meet him on that eventful afternoon, which probably would decide her fate. Her mother liked her best in blue, and so she decided did he, for had he not once said---- So Gussy made a mental memorandum, and felt a warm little thrill of tender kindness at her heart for the man who loved her. Of course he loved her. She might have other inducements to marry him. The charm of Arden, the necessity of being provided for, the trade, as Helena called it, of getting married, would all weigh consciously or unconsciously with her. But with him there could be but one reason--love; and Gussy’s heart swelled with that tender gratitude and kindness and half pity with which a woman whose affections are quite free and disengaged often regards the man who has (as people say) fallen in love with her. Pity, she could not tell why, a soft half regret that she could not give him so much as he gave her. “Poor, dear boy!” she said to herself; and then shyly peeping, as it were, behind a veil, found out that she might love him too, could be very fond of him after--when---- And she caressed her blue dress with a smile and a little emotion, and looked that the ribbons were fresh that must be worn with it, before Angelique packed it away. “Mamma likes me in blue,” she said with a conscious smile. Alas!--But nobody knew nor suspected how little the blue dress would be thought of, or how different the reality and the imagination would be! Edgar went down next morning to his nearest railway station with an absolute absence of every exciting incident. The groom was waiting with his dogcart, the western sun threw a slanting line on the country, everything looked like home-coming and peace. “Is all right at the Hall?” he asked for mere custom’s sake, as he took the reins. “Yes, sir, so far as I know, sir, but Mrs. Fillpot, she thinks there’s something to do with Miss Arden,” said the groom. “Something to do?” Edgar echoed, unfamiliar with the homely phrase. “Poorly, sir, she thinks, does Mrs. Fillpot,” said the man. A headache, I suppose, Edgar thought to himself, and drove on without alarm. How fresh the country was, how green the trees, how restful all those houses, the villagers at their doors, the village patriarchs working leisurely in their little gardens. Even the Red House as he passed it blinked and shone in the sunshine, offering him a certain welcome. Was Arthur Arden there still, he wondered, and how was his suit progressing, and what did Alice Pimpernel think of it? Had she said, “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” to his kinsman’s wooing? All these things passed through Edgar’s mind as he drove along with a smile upon his face, and the pleasant confidence of a man going home. He was glad to recognise the very trees, much more the familiar faces; glad to think of his sister’s welcome which awaited him--full of natural satisfaction and content.