"Mr. Beckett Mitchelson is really coming home to Rathlands. You know all about him, of course. He is the largest landowner hereabouts, and his three years' absence has been greatly felt. It has seemed a shame for a place like Rathlands Park to be shut up, but, all things considered, who could wonder? He had been only six months married, and was out riding with his wife—a lovely creature, not unlike Miss Elsie—when her horse took fright. Mrs. Mitchelson was thrown, pitched on her head, and, though not killed on the spot, she never spoke again. I shall never forget that day. The affair cast a gloom over all Rathbury, and the poor husband was nearly wild with grief. He went away as soon as possible, and has not been near the place since." "Even the most devoted husband cannot grieve for ever, and three years is a good while. Now Mr. Mitchelson is coming back, and bringing a party of friends with him. Let us hope he may find another fair bride to comfort him. I was just thinking what a chance it would be for one of your charming girls. Only—" and here Miss Chatterton became confidential and particularly distinct—"you must mind that handsome Mr. Gilmour does not steal a march on you. You must wish such charming and accomplished girls to settle well. And really it would be a sad mistake if—" Mrs. Manning could listen no longer. In her own inmost heart she might be ambitious and build castles for her children to inhabit, but to hear such allusions as these was more than she could endure. "Excuse me, Miss Chatterton," she said, with heightening colour, "I would rather that you would leave my daughters out of any speculations you may enter into respecting Mr. Mitchelson's future. As to Mr. Gilmour, I can only say that he comes here as my brother-in-law's guest and friend." "Everybody's friend, I should think, and a most estimable young man. Please do not suppose I wish to underrate Mr. Gilmour. Dear me! I had no idea my call had been such a long one, but time passes so quickly in pleasant society, and between neighbours ceremonious visits are not half so enjoyable as these informal ones, when we do not feel compelled to count minutes." Then Miss Chatterton bustled away, and Mrs. Manning, self-reproached, because her visitor's talk had touched a jarring chord, and angry that this local gossip should dare to speak about her daughter's chances, hastened to her room to seek relief and comfort in the only sure way. The "little talk" had been far from satisfactory, and the mother doubted whether it would not have been better to say nothing, and let matters take their course without interference from her. Yes. There was one good thing connected with that conversation—Elsie's appeal, "Trust me, dear; you shall owe no sorrow to me."