returning to the parlour she thought she would take a look out at the back door. On the way there she passed the kitchen, and, to her surprise, saw Margie sitting alone at the window.

"Oh, Margie!" she exclaimed, "I could not think what had happened to you. If you could only have heard how Aunt Prudence has been going on about your being out in the dark!"

"With Mr. Maynard, I suppose?" said Margie, laughing; "I thought that would set her tongue going. But I wasn't coming back to be lectured by her; so I just sat down here till she was gone."

"And left me to get the scolding that was meant for you!"

"Poor Essie!" said Margie; putting her hand caressingly round her sister's waist. "It was rather too bad, wasn't it? But you know as well as I do, if I had seen Aunt Prue again while she was in her tantrums, she and I would have come to blows. And perhaps on the whole it is just as well to avoid that. But sit down, Essie," she continued more gravely, "I want to talk to you."

Margie herself had sat down on a low foot-stool in front of the fire, and was resting her head quite thoughtfully on her hand. Seeing the new seriousness in her face Essie came nearer, wondering what was coming next.

"Essie," she said, "do you think you could ever

love a man like Cornelius Maynard well enough to marry him?"

"Oh, Margie!" cried Essie, startled at this sudden question, "how can I tell? I don't feel as if I knew him at all."

"You don't; but I do," returned Margie. "Recollect how many times I have seen him already."

"I never thought about it," said Essie, trying hard to put herself in her sister's position. "I could never marry any one unless I felt I knew him thoroughly and could trust him entirely."

"That's so like you, Essie," said Margie, with a touch of impatience. "Now I like surprises. They amuse me. But don't open your eyes so wide, Essie, for nothing at all has happened. I was only wondering if by any chance he did care for me

The end of the sentence died on her lips, for steps were heard in the passage. "Hush! Essie," said Margie, laying her hand on her lips. "There is father; let us talk about something else."

CHAPTER XI.

"When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,

And every lass a queen.

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

And round the world away,

Young blood must have its course, lad,

And every dog his day."

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

HE horse fair which took place at
Wyndover during the second week in
January was in many respects the great
event of the year in the country town.

Not only did the show of horses attract dealers and farmers from far and wide, but it was the week of the year for settling accounts, hiring servants, and the general transaction of business. That week all the tradespeople in Wyndover kept open house, and treated their customers by turns. There was one day for the farmers, another day for the country carriers, and all through the week any one

who paid a bill was invited to step into the back parlour and partake of the good cheer that abounded at these times.

This year the weather proved unusually propitious. There was just enough frost to make it good travelling along the country roads, and the wheels ran briskly along over the hardened surface without any lives being endangered by horses slipping about; while the brilliant sunshine and keen crispness of the air helped to put every one in good humour, and lent additional animation to what was always a busy and lively scene.

The busiest scene of all took place on the open space in front of the Corn Exchange, one of a block of buildings which stood between the horse fair and the Market-place. Here booths for the sale of every imaginable article were erected, and the vendors drove a busy trade in knives and forks, pots and pans, hosiery and draperies, besides the more perishable goods, such as gingerbread, nuts, and oranges. Here cheap-jacks never failed to collect a crowd of admiring country-folk, to whom their stale jokes afforded at least as great an attraction as the motley display of wares, of which they professed to dispose at such enormous sacrifice to themselves. Here, too, were the merry-go-rounds and peep-shows, which are never absent from a fair, and towering over all, a huge coloured placard

announcing a special performance to be held by a London circus company in the Corn Exchange that evening.

In the midst of all this hubbub and confusion, exactly opposite the Corn Exchange, stood the well-known inn known from time immemorial as the Boar's Head, and now kept by Job Marston, a younger half-brother of Mrs. Plaskitt, and uncle to Margie and Essie.

The Boar's Head was one of the few old houses which had not as yet been sacrificed to recent improvements in Wyndover. Its thatched roof, quaint gables, and overhanging upper story would have been the delight of an artist, if any of a higher grade than house painters and decorators ever penetrated into these remote regions. Beautiful were its carved corbels and deeply-traced mouldings, the creamy tints of its plaster walls, which showed between the cross-beams of oak; but picturesque as the exterior was, the interior was still more worthy of admiration.

For not only was there a spacious parlour panelled with oak, mantel-piece and doorway being framed in by massive pillars of the best Jacobæan work; but it had a ceiling entirely covered with the most elaborate devices in stucco ornament, with arabesques, rosettes, delicate curves and sprays of flowers, all woven together in an endless laby