s were those of that portion of
Britain not yet entirely occupied by the victors of Bannockburn.

"It's very good of you to stay in," he said.

"Oh, I wasn't going out in any case," said Jean demurely.

She seated herself in one corner of the sofa, and the young man, after
hesitating for an instant between a seat by her side and a chair close
by, and failing to catch her eye to guide him, chose the chair, and for
the moment looked unhappy.

"I've come to say good-by," he began.

She looked up quickly.

"Are you going away?"

He nodded his brown mop.

"Yes, I'm off to London again."

"For good?"

"I hope so; anyhow, it can't be for much worse than I've done here."

"Haven't your pictures been--been appreciated here?" she asked.

"They haven't been sold," he said, with a short laugh.

"What a shame! Oh, Mr. Vernon, I do think people might have had better
taste."

"So do I," he smiled, "but they haven't had. I've made nothing here but
friends."

He had a musical voice, rather deep, and very readily expressive of what
he strongly felt. His last sentence rang in Jean's ears like a
declaration of love. Her eyes fell and her color rose.

"We have all been very glad to see you."

He shook his head; his eyes fastened on her all the time.

"No, you haven't."

She looked up, but meeting that devouring gaze, looked down again.

"Not all of you," he added. "Your father disapproves of me, your eldest
brother detests me, and your aunt distrusts me. It's only you and Frank
who have been my friends."

Frank was her soldier brother, and Jean adored him. She thought she
could never care for any one but a soldier, till she encountered art and
Lucas Vernon.

"Yes, Frank certainly does like you very much indeed," she said warmly.

"Don't you?"

"Yes," she answered firmly.

He smiled and bent towards her.

"Your hand on it!"

She held out her hand, and he took it and kept it.

(At that moment Mr. Walkingshaw was opening his front door.)

For a minute they sat in silence, and then she tried gently to draw the
hand away.

"Let me keep it for a little!" he pleaded. "I'm going away. I shan't
hold it again for Heaven knows how long."

His voice was so caressing that she ceased to grudge him five small
fingers.

(Mr. Walkingshaw had removed his muffler and was hanging up his coat.)

"Are you at all sorry I'm going?"

"Yes," murmured Jean, "Frank and I--we'll both miss you."

The artist murmured too, b