insight into the girlish mind which he
could not so easily otherwise obtain.

________________________________________________________________________

ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE, BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY.

CHAPTER ONE.

A NEW INMATE.

The afternoon post had come in, and the Vicar of Renton stood in the bay
window of his library reading his budget of letters. He was a tall,
thin man, with a close-shaven face, which had no beauty of feature, but
which was wonderfully attractive all the same. It was not an old face,
but it was deeply lined, and those who knew and loved him best could
tell the meaning of each of those eloquent tracings. The deep vertical
mark running up the forehead meant sorrow. It had been stamped there
for ever on the night when Hubert, his first-born, had been brought
back, cold and lifeless, from the river to which he had hurried forth
but an hour before, a picture of happy boyhood. The vicar's brow had
been smooth enough before that day. The furrow was graven to the memory
of Teddy, the golden-haired lad who had first taught him the joys of
fatherhood. The network of lines about the eyes were caused by the
hundred and one little worries of everyday life, and the strain of
working a delicate body to its fullest pitch; and the two long, deep
streaks down the cheeks bore testimony to that happy sense of humour
which showed the bright side of a question, and helped him out of many a
slough of despair. This afternoon, as he stood reading his letters one
by one, the different lines deepened, or smoothed out, according to the
nature of the missive. Now he smiled, now he sighed, anon he crumpled
up his face in puzzled thought, until the last letter of all was
reached, when he did all three in succession, ending up with a low
whistle of surprise--

"Edith! This is from Mrs Saville. Just look at this!"

Instantly there came a sound of hurried rising from the other end of the
room; a work-basket swayed to and fro on a rickety gipsy-table, and the
vicar's wife walked towards him, rolling half a dozen reels of thread in
her wake with an air of fine indifference.

"Mrs Saville!" she exclaimed eagerly. "How is my boy?" and without
waiting for an answer she seized the letter, and began to devour its
contents, while her husband went stooping about over the floor picking
up the contents of the scattered basket and putting them carefully back
in their places. He smiled to himself as he did so, a