e outside her door for post--laid them all
in a row, so that when one claimed one's own one couldn't help seeing
them."

"Well, that was open and aboveboard," I continued, beginning to fear we
had hastily misjudged Miss Sissie Montague.

"Very open--too much so, in fact; for I was obliged to note the fact
that she wrote two letters regularly every day of her life--'to my two
mashes,' she explained one afternoon to a young man who was with her as
she laid them on the table. One of them was always addressed to Cecil
Holsworthy, Esq."

"And the other?"

"Wasn't."

"Did you note the name?" I asked, interested.

"Yes; here it is." She handed me a slip of paper.

I read it: "Reginald Nettlecraft, Esq., 427, Staples Inn, London."

"What, Reggie Nettlecraft!" I cried, amused. "Why, he was a very little
boy at Charterhouse when I was a big one; he afterwards went to Oxford,
and got sent down from Christ Church for the part he took in burning a
Greek bust in Tom Quad--an antique Greek bust--after a bump supper."

"Just the sort of man I should have expected," Hilda answered, with a
suppressed smile. "I have a sort of inkling that Miss Montague likes HIM
best; he is nearer her type; but she thinks Cecil Holsworthy the better
match. Has Mr. Nettlecraft money?"

"Not a penny, I should say. An allowance from his father, perhaps, who
is a Lincolnshire parson; but otherwise, nothing."

"Then, in my opinion, the young lady is playing for Mr. Holsworthy's
money; failing which, she will decline upon Mr. Nettlecraft's heart."

We talked it all over. In the end I said abruptly: "Nurse Wade, you have
seen Miss Montague, or whatever she calls herself. I have not. I won't
condemn her unheard. I have half a mind to run down one day next week to
Scarborough and have a look at her."

"Do. That will suffice. You can judge then for yourself whether or not I
am mistaken."

I went; and what is more, I heard Miss Sissie sing at her hall--a
pretty domestic song, most childish and charming. She impressed me not
unfavourably, in spite of what Hilda said. Her peach-blossom cheek might
have been art, but looked like nature. She had an open face, a baby
smile and there was a frank girlishness about her dress and manner that
took my fancy. "After all," I thought to myself, "even Hilda Wade is
fallible."

So that evening, when her "turn" was over, I made up my mind to go round
and call upon her. I had told Cecil Holsworthy my intentions bef