clumsy man, was a cross between an archangel and a king.

'Your daughter, eh, Gibson?--nice little girl, how old? Pony wants
grooming though,' patting it as he talked. 'What's your name, my dear?
He's sadly behindhand with his rent, as I was saying, but if he's
really ill, I must see after Sheepshanks, who is a hardish man of
business. What's his complaint? You'll come to our school-scrimmage on
Thursday, little girl--what's-your-name? Mind you send her, or bring
her, Gibson; and just give a word to your groom, for I'm sure that pony
wasn't singed last year, now, was he? Don't forget Thursday, little
girl--what's your name?--it's a promise between us, is it not?' And off
the earl trotted, attracted by the sight of the farmer's eldest son on
the other side of the yard.

Mr. Gibson mounted, and he and Molly rode off. They did not speak for
some time. Then she said, 'May I go, papa?' in rather an anxious little
tone of voice.

'Where, my dear?' said he, wakening up out of his own professional
thoughts.

'To the Towers--on Thursday, you know. That gentleman' (she was shy of
calling him by his title) 'asked me.'

'Would you like it, my dear? It has always seemed to me rather a
tiresome piece of gaiety--rather a tiring day, I mean--beginning so
early--and the heat, and all that.'

'Oh, papa!' said Molly reproachfully.