hat. I don't think he is settled in his
mind."

"My dear Grace, what are you talking about? Not settled in his mind! A
man who is about to marry the handsomest girl in North America?"

"I don't care for that. I wouldn't trust Mr. Reginald Stanford as far as
I could see him."

"You wouldn't? But then you are an oddity, Grace. What do you suspect
him of?"

"Never mind; my suspicions are my own. One thing I am certain of--he is
no more worthy to marry Kate Danton than I am to marry a prince."

"Nonsense! He is as handsome as Apollo, he sings, he dances, and talks
divinely. Are you not a little severe, Grace?"

Grace closed her lips.

"We won't talk about it. What do you suppose is the matter with Rose?"

"I wasn't aware there was anything the matter. An excess of happiness,
probably; girls like to be married, you know, Grace."

"Fiddlestick! She has grown thin; she mopes in her room all day long,
and hasn't a word for anyone--she who used to be the veriest chatterbox
alive."

"All very naturally accounted for, my dear. M. La Touche is
absent--doubtless she is pining for him."

"Just about as much as I am. I tell you, Frank, I hope things will go
right next June, but I don't believe it. Hush! here is Miss Danton."

Miss Danton opened the door, and, seeing who were there, bowed coldly,
and retired again. Unjustly enough, the brother came in for part of the
aversion she felt for the sister.

Meantime Mr. Stanford sauntered along the village with his fishing-rod,
nodding good-humouredly right and left. Short as had been his stay at
Danton Hall, he was very well known in the village, and had won golden
opinions from all sorts of people. From the black-eyed girls who fell in
love with his handsome face, to the urchins rolling in the mud, and to
whom he flung handfuls of pennies. The world and Mr. Stanford went
remarkably well with each other, and whistling all the way, he reached
his destination in half an hour--a clear, silvery stream, shadowed by
waving trees and famous in fishing annals. He flung himself down on the
turfy sward, lit a cigar, and began smoking and staring reflectively at
vacancy.

The afternoon was lovely, warm as June, the sky was cloudless, and the
sunlight glittered in golden ripples on the stream. All things were
favourable; but Mr. Stanford was evidently not a very enthusiastic
disciple of Isaac Walton; for his cigar was smoked out, the stump thrown
away, and his fishing-rod lay unused s