I thought—nay, I was quite sure—that Miss
Leonard started at the mention of the word
Hollingford; and I also thought that she turned
deathly pale; but she bent over her flowers at
the moment, and the light was very subdued.
No one else seemed to notice it, so it is just
possible I may have been mistaken.

"Mr. Hill's new agent is, then, the son of
Mr. Hollingford, the banker?" said Miss
Leonard, after a pause. "I did not know that
they belonged to that part of the country."

"Oh! I do not know about that; but the
mother and son have taken a farm there lately,
trying to make shift for themselves, poor
things! They say young Hollingford has some
Quixotic ideas about paying some of his father's
liabilities; and if he has, I am sure it is very
creditable to him. But I for one am inclined
to doubt it. Bad conduct generally runs in
families."

"Madam," said I, with my cheeks getting
very hot, "Mrs. Hollingford was my mother's
dear friend."

"Highty tighty, Miss Dacre," said the lady,
"we never know how our friends are going to
turn out. I say nothing but what is true.
And allow me to warn you, my dear, that if you
will persist in identifying yourself with such
people you must make up your mind to hear them
spoken of as they deserve."

"Madam," said I again, flashes of lightning
now dancing before my eyes, "I am very sorry
I ever entered your house; and I will certainly
never enter it again."

Not waiting for more I made her a curtsey,
and walked out of the room. I found the
dressing-room where I had left my cloak, fully
determined to go home at once, if I could only
get the carriage. I had to wait some time,
however, and whilst I sat alone the door
opened and Rachel Leonard came hurriedly up
to my side.

"I could not go away without bidding you
good-night," she said, holding both my hands
in both of hers. "Perhaps we may meet again.
God bless you!"

Her voice was unsteady, her face pale, her
eyes wet. A lady came to the door and said,
"Now, Rachel, we are waiting!" She dropped
my hand and was gone.

"Who is she?" I asked of Grace, as soon as
we were together. "What relation is she to
the Hills?"

"None whatever," said Grace; "only an
adopted daughter. There is some romantic
story about her, I believe. She went to Mrs.
Hill as a companion first. The Hills, who are
the most eccentric old couple in the world,
took a violent fancy to her, and adopted her for
their own. I believe she is an orphan of a
very good family. They keep up a wonderful
fuss about her; and people say they have made
her their heiress."

"I wonder why she looked so strangely at the
mention of the Hollingfords," I said,
musingly.

"My dear Margery," said Grace, shaking her
head, "I give you up. You are perfectly insane
on the subject of the Hollingfords. What will
you imagine next?"

"I do not think I imagined it," said I.
"I am sure that she turned as white as your
cloak."

"Well, well," said Grace, "there may be
some deep mystery for all I know. Miss
Leonard may, like yourself, have a taste for
agriculture; or may have known young Mr.
Hollingford before he turned ploughman. I
advise you to think about it. You have
materials for a pretty romance to take into exile
with you."

And I did think about it long afterwards.

CHAPTER II.

MY children, you must remember that I am
speaking of an old-fashioned time, and I
travelled down to Hillsbro' by coach. The
promenade of a fashionable watering-place had
hitherto been my idea of the country. Imagine,
then, how my hungry eyes devoured the new
beauties presented to them. I had provided
myself with a book, and I had hoped to fall
asleep over it, yet here I was with my eyes
riveted to a pane of glass, afraid to wink lest
I should miss something. Grace's warning,
"You will fret yourself to death, you will be
back before a month," grew faint in my ears.
When night shut out my new world and I fell
asleep I dreamed of extraordinary phenomena;
trees stalking about the plains, fairies leaping
out of the foam of the rivers.

I opened my eyes to a rose-coloured dawn.
We had stopped before a little village inn. A
row of pigeons with burnished necks looked
down on me from their perch on the signboard
above the door; a half-dressed curly-headed
child peeped out of a window from under the
eaves, and clapped his hands at the steaming
horses: and a young man walked out of the
inn with a whip in his hand, and asked if there
might be a lady inside the coach whose
destination was Hillsbro' Farm.

I was soon seated by his side in a gig. By
a few careful glances I had easily assured
myself that there was nothing of the ploughman
in the appearance of Mrs. Hollingford's
son. You will want to know what I thought
of him that morning, and I will tell you. He
seemed to me the beau ideal of a country
gentleman: nothing less than this, and
something more. You have known him, my dears,
stooped and white-haired, and have loved him
in his age for the sake of the heart that never
grew old. But on that brilliant autumn morning
when he and I first sat side by side, the
same loveable spirit was clothed with the
strength and beauty of mortal youth.

The vivid life of the country was sweet to
me that early morning. Carts of hay lumbered
past us, almost crushing us into the hedges as
they swept along heavily, leaving a trail of
fragrance in the air. Red and brown leaves lay
thick on the ground, making beautiful the