The girls at Chepstow House were quite excited at the advent of Audrey and Evelyn. They were nice girls, nearly all of them; they were ladies, too, of a good class; but they had not been at Chepstow House long without coming under the influence of what dominated the entire place – that big house on the hill, with its castellated roof and its tower, its moat too, and its big, big gardens, its spacious park, and all its surroundings. It was a place to talk to their friends at home about, and to think of and wonder over when at school. The girls at Chepstow House had often looked with envy at Audrey as she rode by on her pretty Arab pony. They talked of her to each other; they criticised her appearance; they praised her actions. She was a sort of princess to them. Then there appeared on the scene another little princess – a strange child, without style, without manners, without any personal attractions; and this child, it was whispered, was the real heiress. By and by pretty Audrey would cease to live at Castle Wynford, and the little girl with the extraordinary face would be monarch of all she surveyed. The girls commented over this story amongst each other, as girls will; and when the younger Miss Henderson – Miss Lucy, as they called her – told them that Audrey Wynford and her cousin Evelyn were coming as schoolgirls to Chepstow House their excitement knew no bounds.

“They are coming here,” said Miss Lucy, “and I trust that all you girls who belong to the house will treat them as they ought to be treated.”

“And how is that, Miss Lucy?” said Brenda Fox, the tallest and most important girl in the school.

“You must treat them as ladies, but at the same time as absolutely your equals in every respect,” said Miss Lucy. “They are coming to school partly to find their level; we must be kind to them, but there is to be no difference made between them and the rest of you. Now, Brenda, go with the other girls into the Blue Parlor and attend to your preparation for Signor Forre.”

Brenda and her companions went away, and during the rest of the day, whenever they had a spare moment, the girls talked over Audrey and Evelyn.

The next morning the cousins arrived. They came in Audrey’s pretty governess-cart, and Audrey drove the fat pony herself. A groom took it back to the Castle, with orders to come for his young ladies at six in the evening, for Lady Frances had arranged that the girls were to have both early dinner and tea at school.

They both entered the house, and even Audrey just for a moment felt slightly nervous. The elder Miss Henderson took them into her private sitting-room, asked them a few questions, and then, desiring them to follow her, went down a long passage which led into the large schoolroom. Here the girls, about forty in number, were all assembled. Miss Henderson introduced the new pupils with a few brief words. She then went up to Miss Lucy and asked her, as soon as prayers were over, to question both Audrey and Evelyn with regard to their attainments, and to put them into suitable classes.

The Misses Wynford sat side by side during prayers, and immediately afterwards were taken into Miss Lucy’s private sitting-room. Here a very vigorous examination ensued, with the result that Audrey was promoted to take her place with the head girls, and Evelyn was conducted to the Fourth Form. Her companions received her with smiling eyes and beaming looks. She felt rather cross, however; and was even more so when the English teacher, Miss Thompson, set her some work to do. Evelyn was extremely backward with regard to her general education. But Miss Sinclair had such marvelous tact, that, while she instructed the little girl and gave her lessons which were calculated to bring out her best abilities, she never let her feel her real ignorance. At school, however, all this state of things was reversed. Audrey, calm and dignified, took a high position in the school; and Evelyn was simply, in her own opinion, nowhere. A sulky expression clouded her face. She thought of Jasper’s words, and determined that no one should break her spirit.

“You will read over the reign of Edward I., and I will question you about it when morning school is over,” said Miss Thompson in a pleasant tone. “After recreation I will give you your lessons to prepare for to-morrow. Now, please attend to your book. You will be able to take your proper place in class to-morrow.”

Miss Thompson as she spoke handed a History of England to the little girl. The History was dry, and the reign, in Evelyn’s opinion, not worth reading. She glanced at it, then turned the book, open as it was, upside down on her desk, rested her elbows on it, and looked calmly around her.

“Take up your book, Miss Wynford, and read it,” said Miss Thompson.

Evelyn smiled quietly.

“I know all about the reign,” she said. “I need not read the history any more.”

The other girls smiled. Miss Thompson thought it best to take no notice. The work of the school proceeded; and at last, when recess came, the English teacher called the little girl to her.

“Now I must question you,” she said. “You say you know the reign of Edward I. Let me hear what you do know. Stand in front of me, please; put your hands behind your back. So.”

“I prefer to keep my hands where they are,” said Evelyn.

“Do what I say. Stand upright. Now then!”

Miss Thompson began catechizing. Evelyn’s crass ignorance instantly appeared. She knew nothing whatever of that special period of English history; indeed, at that time her knowledge of any history was practically nil.

“I am sorry you told me what was not true with regard to the reign of Edward I.,” said the governess. “In this school we are very strict and particular. I will say nothing further on the matter to-day; but you will stay here and read over the history during recess.”

“What!” cried Evelyn, her face turning white. “Am I not to have my recreation?”

“Recess only lasts for twenty minutes; you will have to do without your amusement in the playground this morning. To-morrow I hope you will have got through your lessons well and be privileged to enjoy your pastime with the other pupils.”

“Do you know who I am?” began Evelyn.

“Yes – perfectly. You are little Evelyn Wynford. Now be a good girl, Evelyn, and attend to your work.”

Miss Thompson left the room. Evelyn found herself alone. A wild fury consumed her. She jumped up.

“Does she think for a single moment that I am going to obey her?” thought the naughty child. “Oh, if only Jasper were here! Oh Jasper! you were right; they are trying to break me in, but they won’t succeed.”

A book which the governess had laid upon a table near attracted the little girl’s attention. It was not an ordinary lesson-book, but a very beautiful copy of Ruskin’s Sesame and Lilies. Evelyn took up the book, opened it, and read the following words on the title-page:

“To dear Agnes, from her affectionate brother Walter. Christmas Day, 1896.”

Quick as thought the angry child tore out the title-page and two or three other pages at the beginning, scattered them into little bits, and then, going up to the fire which burned at one end of the long room, flung the scattered fragments into the blaze. She had no sooner done so than a curious sense of dismay stole over her. She shut up the book hastily, and being really alarmed, began to look over her English history. Miss Thompson came back just before recess was over, picked up Evelyn’s book, asked her one or two questions, and gave her an approving nod.

“That is better,” she said. “You have done as much as I could expect in the time. Now then, come here, please. These are your English lessons for to-morrow.”

Evelyn walked quite meekly across the room. Miss Thompson set her several lessons in the ordinary English subjects.

“And now,” she said, “you are to go to mademoiselle. She is waiting to find out what French you know, and to give you your lesson for to-morrow.”

The rest of the school hours passed quickly. Evelyn was given what she considered a disgraceful amount of work to do; but a dull fear sat at her heart, and she felt a sense of regret at having torn the pages out of the volume of Ruskin. Immediately after morning school the girls went for a short walk, then dinner was announced, and after dinner there was a brief period of freedom. Evelyn, Audrey, and the rest all found themselves walking in the grounds. Brenda Fox immediately went up to Audrey, and introduced her to a few of the nicest girls in the head form, and they all began to pace slowly up and down. Evelyn stood just for an instant forlorn; then she dashed into the midst of a circle of little girls who were playing noisily together.

“Stop!” she said. “Look at me, all of you.”

The children stopped playing, and looked in wonder at Evelyn.

“I am Evelyn Wynford. Who is going to be my friend? I shall only take up with the one I really like. I am not afraid of any of you. I have come to school to find out if I like it; if I don’t like it I shall not stay. You had best, all of you, know what sort I am. It was very mean and horrid to put me into the Fourth Form with a number of ignorant little babies; but as I am there, I suppose I shall have to stay for a week or so.”

“You were put into the Fourth Form,” said little Sophie Jenner, “because, I suppose, you did not know enough to be put into the Fifth Form.”

“You are a cheeky little thing,” said Evelyn, “and I am not going to trouble myself to reply to you. – Well, now, who is going to be my friend? I can tell you all numbers of stories; I have heaps of pocket-money, and I can bring chocolate-creams and ginger-pop and all sorts of good things to the school.”

These last remarks were decidedly calculated to ensure Evelyn’s popularity. Two or three of the girls ran up to her, and she was soon marching up and down the playground relating some of her grievances, and informing them, one and all, of the high position which lay before her.

“You are all very much impressed with Audrey, I can see, but she is really nobody,” cried Eve. “By and by Wynford Castle will be mine, and won’t you like to say you knew me when I am mistress of the Castle – won’t you just! I do not at all know that I shall stay long at school, but you had better make it pleasant for me.”

Some of the girls were much impressed, and a few of them swore eternal fealty to Evelyn. One or two began to flatter her, and on the whole the little girl considered that she had a fairly good time during play-hour. When she got back to her work she was relieved to see that Ruskin’s Sesame and Lilies no longer lay in its place on the small table where Miss Thompson had left it.

“She will not open it, perhaps, for years,” thought Evelyn. “I need not worry any more about that. And if she did like the book I am glad I tore it. Horrid, horrid thing!”

Lessons went on, and by and by Audrey and Evelyn’s first day at school came to an end. The governess-cart came to fetch them, and they drove off under the admiring gaze of several of their fellow-pupils.

“Well, Evelyn, and how did you like school?” said Audrey when the two were alone together.

“You could not expect me to like it very much,” replied Evelyn. “I was put into such a horrid low class. I am angry with Miss Thompson.”

“Miss Thompson! That nice, intelligent girl?”

“Not much of a girl about her!” said Evelyn. “Why, she is quite old.”

“Do you think so? She struck me as young, pretty, and very nice.”

“It is all very well for you, Audrey; you are so tame. I really believe you never think a bad thought of anybody.”

“I try not to, of course,” replied Audrey. “Do you imagine it is a fine trait in one’s character to think bad thoughts of people?”

“Mothery always said that if you did not dislike people, you were made of cotton-wool,” replied Evelyn.

“Then you really do dislike people?”

“Oh! some I dislike awfully. Now, there is one at the Castle – but there! I won’t say any more about her; and there is one at school whom I hate. It is that horrid Thompson woman. And she had the cheek to call me Evelyn.”

“Of course she calls you Evelyn; you are her pupil.”

“Well, I think it is awful cheek, all the same. I hate her, and – oh, Audrey, such fun – such fun! I have revenged myself on her; I really have.”

“Oh Evelyn! don’t get into mischief, I beseech of you.”

“I sha’n’t say any more, but I do believe that I have revenged myself. Oh, such fun – such fun!”

Evelyn laughed several times during the rest of her drive home, and arrived at the Castle in high spirits. The girls were to dine with Lady Frances and the Squire that evening, as they happened to be alone; and the Squire was quite interested in the account which Evelyn gave him of her class.

“The only reason why I could read the dull, dull life of Edward I.,” she said, “is because Edward is your name, Uncle Ned, and because I love you so much.”

“On the whole, my dear,” said the Squire later on to his wife, “the school experiment seems to work well. Little Evelyn was in high spirits to-night.”

“You think of no one but Evelyn!” said Lady Frances. “What about Audrey?”

“I am not afraid about Audrey; you have trained her, and she is by nature most amiable,” said the Squire.

“I am glad you paid me a compliment, my dear,” answered his wife. “Audrey certainly does credit to my training. But I trust Miss Henderson will break that naughty girl in; she certainly needs it.”

The next morning the girls went back to school; and Evelyn, who had quite forgotten what she had done to the book, and who had provided herself secretly with a great packet of delicious sweetmeats which she intended to distribute amongst her favorites, was still in high spirits.

School began, the girls went to their different classes, Evelyn stumbled badly through her lessons, and at last the hour of recess came. The girls were all preparing to leave the schoolroom when Miss Thompson asked them to wait a moment.

“Something most painful has occurred,” she said, “and I trust whichever girl has done the mischief will at once confess it.”

Evelyn’s face did not change color. A curious, numb feeling got round her heart; then an obstinate spirit took possession of her.

“Not for worlds will I tell,” she thought. “Of course Miss Thompson is alluding to the book.”

Yes, Miss Thompson was. She held the beautifully bound copy of Ruskin in her hand, opened it where the title-page used to be, and with tears in her eyes looked at the girls.

“Some one has torn four pages out of the beginning of this book,” she said. “I left it here by mistake yesterday. I took it up this morning to continue a lecture which I was preparing for the afternoon, and found what terrible mischief had been done. I trust whoever has done this will at least have the honor to confess her wrong-doing.”

Silence and expressions of intense dismay were seen on all the young faces.

“If it were my own book I should not mind so much,” said the governess; “but it happens to belong to Miss Henderson, and was given to her by her favorite brother, who died two months afterwards. I had some difficulty in getting her to allow me to use it for this lecture. Nothing can replace to her the loss of the inscription written in her brother’s own hand. The only possible chance for the guilty person is to tell all at once. But, oh! who could have been so cruel?”

Still the girls were silent, although tears had risen to many of their eyes. Miss Thompson could hear the words “Oh, what a shame!” coming from more than one pair of lips.

She waited for an instant, and then said:

“I must put a question to each and all of you. I had hoped the guilty person would confess; but as it is, I am obliged to ask who has done this mischief.”

She then began to question one girl after another in the class. There were twelve in all in this special class, and each as her turn came replied in the negative. Certainly she had not done the mischief; certainly she had not torn the book. Evelyn’s turn came last. She replied quietly:

“I have not done it. I have not seen the book, and I have not torn out the inscription.”

No one had any reason to doubt her words; and Miss Thompson, looking very sorrowful, paused for a minute and then said:

“I have asked each of you, and you have all denied it. I must now question every one else in the school. When I have done all that I can I shall have to submit the matter to Miss Henderson, but I did not want to grieve her with the news of this terrible loss until I could at least assure her that the girl who had done the mischief had repented.”

Still there was silence, and Miss Thompson left the schoolroom. The moment she did so the buzz of eager voices began, and during the recess that followed nothing was talked of in the Fourth Form but the loss which poor Miss Henderson had sustained.

“Poor dear!” said Sophie Jenner; “and she did love her brother so much! His name was Walter; he was very handsome. He came once to the school when first it was started. My sister Rose was here then, and she said how kind he was, and how he asked for a holiday for the girls; and Miss Henderson and Miss Lucy were quite wrapped up in him. Oh, who could have been so cruel?”

“I never heard of such a fuss about a trifle before,” here came from Evelyn’s lips. “Why, it is only a book when all is said and done.”

“Don’t you understand?” said Sophie, looking at her in some astonishment. “It is not a common book; it is one given to Miss Henderson by the brother she loved. He is dead now; he can never give her any other book. That was the very last present he ever made her.”

“Have some lollipops, and try to think of cheerful things,” said Evelyn; but Sophie turned almost petulantly away.

“Do you know,” Sophie said to her special friend, Cherry Wynne, “I don’t think I like Evelyn. How funnily she spoke! I wonder, Cherry, if she had anything to do with the book?”

“Of course not,” answered Cherry. “She would not have dared to utter such a lie. Poor Miss Henderson! How sorry I am for her!”

CHAPTER XVI. – SYLVIA’S DRIVE

“I have something very delightful to tell you, Sylvia,” said her father.

He was standing in his cold and desolate sitting-room. The fire was burning low in the grate. Sylvia shivered slightly, and bending down, took up a pair of tongs to put some more coals on the expiring fire.

“No, no, my dear – don’t,” said her father. “There is nothing more disagreeable than a person who always needs coddling. The night is quite hot for the time of year. Do you know, Sylvia, that I made during the last week a distinct saving. I allowed you, as I always do, ten shillings for the household expenses. You managed capitally on eight shillings. We really lived like fighting-cocks; and what is nicest of all, my dear daughter, you look the better in consequence.”

Sylvia did not speak.

“I notice, too,” continued Mr. Leeson, a still more satisfied smile playing round his lips, “that you eat less than you did before. Last night I was pleased to observe how truly abstemious you were at supper.”

“Father,” said Sylvia suddenly, “you eat less and less; how can you keep up your strength at this rate? Cannot you see, clever man that you are, that you need food and warmth to keep you alive?”

“It depends absolutely,” replied Mr. Leeson, “on how we accustom ourselves to certain habits. Habits, my dear daughter, are the chains which link us to life, and we forge them ourselves. With good habits we lead good lives. With pernicious habits we sink: the chains of those habits are too thick, too rusty, too heavy; we cannot soar. I am glad to see that you, my dear little girl, are no longer the victim of habits of greediness and desire for unnecessary luxuries.”

“Well, father, dinner is ready now. Won’t you come and eat it?”

“Always harping on food,” said Mr. Leeson. “It is really sad.”

“You must come and eat while the things are hot,” answered Sylvia.

Mr. Leeson followed his daughter. He was, notwithstanding all his words to the contrary, slightly hungry that morning; the intense cold – although he spoke of the heat – made him so. He sat down, therefore, and removed the cover from a dish on which reposed a tiny chop.

“Ah,” he said, “how tempting it looks! We will divide it, dear. I will take the bone; far be it from me to wish to starve you, my sweet child.”

He took up his knife to cut the chop. As he did so Sylvia’s face turned white.

“No, thank you,” she said. “It really so happens that I don’t want it. Please eat it all. And see,” she continued, with a little pride, lifting the cover of a dish which stood in front of her own plate; “I have been teaching myself to cook; you cannot blame me for making the best of my materials. How nice these fried potatoes look! Have some, won’t you, father?”

“You must have used something to fry them in,” said Mr. Leeson, an angry frown on his face. “Well, well,” he added, mollified by the delicious smell, which could not but gratify his hungry feelings – “all right; I will take a few.”

Sylvia piled his plate. She played with a few potatoes herself, and Mr. Leeson ate in satisfied silence.

“Really they are nice,” he said. “I have enjoyed my dinner. I do not know when I made such a luxurious meal. I shall not need any supper to-night.”

“But I shall,” said Sylvia stoutly. “There will be supper at nine o’clock as usual, and I hope you will be present, father.”

“Well, my dear, have something very plain. I am absolutely satisfied for twenty-four hours. And you, darling – did you make a good meal?”

“Yes, thank you, father.”

“There were a great many potatoes cooked. I see they are all finished.”

“Yes, father.”

“I am now going back to my sitting-room. I shall be engaged for some hours. What are you going to do, Sylvia?”

“I shall go out presently for a walk.”

“Is it not rather dangerous for you to wander about in such deep snow?”

“Oh, I like it, father; I enjoy it. I could not possibly stay at home.”

“Very well, my dear child. You are a good girl. But, Sylvia dear, it strikes me that we had better not have any more frying done; it must consume a great quantity of fuel. Now, that chop might have been boiled in a small saucepan, and it really would have been quite as nutritious. And, my dear, there would have been the broth – the liquor, I mean – that it had been boiled in; it would have made an excellent soup with rice in it. I have been lately compiling some recipes for living what is called the unluxurious life. When I have completed my little recipes I will hand them down to posterity. I shall publish them. I quite imagine that they will have a large sale, and may bring me in some trifling returns – eh, Sylvia?”

Sylvia made no answer.

“My dear,” said her father suddenly, “I have noticed of late that you are a little extravagant in the amount of coals you use. It is your only extravagance, my dear child, so I will not say much about it.”

“But, father, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

“There is smoke —smoke issuing from the kitchen chimney at times when there ought to be none,” said Mr. Leeson in a severe voice. “But there, dear, I won’t keep you now. I expect to have a busy afternoon. I am feeling so nicely after our simple little lunch, my dear daughter.”

Mr. Leeson touched Sylvia’s smooth cheek with his lips, went into the sitting-room, and shut the door.

“The fire must be quite out by now,” she said to herself. “Poor, poor father! Oh dear! oh dear! if he discovers that Jasper is here I shall be done for. Now that I know the difference which Jasper’s presence makes, I really could not live without her.”

She listened for a moment, noticed that all was still in the big sitting-room (as likely as not her father had dropped asleep), and then, turning to her left, went quickly away in the direction of the kitchen. When she entered the kitchen she locked the door. There was a clear and almost smokeless fire in the range, and drawn up close to it was a table covered with a white cloth; on the table were preparations for a meal.

“Well, Sylvia,” said Jasper, “and how did he enjoy his chop? How much of it did he give to you, my dear?”

“Oh, none at all, Jasper. I pretended I was not hungry. It was such a pleasure to see him eat it!”

“And what about the fried potatoes, love?”

“He ate them too with such an appetite – I just took a few to satisfy him. Do you know, Jasper, he says that he thinks an abstemious life agrees with me. He says that I am looking very well, and that he is quite sure no one needs big fires and plenty of food in cold weather – it is simply and entirely a matter of habit.”

“Oh! don’t talk to me of him any more,” said Jasper. “He is the sort of man to give me the dismals. I cannot tell you how often I dream of him at night. You are a great deal too good to him, Sylvia, and that is the truth. But here – here is our dinner, you poor frozen lamb. Eat now and satisfy yourself.”

Sylvia sat down and ate with considerable appetite the good and nourishing food which Jasper had provided. As she did so her bright, clear, dark eyes grew brighter than ever, and her young cheeks became full of the lovely color of the damask rose. She pushed her hair from her forehead, and looked thoughtfully into the fire.

“You feel better, dear, don’t you?” asked Jasper.

“Better!” said the young girl. “I feel alive. I wonder, Jasper, how long it will last.”

“Why should it not go on for some time, dear? I have money – enough, that is, for the present.”

“But you are spending your money on me.”

“Not at all. You are keeping me and feeding me. I give you twenty shillings a week, and out of that you feed me as well as yourself.”

“Oh, that twenty shillings!” cried Sylvia. “What riches it seems! The first week I got it I really felt that I should never, never be able to come to the end of it. I quite trembled when I was in father’s presence. I dreaded that he might see the money lying in my pocket. It seemed impossible that he, who loves money so much, would not notice it; but he did not, and now I am almost accustomed to it. Oh Jasper, you have saved my life!”

“It is well to have lived for some good purpose,” said Jasper in a guarded tone. She looked at the young girl, and a quick sigh came to her lips.

“Do you know,” she said abruptly, “that I mean to do more than feed you and warm you?”

“But what more could you do?”

“Why, clothe you, love – clothe you.”

“No, Jasper; you must not.”

“But I must and will,” said Jasper. “I have smuggled in all my belongings, and the dear old gentleman does not know a single bit about it. Bless you! notwithstanding that Pilot of his, and the way he himself sneaks about and watches – notwithstanding all these things, I, Amelia Jasper, am a match for him. Yes, my dear, my belongings are in this house, and one of the trunks contains little Evelyn’s clothes – the clothes she is not allowed to wear. I mean to alter them, and add to them, and rearrange them, and make them fit for you, my bonny girl.”

“It is a temptation,” said Sylvia; “but, Jasper dear, I dare not allow you to do it. If I were to appear in anything but the very plainest clothes father would discover there was something up; he would get into a state of terror, and my life would not be worth living. When mother was alive she sometimes tried to dress me as I ought to be dressed, and I remember now a terrible scene and mother’s tears. There was an occasion when mother gave me a little crimson velvet frock, and I ran into the dining-room to father. I was quite small then, and the frock suited me, and mother was, oh, so proud! But half an hour later I was in my room, drowned in tears, and ordered to bed immediately, and the frock had been torn off my back by father himself.”

“The man is a maniac,” said Jasper. “Don’t let us talk of him. You can dress fine when you are with me. I mean to have a gay time; I don’t mean to let the grass grow under my feet. What do you say to my smuggling in little Eve some day and letting her have a right jolly time with us two in this old kitchen?”

“But father will certainly, certainly discover it.”

“No; I can manage that. The kitchen is far away from the rest of the house, and with this new sort of coal there is scarcely any smoke. At night – at any rate on dark nights – he cannot see even if there is smoke; and in the daytime I burn this special coal. Oh, we are safe enough, my dear; you need have no fear.”

Sylvia talked a little longer with Jasper, and then she ran to her own room to put on her very threadbare garments preparatory to going out. Yes, she certainly felt much, much better. The air was keen and crisp; she was no longer hungry – that gnawing pain in her side had absolutely ceased; she was warm, too, and she longed for exercise. A moment or two later, accompanied by Pilot, she was racing along the snow-covered roads. The splendid color in her cheeks could not but draw the attention of any chance passer-by.

“What a handsome – what a very handsome girl!” more than one person said; and it so happened that as Sylvia was flying round a corner, her great mastiff gamboling in front of her, she came face to face with Lady Frances, who was driving to make some calls in the neighborhood.

Lady Frances Wynford was never proof against a pretty face, and she had seldom seen a more lovely vision than those dark eyes and glowing cheeks presented at that moment. She desired her coachman to stop, and bending forward, greeted Sylvia in quite an affectionate way.

“How do you do, Miss Leeson?” she said. “You never came to see me after I invited you to do so. I meant to call on your mother, but you did not greet my proposal with enthusiasm. How is she, by the way?”

“Mother is dead,” replied Sylvia in a low tone. The rich color faded slowly from her cheeks, but she would not cry. She looked full up at Lady Frances.

“Poor child!” said that lady kindly; “you must miss her. How old are you, Miss Leeson?”

“I am just sixteen,” was the reply.

“Would you like to come for a drive with me?”

“May I?” said the girl in an almost incredulous voice.

“You certainly may; I should like to have you. – Johnson, get down and open the carriage door for Miss Leeson. – But, oh, my dear, what is to be done with the dog?”