"Oh, I don't mean like that, Aunt, dear, for she is always gentle and kind and respectful too." "No, my dear, no," cried Aunt Anne emphatically, "not to me. There, never mind that now, for I've something else to say. Did you see Sir Cheltnam down the garden?" "Sir Cheltnam!" cried Isabel, changing colour. "Is he here?" "Yes, my dear, and I told him you were down the garden." "Aunt! Oh, you should not have told him that. Is he there now?" "I presume that he is, and really my dear child, I see no reason why you should be so disturbed. Of course a little maidenly diffidence is nice and becoming and--good gracious! child, don't run away like that." But Isabel had reached the door and darted out, for, through the window came the faint _crunch, crunch_, of manly steps upon the gravel. For, naturally enough, Sir Cheltnam's quest had been in vain, as far as Isabel was concerned, but after looking about the lawn he had caught sight of someone seated beneath the drooping ash at one corner, and in the hope that it was she whom he sought, he had walked silently across the velvet grass to find that the heavy leafy screen was deceptive and that it was Alison leaning back in a garden-chair. "Oh, it's you," he said, as he pulled aside the pendent boughs. "Yes. Who did you think it was?" replied Alison surlily. "Your sister. Is she always going to play hide-and-seek with me like this?" "Like what? How should I know?" "Look here, young fellow," cried Sir Cheltnam; "what's come to you these last three weeks?" "Nothing." "Bah! I'm not blind. There's something the matter. It isn't filial affection and grief, because the old man's getting better. It isn't love, because the fair Dana is pining for you on horseback somewhere. There is only one other grief can befall a hale, hearty young man; so it's money." "Nonsense!" "Must be, and if so, my dear boy, come in a brotherly way to me for help, and it is yours, either with a check of my own or somebody else's in the city." "It isn't money," said Alison shortly. "I've as much as I want." "My dear Alison Elthorne," cried Sir Cheltnam, grasping his hand, "that will do. You must stop now. You can go no farther. A young man of your years, appearance, and pursuits who can say that he has as much money as he wants, is a paragon, a _rara avis in terris_, a perfect model." "Don't fool." "I am not fooling, but speaking in sober earnest. My dear boy, you must be photographed, painted, modelled, sculptured, and, hang it all, my dear Alison, you will have to be put in Madame Tussaud's." "Then it will be in the Chamber of Horrors for killing you," said Alison fiercely. "I'm not in a humour to be played with, so leave off." "Then if it is not money, it's love," said Sir Cheltnam. "I've done, my dear boy; but tell me where your sister is." "I don't know."