“An unpublished melody, I fancy,” said Stapylton, with a malicious twinkle of his eye.

“Not even corrected as yet,” said the Poet, with a glance at Polly.

What a triumph it was for a mere village beauty to be thus tilted for by such gallant knights; but Polly was practical as well as vain, and a certain unmistakable something in Lady Cobham's eye told her that two of the most valued guests of the house were not to be thus withdrawn from circulation; and with this wise impression on her mind, she slipped hastily away, on the pretext of something to say to her father. And although it was a mere pretence on her part, there was that in her look as they talked together that betokened their conversation to be serious.

“I tell you again,” said he, in a sharp but low whisper, “she will not suffer it. You used not to make mistakes of this kind formerly, and I cannot conceive why you should do so now.”

“But, dear papa,” said she, with a strange half-smile, “don't you remember your own story of the gentleman who got tipsy because he foresaw he would never be invited again?”

But the doctor was in no jesting mood, and would not accept of the illustration. He spoke now even more angrily than before.

“You have only to see how much they make of him to know well that he is out of our reach,” said he, bitterly.

“A long shot, Sir Lucius; there is such honor in a long shot,” said she, with infinite drollery; and then with a sudden gravity, added, “I have never forgotten the man you cured, just because your hand shook and you gave him a double dose of laudanum.”

This was too much for his patience, and he turned away in disgust at her frivolity. In doing so, however, he came in front of Lady Cobham, who had come up to request Miss Dill to play a certain Spanish dance for two young ladies of the company.

“Of course, your Ladyship,—too much honor for her,—she will be charmed; my little girl is overjoyed when she can contribute even thus humbly to the pleasure of your delightful house.”

Never did a misdemeanist take his “six weeks” with a more complete consciousness of penalty than did Polly sit down to that piano. She well understood it as a sentence, and, let me own, submitted well and gracefully to her fate. Nor was it, after all, such a slight trial, for the fandango was her own speciality; she had herself brought the dance and the music to Cobham. They who were about to dance it were her own pupils, and not very proficient ones, either. And with all this she did her part well and loyally. Never had she played with more spirit; never marked the time with a firmer precision; never threw more tenderness into the graceful parts, nor more of triumphant daring into the proud ones. Amid the shower of “Bravos!” that closed the performance,—for none thought of the dancers,—the little Poet drew nigh and whispered, “How naughty!”

“Why so?” asked she, innocently.

“What a blaze of light to throw over a sorry picture!” said he, dangling his eyeglass, and playing that part of middle-aged Cupid he was so fond of assuming.

“Do you know, sir,” said Lady Cobham, coming hastily towards him, “that I will not permit you to turn the heads of my young ladies? Dr. Dill is already so afraid of your fascinations that he has ordered his carriage,—is it not so?” she went on appealing to the doctor, with increased rapidity. “But you will certainly keep your promise to us. We shall expect you on Thursday at dinner.”

Overwhelmed with confusion, Dill answered—he knew not what—about pleasure, punctuality, and so forth; and then turned away to ring for that carriage he had not ordered before.

“And so you tell me Barrington is better?” said the Admiral, taking him by the arm and leading him away. “The danger is over, then?”

“I believe so; his mind is calm, and he is only suffering now from debility. What with the Assizes, and a week's dissipation at Kilkenny, and this shock,—for it was a shock,—the whole thing was far more of a mental than a bodily ailment.”

“You gave him my message? You said how anxious I felt to know if I could be of any use to him?”

“Yes; and he charged Mr. Withering to come and thank you, for he is passing by Cobham to-morrow on his way to Kilkenny.”

“Indeed! Georgiana, don't forget that. Withering will call here to-morrow; try and keep him to dine, at least, if we cannot secure him for longer. He's one of those fellows I am always delighted to meet Where are you going, Dill? Not taking your daughter away at this hour, are you?”

The doctor sighed, and muttered something about dissipations that were only too fascinating, too engrossing. He did not exactly like to say that his passports had been sent him, and the authorities duly instructed to give him “every aid and assistance possible.” For a moment, indeed, Polly looked as though she would make some explanation of the matter; but it was only for a moment, and the slight flush on her cheek gave way quickly, and she looked somewhat paler than her wont. Meanwhile, the little Poet had fetched her shawl, and led her away, humming, “Buona notte,—buona sera!” as he went, in that half-caressing, half-quizzing way he could assume so jauntily. Stapylton walked behind with the doctor, and whispered as he went, “If not inconvenient, might I ask the favor of a few minutes with you to-morrow?”

Dill assured him he was devotedly his servant; and having fixed the interview for two o'clock, away they drove. The night was calm and starlight, and they had long passed beyond the grounds of Cobham, and were full two miles on their road before a word was uttered by either.

“What was it her Ladyship said about Thursday next, at dinner?” asked the doctor, half pettishly.

“Nothing to me, papa.”

“If I remember, it was that we had accepted the invitation already, and begging me not to forget it.”

“Perhaps so,” said she, dryly.

“You are usually more mindful about these matters,” said he, tartly, “and not so likely to forget promised festivities.”

“They certainly were not promised to me,” said she, “nor, if they had been, should I accept of them.”

“What do you mean?” said he, angrily.

“Simply, papa, that it is a house I will not re-enter, that's all.”

“Why, your head is turned, your brains are destroyed by flattery, girl. You seem totally to forget that we go to these places merely by courtesy,—we are received only on sufferance; we are not their equals.”

“The more reason to treat us with deference, and not render our position more painful than it need be.”

“Folly and nonsense! Deference, indeed! How much deference is due from eight thousand a year to a dispensary doctor, or his daughter? I 'll have none of these absurd notions. If they made any mistake towards you, it was by over-attention,—too much notice.”

“That is very possible, papa; and it was not always very flattering for that reason.”

“Why, what is your head full of? Do you fancy you are one of Lord Carricklough's daughters, eh?”

“No, papa; for they are shockingly freckled, and very plain.”

“Do you know your real station?” cried he, more angrily, “and that if, by the courtesy of society, my position secures acceptance anywhere, it entails nothing—positively nothing—to those belonging to me?”

“Such being the case, is it not wise of us not to want anything,—not to look for it,—not to pine after it? You shall see, papa, whether I fret over my exclusion from Cobham.”

The doctor was not in a mood to approve of such philosophy, and he drove on, only showing—by an extra cut of his whip—the tone and temper that beset him.

“You are to have a visit from Captain Stapylton tomorrow, papa?” said she, in the manner of a half question.

“Who told you so?” said he, with a touch of eagerness in his voice; for suddenly it occurred to him if Polly knew of this appointment, she herself might be interested in its object.

“He asked me what was the most likely time to find you at home, and also if he might venture to hope he should be presented to mamma.”

That was, as the doctor thought, a very significant speech; it might mean a great deal,—a very great deal, indeed; and so he turned it over and over in his mind for some time before he spoke again. At last he said,—

“I haven't a notion what he's coming about, Polly,—have you?”

“No, sir; except, perhaps, it be to consult you. He told me he had sprained his arm, or his shoulder, the other day, when his horse swerved.”

“Oh no, it can't be that, Polly; it can't be that.”

“Why not the pleasure of a morning call, then? He is an idle man, and finds time heavy on his hands.”

A short “humph” showed that this explanation was not more successful than the former, and the doctor, rather irritated with this game of fence, for so he deemed it, said bluntly,—

“Has he been showing you any marked attentions of late? Have you noticed anything peculiar in his manner towards you?”

“Nothing whatever, sir,” said she, with a frank boldness. “He has chatted and flirted with me, just as every one else presumes he has a right to do with a girl in a station below their own; but he has never been more impertinent in this way than any other young man of fashion.”

“But there have been”—he was sorely puzzled for the word he wanted, and it was only as a resource, not out of choice, he said—“attentions?”

“Of course, papa, what many would call in the cognate phrase, marked attentions; but girls who go into the world as I do no more mistake what these mean than would you yourself, papa, if passingly asked what was good for a sore-throat fancy that the inquirer intended to fee you.”

“I see, Polly, I see,” muttered he, as the illustration came home to him. Still, after ruminating for some time, a change seemed to come over his thoughts, for he said,—

“But you might be wrong this time, Polly: it is by no means impossible that you might be wrong.”

“My dear papa,” said she, gravely, “when a man of his rank is disposed to think seriously of a girl in mine, he does not begin by flattery; he rather takes the line of correction and warning, telling her fifty little platitudes about trifles in manner, and so forth, by her docile acceptance of which he conceives a high notion of himself, and a half liking for her. But I have no need to go into these things; enough if I assure you Captain Stapylton's visit has no concern for me; he either comes out of pure idleness, or he wants to make use of you.”

The last words opened a new channel to Dill's thoughts, and he drove on in silent meditation over them.

CHAPTER XIX. THE HOUR OF LUNCHEON

If there be a special agreeability about all the meal-times of a pleasant country-house, there is not one of them which, in the charm of an easy, unconstrained gayety, can rival the hour of luncheon. At breakfast, one is too fresh; at dinner, too formal; but luncheon, like an opening manhood, is full of its own bright projects. The plans of the day have already reached a certain maturity, and fixtures have been made for riding-parties, or phaeton drives, or flirtations in the garden. The very strangers who looked coldly at each other over their morning papers have shaken into a semi-intimacy, and little traits of character and temperament, which would have been studiously shrouded in the more solemn festivals of the day, are now displayed with a frank and fearless confidence. The half-toilette and the tweed coat, mutton broth and “Balmorals,” seem infinitely more congenial to acquaintanceship than the full-blown splendor of evening dress and the grander discipline of dinner.

Irish social life permits of a practice of which I do not, while recording, constitute myself the advocate or the apologist,—a sort of good-tempered banter called quizzing,—a habit I scarcely believe practicable in other lands; that is, I know of no country where it could be carried on as harmlessly and as gracefully, where as much wit could be expended innocuously, as little good feeling jeopardized in the display. The happiest hour of the day for such passages as these was that of luncheon, and it was in the very clash and clatter of the combat that a servant announced the Attorney-General!

What a damper did the name prove! Short of a bishop himself, no announcement could have spread more terror over the younger members of the company, embodying as it seemed to do all that could be inquisitorial, intolerant, and overbearing. Great, however, was the astonishment to see, instead of the stern incarnation of Crown prosecutions and arbitrary commitments, a tall, thin, slightly stooped man, dressed in a gray shooting-jacket, and with a hat plentifully garnished with fishing-flies. He came lightly into the room, and kissed the hand of his hostess with a mixture of cordiality and old-fashioned gallantry that became him well.

“My old luck, Cobham!” said he, as he seated himself at table. “I have fished the stream all the way from the Red House to this, and never so much as a rise to reward me.

“They knew you,—they knew you, Withering,” chirped out the Poet, “and they took good care not to put in an appearance, with the certainty of a 'detainer.'”

“Ah! you here! That decanter of sherry screened you completely from my view,” said Withering, whose sarcasm on his size touched the very sorest of the other's susceptibilities. “And talking of recognizances, how comes it you are here, and a large party at Lord Dunraney's all assembled to meet you?”

The Poet, as not infrequent with him, had forgotten everything of this prior engagement, and was now overwhelmed with his forgetfulness. The ladies, however, pressed eagerly around him with consolation so like caresses, that he was speedily himself again.

“How natural a mistake, after all!” said the lawyer. “The old song says,—

Ah! Tommy, yours is the profession, after all; always sure of your retainer, and never but one brief to sustain—'T. M. versus the Heart of Woman.'”

“One is occasionally nonsuited, however,” said the other, half pettishly. “By the way, how was it you got that verdict for old Barrington t'other day? Was it true that Plowden got hold of your bag by mistake?”

“Not only that, but he made a point for us none of us had discovered.”

“How historical the blunder:—

“If Peter Barrington gained his cause by it I 'm heartily rejoiced, and I wish him health and years to enjoy it.” The Admiral said this with a cordial good will as he drank off his glass.

“He's all right again,” said Withering. “I left him working away with a hoe and a rake this morning, looking as hale and hearty as he did a dozen years ago.”

“A man must have really high deserts in whose good fortune so many are well-wishers,” said Stapylton; and by the courteous tone of the remark Withering's attention was attracted, and he speedily begged the Admiral to present him to his guest. They continued to converse together as they arose from table, and with such common pleasure that when Withering expressed a hope the acquaintance might not end there, Stapylton replied by a request that he would allow him to be his fellow-traveller to Kilkenny, whither he was about to go on a regimental affair. The arrangement was quickly made, to the satisfaction of each; and as they drove away, while many bewailed the departure of such pleasant members of the party, the little Poet simperingly said,—

As for the fellow-travellers, they jogged along very pleasantly on their way, as two consummate men of the world are sure to do when they meet. For what Freemasonry equals that of two shrewd students of life? How flippantly do they discuss each theme! how easily read each character, and unravel each motive that presents itself! What the lawyer gained by the technical subtlety of his profession, the soldier made up for by his wider experience of mankind. There were, besides, a variety of experiences to exchange. Toga could tell of much that interested the “man of war,” and he, in turn, made himself extremely agreeable by his Eastern information, not to say, that he was able to give a correct version of many Hindostanee phrases and words which the old lawyer eagerly desired to acquire.

“All you have been telling me has a strong interest for me, Captain Stapylton,” said he, as they drove into Kilkenny. “I have a case which has engaged my attention for years, and is likely to occupy what remains to me of life,—a suit of which India is the scene, and Orientals figure as some of the chief actors,—so that I can scarcely say how fortunate I feel this chance meeting with you.”

“I shall deem myself greatly honored if the acquaintance does not end here.”

“It shall not, if it depend upon me,” said Withering, cordially. “You said something of a visit you were about to make to Dublin. Will you do me a great—a very great—favor, and make my house your home while you stay? This is my address: '18 Merrion Square.' It is a bachelor's hall; and you can come and go without ceremony.”

“The plan is too tempting to hesitate about. I accept your invitation with all the frankness you have given it. Meanwhile you will be my guest here.” “'That is impossible. I must start for Cork this evening.” And now they parted,—not like men who had been strangers a few hours back, but like old acquaintances, only needing the occasion to feel as old friends.

CHAPTER XX. AN INTERIOR AT THE DOCTOR'S

When Captain Stapylton made his appointment to wait on Dr. Dill, he was not aware that the Attorney-General was expected at Cobham. No sooner, however, had he learned that fact than he changed his purpose, and intimated his intention of running up for a day to Kilkenny, to hear what was going on in the regiment. No regret for any disappointment he might be giving to the village doctor, no self-reproach for the breach of an engagement—all of his own making—crossed his mind. It is, indeed, a theme for a moralist to explore, the ease with which a certain superiority in station can divest its possessor of all care for the sensibilities of those below him; and yet in the little household of the doctor that promised visit was the source of no small discomfort and trouble. The doctor's study—the sanctum in which the interview should be held—had to be dusted and smartened up. Old boots, and overcoats, and smashed driving-whips, and odd stirrup-leathers, and stable-lanterns, and garden implements had all to be banished. The great table in front of the doctor's chair had also to be professionally littered with notes and cards and periodicals, not forgetting an ingenious admixture of strange instruments of torture, quaint screws, and inscrutable-looking scissors, destined, doubtless, to make many a faint heart the fainter in their dread presence. All these details had to be carried out in various ways through the rest of the establishment,—in the drawing-room, wherein the great man was to be ushered; in the dining-room, where he was to lunch. Upon Polly did the greater part of these cares devolve; not alone attending to the due disposal of chairs and sofas and tables, but to the preparation of certain culinary delicacies, which were to make the Captain forget the dainty luxuries of Cobham. And, in truth, there is a marvellous esprit du corps in the way a woman will fag and slave herself to make the humble household she belongs to look its best, even to the very guest she has least at heart; for Polly did not like Stapylton. Flattered at first by his notice, she was offended afterwards at the sort of conscious condescension of his manner,—a something which seemed to say, I can be charming, positively fascinating, but don't imagine for a moment that there is anything especial in it. I captivate—just as I fish, hunt, sketch, or shoot—to amuse myself. And with all this, how was it he was really not a coxcomb? Was it the grave dignity of his address, or the quiet state-liness of his person, or was it a certain uniformity, a keeping, that pervaded all he said or did? I am not quite sure whether all three did not contribute to this end, and make him what the world confessed,—a most well-bred gentleman.

Polly was, in her way, a shrewd observer, and she felt that Stapylton's manner towards her was that species of urbane condescension with which a great master of a game deigns to play with a very humble proficient. He moved about the board with an assumption that said, I can checkmate you when I will! Now this is hard enough to bear when the pieces at stake are stained ivory, but it is less endurable: still when they are our emotions and our wishes. And yet with all this before her, Polly ordered and arranged and superintended and directed with an energy that never tired, and an activity that never relaxed.

As for Mrs. Dill, no similar incident in the life of Clarissa had prepared her for the bustle and preparation she saw on every side, and she was fairly perplexed between the thought of a seizure for rent and a fire,—casualties which, grave as they were, she felt she could meet with Mr. Richardson beside her. The doctor himself was unusually fidgety and anxious. Perhaps he ascribed considerable importance to this visit; perhaps he thought Polly had not been candid with him, and that, in reality, she knew more of its object than she had avowed; and so he walked hurriedly from room to room, and out into the garden, and across the road to the river's side, and once as far as the bridge, consulting his watch, and calculating that as it now only wanted eight minutes of two o'clock, the arrival could scarcely be long delayed.

It was on his return he entered the drawing-room and found Polly, now plainly but becomingly dressed, seated at her work, with a seeming quietude and repose about her, strangely at variance with her late display of activity. “I 've had a look down the Graigue Road,” said he, “but can see nothing. You are certain he said two o'clock?”

“Quite certain, sir.”

“To be sure he might come by the river; there's water enough now for the Cobham barge.”

She made no answer, though she half suspected some reply was expected.

“And of course,” continued the doctor, “they'd have offered him the use of it. They seem to make a great deal of him up there.”

“A great deal, indeed, sir,” said she; but in a voice that was a mere echo of his own.

“And I suspect they know why. I 'm sure they know why. People in their condition make no mistakes about each other; and if he receives much attention, it is because it's his due.”

No answer followed this speech, and he walked feverishly up and down the room, holding his watch in his closed hand. “I have a notion you must have mistaken him. It was not two he said.”

“I 'm positive it was two, sir. But it can scarcely be much past that hour now.”

“It is seventeen minutes past two,” said he, solemnly. And then, as if some fresh thought had just occurred to him, asked, “Where 's Tom? I never saw him this morning.”

“He 's gone out to take a walk, sir. The poor fellow is dead beat by work, and had such a headache that I told him to go as far as the Red House or Snow's Mill.”

“And I 'll wager he did not want to be told twice. Anything for idleness with him!”

“Well, papa, he is really doing his very best now. He is not naturally quick, and he has a bad memory, so that labor is no common toil; but his heart is in it, and I never saw him really anxious for success before.”

“To go out to India, I suppose,” said Dill, sneeringly, “that notable project of the other good-for-nothing; for, except in the matter of fortune, there's not much to choose between them. There 's the half-hour striking now!”

“The project has done this for him, at least,” said she, firmly,—“it has given him hope!”

“How I like to hear about hope!” said he, with a peculiarly sarcastic bitterness. “I never knew a fellow worth sixpence that had that cant of 'hope' in his mouth! How much hope had I when I began the world! How much have I now?”

“Don't you hope Captain Stapylton may not have forgotten his appointment, papa?” said she, with a quick drollery, which sparkled in her eye, but brought no smile to her lips.

“Well, here he is at last,” said Dill, as he heard the sharp click made by the wicket of the little garden; and he started up, and rushed to the window. “May I never!” cried he, in horror, “if it isn't M'Cormick! Say we're out,—that I'm at Graigue,—that I won't be home till evening!”

But while he was multiplying these excuses, the old Major had caught sight of him, and was waving his hand in salutation from below. “It's too late,—it's too late!” sighed Dill, bitterly; “he sees me now,—there's no help for it!”

What benevolent and benedictory expressions were muttered below his breath, it is not for this history to record; but so vexed and irritated was he, that the Major had already entered the room ere he could compose his features into even a faint show of welcome.

“I was down at the Dispensary,” croaked out M'Cormick, “and they told me you were not expected there to-day, and so I said, maybe he's ill, or maybe,”—and here he looked shrewdly around him,—“maybe there 's something going on up at the house.”

“What should there be going on, as you call it?” responded Dill, angrily, for he was now at home, in presence of the family, and could not compound for that tone of servile acquiescence he employed on foreign service.

“And, faix, I believe I was right; Miss Polly isn't so smart this morning for nothing, no more than the saving cover is off the sofa, and the piece of gauze taken down from before the looking-glass, and the 'Times' newspaper away from the rug!”

“Are there any other domestic changes you 'd like to remark upon, Major M'Cormick?” said Dill, pale with rage.

“Indeed, yes,” rejoined the other; “there 's yourself, in the elegant black coat that I never saw since Lord Kilraney's funeral, and looking pretty much as lively and pleasant as you did at the ceremony.”

“A gentleman has made an appointment with papa,” broke in Polly, “and may be here at any moment.”

“I know who it is,” said M'Cormick, with a finger on the side of his nose to imply intense cunning. “I know all about it.”

“What do you know?—what do you mean by all about it?” said Dill, with an eagerness he could not repress.

“Just as much as yourselves,—there now! Just as much as yourselves!” said he, sententiously.

“But apparently, Major, you know far more,” said Polly.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don't; but I 'll tell you one thing, Dill, for your edification, and mind me if I 'm not right: you 're all mistaken about him, every one of ye!”

“Whom are you talking of?” asked the doctor, sternly.

“Just the very man you mean yourself, and no other! Oh, you need n't fuss and fume, I don't want to pry into your family secrets. Not that they 'll be such secrets tomorrow or next day,—the whole town will be talking of them,—but as an old friend that could, maybe, give a word of advice—”

“Advice about what? Will you just tell me about what?” cried Dill, now bursting with anger.

“I 've done now. Not another word passes my lips about it from this minute. Follow your own road, and see where it will lead ye?”

“Cannot you understand, Major M'Cormick, that we are totally unable to guess what you allude to? Neither papa nor I have the very faintest clew to your meaning, and if you really desire to serve us, you will speak out plainly.”

“Not another syllable, if I sat here for two years!”

The possibility of such an infliction seemed so terrible to poor Polly that she actually shuddered as she heard it.

“Is n't that your mother I see sitting up there, with all the fine ribbons in her cap?” whispered M'Cormick, as he pointed to a small room which opened off an angle of the larger one. “That 's 'the boodoo,' is n't it?” said he, with a grin. This, I must inform my reader, was the M'Cormick for “boudoir.” “Well, I'll go and pay my respects to her.”

So little interest did Mrs. Dill take in the stir and movement around her that the Major utterly failed in his endeavors to torture her by all his covert allusions and ingeniously drawn inferences. No matter what hints he dropped or doubts he suggested, she knew “Clarissa” would come well out of her trials; and beyond a little unmeaning simper, and a muttered “To be sure,” “No doubt of it,” and, “Why not?” M'Cormick could obtain nothing from her.

Meanwhile, in the outer room the doctor continued to stride up and down with impatience, while Polly sat quietly working on, not the less anxious, perhaps, though her peaceful air betokened a mind at rest.

“That must be a boat, papa,” said she, without lifting her head, “that has just come up to the landing-place. I heard the plash of the oars, and now all is still again.”

“You 're right; so it is!” cried he, as he stopped before the window. “But how is this! That 's a lady I see yonder, and a gentleman along with her. That's not Stapylton, surely!”

“He is scarcely so tall,” said she, rising to look out, “but not very unlike him. But the lady, papa,—the lady is Miss Barrington.”

Bad as M'Cormick's visit was, it was nothing to the possibility of such an advent as this, and Dill's expressions of anger were now neither measured nor muttered.

“This is to be a day of disasters. I see it well, and no help for it,” exclaimed he, passionately. “If there was one human being I 'd hate to come here this morning, it's that old woman! She's never civil. She's not commonly decent in her manner towards me in her own house, and what she 'll be in mine, is clean beyond me to guess. That's herself! There she goes! Look at her remarking,—I see, she's remarking on the weeds over the beds, and the smashed paling. She's laughing too! Oh, to be sure, it's fine laughing at people that's poor; and she might know something of that same herself. I know who the man is now. That 's the Colonel, who came to the 'Fisherman's Home' on the night of the accident.”

“It would seem we are to hold a levee to-day,” said Polly, giving a very fleeting glance at herself in the glass. And now a knock came to the door, and the man who acted gardener and car-driver and valet to the doctor announced that Miss Barrington and Colonel Hunter were below.

“Show them up,” said Dill, with the peremptory voice of one ordering a very usual event, and intentionally loud enough to be heard below stairs.

If Polly's last parting with Miss Barrington gave little promise of pleasure to their next meeting, the first look she caught of the old lady on entering the room dispelled all uneasiness on that score. Miss Dinah entered with a pleasing smile, and presented her friend, Colonel Hunter, as one come to thank the doctor for much kindness to his young subaltern. “Whom, by the way,” added he, “we thought to find here. It is only since we landed that we learned he had left the inn for Kilkenny.”

While the Colonel continued to talk to the doctor, Miss Dinah had seated herself On the sofa, with Polly at her side.

“My visit this morning is to you,” said she. “I have come to ask your forgiveness. Don't interrupt me, child; your forgiveness was the very word I used. I was very rude to you t' other morning, and being all in the wrong,—like most people in such circumstances,—I was very angry with the person who placed me so.”

“But, my dear madam,” said Polly, “you had such good reason to suppose you were in the right that this amende on your part is far too generous.”

“It is not at all generous,—it is simply just. I was sorely vexed with you about that stupid wager, which you were very wrong to have had any share in; vexed with your father, vexed with your brother,—not that I believed his counsel would have been absolute wisdom,—and I was even vexed with my young friend Conyers, because he had not the bad taste to be as angry with you as I was. When I was a young lady,” said she, bridling up, and looking at once haughty and defiant, “no man would have dared to approach me with such a proposal as complicity in a wager. But I am told that my ideas are antiquated, and the world has grown much wiser since that day.”

“Nay, madam,” said Polly, “but there is another difference that your politeness has prevented you from appreciating. I mean the difference in station between Miss Barrington and Polly Dill.”

It was a well-directed shot, and told powerfully, for Miss Barrington's eyes became clouded, and she turned her head away, while she pressed Polly's hand within her own with a cordial warmth. “Ah!” said she, feelingly, “I hope there are many points of resemblance between us. I have always tried to be a good sister. I know well what you have been to your brother.”

A very jolly burst of laughter from the inner room, where Hunter had already penetrated, broke in upon them, and the merry tones of his voice were heard saying, “Take my word for it, madam, nobody could spare time nowadays to make love in nine volumes. Life 's too short for it. Ask my old brother-officer here if he could endure such a thirty years' war; or rather let me turn here for an opinion. What does your daughter say on the subject?”

“Ay, ay,” croaked out M'Cormick. “Marry in haste—”

“Or repent that you did n't. That 's the true reading of the adage.”

“The Major would rather apply leisure to the marriage, and make the repentance come—”

“As soon as possible afterwards,” said Miss Dinah, tartly.

“Faix, I 'll do better still; I won't provoke the repentance at all.”

“Oh, Major, is it thus you treat me?” said Polly, affecting to wipe her eyes. “Are my hopes to be dashed thus cruelly?”

But the doctor, who knew how savagely M'Cormick could resent even the most harmless jesting, quickly interposed, with a question whether Polly had thought of ordering luncheon.

It is but fair to Dr. Dill to record the bland but careless way he ordered some entertainment for his visitors. He did it like the lord of a well-appointed household, who, when he said “serve,” they served. It was in the easy confidence of one whose knowledge told him that the train was laid, and only waited for the match to explode it.

“May I have the honor, dear lady?” said he, offering his arm to Miss Barrington.

Now, Miss Dinah had just observed that she had various small matters to transact in the village, and was about to issue forth for their performance; but such is the force of a speciality, that she could not tear herself away without a peep into the dining-room, and a glance, at least, at arrangements that appeared so magically conjured up. Nor was Dill insensible to the astonishment expressed in her face as her eyes ranged over the table.

“If your daughter be your housekeeper, Dr. Dill,” said she, in a whisper, “I must give her my very heartiest approbation. These are matters I can speak of with authority, and I pronounce her worthy of high commendation.”

“What admirable salmon cutlets!” cried the Colonel. “Why, doctor, these tell of a French cook.”

“There she is beside you, the French cook!” said the Major, with a malicious twinkle.

“Yes,” said Polly, smiling, though with a slight flush on her face, “if Major M'Cormick will be indiscreet enough to tell tales, let us hope they will never be more damaging in their import.”

“And do you say—do you mean to tell me that this curry is your handiwork? Why, this is high art.”

“Oh, she 's artful enough, if it 's that ye 're wanting,” muttered the Major.

Miss Barrington, having apparently satisfied the curiosity she felt about the details of the doctor's housekeeping, now took her leave, not, however, without Dr. Dill offering his arm on one side, while Polly, with polite observance, walked on the other.

“Look at that now,” whispered the Major. “They 're as much afraid of that old woman as if she were the Queen of Sheba! And all because she was once a fine lady living at Barrington Hall.”

“Here's their health for it,” said the Colonel, filling his glass,—“and in a bumper too! By the way,” added he, looking around, “does not Mrs. Dill lunch with us?”

“Oh, she seldom comes to her meals! She's a little touched here.” And he laid his finger on the centre of his forehead. “And, indeed, no wonder if she is.” The benevolent Major was about to give some details of secret family history, when the doctor and his daughter returned to the room.

The Colonel ate and talked untiringly. He was delighted with everything, and charmed with himself for his good luck in chancing upon such agreeable people. He liked the scenery, the village, the beetroot salad, the bridge, the pickled oysters, the evergreen oaks before the door. He was not astonished Conyers should linger on such a spot; and then it suddenly occurred to him to ask when he had left the village, and how.

The doctor could give no information on the point, and while he was surmising one thing and guessing another, M'Cormick whispered in the Colonel's ear, “Maybe it's a delicate point. How do you know what went on with—” And a significant nod towards Polly finished the remark.

“I wish I heard what Major M'Cormick has just said,” said Polly.

“And it is exactly what I cannot repeat to you.”

“I suspected as much. So that my only request will be that you never remember it.”

“Isn't she sharp!—sharp as a needle!” chimed in the Major.

Checking, and not without some effort, a smart reprimand on the last speaker, the Colonel looked hastily at his watch, and arose from table.

“Past three o'clock, and to be in Kilkenny by six.”

“Do you want a car? There's one of Rice's men now in the village; shall I get him for you?”

“Would you really do me the kindness?” While the Major bustled off on his errand, the Colonel withdrew the doctor inside the recess of a window. “I had a word I wished to say to you in private, Dr. Dill; but it must really be in private,—you understand me?”

“Strictly confidential, Colonel Hunter,” said Dill, bowing.

“It is this: a young officer of mine, Lieutenant Conyers, has written to me a letter mentioning a plan he had conceived for the future advancement of your son, a young gentleman for whom, it would appear, he had formed a sudden but strong attachment. His project was, as I understand it, to accredit him to his father with such a letter as must secure the General's powerful influence in his behalf. Just the sort of thing a warm-hearted young fellow would think of doing for a friend he determined to serve, but exactly the kind of proceeding that might have a very unfortunate ending. I can very well imagine, from my own short experience here, that your son's claims to notice and distinction may be the very highest; I can believe readily what very little extraneous aid he would require to secure his success; but you and I are old men of the world, and are bound to look at things cautiously, and to ask, 'Is this scheme a very safe one?' 'Will General Conyers enter as heartily into it as his son?' 'Will the young surgeon be as sure to captivate the old soldier as the young one?' In a word, would it be quite wise to set a man's whole venture in life on such a cast, and is it the sort of risk that, with your experience of the world, you would sanction?”

It was evident, from the pause the Colonel left after these words, that he expected Dill to say something; but, with the sage reserve of his order, the doctor stood still, and never uttered a syllable. Let us be just to his acuteness, he never did take to the project from the first; he thought ill of it, in every way, but yet he did not relinquish the idea of making the surrender of it “conditional;” and so he slowly shook his head with an air of doubt, and smoothly rolled his hands one over the other, as though to imply a moment of hesitation and indecision.

“Yes, yes,” muttered he, talking only to himself,—“disappointment, to be sure!—very great disappointment too! And his heart so set upon it, that's the hardship.”

“Naturally enough,” broke in Hunter, hastily. “Who would n't be disappointed under such circumstances? Better even that, however, than utter failure later on.” The doctor sighed, but over what precise calamity was not so clear; and Hunter continued,—

“Now, as I have made this communication to you in strictest confidence, and not in any concert with Conyers, I only ask you to accept the view as a mere matter of opinion. I think you would be wrong to suffer your son to engage in such a venture. That's all I mean by my interference, and I have done.”

Dill was, perhaps, scarcely prepared for the sudden summing up of the Colonel, and looked strangely puzzled and embarrassed.

“Might I talk the matter over with my daughter Polly? She has a good head for one so little versed in the world.”

“By all means. It is exactly what I would have proposed. Or, better still, shall I repeat what I have just told you?”

“Do so,” said the doctor, “for I just remember Miss Barrington will call here in a few moments for that medicine I have ordered for her brother, and which is not yet made up.”

“Give me five minutes of your time and attention, Miss Dill,” said Hunter, “on a point for which your father has referred me to your counsel.”

“To mine?”

“Yes,” said he, smiling at her astonishment. “We want your quick faculties to come to the aid of our slow ones. And here's the case.” And in a few sentences he put the matter before her, as he had done to her father. While he thus talked, they had strolled out into the garden, and walked slowly side by side down one of the alleys.

“Poor Tom!—poor fellow!” was all that Polly said, as she listened; but once or twice her handkerchief was raised to her eyes, and her chest heaved heavily.

“I am heartily sorry for him—that is, if his heart be bent on it—if he really should have built upon the scheme already.”

“Of course he has, sir. You don't suppose that in such lives as ours these are common incidents? If we chance upon a treasure, or fancy that we have, once in a whole existence, it is great fortune.”

“It was a brief, a very brief acquaintance,—a few hours, I believe. The—What was that? Did you hear any one cough there?”

“No, sir; we are quite alone. There is no one in the garden but ourselves.”

“So that, as I was saying, the project could scarcely have taken a very deep root, and—and—in fact, better the first annoyance than a mistake that should give its color to a whole lifetime. I'm certain I heard a step in that walk yonder.”

“No, sir; we are all alone.”

“I half wish I had never come on this same errand. I have done an ungracious thing, evidently very ill, and with the usual fate of those who say disagreeable things, I am involved in the disgrace I came to avert.”

“But I accept your view.”

“There! I knew there was some one there!” said Hunter, springing across a bed and coming suddenly to the side of M'Cormick, who was affecting to be making a nosegay.

“The car is ready at the door, Colonel,” said he, in some confusion. “Maybe you 'd oblige me with a seat as far as Lyrath?”

“Yes, yes; of course. And how late it is!” cried he, looking at his watch. “Time does fly fast in these regions, no doubt of it.”

“You see, Miss Polly, you have made the Colonel forget himself,” said M'Cormick, maliciously.

“Don't be severe on an error so often your own, Major M'Cormick,” said she, fiercely, and turned away into the house.

The Colonel, however, was speedily at her side, and in an earnest voice said: “I could hate myself for the impression I am leaving behind me here. I came with those excellent intentions which so often make a man odious, and I am going away with those regrets which follow all failures; but I mean to come back again one of these days, and erase, if I can, the ill impression.”

“One who has come out of his way to befriend those who had no claim upon his kindness can have no fear for the estimation he will be held in; for my part, I thank you heartily, even though I do not exactly see the direct road out of this difficulty.”

“Let me write to you. One letter—only one,” said Hunter.

But M'Cormick had heard the request, and she flushed up with anger at the malicious glee his face exhibited.

“You 'll have to say my good-byes for me to your father, for I am sorely pressed for time; and, even as it is, shall be late for my appointment in Kilkenny.” And before Polly could do more than exchange his cordial shake hands, he was gone.