ing fresh. There is one good thing about it, I shall have a fresh
stock of books to choose from at the Larches. It is the last step that
costs in this case. It was easy enough to fix off the first hundred,
but the last is a teaser!"

On Saturday morning a dogcart came over to convey Robert to the Larches,
and the atmosphere of the vicarage seemed charged with expectation and
excitement. The Darcys had arrived; to-morrow they would appear at
church; on Monday they would probably drive over with Rob and pay a
call. These were all important facts in a quiet country life, and
seemed to afford unlimited satisfaction to every member of the
household. Peggy grew so tired of the name of Darcy that she retired to
her room at eight o'clock, and was busy at work over the September batch
of cards, when a knock came to the door, and she had to cover them over
with the blotting-paper to admit Mellicent in her dressing-gown, with
her hair arranged for the night in an extraordinary number of little
plaited pigtails.

"Will you fasten the ends for me, Peggy, please?" she requested. "When
I do it, the threads fall off, and the ends come loose. I want it to be
specially nice for to-morrow!"

"But it will look simply awful, Mellicent, if you leave it like this.
It will be frizzed out almost on a level with your head. Let me do it
up in just two tight plaits; it will be far, far nicer," urged Peggy,
lifting one little tail after another, and counting their number in
dismay. But no, Mellicent would not be persuaded. The extra plaits
were a tribute to Rosalind, a mark of attention to her on her arrival
with which she would suffer no interference; and as a consequence of her
stubbornness she marched to church next morning disfigured by a mop of
untidy, tangled hair, instead of the usual glossy locks.

Peggy preserved a demeanour of stately calm, as she waited for the
arrival of the Darcy family, but even she felt a tremor of excitement
when the verger hobbled up to the square pew and stood holding the door
open in his hand. The heads of the villagers turned with one consent to
the doorway; only one person in the church disdained to move her
position, but she heard the clatter of horses' hoofs from without, and
presently the little procession passed the vicarage pew, and she could
indulge her curiosity without sacrifice to pride. First of all came
Lord Darcy, a thin, oldish man, with a face that looked tired and kind,
and faint