a little smile.

"'I hope you don't mind,' said a voice behind me. 'I've a notion your
relative did not like flowers at a funeral, but I could not upset
Kitty's conviction that he did.'

"It was the rector who had come upon me unawares, and he did not
pretend not to know me.

"'What can it matter now?' I answered. 'He'll know nothing of it.'

"But I must stop, I've no time to describe the good man. Come and see
him for yourself.

"Ever yours,

"PAUL LESSING."

CHAPTER IV.

OPPOSING VIEWS.

The man who some centuries earlier had built Rudham Court, had been
wiser than the generation in which he lived in his choice of a site.
Instead of a valley he had chosen the side of a hill, and the sloping
foreground had been levelled into a succession of terraces, giving the
impression of an almost mountainous ascent to the house from the road
which lay beneath. The house, not beautiful in itself, was softened by
the hand of time into a dull red that contrasted harmoniously with the
group of trees behind it, and the gravelled terrace in front with its
box-bordered beds was a blaze of colour in the brilliant sunshine of
the August morning. It was bordered by a low stone wall along which
two peacocks strutted with almost ridiculous self-consciousness of
their beauty. In the very centre was a flight of steps which descended
to the bowling-green beneath, where the yew hedge which grew round it
had been fantastically cut into the shape of an embattlemented parapet,
framing the distant view into a series of charming little pictures:
here a glimpse of the river, there a delightful vignette of the church.

Across the velvety turf of the green tripped Rose Lancaster, dangling a
basket from her arm, a picture herself in her pink cambric frock and
befrilled apron, a little French cap set upon her head which enhanced
the beauty of the golden hair. Her skin was of the delicate colouring
that so often accompanies fair hair, the mouth generally wore a smile
displaying Rose's pretty dimples, and the great blue eyes were half
concealed by the long lashes. She made her way to the wicket-gate at
the far end of the green, to a winding path through a wood which led to
the rose-garden below, and gave a start of pretended surprise when Tom
Burney broke off from his task of mowing the grass paths which
separated the beds, with an exclamation of delight.

"You here!" said Rose, who had watched the direction of his steps from
a