear Sidney,-Your plan seems to me to be ingenious, but your aunt is opposed to it. She says that Achille might find it out. Suppose, for example, he came back for something he had forgotten and saw the car in the coach-house again! What should we do? Another objection is that poor Job is ill, and Achille remarked to me the other day that before he took to engineering he was a gardener. From what I know of him this means that, unless Job gets better, Achille—if your plan is carried through-will ask to be retained in Job's place, and this will mean that we shall never see asparagus or strawberries again. Don't you think that we might go to town, and you could ride over to "Highcroft" and give Achille notice yourself for me? We will go to town to-morrow, and you might see Achille on Monday.

Your affectionate uncle.

XI.

Sidney Burnet to Mr. Armyne. Dear Uncle,-I went over and sacked Achille to-day as arranged, but he replied that he could take notice only from you; and that from what Aunt Emily had said to him just before you went away he is sure there has been some mistake. As to notice from you I'm afraid the beggar's right. seems to have taken advantage of your absence to build a really rather clever pergola leading from Aunt Emily's sitting-room to the rose walk, as a surprise for Mrs. Armyne, he said. He has also re-painted all your bookshelves and mended that pair of library steps. With the dispatch of this bulletin I

He