ing the sunlight, Italian terrace and blue river in the
foreground, cedars and yews at the back, all made a splendid picture of
an English ancestral home.

'Nice old place, isn't it?' asked Mr. Smithson, seeing Lesbia's
admiring gaze as the launch neared the terrace. They two were standing
in the bows, apart from all the rest.

'Nice! it is simply perfect.'

'Oh no, it isn't. There is one thing wanted yet.'

'What is that?'

'A wife. You are the only person who can make any house of mine perfect.
Will you?' He took her hand, which she did not withdraw from his grasp.
He bent his head and kissed the little hand in its soft Swedish glove.

'Will you, Lesbia?' he repeated earnestly; and she answered softly,
'Yes.'

That one brief syllable was more like a sigh than a spoken word, and it
seemed to her as if in the utterance of that syllable the three thousand
pounds had been paid.

CHAPTER XXXI.

'KIND IS MY LOVE TO-DAY, TO-MORROW KIND.'

While Lady Lesbia was draining the cup of London folly and London care
to the dregs, Lady Mary was leading her usual quiet life beside the
glassy lake, where the green hill-sides and sheep walks were reflected
in all their summer verdure under the cloudless azure of a summer sky. A
monotonous life--passing dull as seen from the outside--and yet Mary was
very happy, happy even in her solitude, with the grave deep joy of a
satisfied heart, a mind at rest. All life had taken a new colour since
her engagement to John Hammond. A sense of new duties, an awakening
earnestness had given a graver tone to her character. Her spirits were
less wild, yet not less joyous than of old. The joy was holier, deeper.

Her lover's letters were the chief delight of her lonely days. To read
them again and again, and ponder upon them, and then to pour out all her
heart and mind in answering them. These were pleasures enough for her
young like. Hammond's letters were such as any woman might be proud to
receive. They were not love-letters only. He wrote as friend to friend;
not descending from the proud pinnacle of masculine intelligence to the
lower level of feminine silliness; not writing down to a simple country
girl's capacity; but writing-fully and fervently, as if there were no
subject too lofty or too grave for the understanding of his betrothed.
He wrote as one sure of being sympathised with, wrote as to his second
self: and Mary showed herself not unworthy of the honour thus rendered
t