loving cousin of Frida. Nothing they could do might bring him to spend
his Christmas with them; and this would be the first time ever since his
long-clothed babyhood that he had failed to be among them, and to lead
or follow, just as might be required of him. Such a guest has no small
value in a lonely neighbourhood, and years of usage mar the circle of
the year without him.

Christmas passed, and New Year's Day, and so did many other days.
The baron saw to his proper work, and took his turn of hunting, and
entertained his neighbours, and pleased almost everybody. Much against
his will, he had consented to the marriage of his daughter with Lord
Auber-ley--to make the best of a bad job, as he told Sir Maunder
Meddleby. Still, this kind and crafty father had his own ideas; for the
moment he was swimming with the tide to please his daughter, even as for
her dear sake he was ready to sink beneath it. Yet, these fathers have
a right to form their own opinions; and for the most part they believe
that they have more experience. Frida laughed at this, of course, and
her father was glad to see her laugh. Nevertheless, he could not escape
some respect for his own opinion, having so rarely found it wrong; and
his own opinion was that something was very likely to happen.

In this he proved to be quite right. For many things began to happen,
some on the-right and some on the left hand of the-baron's auguries. All
of them, however, might be reconciled exactly with the very thing he had
predicted. He noticed this, and it pleased him well, and inspired him so
that he started anew for even truer prophecies. And everybody round the
place was-born so to respect him that, if he missed the mark a little,
they could hit it for him.

Things stood thus at the old Ley Manor--and folk were content to have
them so, for fear of getting worse, perhaps--toward the end of January,
a. d. 1643. De Wichehalse had vowed that his only child--although so
clever for her age, and prompt of mind and body--should not enter into
marriage until she was in her eighteenth year. Otherwise, it would, no
doubt, have all been settled long ago; for Aubyn Auberley sometimes
had been in the greatest hurry. However, hither he must come now,
as everybody argued, even though the fate of England hung on his
stirrup-leather. Because he had even sent again, with his very best
intentions, fashionable things for Frida, and the hottest messages; so
that, if they did not mean h