There was Lord Wycomb, his broadcloths and satins and linen were
marvels in quality, but the make! The girls hated to be seen walking
with him, and he would walk--'good for the constitution,' was his
explanation for all his peculiarities. The Caylers were weary to death
of them."

"And yet," said Ruth, "they sang songs of triumph when Lou Cayler
married him."

"That was a different thing. Lou would make him get 'fits' and stop
wearing sloppy, baggy arrangements. And I do not suppose the English
lord has now a single peculiarity left, unless it be his constitutional
walk--that, of course. I have heard English babies get out of their
cradles to take a constitutional."

During this tirade Ruth had been thinking. "Edward," she asked, "why
does Squire Rawdon introduce Mr. Mostyn? Their relationship cannot be
worth counting."

"There you are wrong, Ruth." He spoke with a little excitement.
"Englishmen never deny matrimonial relationships, if they are worthy
ones. Mostyn and Rawdon are bound together by many a gold wedding ring;
we reckon such ties relationships. Squire Raw-don lost his son and his
two grandsons a year ago. Perhaps this young man may eventually stand
in their place. The Squire is nearly eighty years old; he is the last of
the English Rawdons--at least of our branch of it."

"You suppose this Mr. Mostyn may become Squire of Rawdon Manor?"

"He may, Ruth, but it is not certain. There is a large mortgage on the
Manor."

"Oh!"

Both girls made the ejaculation at the same moment, and in both voices
there was the same curious tone of speculation. It was a cry after
truth apprehended, but not realized. Mr. Rawdon remained silent; he was
debating with himself the advisability of further confidence, but
he came quickly to the conclusion that enough had been told for the
present. Turning to Ethel, he said: "I suppose girls have a code of
honor about their secrets. Is Dora Denning's 'extraordinary news' shut
up in it?"

"Oh, no, father. She is going to be married. That is all."

"That is enough. Who is the man?"

"Reverend Mr. Stanhope."

"Nonsense!"

"Positively."

"I never heard anything more ridiculous. That saintly young priest! Why,
Dora will be tired to death of him in a month. And he? Poor fellow!"

"Why poor fellow? He is very much in love with her."

"It is hard to understand. St. Jerome's love 'pale with midnight prayer'
would be more believable than the butterfly Dora. Goodness, gracious