It was one of the scenes so familiar now in English country life. A pretty scene enough if too common to be notable. Young women and young men in their flower of youth and spirit, not as in the old fashion, too busy even for flirtation, contending in the lists of tennis, a little flushed, a little careless with exercise and the struggle for the mastery--talking as well as playing the game; while the fathers and mothers sat or strolled about, half watching, more than half occupied with their own discussions. Mary was received with open arms, placed in the best place, surrounded by a crowd of anxious courtiers who asked to be allowed to bring her tea or ice or claret cup, or anything that in such circumstances a lady could desire. Miss Hill was not so popular, for one thing because she was not Lady Frogmore, but also because Agnes was not so “sweet” as her poor sister, and with her pre-occupied mind and many cares responded less graciously to the compliments addressed to her. Miss Hill was allowed to settle herself where she pleased, and this was easily discovered by one of the neighboring clergy, who came up to her with an air of special cordiality, and said as he shook hands, “I am delighted to see you here. It shows how little truth there is in the rumors that one hears about young Lord Frogmore.” “About Frogmore!” cried Agnes--she had not been listening very closely until that name suddenly brought the blood to her face. “What do you know about Frogmore?” The clergyman, surprised by her surprise, hesitated a little, but finally informed her that he had been lately at Ridding, which was the county town, and there he had heard a very alarming account--that Lord Frogmore was down with fever of the worst kind, caught during a visit to some old cottages which had been allowed to get into a dreadful state of neglect on his property, and that his life was despaired of. Dr. Barker was in constant attendance upon him, it was said, and everyone knew Dr. Barker was too busy a man to make too much of a trifling illness. “I am only telling you what I heard,” said the rector, “for of course you must know better, and it was, I confess, a great relief to my mind to see you. If he were really so ill you would not have been here----” “I am afraid,” said Agnes, “that is not so true as it appears. We keep up but very little correspondence. All the same,” she cried to herself, rather than to her companion, “Letitia must have written, surely she must have written if Mar had been very ill. He is always delicate,” she said. “So I have heard.” “And you are sure it was more than that--you are sure there was something definite talked of--a fever? Oh,” cried Agnes, “for the love of heaven tell me everything you know.” “I have told you everything I know, dear Miss Hill. I am very, very sorry to have made you so anxious. All that must have been an exaggeration at least. You must have heard.”