rinth of design, and all executed with the same fineness and precision of touch.

Very few persons in Wyndover ever paid attention to this ceiling; the farmers who dined there on market days certainly did not stop to examine the intricacy of the patterns, the grace and beauty of thought which had guided the designer's hand, and Mrs. Marston was of opinion that it only made a nest for cobwebs and ought to be pulled down.

Fortunately as yet the ceiling had escaped this doom, and it remained to bear its silent testimony to the better taste of a past age, and to give hopes of a revival of art at some future day even in this rural district.

This being the first day of the horse fair, the Boar's Head was thronged with visitors, and a large party sat eating and drinking at the long table in the parlour with the stuccoed ceiling.

Conspicuous among the rest by his goodhumoured face and frizzly head of hair was Job Marston, the landlord, standing at the head of the table carving slices of ham, which he tossed on to a plate at his side, with the dexterity of an expert, as fast as they were cut.

At the same table was Margie Chaplin, who had arrived early that morning, and was busy handing plates, pouring out ale, and making herself generally useful.

Mrs. Marston, whose corpulence made her slow to move, preferred sitting by the hearth, chatting with an old acquaintance who was enjoying a quiet pipe in the chimney-corner, and generally managed to enlist the services of one of her nieces on these important occasions.

Margery had been the one invited this year, partly because she had not accompanied her father on the last expedition to Wyndover; partly, too, because she was a great favourite of her uncle Job's, who was often heard to say that for a quick hand and a merry laugh there wasn't the like of Margie in all the country round. To-day she had a very business-like air, in her dark-blue serge, with white linen collar and cuffs, and a white apron to protect her gown, and no ribbons or finery about her excepting a small bunch of violets pinned on in front.

"Spring-time is beforehand with you, my lass," was one old farmer's remark to her, as she offered to fill his pipe. But she did not tell any one that those early violets came from the sunny bank under the south wall of the Manor-house kitchengarden, nor that it was the hope of seeing their giver which made her turn her head so often with an eager restless glance towards the street door.

All at once her attention was arrested by one of the last comers, the son of a well-known horsedealer of the name of Burton, exclaiming

"There goes Maynard by the door. I declare he's coming in here."

He had scarcely uttered the words when a finelooking young man, in faultless attire, flourishing a hunting-whip in his hand, strode into the room and, without paying attention to any one else, called to Burton by name.

"Hallo, Burton! you're the very fellow I'm looking for. Just come this way and give me your opinion on a filly I want to buy. I'm in a desperate hurry, so make haste."

"All right," said Burton, deliberately finishing his last mouthfuls of pork pie, while the young farmer stood impatiently at the door cracking his whip.

Margie had leisure to take in all the details of his person, and her impression was not a favourable one. His good-looking features bore an unmistakable likeness to Cornelius, but there was a haughty expression about him-an evident attempt at swagger-which produced a disagreeable effect on her mind and made her almost wish she had not seen him.

When Burton's meal was ended and the two young men had left the inn, remarks were freely passed on his appearance and manner.

"Now, you'd never think it," said one farmer, who bore signs of having rather gone down than

up in the world of late, "you'd never think that I remember that chap's father an errand-boy in his uncle's shop. Times have changed with him, to be sure."

"Well, he worked hard for it, and no one ought to grudge him his good luck," said the first speaker's neighbour, evidently a farmer of the good oldfashioned sort; "but as for that fellow, I should like to give him a good horse-whipping. He never seems to think any one good enough to speak to. And if folks can't keep a civil tongue in their head, they'd better stop at home."

"He's had a rare sight of luck, too," said Job Marston, with a twinkle of his sharp little eyes; "first stepping into the best farm in the neighbourhood, and that not a high-rented one either, and then marrying a girl with a pot of money."

"One of George Harding's lasses, wasn't she?" said the former speaker. "Well, she may have what folks call 'trinsic merits, but she's not my sort. Too fine a lady by half, to my mind. She'll never stoop to wet her little finger, I know. None of them for me.",

"Is he the owner of the prize horse?" asked another, who was a stranger in this part of the country.

"No," replied the other, "that's his brother, the younger one; "Nelus,' they used to call him when

he was a little chap. He lives somewhere out the other side, at one of the Mardens."

Margie, who had just placed a smoking plumpudding on the table, heard these last words, and listened with interest to the information.

"At King's Marden," explained her uncle. "Miss Fairbairn, the old man's daughter, has adopted him, in a fashion; leastways, he's managing her place, and's likely to step into her shoes some day. And it won't be long either, I suspect, for the old lady's precious bad, folks say."

"There's luck for you again," said the first speaker. "Only an old woman, with one foot in her grave, between you and the prettiest homestead for ten miles round."

"He's a nicer chap than his brother," said Job. "He looks in here sometimes, and doesn't put on such high and mighty airs; but he's young still, you see, and that may account for it. But my niece here," he added, suddenly remembering Margie's presence, "she's a King's Marden girl herself; she can tell us all about him, I'll be bound."

"Ah, lassie, you're a Marden girl then?" said the old farmer who had just been expressing his

views as to women so freely.

"Well, it's a pretty

spot, although I ha'n't been there for years."

"I'm glad you think so, sir," said Margie prettily. "I do, for it's always been my home, and of course I'm very fond of it."