I had often rehearsed this scene, and in imagination had seen Lady L—— standing up stately, and receiving the curate’s wife very frigidly. Behold the contrary. Seated on a stool before the blazing fire, with all her lovely dress crumpled up under her, Lady L—— was “roasting her bones,” as she said. She jumped up like a girl when the duchess led me towards her; and I really think she admired the yellow brocade. “I hope I shall soon see you at Court,” she said pleasantly, as I kissed her hand. “And your husband too. The brave stand made by the Church of —— in all her difficulties makes us value every one of her clergy and their wives, even if they are bits of girls like yourself.” Then she laughed, and I laughed, and we found out we had each a beautiful home-ruler at home about the same age, who ruled us with a rod of iron. So we had a pleasant chat until I forgot I was the curate’s wife and she her Excellency. Suddenly the cannon-ball shot in again, in a great hurry, and we rose to our feet. A few presentations had been made to him in the dining-room, and soon everyone was chatting like ordinary folk over coffee cups and cream. About eleven o’clock cards were got out, and the curate and “his reverence’s honoured lady” left. I nearly backed into Mr. Giles as I did so, and he very nearly laughed, but not quite. I never saw Giles laugh. As we were driving home under the big elms and pines, we kept silence awhile. The first remark came, of course, from me. “I’m very hungry,” in a plaintive voice. “And I’m starving,” was the response, as the curate slipped his arm round his little wife’s yellow brocade waist. “American crackers and apples?” I suggested. “And a big fire,” said his reverence, drawing my furs closer round me. “You are frozen.” So, over a blazing fire in our bedroom, we ate crackers and apples to fill the vacuum left by curiosity even after a vice-regal dinner-party. ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE. BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters Three,” etc. CHAPTER XXIV. It was one o’clock in the morning when a carriage drove up to the door of the Larches, and Mrs. Asplin alighted, all pale, tear-stained, and tremulous. She had been nodding over the fire in her bedroom when the young people had returned with the news of the tragic ending to the night’s festivity, and no persuasion or argument could induce her to wait until the next day before flying to Peggy’s side. “No, no!” she cried. “You must not hinder me. If I can’t drive, I will walk! I would go to the child to-night if I had to crawl on my hands and knees! I promised her mother to look after her. How could I stay at home and think of her lying there? Oh, children, children, pray for Peggy! Pray that she may be spared, and that her poor parents may be spared this awful—awful news!” Then she kissed her own girls, clasped them to her in a passionate embrace, and drove off to the Larches in the carriage which had brought the young people home.