of England. This he had never seen before.
Without the trained subtlety to have explained to himself the finely
sweet and simply gracious deeps of it, he was moved and uplifted. He was
glad he had "come across" it, he felt a vague regret at passing on his
way, and leaving it behind. He would have liked to feel that perhaps he
might come back. He would have liked to present him with a Delkoff, and
teach him how to run it. He had delighted in Mount Dunstan, and rejoiced
in him, but he had rather fallen in love with Penzance. Certain American
doubts he had had of the solidity and permanency of England's position
and power were somewhat modified. When fellows like these two stood at
the first rank, little old England was a pretty safe proposition.

After they had given him tea among the scents and songs of the sunken
garden outside the library window, they set him on his way. The shadows
were lengthening and the sunlight falling in deepening gold when they
walked up the avenue and shook hands with him at the big entrance gates.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "you've treated me grand--as fine as silk,
and it won't be like Little Willie to forget it. When I go back to
New York it'll be all I can do to keep from getting the swell head and
bragging about it. I've enjoyed myself down to the ground, every minute.
I'm not the kind of fellow to be likely to be able to pay you back
your kindness, but, hully gee! if I could I'd do it to beat the band.
Good-bye, gentlemen--and thank you--thank you."

Across which one of their minds passed the thought that the sound of the
hollow impact of a trotting horse's hoofs on the road, which each that
moment became conscious of hearing was the sound of the advancing foot
of Fate? It crossed no mind among the three. There was no reason why
it should. And yet at that moment the meaning of the regular, stirring
sound was a fateful thing.

"Someone on horseback," said Penzance.

He had scarcely spoken before round the curve of the road she came. A
finely slender and spiritedly erect girl's figure, upon a satin-skinned
bright chestnut with a thoroughbred gait, a smart groom riding behind
her. She came towards them, was abreast them, looked at Mount Dunstan, a
smiling dimple near her lip as she returned his quick salute.

"Miss Vanderpoel," he said low to the vicar, "Lady Anstruther's sister."

Mr. Penzance, replacing his own hat, looked after her with surprised
pleasure.

"Really," he exclaim