thought that an extraordinary name
to call a cow, so I said to him one day, 'Sam, why on earth did you
christen that poor inoffensive beast John?' 'John?' said he, somewhat
indignantly, 'John? Why wouldn't I call him John, when I bought him
from George Gilbert?' I didn't see his meaning then,--and, I confess,
I haven't seen it since,--but I was afraid to expose my stupidity, so
I held my tongue. Do you see it?" He turns to Dorian.

"Not much," says Dorian, with a faint laugh.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"One woe doth tread upon another's heel,
So fast they follow."--_Hamlet._

"One, that was a woman, sir."--_Hamlet._

Across the autumn grass, that has browned beneath the scorching summer
rays, and through the fitful sunshine, comes James Scrope.

Through the woods, under the dying beech-trees that lead to Gowran, he
saunters slowly, thinking only of the girl beyond, who is not thinking
of him at all, but of the man who, in his soul, Sir James believes
utterly unworthy of her.

This thought so engrosses him, as he walks along, that he fails to
hear Mrs. Branscombe, until she is close beside him, and until she
says, gently,--

"How d'ye do, Sir James?" At this his start is so visible that she
laughs, and says, with a faint blush,--

"What! is my coming so light that one fails to hear it?"

To which he, recovering himself, makes ready response:

"So light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint."

Then, "You are coming from Gowran?"

"Yes; from Clarissa."

"She is well?"

"Yes, and, I suppose, happy,"--with a shrug. "She expects Horace
to-morrow." There is a certain scorn in her manner, that attracts his
notice.

"Is that sufficient to create happiness?" he says, some what
bitterly, in spite of himself. "But of course it is. You know Horace?"

"Not well, but well enough," says Mrs. Branscombe, with a frown. "I
know him well enough to hate him."

She pauses, rather ashamed of herself for her impulsive confidence,
and not at all aware that by this hasty speech she has made a friend
of Sir James for life.

"Hate him?" he says, feeling he could willingly embrace her on the
spot were society differently constituted. "Why, what has he done to
you?"

"Nothing; but he is not good enough for Clarissa," protests she,
energetically. "But then who is good enough? I really think," says
Mrs. Branscombe, with earnest conviction, "she is far too sweet to be
thrown away upon any man."

Eve