The whole neighborhood was full of St. Elfrida, who must have been a busy saint in her day, and numerous tourists came to view church, and tower, and holy well. The village derived quite an income from her reputation, and valued the saint accordingly. Amid ancient oaks stood the gray church with its detached tower; around lichened tombstones leaned over one another, and rank grass grew up to the verge of the low stone wall which ran like a battlement round the crest of the little hill. A flight of rugged steps led up to the lych-gate, and here stood a pretty girl in converse with Frank Linton, alias John Parver. It was a hot summer's day, and the golden light, piercing through the foliage of the trees, enveloped the girl in a glittering haze. She was extremely pretty; dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a complexion of roses and lilies, and as neat a figure as was ever seen. Envious people said that Miss Paynton pinched her waist, but such was not the case, for she was too careless of her appearance, and too careful of her health, to sacrifice the latter to the former. As a matter of fact, she appreciated brains more than beauty, and much preferred to exercise the first in clever conversation than to be complimented on the second. Linton, who had known her for many years, skillfully combined the two modes of paying homage to his divinity. That he received hard words in return was to be expected, for Jenny knew her power over the youth, and liked to exercise it. She was the least vain of mortals, but could not hide from herself that she was clever and pretty, and therefore entitled to indulge in coquetry. "You grow more beautiful every day, Jenny," said Linton, who had lately arrived from town and was making up for lost time. "And you more stupid," retorted Miss Paynton, climbing up on the low wall, where she sat and smiled at him from under her straw hat. "If you have come here to pay me compliments you can go away again. I want you to talk sense, not nonsense." "What shall I talk about?" "As if there were any question of that," said she, in supreme disdain. "Are you not famous now? Tell me of your success." "You know about it already. I sent you all the papers. 'A Whim of Fate,' is the book of the season." "Oh, just think of that now! Oh, lucky, lucky Frank! So young and so successful. You ought to be happy." "I am happy, because I now see a chance of making you my----" "Now you are talking nonsense," cried Jenny, ruthlessly interrupting him. "I won't hear a word more, you ridiculous boy. You are my brother, nothing more." "But----" "Don't talk about it, Frank. Be sensible. Come now, you have not yet told me how your father received the news." "Oh, he is pleased, of course," said Linton, unwillingly changing the subject; "but he reserves his opinion till he has read the book. If he doesn't like it he'll very likely order me to stop writing." "I'm sure he won't," said Jenny promptly. "You'll make more as an author than as a lawyer."