en to honest endeavour. Her idea was that
the land should afford all the people wished for. She was going to stop
the terrible drifting of the people into the towns. Their lives were to
be made gayer. There should be entertainments. The farmers' wives and
daughters were to make butter and cheese like their forbears, to grow
fruit and vegetables, to rear poultry and sell eggs; but they were not,
therefore, to lead a life of narrow toil. They were to be rewarded for
their skill and industry. The fruit of their labours was to make life
sweeter and pleasanter for them. There were to be libraries and
reading-rooms, debating clubs, social gatherings.

"Stuff and nonsense!" Colonel St. John said, with his cotton-wool
eyebrows puffed out. "She'll dip the estate, and then she'll be coming
to ask us to pull her out. Worse, she'll only make them discontented."

"She'll come out all right," Mr. Grainger said, rubbing his hands softly
together. "If she blunders, she'll learn wisdom from the experiment.
You'll see she'll come out all right, Colonel. The only thing that
troubles me is that she may have no time to get married. We don't want
her to be a spinster, hey? I confess I should like to see the succession
assured."

It was this notable young lady who came in not so long after to Queen's
College, where a distinguished woman of letters was giving a series of
lectures on "The Poetry of the Sixteenth Century." Her entrance created
somewhat of a flutter. She was as tall as Mary Gray, but much more
opulently built. She had short, curling, dark hair, irregular features,
and violet eyes--not a bit handsome, but big and bonny and lovesome. Her
dress fluttered even these students. It was of purple velvet, with a
great stole of sables, and her sable muff had a big bunch of real
violets, which brought an odour of the quickening and burgeoning earth.

She sat by the Lady Principal, and afterwards had tea with the students.
She asked especially for an introduction to Mary Gray, and then she
insisted on driving her as far as the Mall in her motor-car, which she
drove herself, while the chauffeur sat with folded arms behind. On the
way she talked poetry and politics with the same fervour she brought to
all her pursuits.

"It has been borne in on me," she said vehemently, "that in working
among my own people as I have been doing I have been only tinkering at
things, just tinkering. One has to go to the root of the matter, to
abolish unjust