dining-room at Brooklands. Emily Murray had been a pretty child; had become a beautiful girl. There was no doubt about her; one look into those honest brown eyes would have convinced you that she was thorough. A plump rosy-rounded bud of woman; a thoroughly English girl, void of affectation, conceit, and trickery; clean, clear, honest, wholesome, and loving. As she talked to James Prescott of the old days at Havering, she spoke out freely, referring to bygone gambols and fun with frank laughter and many a humorous reminiscence; and when she suggested his joining their riding-party the next day, she looked him straight in the face without the smallest shadow of entanglement or guile. To her own brother her manner had not been different, Prescott thought, as, after they had parted, he recalled every word, every glance; and he wished for a moment that there had been something different in it, a trifle more tenderness, a hand-pressure, a sly upward glance, or--and then he flung such nonsense behind him, and was delighted to remember the warmth of her recognition, the cheeriness of her chat. She was nothing to him, of course; his doom was fixed; he had loved, and--and yet how pretty she was! how perfectly gloved! how charmingly dressed! what a pleasure it was to feel that you were talking to a lady! to know that no slanginess would offend the eye, no questionable _argot_ grate upon the ear; to feel that--and then Mr. Prescott remembered how the idol of his soul had called him "Jim," ay, and "old buffer;" how she had smoked cigars, and used maledictions towards refractory animals; how there had been all kinds of odd discussions about all kinds of odd people before her; and how he had seen men take wine without stint, and smoke cigars in her face, and wear their bats before her, without the smallest self-restraint. And, smoking a final pipe before turning into bed, Mr. Prescott pondered on these things long and earnestly. Mr. Prescott found a warm welcome awaiting him. Mrs. Wilmslow had been impressed with his manners and appearance, and old Mr. Murray had a yearning for the friend of his youth, and longed to receive that friend's son with open arms. A hale pleasant gentleman, Mr. Murray, with that wonderful cleanliness which is never seen out of England, with polished bald head fringed with iron-gray hair, ruddy complexion, keen little blue eyes, and brilliant teeth. He wore a slipper on his right foot, but hobbled forward, nevertheless, and gave the young man a hearty shake of the hand.