skin had both been omitted.  My lover also
was poor, existing at present on an officer's pay,
but with fabulous riches shining in the future.

His mother was a very rich woman, and we
had always supposed she meant to provide for
her only child; but it had lately been rumoured
that she would not do so, unless, said report, he
married to please her.

And soon my lover showed me a letter, where
the rumour turned to a threat.

To inherit her money, he must indeed marry
to please her, and she appeared to have herself
selected his wife.

"Oh, Bernard, how unfortunate!"

It did seem unfortunate.  But I was so happy
in the possession of a lover, and so proud of
that lover being Bernard, that I don't at all
think I realized the extent of the misfortune.
Bernard, however, was filled with indignation
against his mother.

"My own dear, dear little Maggie!  Maggie,
you do not doubt me?  You are not in the
least afraid—this letter I mean?"

"Why, Bernard, no."

"You do not think it could ever influence
me," he went on excitedly;"  that I would ever
take a wife of my mother's choosing, that I
would ever marry any one—any one —but you,
Madge?"

As I have said before, I did not at all admire
my arms, but that was no reason why they
should not be made of use.  They were of use
now, for they crept round his neck, and Bernard
became quiet.

We said so little in the course of the next
few minutes that I am not going to repeat
it.  Besides, we had said it so often before.
How happy we were in the month that
succeeded!  Bernard and I threw the threat to
the winds.  Such lovely long walks in the
Staffordshire lanes, such reckless plucking of
the Staffordshire roses!

Ah! how easily I conjure up the lanes and the
fields.  Cool and fresh, with the smell of grass
in the air, and the drone of insects.  The heat
of the day passing in vapour, the flowercups
filling with dew.  A lark soaring upward, like a
speck in the light.  A golden rain of sunbeams
falling warm from heaven to earth.

"At present, Madge," said Bernard, with
his arm round my waist, "I am the happiest
pauper that breathes on the earth."

This would be, perhaps, at the top of a gate:
a quickset hedge just before us, a speculative
cow looking over.  I would reply, contentedly:

"Dear, we are very happy so."

This could not last for ever.  I don't mean
sitting on the gate, because that would have
been very undesirable, but the peace, the quiet,
the sense of being alone.

Even the gods had to come down from Olympus,
and I found that my presence was requested
on earth.

"Madge," said my father at breakfast one
morning, throwing me a letter across the table,
"read this.  Maze Hill is quite full, and
Florence has asked to come here."

He had a newspaper before him, which he
pretended to be reading whilst really he waited
for my answer.

"Oh, my dear papa!" I remonstrated.

"I know, I know, my dear," he said,
hurriedly; " but it can't be helped.  Just tell Flo'
that you and Bernard are—in fact, that you
like sometimes to be alone, and I am sure she
will be too good-natured to worry you.  You
can give her a book, you know, or an
anti-macassar to do."

But I did not at all think she would work
antimacassars, and I felt my brown skin flush up
angrily.

"Write to her nicely, Madge," my father
hinted, "and be sure that your letter is posted
before five."

After which little speech, compliance on my
part was expected.

Ah, Staffordshire!  Staffordshire that till now
I had so loved!  I wished now, we were in any
other county.  For in Staffordshire there lived
Miss Florence Burnand.  So at least said
Staffordshire; but Staffordshire was mistaken.
Going to Paris at the height of the season, you
sat at the Louvre next Miss Florence Burnand.
If you leant on the rails of the drive in Hyde
Park, the prettiest face was Miss Florence
Burnand's.  On the top of Mont Blanc, with a
long crooked stick, there had once been seen
Miss Florence Burnand.  In fact, Florence was
everywhere, and did everything.  Still, in
Staffordshire there did exist a certain Maze Hill,
and at the top of Flo's epistles, posted,
perhaps, from some place up the Nile, there always
appeared an impossible monogram, with Maze
Hill very fine and large in gilt letters underneath.

On the strength of which, Staffordshire put
forth its claims to Florence; that young lady
dancing the while in London ball-rooms, or
admiring the sea from the chain pier at Brighton.

Said the fashionable paper:

"Suddenly she disappeared from the world
of fashion.  The capricious little lady grew
tired of incense.  She dropped the laurels that
were offered her at her pretty feet, and took
the train for Staffordshire."

"And I wish that the train had carried her
past," I grumbled to Bernard, but Bernard for
once did not heed me.

"Burnand," he said, "Burnand, Burnand!
Now where have I heard that name?"

That evening I wrote to Florence, telling her
how intensely stupid she would find us, and
hoping she would not allow it to keep her
away.

Florence wrote back.  She should certainly
come, and no place could seem stupid after
London.

"Chacun à son goût," said Bernard, shrugging
his shoulders.  "If she finds us amusing,
I shall think she has a fund of amusement
within herself.  Little lady, why don't you mend
your gloves?" And so we slided away gracefully
from Florence.

But all too soon, Miss Burnand arrived.