e burnished light upon the ruddy golden hair of a girl who sat
there waiting, with her arm resting lightly upon the stone balustrade,
and her eyes straying over the quaint well-kept gardens to the open
moorland and dark patches of wooded country beyond.

"Good morning, Helen! First, as usual."

She turned round with a somewhat languid greeting. A tall, well-made
man, a little past middle-age, in gaiters and light tweed coat, had
stepped out on to the balcony from one of the open windows. In his right
hand he was swinging carelessly backwards and forwards by a long strap a
well-worn letter-bag.

"Is breakfast ready?" he inquired.

"Waiting for you, father," she answered, touching a small handbell by
her side. "Try one of those peaches. Burdett says they are the finest he
ever raised."

He stretched out his hand for one, and sinking into a low basket chair,
commenced lazily to peel it, with his eyes wandering over the sunny
landscape. A footman brought out the tea equipage and some
silver-covered dishes, and, after silently arranging them upon the
table, withdrew.

"What an exquisite morning!" Mr. Thurwell remarked, looking up at the
blue cloudless sky, and pulling his cap a little closer over his eyes to
protect them from the sun. "We might be in Italy again."

"Indeed we might," she answered. "I am going to imagine that we are, and
make my breakfast of peaches and cream and chocolate! Shall I give you
some?"

He shook his head, with a little grimace.

"No, thanks. I'm Philistine enough to prefer devilled kidneys and tea. I
wonder if there is anything in the letters."

He drew a key from his waistcoat pocket, and, unlocking the bag, shook
its contents upon the tablecloth. His daughter looked at the pile with a
faint show of interest. There were one or two invitations, which he
tossed over to her, a few business letters, which he put on one side for
more leisurely perusal later on, and a little packet from his agent
which he opened at once, and the contents of which brought a slight
frown into his handsome face.

Helen Thurwell glanced through her share without finding anything
interesting. Tennis parties, archery meetings, a bazaar fete;
absolutely nothing fresh. She was so tired of all that sort of
thing--tired of eternally meeting the same little set of people, and
joining in the same round of so-called amusements. There was nothing in
Northshire society which attracted her. It was all very stupid, and sh