The first of June was very bright and warm. The summer had set in with great ardour and vehemence, not with the vacillation common to English summers. There had been no rain for a long time, and the whole world began to cry out for the want of it. A long continuance of fair weather, though it fills an Englishman with delight out of his own country, is very embarrassing to him at home. He gets troubled in his mind about the crops, about the grass, about the cattle, and tells everybody in the most solemn of voices that “we want rain;” whereas when he has crossed the Channel it is the grand subject of his self-congratulations that you need not be always speculating about wet days, but can really believe in the weather. The weather had been thoroughly to be trusted all that month of May, and all the rural world was gloomy about it; but Edgar had not yet acquired English habits to such an extent, and he was glad of the serene continuous sunshine, the blue sky that made a permanent background to his fine trees. It was the first time that he had been able to give hospitality, and it pleased him. When he had made sure that his sister did not object, he anticipated Lord Newmarch’s visit with a certain pleasure. There would be novelty in it, and some amusement; and it was natural to him to surround himself with people, and feel about him that flow and movement of humanity which is necessary to some spirits. The Ardens could do without society as a general rule. They had stately feasts now and then, but for the greater part of their lives the stillness of the park that surrounded them, the gambols of the deer, or the advent of now and then the carriage of a county neighbour coming to pay a call, was all that was visible from their solemn windows. This was not at all in Edgar’s way; and accordingly he was glad somebody was coming. It would have been a pleasure to him to have filled his house, to have put himself at everybody’s service, to have felt the tide rising and swelling round him. To Clare it might be a bore, but it was no bore to her brother. Lord Newmarch drove out from Liverpool, where he had been attending the great social meeting, between five and six in the afternoon. Edgar saw him from a distance, and hurried home to meet his guest. “Newmarch is coming, Clare,” he cried as he came into the little drawing-room in which Clare sat very demurely, with the silver and china shining on the little tea-table beside her, and her embroidery in her hand. It was not an occupation she cared for, but yet it was good for emergencies, and especially when it was necessary to take up that dignified position as the lady of the house. “Very well, Edgar; but you need not be excited about it,” said Clare. What was Lord Newmarch that any one should care about his coming? She sat in placid state to receive her brother’s visitor, secretly fretting in her heart to see that Edgar was not quite as calm as she was. “Can it be because he is a lord?” she