ors on the air,
Like mignonette?
F. A.

VII

There was never such a summer of enchanting weather as that particular
summer in Wells. The whole population of Somersetshire, save those who
had crops requiring rain, were in a heaven of delight from morning
till night. Miss Tommy Tucker was very busy with some girl pupils, and
as accompanist for oratorio practice; but there were blissful hours
when she "studied" the cathedral with Fergus Appleton, watching him
sketch the stately Central Tower, or the Lady Chapel, or the Chain
Gate. There were afternoon walks to Tor Hill, winding up almost daily
with tea at the palace, for the bishop and his wife were miracles of
hospitality to the two Americans.

Fergus Appleton had declared the state of his mind and heart to Mrs.
Kennion a few days after his arrival, though after his confidence had
been received she said that it was quite unnecessary, as she had
guessed the entire situation the moment she saw them together.

"If you do, it is more than Miss Tucker does," said Appleton, "for I
can't flatter myself that she suspects in the least what I am about."

"You haven't said anything yet?"

"My dear Mrs. Kennion, I've known her less than a fortnight! It's bad
enough for a man to fall in love in that absurd length of time, but I
wouldn't ask a girl to marry me on two weeks' acquaintance. It would
simply be courting refusal."

"I am glad you feel that way about it, for we have grown greatly
attached to Miss Tucker," said the bishop's wife. "She is so simple
and unaffected, so lovable, and such good company! So alone in the
world, yet so courageous and independent. I hope it will come out all
right for your dear mother's son," she added affectionately, with a
squeeze of her kind hand. "Miss Tucker is dining here to-morrow, and
you must come, too, for she has offered to sing for our friends."

Everybody agreed that Mrs. Kennion's party for the young American
singer was a delightful and memorable occasion. She gave them song
after song, accompanying herself on the Erard grand piano, at which
she always made such a pretty picture. It drifted into a request
programme, and Tommy, whose memory was inexhaustible, seemed always to
have the wished-for song at the tip of her tongue, were it English,
Scotch, Irish, or Welsh. There was general laughter and surprise when
Madame Eriksson, a Norwegian lady who was among th