did. He had accepted him provisionally, and must be prepared to endorse

his acceptance. Surely he would get used to the marriage, if it came off! And the mutual absorption of a newly-married couple did not last for ever. She could speak from experience there. She had adored her own guardian, in whose house she had been brought up from infancy. She fancied she must have loved him at least as much as most girls loved their own fathers; yet when she had been engaged to be married, and for a time afterwards, she had thought very little of him, and she knew now that he had felt it, though he had said nothing. But after a time, when she had wanted him badly, she had found him waiting for her, just the same as ever; and now she loved him more than she had done before.

Grafton was not unimpressed by this frank disclosure, though the not unimportant fact that the lady's husband had proved himself a rank failure in his matrimonial relations had been ignored in her telling of the story. And it would be a dismal business if the full return of his child to him were to depend upon a like failure on the part of the man she should marry. Certainly he didn't want that for her. If she _should_ marry the fellow it was to be hoped that she would be happy with him, and he himself would do nothing to come between them. Nevertheless, the reminder that the fervour of love need not be expected to keep up to concert pitch, when the sedative effect of marriage had had time to cool it, did bring him some consolation, into which he did not look too closely. It would be soothing if the dear child were to discover that her old Daddy stood for something, after all, which she could not get even from her husband, and that he would regain his place apart, and be relieved of the hard necessity of taking in and digesting an alien substance in order to get any flavour out of her love for him. He never would and never could get used to the fellow; he felt that now, and told the sympathetic lady so. She replied that one could get used to anything in this life, and in some cases it was one's duty to do so. She was no mere cushiony receptacle for his grievances. She had a mind of her own, and the slight explorations he had made into it pleased and interested him. He was not so loud in his praises of her as his daughters, but it was plain that he liked to see her at the Abbey, and it was always safe to accept an invitation for him to Surley if he was absent when it was given.

Mrs. Carruthers was not riding that morning. Out of deference to her exalted guest and various others of weight and substance, invited to meet him, she was hunting on wheels. Some of them would view such episodes of the chase as could, with luck, be seen from the seats of a luxurious motor-car, but she was driving his lordship himself in her pony-cart, quite in the old style in vogue before the scent of the fox had begun to dispute its sway in the hunting-field with that of petrol. It was years since the Bishop had come as close as this to one of the delights of his youth, and he showed himself mildly excited by it, and talked to Barbara about hounds and horses in such a way as to earn from her the soubriquet of "a genuine lamb."

He was too important, however, to be allowed more than a short conversation with one of Barbara's age, and was reft from her before she could explore very far into the unknown recesses of a prelatical mind. She was rewarded, however, for the temporary deprivation--she had other opportunities on the following day--by coming in for Ella Carruthers's sparkling description of the disturbance caused in the clerical nest of Surley by her uncle's visit.

"When they heard he was really coming," she was saying to Grafton, "they redoubled their efforts. Poor young Denis--who really looks sweet as a curate, though more deliciously solemn than ever--was sent up with a direct proposal. Couldn't I let bygones be bygones for the good of the community? I said I didn't know what the community had to do with it, and I couldn't forgive the way they had behaved. He said they were sorry. I said they had never done or said a thing to show it. We fenced a little, and he went back to them. Would you believe it, they swallowed their pride and sent me a letter. I'll show it you. You never read such a letter. They asked me to dinner at the end of it,--to-night--and perhaps I should be able to bring his lordship. I thanked them for their letter, and refused their invitation--of course politely. I asked Denis to dinner last night, and they let him come, but I think he must have had a struggle for it, because he looked very unhappy. My uncle is going to see poor old Mr. Cooper this afternoon, and, of course, they'll make a dead set at him; but it will be a bedside scene, and that's all they're going to get out of it."

"Aren't you a trifle feline about the poor ladies?" asked Grafton.

"_They_ are feline, if you like. Aren't they, Barbara?"

"They're spiteful old cats, if that's what you mean," said Barbara. "Did you ask Lord Salisbury to dinner?"

"No. I have an idea that my uncle wishes to have a rest from the clergy, though it's as much as his place is worth to say so. The darling old thing! He's thoroughly enjoying himself. I believe he would have hunted to-day, if I had pressed a mount upon him."

"Is Denis going to preach at him to-morrow?" asked Grafton.

"Yes, I suppose so. Mr. Mercer offered to do it in the afternoon, but Rhoda and Ethel refused. I got that out of Denis himself, who is too deliciously innocent and simple for words. If it weren't for Rhoda and Ethel I really think I should make love to my uncle to give him the living when poor old Mr. Cooper comes to an end. Perhaps he will in any case. A lot hangs upon Denis's sermon to-morrow."

"I expect Rhoda and Ethel have written it for him," said Barbara.

"Perhaps one of them will dress up and preach," suggested Young George.

Barbara looked at him fondly. "Not very good, Bunting dear," she said. "He does much better than that sometimes, Ella. He's quite a bright lad."

Caroline and Beatrix had no lack of society, seated in their saddles outside. Richard Mansergh, after vainly trying to get them to let him fetch them something to keep out the draught, went off elsewhere, but his place was taken by others. Bertie Pemberton came up with two of his sisters, all three of them conspicuous examples of the decorative value of hard cloth, and it was as if the loud pedal had suddenly been jammed down on a piano. Bertie himself, however, was not so vociferous as usual, and when his sisters suggested going inside said that he was quite happy where he was. This was on the further side of Beatrix, of whom he had already enquired whether anybody had brought over Mollie Walter. Nobody had, and he said it was a pity on such a day as this, but he hoped they'd have some fun after all. Nora and Kate, however, were not to go unaccompanied to their refreshment. Jimmy Beckley, perched on a tall horse, with an increased air of maturity in consequence, offered to squire them, and they went off with him, engaging him in loud chaff, to which he responded with consummate ease and assurance.

It was evident that Bertie Pemberton had something particular to say to Beatrix. His horse fidgeted and he made tentative efforts to get her to follow him in a walk. But Beatrix's mare was of the lazy sort, quite contented to stand still as long as it should be permitted her, and she refused to put her in motion, though she was not altogether incurious as to what the young man wished to disclose. She thought it probable, however, that he would make his attempt later on, if there should be any period of hanging about the covert side, and under those less conspicuous circumstances she should not refuse to listen to him.

Among the few hardy spirits who had come prepared to follow the hounds on foot was Maurice Bradby. Worthing had driven him over in his dog-cart and after a few cheery words with Caroline and Beatrix had gone inside. Bradby had not followed him, but as the girls were just then surrounded by a little group of people he had hung about on its skirts, evidently wishing to talk to them, but being too shy to do so.

This young man's diffidence had begun to arouse comment at the Abbey. They all liked him, and had shown him that they did. There were times when he seemed thoroughly at home with them, and showed qualities which endeared him to the active laughter-loving family. Young George frankly adored him, finding in him all he wanted for companionship, and with him he was at his ease, and even took the undisputed lead. But on the other hand Grafton found him hang heavy, on the few occasions when they had to be alone together. He was deferential, not in any way that showed lack of manly spirit, but so as to throw all the burden of conversation on his host. Grafton found it rather tiresome to sit with him alone after dinner. It was only when they were occupied together, in the garden or elsewhere, that Bradby seemed to take up exactly the right attitude towards him.

The girls came between their father and their brother. Barbara had altered her first opinion of him. There was still something of the boy in her; she shared as far as she was permitted in the pursuits of Bradby and Bunting, and all three got on well together. The two other girls found his diffidence something of a brake on the frank friendship they were ready to accord to their companions among young men. Beatrix was most outspoken about it. Of course he was not, in his upbringing or experience, like other young men whom they had known. In London, perhaps, they would not have wanted to make a particular friend of him. But here in the country he fitted in. Why couldn't he take the place they were ready to accord him, and not be always behaving as if he feared to be in the way?

Caroline was softer. She agreed that his shyness was rather tiresome, but thought it would wear off in time. It was better, after all, to have a young man who did not think too much of himself than one who would always have to be kept in his place. She found his love for nature refreshing and interesting, and something fine and genuine in him that made it worth while to cultivate him, and have patience. Beatrix would say, in answer to this, that she hadn't got enough patience, and doubted whether the results would make it worth while to exercise it. But Beatrix was a little oversharp in these days, and what she said needed not to be taken too seriously.

She saw Maurice Bradby standing at a little distance off, casting shy glances at them as if he wanted to make one of the group around them, but lacked the boldness to introduce himself into it, and felt a spurt of irritation against him. Caroline saw him too, and presently, when the group had thinned, walked her horse to where he was standing. He received her with a grateful smile, and they talked about the day's prospects and his chances of seeing the sport on foot, and hers of a good run.

The people who had been refreshing themselves indoors came out, mounted their horses or took to their carriages, cars and carts, while the huntsman led his bunched and trotting hounds down the drive, and the gay cavalcade followed them to the scene of their sport. The soft grey winter sky breathed mild moisture, the tree twigs were purple against it, and seemed already to be giving promise of spring, though the year was only just on the turn. No one there would have exchanged this mood of England's much abused climate for the flowery deceptions of the South, or even for the frosty sparkle of Alpine winters. It was a fine hunting morning, and they were all out to enjoy themselves, in the way that their forbears had enjoyed themselves for generations.