"O don't, please don't!" cries the girl, trying distractedly to get possession of her own hands again. "O, Dr. Sinclair, I wish you had not asked me!"

"Why?" he asks again quietly.

"Because—because, I cannot bear to seem ungrateful or unkind, and yet I must. O, will you please let me go?"

"I will let you go when you have answered me two questions, Honor," he says, dropping her hands and drawing back. "Will you first tell me why you are obliged to disappoint me?"

Honor struggles bravely to keep back her tears, while she says in a low voice: "I could not leave them, Dr. Sinclair. My mother and sisters and the boys, I mean. Somehow I have never thought of such a thing as marrying for myself."

"Not lately, Honor?"

Honor looks down, but does not answer.

"I promised father, only a little while before he died," she goes on, "that I would always do all I could to help the others."

"But you did not promise him never to marry? Your father would not have exacted such a promise, I am sure. Now, Honor dear, be reasonable. Doris is going to be married, and Molly will follow before very long."

"Molly?" repeats Honor, looking up.

"Yes, of course she will, as soon as young Horton comes home again. Well, there are two off the list. You would not consider the boys so much in the matter, I suppose; and your mother could divide her time between Doris and ourselves. Daisy I have always looked forward to having to live with us. Ah! what would poor little Daisy say if she knew that the princess was refusing to marry the wood-cutter, and to give her that big brother she so much covets! Ah, Honor, dear child, think before you speak again. Don't decide hurriedly, I beseech you. Take a day to consider—two or three, if you will; but remember, that if your final answer is again 'no,' you give me a lifelong sorrow to live down.

"No!" he suddenly adds with an energy that startles Honor and Jack both, "not a life-long sorrow, for I shall still hope, even if I have to wait for years. There is only one thing that will rob me of all hope. If you tell me that you cannot care for me, then will I leave you here at once, and I will never open my lips on the subject again."

But Honor, who would rather die than tell an untruth, cannot tell him anything of the kind, and so she turns a little reproachful look upon him, shaking her head sadly, and as it droops lower and lower two great tears fall upon the hands which are now again holding hers in a firm grasp.

At the sight of her tears the doctor has instant remorse.

"Forgive me, Honor," he says gently. "I have been too hard on you; I am a selfish fellow, and now I have distressed you."

But Honor, who is still crying quietly, again shakes her head, and in a whisper that he can hardly hear she says:

"No, no, you have not. Please, do not think that. I—I am crying for, for happiness, I think. But oh, I am so sorry too! Please, let me get my handkerchief!"

What would have been the result of this somewhat contradictory statement, it would be perhaps rash to speculate upon, judging by the look of happiness which suddenly overspreads the doctor's face. But at this critical moment a small urchin turns the corner of the lane and slowly comes into sight. He holds a tin-can in one hand and something tied up in a red-cotton handkerchief in the other—presumably his dinner. The fact of coming upon the party at the stile so suddenly and unexpectedly appears to embarrass him exceedingly, for he stands as if rooted to the spot, gaping and staring, first at the horse, then at Sinclair, then at Honor; his eyes travelling back again in reversed order, and finally resting on Jack, with whom he seems struck with admiration. All chance of private conversation being apparently at an end, John Sinclair rises, and first possessing himself of Honor's basket, holds out his hand and helps her down from the stile with elaborate politeness. Then once more slipping the reins over his arm, he retraces his steps (Jack meekly following, though it is the opposite direction from home), and walks slowly along by Honor's side until they reach the gate of the Rookery.

When Honor enters the house it is with a confused sense of having conceded so far as to make three distinct promises to Dr. John Sinclair. One is that should Molly marry some day in the far distant future, she, Honor, shall consider herself pledged to become Mrs. Sinclair, at a moment's notice. The second is that she shall straightway inform her mother of what has passed between them, as he intends calling that evening to speak to Mrs. Merivale on the subject himself.

The third concession (and Honor blushes when she thinks of it) is that "Dr. Sinclair" is to be dropped from that time forth, and that she is to call him simply "John" for the future. Honor, however, privately resolves to call him nothing, if she can avoid doing otherwise, as a way out of the difficulty.

They are all seated at the dinner-table when she enters the room, Doris at the head carving, for which Honor is devoutly thankful, feeling possibly that in her present state of confusion she would not know a shoulder of mutton from a round of beef. Mrs. Merivale is at the other end of the table.

"You are late," says Doris, brandishing the carving-knife. "Which will you have, Honor, hashed mutton or cold beef?"

"Cold mutton, please," replies Honor, and Doris, staring a little, begins to carve her some beef, thinking to herself that the hot sun has turned her sister's head a little.

Dick presently pushes the salad over.

"No, thanks," says Honor absently; and at that Dick arrests the progress of the fork which is half-way to his mouth, and laying it down again exclaims:

"Why, what is the matter with Honor? She is as red as a poppy; she calls beef mutton and refuses salad in the same breath!"

"Mind your own business and don't tease!" says Molly, who had caught sight of the doctor with Honor at the gate, and has her own private opinion as to her sister's embarrassment. "Eat your dinner, Dick, and get back to your lessons. That's the best thing you can do. Can't you see," leaning over and helping herself to more salad, "that Honor is done up with the heat? I really thought I should have collapsed with it myself this morning when I was coming home, down that hot, glaring, dusty road. What did Lancelot say in his letter this morning, Doris?"

Honor looks gratefully at her younger sister, and having had time to recover herself, she tries to talk and to make a pretence of eating, though the chief part of her meat is surreptitiously received by Timothy under the table.

The conversation at length becomes general, and is chiefly about the ball, which is no further off now than the next evening.

Later on in the day Lady Woodhouse is to arrive, she having promised to chaperone her three nieces to the ball.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

"I AM LANCELOT," SAYS SIR EDWARD.

The dresses for the ball have all been finished off satisfactorily, and now that the evening of the 10th has really arrived, the three girls are standing in the drawing-room, preparatory to starting with their aunt for the Court.

They make a pretty group in their simple, white silk gowns and natural flowers. Doris is perhaps a little the most important looking, as being the eldest of the three. Standing with a handsome posy of choice hothouse flowers (sent down from London that morning by Mr. Ferrars) in her hand, she looks, as she certainly is, a very pretty and graceful girl.

Honor, with an opposition posy, which had arrived with some mystery that afternoon, and is explained with great persistency by Dick as being an offering from Ernest Hildyard, looks almost equally pretty to-night, with a soft flush upon her cheeks and a happy light in her eyes, which seems lately to have become habitual to them. But it is Molly who carries off the palm for beauty on this occasion, though not, perhaps, looking in the same ecstatic spirits as her two sisters; and her mother as she looks at her feels a little pardonable pride in the thought that probably her three daughters will be the best-looking girls in the ball-room.

"She is looking lovely to-night!" whispers the delighted mother to Honor. "I do wish Hugh were here to see her, poor fellow!"

Lady Woodhouse and Molly are also provided with posies of choice flowers, Priscilla having left them at the Rookery that evening about six, with her masters' compliments, a card being tied on each, one for "Lady Woodhouse," the other "Miss Mary Merivale."

Evidently some little bird had whispered to the old gentlemen that it would be quite unnecessary to send a similar offering to either Doris or Honor.

"We must take care what we are about, Ben," remarked Mr. Edward to his brother, "or we shall have these two young fellows getting jealous of us."

When the only available fly in the village is at length announced by Dick and Bobby, who have both been on the tiptoe of expectation for some time, Lady Woodhouse gathers up her skirts, and followed by her three nieces walks down the gravel path, Dick being in attendance to receive her goloshes, which, though there has not been a drop of rain for weeks, she insists on wearing over her evening shoes until she shall be safely seated in the aforesaid fly.

As the boy hands Honor in, he charges her to be sure to ask Sinclair how he likes the flowers Mr. Hildyard has sent her, but on receiving a smart rap on his head with a fan from Molly, who is close behind him, he wisely retires into the background.

"Bless me! what a rattle-trap kind of conveyance," says Lady Woodhouse to Honor, who is seated opposite, "and how it smells of straw! You girls had better hold up your gowns off the floor; I don't suppose it is any too clean. And, dear me, there is a piece of glass out of the pane behind Molly! You had better pull the window up on your side, child, or you will be getting a stiff neck or an ear-ache."

* * * * * * * *

It is certainly not to be denied that those whose business it has been to make all the arrangements for the ball have achieved wonders, for the stately, gloomy-looking old place, which until now had been shut up for so many years, is scarcely to be recognized in the brilliantly-lighted and flower-bedecked mansion, at whose wide-thrown doors the guests are being set down from carriage after carriage.

The garden is so arranged as to look like a continuation of the beautiful conservatories, and the trees and bushes all being hung with coloured lamps, the whole scene is like a miniature fairy-land. There is a large marquee at one end, with light refreshments, and this arrangement is appreciated not a little by the guests, who are thankful on this hot summer night to have the excuse of a stroll in the open air in order to obtain their ices and claret-cup between the dances.

Just inside the great drawing-room stands an aristocratic-looking, silver-haired lady, who, with the assistance of three gentlemen (Lancelot and two younger-looking men), is receiving the guests. The dancing is to be in the great hall, so when most of the visitors have arrived they are conducted thither without delay.

"I wonder which is Sir Edward?" whispers Doris to Honor; "they are neither of them half so good-looking as Lancelot." For Mr. Ferrars has merely said "my cousins" in introducing them to the girls.

But at this moment there is a little stir near the door, and the next moment the Earl and Countess of Castleton, with their daughters, Lady Anne and Lady Margaret Trevelyan, enter the room.

As the host and hostess have been waiting for the arrival of this party before giving the signal for the dancing to commence, Lancelot immediately leads the way to the hall with Lady Castleton. The rest of the guests follow, Lord Castleton, rather to Doris's surprise, begging the honour of the first dance with her, while the two "cousins" bear off the Ladies Anne and Margaret.

Doris, though appearing pleased enough, nevertheless feels rather put out. As she had looked forward to dancing the first dance with Lancelot, she cannot help wondering why he should be opening the ball with Lady Castleton, instead of his cousin Sir Edward. Lord Castleton does not mend matters in her opinion by planting himself and her immediately opposite to Lancelot and his partner, thus giving her precedence of Lady Anne and Lady Margaret.

The girl is so confused with this (to her) odd arrangement that her conversational powers are seriously affected, and she thinks to herself what a stupid little thing she must appear to his lordship. She sees in the distance, in another set, Honor with John Sinclair, and Molly with Lord Hinton, a friend and college chum of Lancelot's, who has come down with him, and she finds herself privately thinking that if her partner were any other than Lord Castleton she would insist on leaving this very select set and joining the other.

She makes the best of it, however, and meeting a little affectionate and encouraging glance from her vis-à-vis just as the band plays the opening bars of the quadrille, she brightens up, and chats to her elderly partner while gracefully moving through the figures in a manner which quite charms his lordship.

Doris is once more standing by her aunt's side when Lancelot hurries up. "I must have this one waltz before I do any more duty dances, Doris. Come along!" and in another instant they are gliding round the room together. After several turns Mr. Ferrars guides her to the end of the hall, where some heavy curtains are hung. He lifts one, and Doris, looking a little surprised, passes through. They are now in a sort of inner hall, and hurrying Doris down it he throws open one of the doors and stands aside for her to enter. It is a cosy-looking study which they are now standing in, the windows, like those of nearly all the rooms on that side, leading straight to the garden. The only thing, however, that Doris notices particularly in the room itself is a nearly full-length portrait of Lancelot over the mantel-piece.

"Are you tired?" he asks, putting her into a comfortable lounging-chair, and taking his stand by the fireplace, one elbow resting on the mantel-piece.

"Tired!—after only two dances? Why, I shouldn't expect to be tired if I danced all night long, Lancelot."

"And now, tell me, Doris," he says after a short pause, "how do you like Sir Edward?"

"Sir Edward?" repeats Doris staring a little. "Why, I don't even know who he is yet. You only said 'my cousin' when you introduced them both to us. How can I possibly tell?"

"And yet you have been dancing with him," says Lancelot with a little smile.

"I!—with Sir Edward?" says Doris evidently thinking that her companion is wandering in his mind a little.

"Yes, you, with Sir Edward. Look here, Doris," taking her arm and raising her from the chair, "that is Sir Edward Ferrars up there!" and he points to the portrait of himself.

"Lancelot!" gasps Doris, and she turns her wonder-stricken face towards him, while a little pained look comes into her eyes. "Why have you called yourself Lancelot, then?" she inquires, her voice sounding a little hurt and constrained.

"Because I am Lancelot," Sir Edward says gently, and taking her hands into his. "But I am Edward too, Doris; the other is only my second name, though I have always been called by it since my infancy. You see, I never expected to come into this property, Doris. It came almost like a blow to me. There was another man, a distant cousin, who was the direct heir; but, poor fellow! he was a black sheep, I am afraid, and he came to an untimely end. It was all hushed up at the time, and I knew no more of it than anyone else. You may imagine, then, how surprised I was when I found myself the happy possessor of this property. Happy, because I have found someone to share it with me, Doris. I should not have cared two straws about it otherwise."

"But—but why did you deceive me, Lancelot?" says Doris, with the threatening of a pout on her fair face.

"I did not deceive you, dear. I simply let things take their own course, with you that is, and I was as much Lancelot Ferrars then as now, now as then. The only two people I told of my accession to this property were your aunt and your mother. I was bound to tell them, of course."

"And why," says Doris, still looking and feeling a little hurt, "why couldn't you tell me too?"

"You must forgive me, Doris. Do you remember what you said to me over and over again about making some great match? I remember you tossing your little head one day when we were sitting in the balcony of the hotel at Venice and saying 'What was love compared to riches!'"

Doris blushes and hangs her head.

"Then there appeared this rich old French count—"

"He wasn't very old," interrupts Doris.

"Older than I am at any rate. And I thought at first you were a little bit dazzled with the prospect of horses and carriages and diamonds and so forth, so, although I knew even then that I was in a position to give them to you also, I made up my mind I would be sure that you were accepting me for myself, even as the artist who could only give you a very different position to that which the old (I beg pardon, the middle-aged) count could, and I suppose did, offer you. Am I forgiven, Doris? I must be hastening back to my duties now; but you must tell me first, dear, if you care any less for Sir Edward than for the Lancelot you have known so long?"

Doris lifts her face, a little paler than when they entered the room at first, and with unshed tears standing in her large blue eyes she says:

"Dear Lancelot, I care for you no less, no more than at first. I do not think I could ever be fonder of you than I was when I promised to become your wife. But I am glad now that you tried me, and that I accepted you in ignorance of your real position. O," she adds a little archly, "it was horribly mean of you, but I am very, very glad now!"

Sir Edward (for we may as well give him his title now) folds Doris in his arms for one brief moment, then he hurries her out of the room. As they are approaching the hall once more, he whispers, "Give me your programme, Lady Ferrars! I must squeeze in every dance that I can with your ladyship; but oh, these duty dances! I must have one with Honor, and Molly too. Now you understand, I suppose, why I opened the proceedings with Lady Castleton, and why the Earl was your partner?"

"But he doesn't know, does he?" says Doris, looking frightened.

"Yes, I gave him a hint. We are old friends; my father and he were very intimate in days gone by. Lord Castleton has just told me that he thinks Miss Merivale is a very charming girl. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he proposes your health at supper to-night. There will have to be a little speechifying, worse luck, because of the occasion."

"O, good gracious, I hope he won't!" exclaims Doris excitedly. "If he does, I shall fall straight under the table with nervousness!"

"Never mind," says Sir Edward calmly. "If you do I can fish you up again."

Presently the Mr. Talboys come up to Doris full of hearty congratulations, as do also most of the guests in the room that night, who have not known the true state of affairs any more than Doris herself. Molly, indeed, is reduced to such a state of surprise and wonder, that Honor thinks it well to whisper that her present partner, a youth of tender age, will be frightened if she continues to stare in that vacant manner.

The Mr. Talboys, who, after their usual custom had been amongst the first arrivals, have been immensely gratified and pleased by all the attention their three favourites have been receiving. The little surprise of Lancelot turning out to be Sir Edward, they take quite as a matter of course.

"Doubtless he had very excellent reasons, my dear Ben," observed Mr. Ned. "You see, no one knew him down here, not a soul, excepting the Merivales and ourselves, and I should say Mr. Ferrars—I mean Sir Edward—is an unobtrusive sort of man. O yes, very, I should think."

To Lady Woodhouse Doris is at the same moment saying, "Aunt, how could you and mother play me such a trick? It was too bad of you both."

"Tut, child!" says Aunt Sophia with a little toss of her head, "it was for your own good. If young Ferrars had really been a pauper and was pretending to be a prince, I might have thought twice about it, perhaps. Here he comes for you. Dear me, how tired I am getting!" and the poor lady tries to stifle a yawn behind her fan.

By and by, in one of the pauses in their waltz, Sir Edward suddenly says, "You will have to call me 'Edward' now, you know. You can't go on with Lancelot: no one would know whom you were talking about. Of course it must be Edward."

"Well, I suppose it must," says Doris, taking little sniffs at her flowers. "But I don't like it half so well. It is so formal too. I shall have to call you 'Ned' for short, shall I?"

"You can't do that, because Mr. Talboys will always think you are speaking to him when he is present. Ted might do, though. It sounds so romantic and pretty, doesn't it? Honor and Molly are getting lots of attention, aren't they? Poor Horton, I wish he was here. Shall we have another turn, Doris?"

Not long after this there is a general move amongst the guests who are still left, and while Lady Woodhouse and her three nieces are waiting together in a little group, Sir Edward, his cousins, Lord Hinton, and John Sinclair being in close attendance, Mrs. Cunnyngham, Sir Edward's aunt, says a few kind, courteous words to her nephew's promised bride, finally kissing her affectionately when saying "good-night."

Sir Edward takes Lady Woodhouse out to the carriage, Lord Hinton following with Doris.

Mr. Ernest Hildyard, who has been leaning against the wall consumed with jealousy of his successful rival John Sinclair for the best part of the evening, on seeing this move rushes forward, inspired by one last glimmer of hope, and is about to offer his arm to Honor, when Sinclair with a little triumphant smile strides forward and quietly takes possession of her.

The disappointed youth falls back to Molly's side just as one of Mrs. Cunnyngham's sons also reaches her; but with a little smile at the latter Molly puts her hand on young Hildyard's arm, and Cunnyngham, understanding her smile, steps back, liking her all the better for the little kind-hearted act.

Both brothers, however, accompany her as well, and there is quite a merry leave-taking amongst them all as the gentlemen stand congregated on the lowest step, after having seen their fair charges stowed away in the fly. The first rosy streaks of dawn are appearing in the east as they drive away from the Court, and poor Lady Woodhouse, tired and shivery, throws herself back in her seat exclaiming:

"There! thank goodness that is over. I would not go through it all again, no, not if I were paid for it!" Mary is in attendance with the goloshes as the fly draws up at the gate, and they all go as quietly and softly into the house and up the stairs as if, as Doris says, they were housebreakers.

The girls follow their aunt into her room and help her out of her finery, as she calls it.

"Why, dear me," says the good lady, sinking into a chair, "you girls look as fresh as larks even now—excepting Molly perhaps: the child looks pale. Get me my night-cap somebody, I am dying to get this lace arrangement off. That diamond pin has been running into my head the best part of the evening."

"Poor Aunt!" says Doris. "Take off your cap and I'll have the other ready in a minute." And the naughty girl winks at Honor as she turns away to look for it.

Molly, however, too tired for jokes, is before her, and is already standing by her aunt with the night-cap in her hands.

"That's a good girl," says Lady Woodhouse, drawing her face down and kissing it. "And now be off, all of you. You have already lost several hours of beauty-sleep, and you will be looking as haggard as old women to-morrow!" And kissing them all affectionately, she dismisses her three maids for the night, or more correctly speaking, morning.

CHAPTER XXXV.

DORIS'S WEDDING.

Breakfast is considerably later than usual the next morning, in consequence of the gaieties of the previous night. Mrs. Merivale has therefore made an effort to be present on this occasion in order to hear full accounts of the ball.

Lady Woodhouse has now somewhat recovered from her fatigue, but the girls all look pale and heavy-eyed, being altogether unaccustomed to such late hours. Molly sits in a hopeless state of yawning, hardly eating any breakfast, and leaving all the others to do the talking, only throwing in a word here and there. Doris has been scolding her mother for her part in what she calls the trick played upon her as to the real position of her fiancé, and Mrs. Merivale has more than once been obliged to appeal laughingly to her sister for support in what she holds out as her reasons against her daughter's arguments.

That young lady at length clinches the matter by emphatically declaring it to be all "fudge," whatever that may be, and that she is quite surprised at Lancelot having behaved so badly.

"Yes," presently remarks Lady Woodhouse, chipping the top off an egg, "I will say this for your girls, Mary,—a more lady-like, refined trio you could not see. If they were not here," she continues with an inconsistency worthy of the Emerald Isle itself, "I should go on to say what is perfectly true, that they were the admiration of the greater part of the guests, and the envy of the rest. Why, if their programmes had been as long as my arm, they could have filled them over and over. O, yes, I certainly feel well repaid for those long, weary hours of sitting there, pretending I liked it, when I would far rather have been in my bed. Well, as I said before, the girls do you credit, Mary. You and that excellent Miss Denison that was; you would have brought them up to be refined even had they had to go out charing. Good gracious! here's that cat of yours playing with my shoe-strings. Take him away, Molly, do! And now, Doris, what is this you are telling us about Sir Edward? If he wants you to marry him in three weeks' time instead of several months, why in the world shouldn't you do so?"

"It is so quick, aunt," objects Doris.

"Quick? What nonsense, child! And now, let me tell you this, Doris, and I am sure your mother will agree with me. Considering that you are going to your husband without so much as a sixpence of your own, I think it is your duty—do you hear?—your duty to consider his wishes. Goodness knows, the property has been neglected long enough; and if Sir Edward wishes to settle down on his estate as quickly as he can, I don't see why you should raise objections. Do leave off twirling that knife round, Dick. It fidgets me to death."

After a good deal of argument on the subject, it is settled that Doris (in her aunt's wording) shall behave herself like a sensible young woman, and inform Sir Edward, who is to call at twelve o'clock that morning, that she is ready to be borne off to the altar at any moment he shall think desirable; and Molly, suddenly looking up at the clock and remembering that she is due at the Hallams at half-past ten, darts away from the table to put on her hat.

And so it comes to pass that the wedding is fixed for that day three weeks.

Much as Sir Edward would have wished for a quiet wedding—just simply the Merivale party and a few of his own relatives—it is found to be impossible, under all the circumstances. So Doris finds (not entirely to her chagrin) that she is, after all, to have the grand wedding which she has always promised herself on the occasion of her union with the much-talked-of duke. Although the house for the next three weeks is in a perfect uproar of preparation regarding everything appertaining to the bride's trousseau, much trouble, and expense too, is taken off their hands by the Mr. Talboys, who insist, taking no denial, on giving the breakfast at their own house.

Grave and long, therefore, are the consultations held by the old gentlemen with Mrs. Edwards, their cook and housekeeper, and anxious the discussions with Priscilla, the parlour-maid, on the subject of certain valuable silver and china, which are stored away in the depths of a capacious closet, and have not seen the light of day for years.

Nearly all Doris's time is taken up in trying on and being fitted, until she hardly knows what dresses she does possess. Many are the notes of thanks, too, which she has to write for the really nice presents she receives, conspicuous amongst which are a beautiful set of amethysts from Mr. Edward, and another of fine pearls from Mr. Benjamin Talboys.

Sir John and Lady Woodhouse have come forward most generously in the matter of the trousseau, the former having said to his wife: "We must see that little Doris is well set up for gowns and bonnets and so forth, my dear. I should not like her to step into such a position scantily supplied. You see it is our duty, as it were, to see the affair all through satisfactorily, the young people having met so often while Doris was under our charge."

And so the rich silk embroidered with seed pearls in which Doris now stands, waiting for her carriage, has been the gift of her kind uncle, as well as most of the other dresses; and while, before starting for the church, he clasps upon the girl's wrist a slender band of pearls (his wedding present), he whispers to her, "You must never forget, my dear, that I was the attraction, and that Sir Edward always came to see me, not you, you know!" and laughingly patting her cheek, he trots away after his wife.

No less a personage than the Earl of Castleton has solicited the honour of giving away the bride, partly on account of his friendship with Sir Edward, but quite as much for the real liking he has taken to "little Miss Doris," as he calls her.

Lord Castleton seems every bit as nervous as Doris herself on this occasion, for he fusses about the room, first to the window then to the mantel-piece, taking little sniffs here and there at the flowers, then back again to the window. He can think of nothing particular to say either, excepting every now and then expatiating on the beauty of the day, which has certainly turned out lovely, and also begging Doris not to be nervous.

He is just admiring the beautiful diamond necklace (Sir Edward's gift) which Doris wears, when the carriage is announced, and the earl, with a dignity which fills the stragglers at the gate with awe, proudly conducts the bride to it.

Lord Hinton acts as best-man to his friend, Sir Edward, and the ceremony once over, he of course takes Honor into his charge as first bridesmaid, Dr. John Sinclair accepting the inevitable with a fairly good grace, remarking as he follows the rest of the party down the aisle with Molly on his arm:

"You and I must console each other, Molly; we both seem rather out of it to-day, though your turn will come as surely as mine yet."

The moment has now come when Doris must take leave of all her family and the kind friends standing around her. She is looking lovely in her plainly-made dress of dark green cloth and tan Suède waistcoat and facings, with bonnet and gloves to match. Though when bidding her adieux the tears are standing in her soft blue eyes, she wisely keeps them from falling (for after all it is not a compliment to one's bridegroom to start on the wedding tour in floods of tears); and as she takes her husband's arm and goes down the steps, she turns before entering the carriage and throws a beaming glance back to them all.

In another moment, amidst a perfect storm of rice, the Mr. Talboys actually struggling with Dick and John Sinclair for the largest quantities, Sir Edward and Lady Ferrars are off, en route to Seaforth Abbey, one of Lord Castleton's seats in the neighbourhood of the English lakes, which he has placed at their disposal for the honeymoon.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE END OF A FAIRY TALE.

Another year has passed, and on a hot lazy afternoon in August a group may be seen lounging on the lawn of the Rookery, under the shade of one or two fine old trees.

Mrs. Merivale and Lady Woodhouse are seated close together in earnest conversation over some matter which is of importance to themselves only.

Sir Edward and Lady Ferrars, who have now been settled at the Court for some long time, have dropped in at the Rookery, as they are fond of doing, and are seated with Honor a little distance off.

Presently Doris rises and joins her mother and aunt, and after a little pause, during which Sir Edward rolls up and lights a cigarette, he turns to his sister-in-law and says:

"Do you know, Honor, I have come here this afternoon with the deliberate intention of giving you a good talking to. I told Doris I should this morning, and she quite agreed."

"Why, what have I done?" inquires Honor laughing.

"It is not what you have done, but what you seem determined not to do, young lady," returns Sir Edward. "To speak plainly, I do not think you are treating Sinclair fairly. That is what I want to tell you."

Honor is opening her mouth to speak, a little surprise on her face at this accusation, when Sir Edward continues:

"No, I really don't, Honor. Here is this letter, which came more than a week ago, telling us of young Horton already being on his way home, poor fellow! and you know very well what will take place when once he does come, for Molly certainly returns his affection now. I am sure of it. And yet you go on, putting off Sinclair still; and for no reason at all as far as I can see."

Honor looks a little abashed, but Sir Edward goes on again, first sending a cloud of smoke up into the tree above.

"You know what I intend doing for Bobby and Dick, Honor. Of course it is high time now in any case that Bob went to a good boarding-school, and he can divide his holidays amongst us when they come round. Dick cannot do better than remain where he is for a little while linger; but I have told the lad that when the right time comes he shall have his heart's desire, and go to Oxford. Now, Honor, be reasonable. What is there to prevent your marrying Sinclair now? There are only your mother and Daisy left, and I am sure the former would be very happy living with us, taking turns, I mean, with you and ourselves. And as for Daisy, Sinclair has often spoken of his great wish to have the child to live entirely with himself and you in the future. Now, I don't think you can say another word. I consider I have blown away all your scruples as completely as I am blowing away this smoke. So now, Miss Honor, we shall both, Doris and I, expect cards for your wedding shortly;" and before the girl can say a word in reply Sir Edward gets up and joins the other group, feeling doubtless that it will do more good if she is left to digest his remarks at her own leisure.

The Mr. Talboys are coming to tea this afternoon, bringing with them two guests of their own—Daisy and Bobby. So, after sitting a moment or two, Honor gets up and goes into the house to give a look to the preparations for tea, which is to be in the garden on this occasion.

While this conversation is going on, Molly is seated in a swing which is suspended to a tree near a small arbour, at the back of which is a little gate in the hedge, much used by the servants, it being a short way to the back of the house.

Often the girls use this way of entrance too, especially when they want to get in quickly.

To-day, on her return home from some of her pupils, Molly turns in this way, and seating herself in the swing throws her hat down on the grass before her.

It is not because she is tired that Molly stays here instead of going straight into the house, but because she wants to be quiet for a few moments, in order to read again for about the twentieth time that letter spoken of by Sir Edward to Honor, which is from Col. Danvers, and is in her pocket at the present moment. Gently swinging to and fro, one hand steadying the rope, the other holding the letter down in her lap, Molly reads the words which she could now almost say off by heart.

The first portion of the letter is taken up with inquiries for all at home, and a brief explanation of his having been ordered to the Soudan some little time back. There, greatly to his surprise, he had come across Hugh Horton, the two from that time being thrown much together. Then comes the description of a small skirmish with the Arabs one day when they were both out together, in which Hugh was badly wounded in nobly going to the rescue of one of his own men.

Having been cut off somehow from the rest of the party, this man suddenly found himself face to face with three Arabs, who, promptly attacking him, would soon have made short work of the matter, had not Hugh, seeing the state of affairs from a distance, galloped up to his assistance. Even then the two had a hard fight for it, and it is doubtful whether either would have lived to tell the tale had not others of the party ridden up to their rescue; for while the Arabs at the sight of them took instant refuge in flight, Hugh at the same moment rolled forward in his saddle and fell heavily to the ground, close to where Private Williams had fallen a few seconds previously.

Altogether the letter is a long one, but a little further on—after describing the dangerous state in which Hugh (now Captain Horton) had lain for weeks, the surgeon having in fact given up all hope of his recovery—there are some words which Molly is never tired of reading.

"I nursed him through it all myself," the colonel goes on, "with the assistance of his own servant, and altogether, when not raving in delirium, he was as patient as a man with a broken arm, a deep sabre gash across his forehead, and quite a nice little collection of bullets in his body altogether, could be expected to be, I think. Through all his delirium, and even when quietly sleeping sometimes, the name of 'Molly Bawn' was constantly on his lips. I mention this in case you should happen to know anything of the young lady in question! Well, a truce to joking. I am sending poor Horton home to you all a complete wreck of his former self. Take care of him, and be kind to him, Molly. He needs it sadly. I think you may expect him almost any time after you receive this letter, for I want to start him off the moment I can."

A few more words and the letter ends. Not so the motion of the swing. For Molly still sits, reading a little bit here and there over again, until the tears slowly gather in her eyes, and fall one by one with a little splash on to the paper in her lap.

"Dear Hugh!" she says softly to herself, "I hope he will come soon."

The words are hardly spoken when her heart tightens, and for a second or two almost ceases to beat. For hark! A tenor voice somewhere in the neighbourhood of the road is singing, or to speak more correctly, humming, the first verse of "Molly Bawn."

Molly arrests the motion of the swing and listens; her heart now beating to suffocation almost, while a flush rises to her fair young face. It dies away again suddenly, however, for in another instant a tall figure stands beside her with pale haggard face, on which the dark and now sweeping moustache looks fiercer than ever.

There is the same soft light in the eyes as of old though, as Hugh, with a little smothered cry of "Molly, darling!" throws his one available arm round the startled girl, just in time to prevent her from falling.

"Hugh!" she cries. And in those three words all is said, all told; and the next moment Molly is leaning her head upon his shoulder, shedding tears of thankfulness for his safe return.

A little later on, when (regardless of spiders and other innumerable creeping things) they are seated in the arbour, Hugh having begged earnestly for a few minutes' quiet talk before joining the others, Molly suddenly looks up.

"Poor fellow! you do indeed look as if you need to be taken care of. Is your poor arm really getting stronger now?" and she gently strokes the right arm, which he still wears in a sling.

"O, that will soon be all right," he says, capturing the little hand and holding it fast. "It was the knock on the head which nearly did for me. Look here, Molly!" and lifting a lock of hair which falls a little over one side of his forehead, he shows her a wound which extends pretty far back. Not an ugly-looking scar, but a deep and dangerous cut at the time.

"Yes," he says, "I did not know much after getting that, Molly; but I should have known still less if it had not been for you."

"For me?" says the girl looking up inquiringly.

"Yes, for you, dear. Here, help me to get into my breast-pocket, Molly I have something to show you."

With a little struggling Hugh's pocket-book is at length extracted from his pocket, and after some fumbling among its contents he presently produces a little flat silver box of oriental-looking workmanship, which looks a good deal dented and a little bent.

He gives it into Molly's hands.

"Open it," he says, and the girl, wondering a little, does so.

A faded white rose lies within it, a faint, sweet fragrance clinging to it still.

"My rose!" says Molly softly, her eyes filling with tears.

"Mine," returns Hugh gently, and taking it out of her hand he puts it away again carefully.

"Yes, if it had not been for this rose, Molly, I should not be sitting here beside you now. The bullet which would have been buried in my heart struck this (touching the box), and glanced aside. So you see, Molly, it was you who saved my life!—a worthless one enough until you took me in hand, dear. Well, now I suppose we must go and join the others. What a start I shall give them!"

When they reach the lawn they find the Mr. Talboys have arrived with Daisy and Bobby; and when they have all got over their first astonishment at the sight of the haggard-looking personage walking by Molly's side, there is a general rush, and hearty congratulations are showered on Hugh by every one upon his safe arrival home again. Although nothing is actually said upon the subject, it is not difficult to guess at the true state of affairs when they glance from Hugh's speaking face to Molly, where she stands a little apart, with downcast eyes and heightened colour; and there is extra warmth thrown into the welcome to the returned wanderer on this account perhaps.

"But where is Daisy?—not ill, I hope;" and Hugh looks inquiringly towards Molly.

"O no," says Mrs. Merivale rising. "I am thankful to say that she is quite a little Samson to what she was formerly. But she and Bobby have been dining with the Mr. Talboys to-day, and Daisy seems a little done up with the heat. She complained of headache, so Honor insisted on her lying on the sofa in the drawing-room for a little while. I will take you to see her myself, Hugh;" and putting her arm within his they turn towards the house together.

"The fact is," remarks Honor, shaking her head gravely at the brothers Talboys, "Mr. Ned and Mr. Ben have been giving the children too many good things. Bobby already begins to look as if a powder might be desirable sooner or later."

"Honor!" exclaims that young gentleman indignantly, while Mr. Ned, much concerned at the charge brought against himself and his brother, says emphatically:

"I assure you, my dear, we have been most judicious in that respect, and I am sure that Daisy at least had nothing richer than apricot-tart and cream. To be sure," he adds after a minute, "I have some slight recollection of my brother Ben and Daisy having finished up the tart between them, but I don't think it was a very large one. Master Bob and I preferred something more substantial—didn't we, young man?"

"Yes," replies Bobby promptly. "We had a roly-poly jam-pudding, Mr. Ned and I. And we had the jam-pot up as well, because we thought Mrs. Edwards had not put enough in—didn't we, Mr. Ned?"

"Hush—sh—sh!" says Mr. Edward, shaking his finger at the boy; "you mustn't tell tales out of school, young Bob, or we shall have Miss Honor after us with the cane!"

When Mrs. Merivale a little later comes out of the drawing-room, leaving Hugh still chatting to Daisy, Molly is just descending the stairs, having been up to her room to take her hat off. She waits for her, therefore, and tenderly folding her daughter in her arms she whispers, "I am so glad, dear child! Now go into the drawing-room and sit with him and Daisy in the cool for a little while. We will call you out when tea is ready. I will tell the others and make it all easy for you, dear. See if Hugh would like anything after his dusty walk. Poor fellow, what a wreck he is indeed!" and opening the door again Mrs. Merivale gently pushes her daughter into the room.

Sitting there in the welcome shade of the darkened room, with one hand in Hugh's strong grasp and the other clasped by Daisy's little sympathetic fingers, Molly listens quietly to all that Hugh is telling her little sister of his experiences and adventures abroad; and presently he turns to her and tells her of the devotion and kindness with which Colonel Danvers tended him while on his bed of sickness, and indeed up to the time he had left Egypt.

"He told me afterwards," Hugh adds, "that he was determined to pull me through 'for little Molly's sake.'"

At this moment Becky opens the door, and with a frightened glance at the "capting" announces that tea is ready and waiting. So they leave Daisy to herself, promising to send some tea in to her.

There is such a large party on the lawn altogether that Honor and Molly divide the labour between them and have opposition tables, Honor with tea, Molly with coffee. Hugh is seated in a comfortable wicker chair near Molly's table (he preferring coffee to tea), and is being made much of by everybody. There is a beautiful sapphire and diamond ring on the third finger of Molly's left hand now, the pearls playing number two; and as Hugh watches the little hands moving about the cups, the flashes emitted by the fine stones cause him much inward satisfaction, as proving some really tangible arrangement at last!

Presently John Sinclair strolls in, and being a tea-drinker, naturally comes to anchor beside Honor's table. He is very soon, as usual, plunged in some scientific discussion with Sir Edward Ferrars, a great liking for each other having sprung up between the two young men. But notwithstanding the rapt attention he is apparently bestowing on the subject, Doctor Sinclair reads the "signs of the times" as quickly as anyone, and the sight of Hugh seated by Molly and the flashing of the latter's diamonds and sapphires afford him every bit as much satisfaction as they do Hugh.

"I have come to the end of my cream!" suddenly exclaims Molly. "Who will fetch me some more?"

"I will," cries Honor, jumping up. "I can lay my hand on it at once. Don't let Dick eat all the sugar while I am gone."

In another moment John Sinclair rises quickly from his chair.

"I will go and see how Daisy is getting on," he remarks, and, quite oblivious of the fact that Sir Edward has just asked him some abstruse question, the answer to which he is eagerly waiting for, off he starts with rapid strides towards the house. Sir Edward, however, looks at Doris and laughs, well pleased. After waiting patiently for some considerable time Molly at length exclaims:

"Good gracious! what a time she is fetching that cream! O, here they all come together."

"Daisy feels better," remarks Honor with some confusion in her manner, "so we have brought her out with us."

"Exactly," says Brother Ben, his eyes twinkling meanwhile. Molly looks at her sister a moment, then with a little smile at Hugh she says:

"Yes, Honor, but where is my cream?"

There is a general smile, and then Dick offers his services.

"I may perhaps manage to remember what I am going for," he says; "but it is a long, long walk to the house, and I fear it is doubtful, as Honor has already shown. However, I'll try."

"And don't drink half of it before you get back!" cries Sinclair after him.

While Dick is absent there is rather an awkward silence, which Sir Edward suddenly breaks by bursting into a hearty laugh.

"You must really forgive me," he says to Honor and Sinclair, "but it is so very absurd to see you two sitting there trying to look as if nothing at all particular has happened. Of course every one of us here," and he looks round, "has long known of the tacit understanding as to Honor's possible marriage in the future (I say 'possible' because of her noble and generous scruples in the matter), and I am sure, therefore, that she will forgive me for speaking thus openly before this family party, and our old and valued friends, the Mr. Talboys." The brothers bow delightedly.

"So now, Sinclair," and Sir Edward holds out his hand, "may I congratulate you and Honor on your formal engagement?" Of course every one flocks round them, and the general excitement is at high pitch for a few minutes, it being presently increased by Bobby contriving to upset a milk jug. For this catastrophe Honor is devoutly thankful, since it takes every one's attention away from herself for a time. Moreover, it benefits Vic and Timothy, who generally grace the tea-board with their presence. The former has been industriously shaking Honor's dress for the last few minutes, being under the impression that all the handshaking and kissing are some new kind of game. But they both rush forward now with one accord to the little pond of milk, which is rapidly sinking into the thirsty turf, and lap energetically until it is gone.

Presently, when they have all settled down again quietly, Mr. Edward Talboys plants his stick firmly on the grass in front of him and says:

"Now, there is one thing, my dear friends, that my brother Ben and I have set our hearts upon, and in case of any little misunderstanding in the future, we think it is best, perhaps, to mention it at once."

"Just so, just so," says Mr. Ben nodding.

"We wish very much to have the honour of giving away the two brides when the time for the wedding (which will be a double one, I suppose) shall come. We had looked forward, you know, to performing this little ceremony for Doris on the occasion of her becoming Lady Ferrars, but although we were obliged to make the best of it then, we much hope there will be no similar disappointment in store for us this time."

"My dear sirs, I am sure that nothing would please my sisters better," answers Sir Edward for the two girls. "I had intended taking that duty on myself, but you have a far superior claim; and so with your leave we will consider that matter settled. I shall devote myself exclusively to your mother, Doris, for the whole day, so you must look out for someone else."

"O, I shall find someone, never fear," retorts Lady Ferrars, tossing her fair little head at her lord.

"And what is to become of me, pray?" inquires Lady Woodhouse, looking round at every one in turn.

"O, I am going to be your cavalier, aunt," says Dick with a courtly bow. "Just you wait until you see me. I mean to get myself up to the nines, I can tell you, and you will be able to congratulate yourself on having the best-looking fellow in the church as your escort, not excepting the two bridegrooms."

"Dick!" cries every one together, and Lady Woodhouse, giving him a rap with the handle of her sunshade, says:

"Go along with you, do! As if I should consent to having a young jack-a-napes like you for a cavalier."

Here Daisy, who had run after Dick when he went for the cream, and has been absent ever since, reappears amongst them all with some little sketches which she has been doing under Honor's supervision in Hugh's absence, and which she is anxious to show to him.

After they have been duly examined and admired, Sir Edward calls her over to him.

"I fancy your friend Dr. John can finish your story for you now, Daisy," he whispers. "Go and tell him I say so."

Nothing loth, the child goes across to where he is sitting, and demands his instant and undivided attention.

So John Sinclair, with one arm round the child as she stands close beside him, begins briefly narrating the old fairy tale in a low voice, hurrying over it until he comes to the part in which he has made the required alterations.

"Wait a minute!" cries Daisy excitedly; "you must speak out loud now, because I don't believe any of the others know the new ending. Now then."

"So," resumes John, "the woodcutter asked the princess to marry him—"

"He was a prince really, you know," puts in Daisy parenthetically, for the benefit of the company generally.

"And," continues John, "as all her sisters were married excepting one—"

"She said she would!" cries the child, clapping her hands and beaming round upon everybody. Then there is a short pause, during which John glances at Honor.

"And—" at length queries Daisy, looking up into her favourite's face.

"And—er—" says John. "Let me see. O yes, the princess took the wood-cutter by the hand and led him up to her little sister, saying:

"'Buttercup, I have brought you a new brother. Will you come and live with him and me far away in the wood, in a little hut which is covered with roses?'"

"And what did Buttercup say?" inquires Daisy, who is listening with breathless interest to this entirely new part of the story.

"I don't know," says John rather lamely; "what would you have said?"

"O, I would have said 'yes,'" she replies promptly.

"Well, I think you had better finish the story, Daisy. You know it quite as well as I do, if not better."

"Well," says Daisy gravely, "Buttercup said she would like to live with them in the hut covered with roses. And then the wood-cutter and the princess were married very soon, and they all lived happily ever after."

THE END.