open page on the table. "Ah, that beautiful passage upon 'Our First
Impressions.' Yet I do not like you, dear Mother, to read his books;
they always seem to make you sad."

"There is a charm to me in their thoughts, their manner of expression,"
said Lady Vargrave, "which sets me thinking, which reminds me of--of an
early friend, whom I could fancy I hear talking while I read. It was so
from the first time I opened by accident a book of his years ago."

"Who is this author that pleases you so much?" asked Mrs. Leslie, with
some surprise; for Lady Vargrave had usually little pleasure in reading
even the greatest and most popular masterpieces of modern genius.

"Maltravers," answered Evelyn; "and I think I almost share my mother's
enthusiasm."

"Maltravers!" repeated Mrs. Leslie. "He is, perhaps, a dangerous writer
for one so young. At your age, dear girl, you have naturally romance and
feeling enough of your own without seeking them in books."

"But, dear madam," said Evelyn, standing up for her favourite, "his
writings do not consist of romance and feeling only; they are not
exaggerated, they are so simple, so truthful."

"Did you ever meet him?" asked Lady Vargrave.

"Yes," returned Mrs. Leslie, "once, when he was a gay, fair-haired boy.
His father resided in the next county, and we met at a country-house.
Mr. Maltravers himself has an estate near my daughter in B-----shire, but
he does not live on it; he has been some years abroad,--a strange