the house, almost reluctant to enter, as long as it was without
Mary's own serene atmosphere of sympathy and good sense, her precious
offices of love, her clear steady eyes, even in babyhood his
trustworthy counsellors.

Was it a delusion of fancy, acting on reflections in the glass, that,
as he mounted the steps from the lawn, depicted Mary's figure through
the dining-room windows? Nay, the table was really laid for
breakfast--a female figure was actually standing over the tea-chest.

'A scene from the Vicar of Wakefield deluding me,' decided Louis,
advancing to the third window, which was open.

It was Mary Ponsonby.

'Mary!'

'You here?--They said you were not at home!'

'My father!--Where?'

'He is not come down. He is as well as possible. We came at eleven
last night. I found I was not wanted,' added Mary, with a degree of
agitation, that made him conclude that she had lost her father.

One step he made to find the Earl, but too much excited to move away
or to atand still, he came towards her, wrung her hand in a more real
way than in his first bewildered surprise, and exclaimed in
transport, 'O Mary! Mary! to have you back again!' then, remembering
his inference, added, low and gravely, 'It makes me selfish--I was