something to eat."

"My dear," said the mother, "surely Mary----"

"My dear mother," said the girl, "you know Mary is having her supper."

The bewildered Selborne presently found himself seated at the
white-spread, silver-sparkling table, served with food and drink by this
Hebe with the honest eyes. He exerted himself to talk with the
mother--not of the difference between a lodger and a tenant, but of
music, art, and the life of the great world.

It was the girl who brought the conversation down from the gossip of
Courts and concert-rooms to the tenant's immediate needs.

"If you mean to stay, you could have a woman in from the village," said
she.

"But wouldn't you rather I went?" he said.

"Why should we? We want to let the cottage, or we shouldn't have
advertised it. I'll get you some one to-morrow. Mrs Bates would be the
very thing, mother. And you'll like her, Mr Selwyn. She's a great
dear----"

Sure enough, the next morning brought a gentle, middle-aged woman to "do
for" Mr Selwyn. And she did excellently. And three slow days passed. He
got a boat and pulled up and down the green willow-fringed river. He
tried to fish; he read somewhat, and he thought more. And he went in and
out of his cottage, which had its own private path debouching on the
highway. Many times a day he went in and out, but he saw no more the red
hair, the round face, and the honest eyes.

On the fourth day he had nursed his interest in the girl to a strong,
well-grown sentiment of curiosity and attraction. Coming in at his own
gate, he saw the mother leaving hers, with sunshade and cardcase--an
afternoon of calls evidently setting in.

Now or never! The swift impulse took him, and before he had time to
recall the terms of that advertisement, he had passed the green fence of
division, and his feet were on the wandering ways of the shrubbery. He
felt, as he went, a glow of gratitude to the fate which was rewarding
his care of his brother's future with an interest like this. The
adventuress?--the tobacconist's assistant?--he could deal with her
later.

Through the garden's green a gleam of white guided--even, it seemed,
beckoned.

He found the girl with the red hair and the honest eyes in a hammock
swung between two cedars.

"Have pity on me," he said abruptly.

She raised her eyes from her book.

"Oh, it's you!" she said. "I am so glad. Get a chair from under the
weeping ash, and sit down and talk."

"This turf is good enou