be expected! This is nonsense. Having
taken the matter in its insane aspect, suppose
you try it now in its reasonable one. Granted
the step I propose to take is unusual, and may be
judged of by the world in a manner not flattering
to my self-esteem, there are reasons which
outweigh such considerations. I once more distinctly
place before you, Barbara Ann Turnover,
heretofore my servant, the opportunity of becoming
my wife."

"I thought I should ha' dropped," said Mrs.
Turnover, subsequently, "when, repeating it
so steadfast, as though actially asting the banns,
master putt out his hand, kivered with rings,
and smiled as sweet as a angel. While I were
hesitating and wiping my hand on my apron, he
come forrard, impatient, and said: 'Come, my
good Barbara, I have giv' you a unfair surprige.
Go now, for the present, and think over what
I have proposed. I don't require you for to
kip it,' he ses, 'anyways secret. You will let
me know to-morrow morning—yes, to-morrow
—to-morrow——' His voice got choky like,
and he sot hisself down again, kivering his
white face with his hands. Which I curtseyed,"
concluded Mrs. Turnover, "and, upset as I
were, didn't I go, as fast as ever I walked in
my life! But I didn't get no further than the
staircage, for theer I simmed to forgit whear
I was, and all about it."

George had raised his eyes in time to witness
that precipitate movement of retreat Mrs. Turnover
has herself described. It recalled so
vividly the action of a frightened goose, that he
could not repress a bitter smile.

"She will do justice to the name in one particular
at least!" he muttered.

He was in the act of rising to go to his chamber,
when a loud singular sound, such as, if a
pony ever uttered an audible laugh, might be
produced by that animal, echoed from the staircase,
followed by a wail and sobs so unmistakably
human, that the young man rushed out to
inquire their source, and beheld the poor
cook on the upper steps in high hysterics.
Before he could summon assistance, the distressful
accents had reached other ears, for
somebody—it was a young person George had
never before seen—came bounding from an adjacent
apartment to the rescue. For a second
their eyes met. George had only time to note
that the face, though somewhat haughty in expression,
was of singular beauty, and, further,
that a crimson flush mounted, unnecessarily as
it seemed, to the stranger's brow, when other
help arrived, and the young master of the house
discreetly withdrew.

"What noble features! and, by Jove! what
a complexion!" was his comment. "That blush
alone was perfection. Ah, nature, who can paint
like thee? Who is the girl, I wonder? Not of
these parts, surely. No servant, I am sure. Perhaps
a seamstress of Clara's. Perhaps——"

He fell into a strange reverie, standing so
long with one boot off and leaning on a chair,
that he positively started when, rousing himself,
he looked at his watch. Night was coming on,
a fact of which he was further apprised by the
appearance of Mr. Fanshaw, the butler, bringing
candles, and a request to know if he would
be pleased to take dinner?

Sir George declined the superior meal, but
ordered coffee to be brought to his room, and
prepared to write. Thereupon Mr. Fanshaw,
after a slight and purposeless buzz about the
room, and a wistful but stealthy look at his
master, withdrew.

George had caught the look in his mirror.

"They all know it, then, by this time!" was
his correct conclusion.

When Mr. Fanshaw reappeared with the
coffee, George forced himself to inquire for Mrs.
Turnover.

Either the good lady anticipated the query,
or Mr. Fanshaw was good at improvisation, for
he at once replied:

"Mrs. Turnover's duty, Sir George, she 'ave
laid down for a few minutes, Sir George, and
feels quite charmin', Sir George."

The suitor uttered something between a
cough and a groan, and turned steadily to his
writing.

He was occupied with one letter full half an
hour. The pen travelled swiftly, but the journey
was apparently in vain, for at the end of
several pages George suddenly stopped, glanced
back hastily at what he had written, and tore
the whole to atoms.

"To her, to-morrow," he muttered. "Tonight,
I am distraught. Poor Clara!"

Poor George! may be added. For it is no
easy matter to communicate, in an entirely satisfactory
manner, to the most attached of sisters
(especially if she be the wife of a haughty earl)
that you are about to be affianced to your cook.

"It is too late for the post, I suppose?"
said George to the butler, who entered at this
moment.

"Not if 'tis sent immediately, Sir George,"
was the reply. "Dawes can take it at once, Sir
George; he's at the stable gate now, Sir George,
with the dog-cart, Sir George."

"The dog-cart? Why?

"Going to take Miss Esther, Sir George."

"Who is Miss Esther?"

"Miss Vann, Sir George. Mrs. Turnover's
niece, Sir George," said Mr. Fanshaw, promptly.

"Mr. Dawes does not consider it necessary
to await my orders, it would seem," said the
young baronet, with unwonted tartness. "Be
good enough to desire him to put up the dogcart
instantly. I have no letters to-night."

"And, and the young la—— , person, Sir
George? 'Tis too far for such a girl to walk
at night, and all alone, Sir George."

"Who wants her to walk? She can sleep
here, if she chooses."

Mr. Fanshaw quitted the room.

"Not badly managed," thought George.
"Two things gained. I must keep down this
disposition in my household to treat me as
they please. This will be more than ever necessary
now. And I shall perhaps also see how
the morning roses bloom. How pretty she was!"