“Bring my work back; I have changed my mind.” With that brief explanation she reclined luxuriously on the soft sofa-cushions, swinging one of her balls of wool to and fro above her head, and looking at it lazily as she lay back. “I have a remark to make, Horace,” she went on, when the door had closed on her messenger. “It is only people in our rank of life who get good servants. Did you notice? Nothing upsets that man’s temper. A servant in a poor family should have been impudent; a maid-of-all-work would have wondered when I was going to know my own mind.” The man returned with the embroidery. This time she received him graciously; she dismissed him with her thanks. “Have you seen your mother lately, Horace?” she asked, suddenly sitting up and busying herself with her work. “I saw her yesterday,” Horace answered. “She understands, I hope, that I am not well enough to call on her? She is not offended with me?” Horace recovered his serenity. The deference to his mother implied in Mercy’s questions gently flattered his self-esteem. He resumed his place on the sofa. “Offended with you!” he answered, smiling. “My dear Grace, she sends you her love. And, more than that, she has a wedding present for you.” Mercy became absorbed in her work; she stooped close over the embroidery--so close that Horace could not see her face. “Do you know what the present is?” she asked, in lowered tones, speaking absently. “No. I only know it is waiting for you. Shall I go and get it to-day?” She neither accepted nor refused the proposal--she went on with her work more industriously than ever. “There is plenty of time,” Horace persisted. “I can go before dinner.” Still she took no notice: still she never looked up. “Your mother is very kind to me,” she said, abruptly. “I was afraid, at one time, that she would think me hardly good enough to be your wife.” Horace laughed indulgently: his self-esteem was more gently flattered than ever. “Absurd!” he exclaimed. “My darling, you are connected with Lady Janet Roy. Your family is almost as good as ours.” “Almost?” she repeated. “Only almost?” The momentary levity of expression vanished from Horace’s face. The family question was far too serious a question to be lightly treated A becoming shadow of solemnity stole over his manner. He looked as if it was Sunday, and he was just stepping into church. “In OUR family,” he said, “we trace back--by my father, to the Saxons; by my mother, to the Normans. Lady Janet’s family is an old family--on her side only.” Mercy dropped her embroidery, and looked Horace full in the face. She, too, attached no common importance to what she had next to say. “If I had not been connected with Lady Janet,” she began, “would you ever have thought of marrying me?” “My love! what is the use of asking? You _are_ connected with Lady Janet.” She refused to let him escape answering her in that way.