"Charles," interrupted Mrs. Meredith, "who gave thee
this letter?"

"Ask Miss Meredith," Fownes responded, again smiling.

"It must be Mr. Evatt," said Janice. Then as the bond-servant
turned sharply and looked at her, she became conscious
that she was colouring. "I wish there was no such
thing as a blush," she moaned to herself,--a wish in which no
one seeing Miss Meredith would have joined.

"'T was not from Mr. Evatt," denied the servant.

Without time for thought, Janice blurted out, "Then 't is
from you?" and the groom nodded his head.

"What nonsense is this?" cried Mr. Meredith. "Dost
mean to say 't is from ye? Whence came the picture?"

"I was the limner," replied Charles.

"What clanker have we here?" exclaimed the squire.

"'T is no lie, Mr. Meredith," answered the servant. "In
England I've drawn many a face, and 't was even said in jest
that I might be a poor devil of an artist if ever I quitted the
ser--quitted service."

"And where got ye the colours?"