"You will probably not be surprised at my addressing you on a subject important to us both. We have known each other since the time when you were a little girl and I was a big bad boy. I don't trouble you with business matters, but I have spoken to Mr. Warrender and fully satisfied him on that head. It is with his approbation that I ask you to become my wife. I know that the very remote possibility of a coronet will not weigh with you, but I do think you ought to let it count against my disadvantages. You will get this at breakfast time. I shall ride over about eleven to urge my suit in person; may I hope that your good nature will spare me the negative I doubtless deserve, and that you will give me a chance? "Yours very affectionately, "REGINALD HAGGARD." As Georgie replaced the letter in its envelope she blushed; had Haggard been indifferent to her she would not have hung out this signal of distress. It is impossible to follow the course of reasoning of a woman's mind. Georgie Warrender was no raw girl to be caught by the mere good looks of big Reginald. But first impressions go a great way; she remembered the young fellow in the reckless daring of his first youth; she remembered, too, her feeling of pity when she heard of the prodigal's banishment to a far country to feed the proverbial swine. Georgie remembered, too, the triumphant return of that prodigal some six months ago. She had been pleased at the prodigal's attentions, and she knew that many girls, of far greater social pretensions than her own, would willingly have accepted the addresses of the bronzed, curly-headed giant with the big moustache. Perhaps she would have been wiser had she taken counsel with Miss Hood, or had she deliberated more calmly. But Georgie was a self-reliant girl. Even now she heard the measured tread of her lover's hack as he trotted up to the hall door of The Warren. She looked at her watch, it wanted five minutes of the hour. Miss Warrender smiled at her lover's excessive punctuality; his impatience boded well she thought. Another instant and he is striding down the path of the rose garden; a happy look is on his face, though it is slightly pale with suppressed excitement. Georgie Warrender's pink roses attain a damask hue as she rises to greet him. Fortune, fickle goddess, still befriends her favourite. There was no outward sign of hesitation or diffidence about Haggard, as he held out his hand to Miss Warrender.