.

"So Lady Damer that is to be is coming to the Towers," Maria announced
at breakfast, on the authority of a letter she was reading. "Leo is
coming here to shoot, isn't he, Regie?"

"We expect him every day," said I; "but I never knew he was engaged.
Who is it?"

"Well, it's not an announced engagement," said Maria, "but everybody
says it is to be. She is an heiress, and her father was an old friend
of his guardian's. And, by-the-bye, Regie, her sister is coming too,
and will do beautifully for you. She is co-heiress, you know. They're
really very rich, and your one is lovely."

"I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you," said I, "and we are to dine
at the Towers next week, so I shall see the heiresses. But suppose I
take a fancy to the wrong one?"

"You can't have her," said Maria, laughing.

"I tell you she is for Leo, and she is very clever and strong-minded,
which is just what he wants--a wife who can take care of him."

"Oh, deliver me from a strong-minded lady!" I cried. "Damer is quite
welcome to her."

"Your one isn't a bit strong-minded," said Maria. "She is very pretty,
but has no will of her own at all. She leans completely on Frances; I
don't know what she'll do when she marries, for they have been orphans
since they were quite children, and have never lived apart for a
week."

At this point Polly broke in with even more warmth and directness of
speech than usual,

"Frances Chislett is the most superior girl I ever knew. Men always
laugh at strong-minded women; but I'm sure I don't know why. I can't
think how any human being with duties and responsibilities can be
either more useful or more agreeable for being weak-minded."

And this was all that Polly contributed to our nonsensical
conversation about the heiresses.

After she came I forsook the society of Maria. I knew now that she
only wanted to talk to me about the Rector and the parish. Besides,
though Maria was strongly interested in Dacrefield for Clerke's sake,
she knew much less of it than Polly, with whom I revisited numberless
haunts of our childhood, the barns and stables, the fernery, the
"Pulpit" and the "Pew."

I did not tell her of my romance with Maria. I was not proud of it.
But as we sat together in the old apple-room above the stables, I
confided to her my "unfortunate attachment," which I had now
sufficiently recovered from not to be offended by her opinion, that it
was all for the best that it had ended as it had.

I do