is some one with your father," said Mrs. Markland, speaking
to Fanny.

"A gentleman--I wonder who it can be?"

"Your Uncle George, probably."

"No; it isn't Uncle George," said Fanny, as the carriage reached the
oval in front of the house, and swept around towards the portico.
"It's a younger man; and he is dressed in black."

Further conjecture was suspended by the presence of the individual
in regard to whom they were in doubt. He was a stranger, and Mr.
Markland presented him as Mr. Lyon, son of an old and valued
business correspondent, residing in Liverpool. A cordial welcome
awaited Mr. Lyon at Woodbine Lodge, as it awaited all who were
introduced by the gentlemanly owner. If Mr. Markland thought well
enough of any one to present him at home, the home-circle opened
smilingly to receive.

The stranger was a young man, somewhere between the ages of
twenty-five and thirty; above the medium height; with a well-formed
person, well-balanced head, and handsome countenance. His mouth was
the least pleasing feature of his face. The lips were full, but too
firmly drawn back against his teeth. Eyes dark, large, and slightly
prominent, with great depth, but only occasional softness, of
expression. His was a face with much in it to attract, and something
to repel. A deep, rich voice, finely modulated, completed his
personal attractions.

It so happened that Mr. Lyon had arrived from New York that very
day, with letters to Mr. Markland. His intention was to remain only
until the next morning. The meeting with Mr. Markland was
accidental; and it was only after earnest persuasion that the young
man deferred his journey southward, and consented to spend a day or
two with the retired merchant, in his country home. Mr. Lyon was
liberally educated, bad travelled a good deal, and been a close
observer and thinker. He was, moreover, well read in human nature.
That he charmed the little circle at Woodbine Lodge on the first
evening of his visit there, is scarcely a matter of wonder. Nor was
he less charmed. Perhaps the only one not altogether pleased was
Aunt Grace. By habit a close reader of all who came within range of
her observation, she occupied quite as much time in scanning the
face of Mr. Lyon, and noting each varying expression of eyes, lips,
and voice, as in listening to his entertaining description of things
heard and seen.

"I don't just like him." Thus she soliloquized after she had retired
to her own room.' "He'