One Saturday afternoon Embrance had come home early (Joan had gone to luncheon with Mrs. Rakely); she was tired, it had been a warm, rainy day; her boots were muddy and her dress was damp. The armchair by the fire looked very tempting; she sat down, and in a few seconds was fast asleep, dreaming of a magnificent abode in New Zealand, where Joan, in a white satin gown and a diamond necklace, was blissfully wedded to an emperor with flowing ringlets and bright grey eyes. The emperor had very bright eyes, indeed, and a habit of knocking on the ground with his sceptre; he was also afflicted with a curious kind of cough that did not sound natural—and yet it was natural, appallingly so. With a start and a jerk, Embrance sat up in her chair wide awake, and met the gaze of a real pair of grey eyes (brimming over with fun) that belonged to a gentleman, who stood, hat in hand, at the open door. “I really apologise humbly,” he said, without venturing to approach; “but I was told to walk up, and I knocked several times, and someone said ‘Come in.’” Embrance had recovered her presence of mind. “Please do come in,” she said. “I am very sorry that I was asleep; but I was so tired. I think you are Mr. Meade?” “That is my name,” said the visitor, looking across the room from the smoky fire to the rows of books with a quick glance; “and I have the pleasure of speaking to Miss Clemon.” “Yes,” said Embrance, holding out her hand. “Joan will be so disappointed to miss you. She is not in.” The recollection of her plans for Joan’s future happiness brought the blood to her cheeks. She stooped over the fire to hide her confusion. Yes, she liked the look of him. He had a clever, kindly face, much bronzed by the sun; he wore a short beard and a turned-down collar; he had no gloves, and his hands were long and thin. “Do let me do that for you,” said Mr. Meade, putting down his hat and umbrella. “I am exceedingly skilful at managing fires and chimneys; in fact, I have occasionally regretted not having been brought up to it professionally.” “As a chimney-sweep?” inquired Embrance. “No, I think not,” said Mr. Meade, gravely, as he inserted the poker between the bars, “but there might have been an opening as stoker or master of the bellows in some grand family. There, now, if you will allow me to have a sheet of newspaper, I think I shall succeed to perfection.” Embrance fetched the newspaper, and in a few minutes the crimson flames were leaping up the chimney. (_To be continued._) THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY. A PASTORALE. BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc. CHAPTER IX.