A SIMPLE BIT OF CHARITY. It was the morning after Mr. Bradstone’s elaborate picnic, and the clock was striking twelve as Olivia, with her hat and jacket on, knocked at the door of the squire’s den, as the room in which he kept his guns and fishing-rods, and in which he transacted his business as justice of the peace, was called. She knocked twice, then, having received no answer, opened the door and entered. To her surprise she saw her father seated in his well-worn leather chair, bending over the table, his head leaning on his hand. Before him was a goodly--or evil--array of papers, and his face, as he raised it, wore that anxious and troubled expression which Olivia had seen upon it so often of late. “I beg your pardon, papa,” she said. “I did not want to disturb you, but I knocked twice, and, thinking you were out, ventured in. I want a book for Bessie.” The squire was an inveterate novel reader, and there was always a goodly stock of popular fiction lying about the den. “A novel. Yes, my dear,” and he made an attempt at rising; but Olivia went to him quickly and put her hand upon his shoulder. “No, you shan’t trouble, dear. I can find it. You are busy, I can see.” “Busy?” he said, in a dull way. “Oh, yes, I am, rather,” and he sighed. “Is it anything very troublesome, anything I can help you with?” she inquired, as she turned over the pile of yellow-covered volumes. “I can sometimes, you know.” He shook his head with a mirthless smile. “I am afraid not, my dear,” he said, cheerlessly. “This is a matter which----” He stopped and gazed at her with a sad, vacant expression. “Have you found a book for Bessie? By the way, speaking of her reminds me. I called upon that strange Mr. Faradeane this morning.” Olivia bent over the heap of dusty books, and, after a moment’s silence, said: “Yes, papa; I am glad of that.” “Are you? Why? Well, there’s not much to be glad of, for he was not at home.” “He was out riding, perhaps,” she said, with the faintest tinge of disappointment in her voice. “No, he was in,” said the squire, dryly. “He was in the house, for I saw him at the window as I went up the path.” Olivia looked round thoughtfully. “You saw him----” “At the window. Yes; and he told his servant to say that he was not at home. I must say I was much annoyed. I am not used to rebuffs of that kind, especially from strangers. I was so irritated that I felt inclined to tell the man that I had seen his master, but I thought better of it, and left a card. I think this young fellow is acting in a very extraordinary fashion.” Olivia seemed to ponder for a moment. “Why, dear?” she asked, in a low voice.