hion, the
portfolio proved the nucleus of a delightful hour's
entertainment. At the end of that time a turn was given to
things by the coming in of an old black woman with a very
high, coloured turban on her head and a teakettle and a
chafing dish of coals in her hands. Rollo shut up his
portfolio.

'What is your view, practically, of things at present, Miss
Kennedy?'

'Mr. Falkirk says I never took a practical view of things in
my life, Mr. Rollo. The impracticable view seems to be, that
it is tea time and I ought to go home.'

'What do you think of the plan of letting Mr. Falkirk know
where you are?'

'Yes, I ought to do that,' said his ward, 'Where is Dingee?--I
will send him right off.'

'Will you write, or shall I?' said Rollo, drawing out paper
and pen ready on one of the tables.

She glanced at him as if in momentary wonder that he should
offer to write her despatch, then ran off the most summary
little note, twisted it into a knot of complications, and
again asked for Dingee. Rollo gently but saucily put his own
fingers upon the twisted note and bore it away.

The business of the tea-making and preparing was going on; and
both Primrose and her old assistant bustled about the tea
table, getting things ready and Dr. Maryland's chair in its
right place. A quiet bustle, very pleasant in the eyes of Wych
Hazel, with all its homely and sweet meanings. The light had
softened a little, and still came through a grey veil of rain;
odours of rose and sweet-briar and evening primroses floated
in on the warm, moist air, and mingled with the steam of the
tea-kettle and the fume in the chafing-dish; and the patter,
patter of rain drops, and the dash of wet leaves against each
other, were a foil to the tea-kettle's song. Wych Hazel looked
on, musingly, till Rollo came back and took her round the room
looking at books. Then offering her his arm, he somewhat
suddenly brought her face to face with some one just entering
by the door.

An old gentleman; Wych Hazel knew at once who it must be.
Middle-sized, stout, with rather thin locks of white hair, and
a face not otherwise remarkable than for its look of habitual
high thought and pure goodness. It took but a moment to see so
much of him. She stopped short, and then came close up to him.

'Is this your charge, Dane? Is this little Wych Hazel?' he
went on more tenderly, and folding her in his arms. 'My dear,'
he said, kissing her brow, 'I hope you will be as good a