"Who has the squire got staying with him?"
speculated he; for the squire was not given
to smoke, and this odour Jack inhaled was
not the odour of gamekeeper's or gardener's
unfastidious pipe. He looked behind and he
looked before, and peered through the trees on
either hand ; but seeing no one, and not being
covetous just then of any society except
Minnie's, he went straight on his way to the
house, without further investigation. The squire
was taking his customary forty winks in the
library after dinner, and as Jack refused to
disturb him, he was ushered into the drawing
room, where the butler told him he would find
Lady Wallace; but "Miss Minnie was out
somewhere with Miss Wharton."

Jack did not approve of Minnie's tempting the
dew after nightfall; he experienced a chill sensation
of disappointment at her absence, and Lady
Wallace's drowsy welcome did not warm him.

"Who is it?" asked she, raising herself from
the couch, where she, too, had been taking a
brief nap. "Oh, Mr. Wyvill, is it you? We
none of us expected you back until to-morrow or
the day after."

"My business with the lawyers was done, and
there was nothing else to stay in town for," said
he.

"And of course you were eager to be at home.
Minnie would tell you in her letters that her friend
Miss Wharton was here. They went out
together for a turn on the terrace about half an hour
ago. They will be in soon, or perhaps you
would like to go in quest of them?"

"No, I'll wait. They were not on the
terrace five minutes since, and I might miss them
if I went into the gardens. That is the
conservatory door—here they are!"

Yes, here they were. Minnie entered first, with
a black lace shawl thrown over her golden curls,
and a bright natural rose on her cheek, which
deepened to a burning blush when she espied
her lover.

"Oh, Jack, was it you in the wood? You
gave us such a fright!" cried she, and ran
forward to meet him.

"You should not go into the wood so late,
Minnie," said her aunt. "It is damp and
unwholesome."

Jack Wyvill was as generous-tempered and as
little suspicious as any gentleman in Yorkshire;
but he became sensible of a very uncomfortable
spasm of doubt and dread clutching at his heart
when he saw Miss Wharton furtively twitch
Minnie's sleeve, and give her a warning glance.

"Yes, I came through the wood; who was
there with you?" said he, dropping the cordial
hand that she had given him with such a pretty
frankness and affection.

"Nobody; we were alone," was the unhesitating
reply; and then the beaming blue eyes,
which were the truthfulest eyes in the world,
lifted themselves to his face, and looked straight
at him with blank, questioning amazement. It
seemed to Jack that Miss Wharton again passed
unnecessarily near them in going towards the
door, and he was sure she gave Minnie another
stealthy admonition; for Minnie turned her head
quickly towards her friend, and then saying she
would return in a few minutes, followed her out
of the room.

Jack Wyvill felt like a man in a bad dream.
He had never met Miss Wharton before, but he
had heard of her as a very sporting young
woman, and at first sight he loathed her. Was
she teaching his darling Minnie deceitful ways?
It was Minnie's sweet innocent ingenuousness
that made half her charm. If those fair candid eyes
of hers took any veil of slyness, they were not
the eyes he could see love in. There must have
been somebody in the wood with them. He was
very impetuous; he was very angry; he was
more than half in a mind to go away. It was
very lucky Lady Wallace broke up his stormy
reverie by a request that he would ring the bell
for tea; for that common-place action gave him
time to reconsider himself, and partially to
smother his unworthy suspicions. For had he
ever had cause to doubt of his pure white Minnie
before? Never, never! And he must not
doubt of her now. Still that cigar, that fiery
blush—that blush not of joy only, but of confusion.
What could she be concealing from him?
Dear child! what could she have to conceal?
Need he be a jealous fool because Miss Wharton
was odious? Still that cigar!

At this point of his meditation, Miss Wharton
reappeared, looking perfectly cool, and amiable
and easy—almost too easy to be natural; for
there was a touch of swagger in her manner that
was far from prepossessing. Jack Wyvill eyed her
askance, and wondered in his own mind how his
sweet little Minnie had ever come to call her
friend. She was a middle-sized, broad-built
figure of a woman, with square shoulders, flat
chest, long arms, and a singular ungainliness of
gait. She had a certain power of countenance
which redeemed her irregularity of feature. Her
eyes were handsome, her brow was wide, her
hair was beautiful and abundant. At the lower
section of her visage no one voluntarily glanced
twice, unless he were a student of physiognomy,
which Jack Wyvill was not. He looked at her
and did not like her, but he could not have
given any valid reason why, except that he did
not like ugly women, and she was the ugliest he
had ever seen. But ugly or not, Miss Wharton
was clever, and she knew it. She had more
humour and originality than commonly fall to
the lot of women; and she prided herself on the
possession of that verbal wit which consists in
utter unscrupulousness of speech, and whets
itself with equal gusto on the foibles of friend
or foe. She was ingrained with small vanities,
and swathed about with elaborate affectations;
but she had that force of character which assimilates
such vanities and affectations until they
seem more like the genuine out-come of
nature than the assumption of art. Indeed, the
shrewdest observer would have been hard put to
it, to say where in Miss Wharton nature ended
and art began.

She was popular in society rather than otherwise,
for though utterly intolerant of fools,