“Why?” repeated the squire, with the nearest approach to impatience he ever permitted himself toward his darling. “Well, first by buying The Dell in the strange way he did, and then shunning all intercourse with his neighbors in the mysterious fashion he adopts. I hate mysteries! In my opinion, there is always something shady and shameful at the bottom of them.” “Mr. Faradeane does not look as if he had anything to be ashamed of,” she said, in the same low, thoughtful voice. “No,” assented the squire, impatiently; “that is what puzzles me. I never saw a more gentleman-like man, or one with a more prepossessing face. But his manners and conduct----” He pulled up. “However,” he continued, “if he prefers to live a secluded and isolated life, why that is his business, not mine. I shall not call again, of course.” “No,” said Olivia; “yet Bertie likes him.” “Likes him? How do you know that? Oh, because he spoke up for him yesterday. I don’t know why you should say that he ‘likes’ him.” “I watched Bertie’s face,” said Olivia, quietly. The squire knitted his brows. “It was very unfortunate, his turning up as he did yesterday. And those gypsies, too. It was very annoying for Mr. Bradstone. Did you enjoy the picnic, Olivia?” “Yes,” she replied, indifferently, and turned to the books again. “It was an admirable luncheon.” he said, watching her, with the deep lines graving themselves in his forehead; “admirable. Mr. Bradstone must have spared no expense or trouble. He did his very best to make it a success.” “Oh, yes,” she assented, coldly; “I think it was a success. Annie and Mary enjoyed themselves.” “Yes,” he said, leaning his head on his hand, and watching her with the same troubled, anxious, wistful gaze. “Yes. Was he very attentive to them? I didn’t notice. It would be a very good match for one of them. He is a very rich man, Olivia.” “Is he?” she said, with supreme indifference. “I think this will do for Bessie; I remember reading it. It is full of incident, and yet the characters talk naturally----” “Bartley Bradstone is very rich,” said the squire, ignoring her criticism of the novel. “He would be a good match for most girls. If he were in London he would be snapped up at once.” “I dare say,” said Olivia, turning the leaves of the book carelessly. “Yes,” said the squire, thoughtfully, “money is everything nowadays. It is all that any one thinks of, and Bartley Bradstone has it in abundance.” “Is it all any one thinks of?” said Olivia. “We don’t think of it much, dear; but I suppose that’s because we have enough of it,” and she smiled with blissful serenity. The squire shifted in his seat and smiled, but, oh, how uneasily! “Yes, yes, I dare say,” he said, “and Bradstone is a good fellow in spite of his money.” “Yes?” said Olivia. “I think I will go now, papa; Bessie will be waiting for me,” and, with a nod and a loving smile, she left the room.