o to the most tuneless of ancient ditties. They
have even sat out an incomprehensible sermon with polite gravity and
many a weary yawn.

The day is dull. So is the rector. So is the curate,--unutterably so.

Service over, they file out again into the open air in solemn silence,
though at heart glad as children who break school, and wend their way
back to Herst through the dismantled wood.

The trees are nearly naked: a short, sad, consumptive wind is soughing
through them. The grass--what remains of it--is brown, of an unpleasant
hue. No flowers smile up at them as they pass quietly along. The sky is
leaden. There is a general air of despondency over everything. It is a
day laid aside for dismal reflection; a day on which hateful "might
have beens" crop up, for "melancholy has marked it for its own."

Yet just as they come to a turn in the park, two magpies (harbingers of
good when coupled; messengers of evil when apart) fly past them
directly across their path.

"'Two for joy!'" cries Molly, gayly, glad of any interruption to her
depressing thoughts. "I saw them first. The luck is mine."

"I think _I_ saw them first," says Sir Penthony, with no object
beyond a laudable desire to promote argument.

"Now, how could you?" says Molly. "I am quite twenty yards ahead of
you, and must have seen them come round this corner first. Now, what
shall I get, I wonder? Something worth getting, I do hope."

"'Blessed are they that expect nothing, for they shall not be
disappointed,'" says Mr. Potts, moodily, who is as gloomy as the day.
"I expect nothing."

"You are jealous," retorts Molly. "Sour grapes,"--making a small
_moue_ at him. "But you have no claim upon this luck; it is all my
own. Let nobody for a moment look upon it as his or hers."

"You are welcome to it. I don't envy you," says Cecil, little thinking
how prophetic are her words.

They continue their walk and their interrupted thoughts,--the latter
leading them in all sorts of contrary directions,--some to love, some
to hate, some to cold game-pie and dry champagne.

As they enter the hall at Herst, one of the footmen steps forward and
hands Molly an ugly yellow envelope.

"Why, here is my luck, perhaps!" cries she, gayly. "How soon it has
come! Now, what can be in it? Let us all guess."

She is surprised, and her cheeks have flushed a little. Her face is
full of laughter. Her sweet eyes wander from one to another, asking
them to join in her amusement. N