mother had died at her birth. Of course she was to have been a boy, and to have her father's name: but the poor young wife, in spite of the sex, would not have the name changed. "Call her Vernon," had been her last words, and naturally her distracted husband acted upon them. Mrs. Bardsley listened, and was, as her niece intended, drawn away from the subject of the manager's matrimonial affairs. But Jem pondered.

"Dear me, dear me," said Mrs. Bardsley mournfully, "to think of the mischief a girl can make! Of course it was your mother was at the bottom of everything, between your father and Sir Miles Umfraville."

Vernon stared. "But he-Sir Miles-must have been a little boy then!"

"Oh, this is the new Sir Miles. He only inherited a year ago. It was his uncle who fought your father in Lancelot's Tower. They said it was because of the Swan Weir meadow-to save her name-but it was about her really. Poor child, poor child! A coquette she was, but, like many such girls, good at heart; and she loved my brother well enough to go aboard a fishing-boat with him that very night, and sail for America, trusting in him that he would behave to her as a gentleman, and marry her when they landed. And so of course he did, and very happy they were. But Sir Miles never recovered your father's handling. He was always an invalid, and never married. Poor Madge! And she had but two years of her dear-snatched happiness! We lived in a house about five miles away from here at that time. Your father was headstrong, and I dare

say

I was hard upon him. Mother was dead, and he was imprudent, arrogant and reckless. Madge was the Vicar's daughter, and had all the young men buzzing round her from morn to night. She was that kind of girl, and I, God forgive me, thought she was a heartless little flirt. A woman like me doesn't know what it feels like to be as she wasto have men always after you, whether you will or no. She was that tempting, ripe kind of girl, with great eyes that shone like stars, and lovely white limbs. Somehow, one is apt to think that such a girl has not much soul. But she was brave and discerning, too. She knew which to choose among her suitors. But at the time, I did all I could to keep your father from her; and one day I went too far. I told him a fib about her, saying she was gone away when I knew she was at home. He found it out, and from that day he never spoke to me-never since. He did not send me his address, after they ran away, nor any news at all, except just an American paper with the announcement of their marriage in it.. It has been cruel suffering for me. And he never knew I married Tom Bardsley. I do not know how he heard that I was married at all. He used to like Tom. Our home was sold when my father died, soon after Vernon ran away, and I left the neighborhood. So it was not likely he could think of me as settled down here for life. I never spoke with the late Sir Miles after the duel.

But the new one says

he sees no sense in keeping up feuds, so he came to I am glad to be on friendly terms with

call at once.

them once more."

By slow degrees she told this story, as they dis

cussed their almonds and raisins.

people listened with rapt attention.

The two young

"Father had to run away because he had fought a duel?" asked Vernon with great interest. Evidently she knew nothing of her father's career.

"Yes; they got him away just in time. Sir Miles was too badly hurt to be moved, and I suppose he paid a heavy fine. At any rate, he was not imprisoned! it was arranged somehow. Nobody quite knew how your father was got away. It must have been Madge's doing, as she must have been quite near the spot where they fought."

CHAPTER IV

THE INVITATION

"What if with her sunny hair
And smile as sunny as cold,
She meant to weave me a snare
Of some coquettish deceit?"

TENNYSON.

Two days had gone by. On the second of these, Vernon's huge trunks arrived from Southampton, and she was very busy unpacking and arranging her things.

There was absolutely no doubt of her aunt's delight in her arrival, and pleasure in her company. But Jem Bardsley preserved his attitude of sullen reserve in a way which would have been decidedly unpleasant had she seen him often enough for it to be noticeable. But she found that she saw very little of him indeed. He breakfasted early, and was off and away upon his duties long before she and Aunt Emma sat down together to their cosey meal in a sunny morning-room at nine o'clock. He came in to lunch, but disappeared immediately after. He likewise appeared at late dinner, retiring to his own den afterwards, as he said, to write letters; but also, as Vernon quickly divined, because smoking was not allowed in the drawing-room.

He certainly went out on the second evening of her stay; and it was not possible for her to resist the conclusion that he had gone to Barrow End. The very thought of the place sent a little shudder through

her. Before the eye of her fancy that picture constantly presented itself. The lighted hall, Jem's hasty, ill-assured laugh, the sight of Laura, in her yellow satin, standing at the half-open door with the red lamplight behind her―ugh! How hateful it was! But she could see clearly enough that it was also difficult for Jem. So far, she was holding her tongue. But he had no guarantee for her perpetual silence. Her aunt knew nothing. She spoke of the Trents as of people on the fringe of possibilitiespeople with whom she and her nephew were hardly acquainted. Ah, well!

The girl from Vancouver hoped she would soon forget it. She had fled from one complication, over there, to find herself enmeshed here in a new one. But, thank the fates, this one was not her affair. Lionel Gladwyn emphatically was.

She liked her manager—had liked him for nearly ten years. He was ten or twelve years older than she, had taught her to ride, and many other things. He came to the Ranch first, a broken-down, disappointed man. He had been well off, wild, fond of gay company. But he had not been vicious. He had married young, and without grudging had allowed his young wife to participate in his betting, racing, motoring, loafiing existence. They wanted no children, no responsibilities, just to enjoy life. And he presently found that if they continued to enjoy it at their present pace, they would soon have arrived at the bankruptcy court. He was sent for by the solicitor who had always managed his father's affairs, and pretty thoroughly frightened. He told his wife that they must pull up.