r Henry Tempest.

The words quite startled Lionel. "Thirty thousand pounds!" he repeated
mechanically.

"Thirty thousand pounds. Did you think I should waste all my best years
in India, Lionel, and save up nothing for my only child?"

"I never thought about it," was Lionel's answer. "Or if I ever did
think, I suppose I judged by my father. He saved no money."

"He had not the opportunity that I have had; and he died early. The
appointment I held, out there, has been a lucrative one. That will be
the amount of Lucy's present fortune."

"I am glad I did not know it!" heartily affirmed Lionel.

"It might have made the winning her more difficult, I suppose you
think?"

"Not the winning _her_," was Lionel's answer, the self-conscious smile
again on his lips. "The winning your consent, Sir Henry."

"It has not been so hard a task, either," quaintly remarked Sir Henry,
as he rose. "I am giving her to you, understand, for your father's sake;
in the trust that you are the same honourably good man, standing well
before the world and Heaven, that he was. Unless your looks belie you,
you are not degenerate."

Lionel stood before him, almost too agitated to speak. Sir Henry stopped
him, laying his hand upon his shoulder.

"No thanks, Lionel. Gratitude? You can pay all that to Lucy after she
shall be your wife."

They went together into the drawing-room, arm-in-arm. Sir Henry advanced
straight to his daughter.

"What am I to say to you, Lucy? He has been talking secrets."

She looked up, like a startled fawn. But a glimpse at Lionel's face
reassured her, bringing the roses into her cheeks. Lady Verner,
wondering, gazed at them in amazement, and Lucy hid her hot cheeks on
her father's breast.

"Am I to scold you? Falling in love without my permission!"

The tone, the loving arm wound round her, brought to her confidence. She
could almost afford to be saucy.

"Don't be angry, papa!" were her whispered words. "It might have been
worse."

"Worse!" returned Sir Henry, trying to get a look at her face. "You
independent child! How could it have been worse?"

"It might have been Jan, you know, papa."

And Sir Henry Tempest burst into an irrepressible laugh as he sat down.

CHAPTER XCV.

SUNDRY ARRIVALS.

We have had many fine days in this history, but never a finer one
gladdened Deerham than the last that has to be recorded, ere its scene
in these pages shall close. It was one of those rarely lovely days