At the bourne Fairy met Mr. Leslie on horseback. He stopped and wanted to know where she was going. “To Lewes, on business, very important business, for John,” said Fairy, grandly. “Indeed! I wish my mare were not so tired, that I might come with you, but I am just back from Brighton, and I expect, as the poor people here say, the fairies got into my stable and rode her about all last night, for she is far from fresh this morning. But I must not keep you. Good-bye; don’t let anyone pick you up and run off with you before Jack comes back. I heard from him this morning; he talks of coming home at the end of this year.” “So soon? Mother will be glad. Good-bye,” said Fairy, her bright little face lighting up with pleasure, though she did not blush or look conscious; facts Mr. Leslie noticed, and went home to tell his wife Fairy was too much of a child to be in love, and he was sure she had no thought of Jack as a husband. In this he was right; Fairy had no thought of Jack nor of anyone else as a husband just then; she was fancy-free as she disappeared down the road which led to the picturesque old town, lying before her in its amphitheatre of hills, whose white chalk patches looked strangely cold and repellent on this warm July morning. But those chalk hills often give one a chill at first. Fairy was too much accustomed to them to notice or feel it any more than she noticed or felt the cold, blunt, downright, and, at first, repelling manner of the Sussex peasant, who probably derives some of his characteristics from the country in which he is born and bred, and lives and moves and has his being, for it is certain that scenery influences character to a much greater extent than is commonly supposed. Fairy knew that this was only one phase of the Sussex downs; another time those hills—by the way, the word “down” is derived from an old Saxon word, meaning “hill”—another time those hills would look soft, and warm, and sweet, and attractive, just as the Sussex peasant, on better acquaintance, proves himself honest and true and kind-hearted, in spite of his uncouth manners. (_To be continued._) [Illustration] [Illustration: BERCEUSE.] BY J. W. HINTON, M.A., MUS.D. [Music] MERLE’S CRUSADE. BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc. CHAPTER XIV. “BREAD AND SALT.” I thought Mrs. Markham looked somewhat displeased. “We must ask your mother’s permission, Master Rolf;” then, turning to her, “I hope you will allow him to go with us this afternoon,” for, in spite of his rude ways, I felt full of pity for the lonely little boy; he seemed to have no playfellows except poor Judson, who was a low-spirited, overworked young woman. It must have been dreary for him to be in a household of grown-up people, who all voted him a plague and took no trouble to amuse him. Spoilt children are seldom happy ones; and it did not need a second look at Rolf’s pale, sickly face to read the lines of discontent and peevishness.