"It strikes me, from all accounts, that you like his sister a great deal more," cried Sophie. "Why, Eusty, you disgraceful boy, you know you flirted outrageously with her all the afternoon." "Bosh! What next?" he protested, growing very red. "You girls think a fellow can't speak to another girl without--er--without--. Besides you weren't there, and you should never take hearsay evidence, Sophonisba, my jewel." "Never mind her, Eusty," struck in Olive, who had recovered her spirits simultaneously with the return of her brother full of the doings at the Pagnells'. "Never mind her--Nellie Dorrien's a dear, sweet girl, and you might do worse." "What do you think of that, dad? Just listen to them, how they badger a fellow." "No--no--I won't come to your rescue," cried the rector, with a hearty laugh. "You must fight them single-handed. What's the good of going to Oxford if it doesn't teach you to take care of yourself, and against a pack of women, too?" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE DIE IS CAST. "Rather perfect? I should just think it was," cries Olive, gazing around. "Confess now, you hardened cynic, that in all your wanderings you never saw anything so perfectly lovely as this." "I'll own up readily enough. I never did," is her companion's reply. "But--you are not looking at it," turning to find that his glance has been fixed upon herself while he spoke, and colouring softly at the discovery. "Oh, yes, I am. I repeat, I never saw anything so perfectly lovely as this. What a distrustful little article it is, to require so much reassuring!" and his hand, which has been toying with her small fingers, closes upon them with a fond pressure, as looking straight into her eyes he repeats her words. From their heathery resting-place on the summit of Minchkil Beacon, they gaze idly upon the glories of the panorama unfolded beneath and around. The great slopes of the downs are gorgeous with flaming gorse and crimson heather. A rich summer haze lying over the landscape adds distance to meadow and woodland, alternating in many an undulating roll--the latter just perceptibly assuming its first autumnal tints; and cosy homesteads, nestling among their sheltering trees, look doubly snug and prosperous as contrasted with their counterparts of the upland farms, whose corn-ricks and a few stunted firs form the only shade. Villages, too, and tiny hamlets, dropped about, as it were. Frondesham, beyond the lofty steeple of Wandsborough Church, which latter rises above that long, grassy ridge as if refusing to be hidden, and on the further side of the valley, the hamlets of Cranston and Ardleigh; the mile and a half of straight, dusty road connecting them looking like a mere streak of whitewash--and, higher up, Cranston Hall, half hidden in its noble park.