later in the year the forget-me-nots sprang up among the rushes and mint which grew in the brook.

Here one afternoon, at the beginning of February, Margery Chaplin had come in search of aconites, but finding that it was still too early for them she sat down on a dead trunk, and for lack of something better to do, she gave herself up to her own thoughts. She was, it must be owned, in a very idle frame of mind, and was moreover getting very tired of her own company.

Mrs. Plaskitt had availed herself of a fine week to have a wash, and had pressed Essie into the service. So for three days Margie had been without her sister, and her father's whole time and energies were absorbed in putting together some fragments of old oak which he had picked up at a sale and thought would work up very well into a sideboard, more for his own pleasure in the workmanship than for any chance of finding a purchaser. It was not therefore to be wondered at that by the afternoon of the third day Margie began to find solitude oppressive. She had finished a few household jobs which Essie had left to be done, and had come out with the express purpose of paying Mrs. Connor a visit. Much to her disappointment she had found her absent from home, and even 'Melia Trudgeon, to whom she

L

turned as a last resource, had gone to spend a few weeks with her aunt in London. Thus Margie found herself driven to take refuge in her own thoughts, and these were not of a very inspiriting kind.

Since the week of the horse fair, more than à fortnight ago, she had scarcely seen Cornelius Maynard, and could not altogether put away from her mind the unpleasant feeling that he had friends before whom he did not care to acknowledge his intimacy with her. She was too proud to breathe a word of what had passed between them even to Essie, but the less she spoke of it the more she brooded over it to herself. What if after all he were only trifling with her and meant nothing more by his attentions than a passing fancy for a new acquaintance! But what troubled her most of all was the disturbing consciousness which grew clearer to her every moment of the large part of her happiness which had come to depend upon his looks and words. At last, unable to come to any satisfactory conclusion, she rose from her seat and thought she would walk home through the spinny at the foot of the field. This was the prettiest part of the Lady-ground, where the ash trees met overhead and in summer the leaves were so thick as almost to shut out the sky. Already there were signs of spring here. The ivy which trailed.

along the ground had begun to put out young shoots of tender green, and the rooks were cawing in the upper boughs. There was one aconite in flower, and Margie was in the act of stooping to pick it when she heard the gate at the end of the wood close, and saw Cornelius walking towards her with a gun on his shoulder and a black retriever at his side. She tried to look unconcerned, but could not keep back the hot colour which rose in her cheeks as he bowed to her in his most courteous manner.

"I'm after rabbits, Miss Chaplin," he said carelessly. "This is a terrible place for them, and you can't think the damage they do to my spring wheat."

"I saw one run by just now a little higher up," said Margie, keeping up the air of indifference which she had assumed. With these words she

walked on towards the gate.

But Cornelius had no intention of losing so favourable an opportunity, and turning back he walked a few paces with her.

"Don't be in such a hurry, Miss Chaplin," he said pleadingly; "it's an age since I have had a chance of speaking two words to you."

"Is it?" said Margie, with the slightest possible curl of her lip.

"You are very scornful this afternoon," rejoined

Cornelius; "I can't think what I have done to be treated so hardly. If you knew how long the time since I last saw you has seemed, and how vainly I have tried to get a sight of you, I am sure you would be more merciful."

"How is Miss Fairbairn?" asked Margie, relenting in spite of herself, but glad to change the subject.

"No better," said Cornelius. "Poor old lady, she only gets up for a few hours in the afternoon now, and her temper becomes worse every day, I think."

"You ought to be sitting with her now, instead of wasting your time out here," said Margie, unable to resist a mischievous glance at him.

"I dare say!" returned Cornelius. "But I'm not so bad as you think. The parson had come to call, so I wasn't wanted this time."

"Well, you must have rather a dull time of it now, I confess," said Margie; “and, on the whole, I am a little inclined to pity you."

"Thank you," replied Cornelius, taking a long look into her face as he spoke. "I hope you won't stop there, but that your compassion will deepen into something better."

They had reached the gate, and he stood leaning his back against it, unwilling to let her pass for fear she should escape him. Never till this