band's arm in the steep shrubbery walk, she said,
in a dissatisfied tone:

'I am glad we found her with Michael; but, all the same, she and Mr.
Blake were partners all the afternoon.'

'My dear Geraldine,' returned Mr. Harcourt with assumed solemnity, 'I
think Audrey may be trusted to manage her own little affairs--she is
two-and-twenty, is she not? When you have daughters of your own, my
love, I am quite sure you will manage them excellently, and no young man
will have a chance of speaking to them; but with Audrey it is another
matter.' And then, in a tragic undertone: 'Have you forgotten, wife
mine, a certain afternoon when you did me the honour of playing with me
three whole sets, and then we cooled ourselves down by the lake, until
your father hunted us out?'

Geraldine pressed her husband's arm gently; she remembered that
afternoon well, and all Percival had said to her--they had just come to
an understanding when her father interrupted them. For one moment her
face softened at the sweet remembrance, and then she roused herself to
remonstrate.

'But, Percy dear, this is utterly different. Audrey would never dream of
falling in love with Mr. Blake. Fancy a girl in her position encouraging
the attentions of a junior master. No, indeed; I was only afraid of a
little flirtation. Of course Audrey declares she never flirts, but she
has such a way with her--she is too kind in her manner sometimes.'

'It is to be hoped that she will not break as many hearts as a certain
young person I know--eh, Jerry?' and Geraldine blushed and held her
peace.

She never liked to be reminded of the unlucky wooers who had shaken off
the dust of Woodcote so sorrowfully. As for Mr. Harcourt, he delighted
in these proofs of conquests. Geraldine had not been easy to win--she
had given her lover plenty of trouble; but she was his now, and, as he
often told himself, no man had ever been more fortunate in his choice.
For Mr. Harcourt, in spite of his delight in teasing, was very deeply in
love with his beautiful wife.

CHAPTER IX

MAT

'Sympathy or no sympathy, a man's love should no more fail towards
his fellows than that love which spent itself on disciples who
altogether misunderstood it, like the rain which falls on just and
unjust alike.'--MARK RUTHERFORD.

Vineyard Cottage, where the retired corn-chandler had elected to spend
the remnant of his days, was no pretentious stucco villa; it was a real
old