entific farming and that sort of thing, you know, and
then when you and he are married, he could take over these estates. I am
heartily sick of Bilson, and I always fancy he is robbing me--what did
you say, child?"

"Nothing, auntie."

"Well, you ought to be a very happy little girl. Run away."

But Marjorie lingered. "Aunt, you haven't heard anything of--of Hugh?"
she asked.

"Hugh--Hugh Alston? Good gracious, no! You don't think I am going to run
after the man? I am disgusted with Hugh. His duplicity and, worse still,
his obstinate, foolish, unreasoning behaviour, have annoyed me more than
anything I ever remember. But there, my dear child, it is nothing to do
with you. I have quite altered my opinion of Hugh Alston. You were right
and I was wrong. Tom Arundel will make you a better husband, and you
will be as happy as the day is long with him."

"I shan't!" Marjorie thought as she turned away. It was wrong, and it
was unreasonable, and she knew it; but for the last four or five days
there had been steadily growing in Marjorie's brain, an Idea.

Stolen fruits are sweetest, stolen meetings, moonlit assignations, shy
kisses pressed on ardent young lips, when the world is shrouded in
darkness and seems to hold but two. All these things make for romance.
The silvery moonlight gives false values; the knowledge that one has
slipped unseen from the house to meet the beloved one, and that the
doing of it is a brave and bold adventure, gives a thrill that sets the
heart throbbing and the young blood leaping--the knowledge that it is
forbidden, and, being forbidden, very sweet, appeals to the young and
romantic heart.

But when that same beloved object, looking less romantic in correct
evening dress, is accepted smilingly by the powers that be, and is sate
down to a large and varied, many coursed dinner, then Romance shrugs her
disgusted shoulders and turns petulantly away.

It was so with Marjorie. When the idea first came to her, she felt
shocked and amazed. It could not be! she said to herself. "I love Tom
with all my heart and soul, and now I am the happiest girl living."

But she was not, and she knew it. It was useless to tell herself that
she was the happiest girl living when night after night she lay awake,
staring into the darkness and seeing in memory a face that certainly did
not belong to Tom Arundel.

Hugh Alston had commenced work on the restoration of certain parts of
Hurst Dormer. He had busied himse