ke us too seriously, Mistress Isabel," he said in his
kindly way. "It is all part of the game."

"The game?" she said piteously.

"Yes," said Mistress Margaret, intent on her embroidery, "the game of
playing at kings and queens and courtiers and ruffs and high-stepping."

Mr. James' face again broke into his silent laugh.

"You are acid, dear aunt," he said.

"But----" began Isabel again.

"But it is wrong, you think," he interrupted, "to talk such nonsense.
Well, Mistress Isabel, I am not sure you are not right." And the dancing
light in his eyes went out.

"No, no, no," she cried, distressed. "I did not mean that. Only I did not
understand."

"I know, I know; and please God you never will." And he looked at her
with such a tender gravity that her eyes fell.

"Isabel is right," went on Mistress Margaret, in her singularly sweet old
voice; "and you know it, my nephew. It is very well as a pastime, but
some folks make it their business; and that is nothing less than fooling
with the gifts of the good God."

"Well, aunt Margaret," said James softly, "I shall not have much more of
it. You need not fear for me."

Lady Maxwell looked quickly at her son for a moment, and down again. He
made an almost imperceptible movement with his head, Mistress Margaret
looked across at him with her tender eyes beaming love and sorrow; and
there fell a little eloquent silence; while Isabel glanced shyly from one
to the other, and wondered what it was all about.

Miss Mary Corbet stayed a few weeks, as the custom was when travelling
meant so much; but Isabel was scarcely nearer understanding her. She
accepted her, as simple clean souls so often have to accept riddles in
this world, as a mystery that no doubt had a significance, though she
could not recognise it. So she did not exactly dislike or distrust her,
but regarded her silently out of her own candid soul, as one would say a
small fearless bird in a nest must regard the man who thrusts his strange
hot face into her green pleasant world, and tries to make endearing
sounds. For Isabel was very fascinating to Mary Corbet. She had scarcely
ever before been thrown so close to any one so serenely pure. She would
come down to the Dower House again and again at all hours of the day,
rustling along in her silk, and seize upon Isabel in the little upstairs
parlour, or her bedroom, and question her minutely about her ways and
ideas; and she would look at her silently for a minute or