get that idea out of her head; it made her
nervous and ill at ease in his presence. She hustled all her notes and
cards hurriedly together into her bureau.

"Uncle Tom! Dear me, what can he have come to-day for! I thought the
hounds were out. Ring the bell, Beatrice; he will like some tea. Where
is your father?"

"Papa is out superintending the building of the new pigsties," said
Beatrice as she rang the bell. "I think uncle Tom has been hunting; he is
in boots and breeches I see."

"Dear me, I hope your father won't come in with his muddy feet and his
hands covered with earth," said Mrs. Miller, nervously.

Uncle Tom came in, a tall, dark-faced, strong-limbed man of fifty--an
ugly man, if you will, but a gentleman, and an Esterworth, every inch of
him. He kissed his sister, and patted his niece on the cheek.

"Why weren't you out to-day, Pussy?"

"You met so far off, uncle. I had no one to ride with to the meet. The
boys will be back next week. Have you had a good run?"

"No, we've done nothing but potter about all the morning; there isn't a
scrap of scent."

"Uncle Tom, will you give us a meet here when we have our house-warming?"

"Humph! you haven't got any foxes at Shadonake," answered her uncle. He
had drawn his chair to the fire, and was warming his hands over the
blazing logs. Beatrice was rather a favourite with him. "I will see about
it, Pussy," he added, kindly, seeing that she looked disappointed. Mrs.
Miller was pouring him out a cup of tea.

"Well, I've got a piece of news for you women!" says Mr. Esterworth,
stretching out his hand for his tea. "John Kynaston's going to be
married!"

Mrs. Miller never knew how it was that the old Worcester tea-cup in her
hand did not at this juncture fall flat on the ground into a thousand
atoms at her brother's feet. It is certain that only a very strong
exercise of self-control and presence of mind saved it from destruction.

"Engaged to be married!" she said, with a gasp.

"That is news indeed," cried Beatrice, heartily, "I am delighted."

"Don't be so foolish, Beatrice," said her mother, quite sharply. "How on
earth can you be delighted when you don't even know who it is? Who is it,
Tom?"

"Ah, that is the whole pith of the matter," said Mr. Esterworth, who was
not above the weakness of liking to be the bearer of a piece of gossip.
"I'll give you three guesses, and I'll bet you won't hit it."

"One of the Courtenay girls?"

"No."

"Anna Vivian?"