Mr. Cresswell halted and stared; then lifting the hat which he had
neglected to remove in crossing the hall, he bowed in stately grace.
Miss Taylor was no ordinary picture. Her brown hair was almost golden;
her dark eyes shone blue; her skin was clear and healthy, and her white
dress--happy coincidence!--had been laundered that very morning. Her
half-suppressed excitement at the sudden duty of welcoming the great
aristocrat of the county, gave a piquancy to her prettiness.

"The--devil!" commented Mr. Harry Cresswell to himself. But to Miss
Taylor:

"I beg pardon--er--Miss Smith?"

"No--I'm sorry. Miss Smith is engaged this morning. I am Miss Taylor."

"I cannot share Miss Taylor's sorrow," returned Mr. Cresswell gravely,
"for I believe I have the honor of some correspondence with Miss
Taylor's brother." Mr. Cresswell searched for the letter, but did not
find it.

"Oh! Has John written you?" She beamed suddenly. "I'm so glad. It's more
than he's done for me this three-month. I beg your pardon--do sit
down--I think you'll find this one easier. Our stock of chairs is
limited."

It was delightful to have a casual meeting receive this social stamp;
the girl was all at once transfigured--animated, glowing, lovely; all of
which did not escape the caller's appraising inspection.

"There!" said Mr. Cresswell. "I've left your gate gaping."