“Well, I’m blessed, Mrs. Morris, if there isn’t a strange young man in the library, and the old lady a-holding forth to him like one o’clock, and he signs me out of the room as cool as you please!” “What is he like?” inquired a chorus of maid-servants. “Oh, he’s a tall dark swell, that looks as if the whole place belonged to him.” “And so it does,” said Cox, his man, coming in and banging down his dressing-case. “If he is not master here, I’d like to know who is?” “Lor’, Mr. Cox, what a start you have give us! And is it really Sir Reginald himself?” cried Mrs. Morris, rising. “You can use your eyes, Mrs. Morris; there he goes down the steps.” An immediate rush was made to the window to catch a glimpse. Yes, sure enough there he was, walking towards the pleasure-grounds with Miss Saville. “Thank God, he looks well and strong!” said Mrs. Morris with fervour, following his retreating figure with tears in her eyes. “My! what a handsome gentleman!” exclaimed an enthusiastic housemaid. “If _he_ does not suit her she _is_ hard to please, isn’t she, Polly?” “Brown, please to remember yourself,” said Mrs. Morris sharply. “Not but that,” she added, relaxing, “all the Fairfaxes are good-looking. Many a time I carried him in my arms, the same as I do Master Maurice. Ay, it seems but the other day.” “I little thought you would ever see him again alive, ma’am; it was touch and go with him once, I can tell you,” observed Cox gravely. “I must go now and see about dinner,” seizing her keys and bustling about, “but you will tell me all about it when you dine with me by-and-by, Mr. Cox,” said Mrs. Morris, as, followed by the footman and housemaid, she hurried from the room. CHAPTER VII. “MARY, IT IS MY HUSBAND!” Alice and Mary were to be found under the cedars, a very favourite resort of theirs those August evenings. A round wicker table stood between them, upon which were all the requirements of afternoon tea. Alice, leaning back in a low garden-chair, was reading to Mary, who was knitting, “A Princess of Thule.” How pretty she looked! The sun, glancing through the sombre branches, fell in stray flecks on her hair and dress--a white cambric trimmed with quantities of lace and knots of pale-blue ribbon. She was twirling a carnation in her fingers as she read. But there was a grave melancholy expression in her downcast face, sad to see in one so young. Coming to the end of a chapter, she paused and exclaimed, looking up: “Well, I must confess, the Princess of Thule ran away from her husband on very small provocation. Don’t you think so, Molly?” Molly, instead of replying, said, as she gazed intently over Alice’s head: “Why, who is this young man coming over here with Miss Saville?” “Young man?” echoed Alice indifferently, and without turning her head; “oh, it must be the postmaster. Auntie promised him a quantity of geranium and carnation cuttings.”