“Oh, what does it matter what I said. I am going to marry you on three hundred a year, so there it is. I suppose when Bolton returns, my father will be glad to see the back of me, and then will go to Egypt with Sidney to explore this secret tomb he is always talking about.” “That expedition will require more than a thousand pounds,” said Archie dryly. “The Professor explained the obstacles to me. However, his doings have nothing to do with us, darling. Let Professor Braddock fumble amongst the dead if he likes. We live!” “Apart,” sighed Lucy. “Only for the next six months; then we can get our cottage and live on love, my dearest.” “Plus three hundred a year,” said the girl sensibly then she added, “Oh, poor Frank Random!” “Lucy,” cried her lover indignantly. “Well, I was only pitying him. He's a nice man, and you can't expect him to be pleased at our marriage.” “Perhaps,” said Hope in an icy tone, “you would like him to be the bridegroom. If so, there is still time.” “Silly boy!” She took his arm. “As I have been bought, you know that I can't run away from my purchaser.” “You denied being bought just now. It seems to me, Lucy, that I am to marry a weather-cock.” “That is only an impolite name for a woman, dear. You have no sense of humor, Frank, or you would call me an April lady.” “Because you change every five minutes. H'm! It's puzzling.” “Is it? Perhaps you would like me to resemble Widow Anne, who is always funereal. Here she is, looking like Niobe.” They were strolling through Gartley village by this time, and the cottagers came to their doors and front gates to look at the handsome young couple. Everyone knew of the engagement, and approved of the same, although some hinted that Lucy Kendal would have been wiser to marry the soldier-baronet. Amongst these was Widow Anne, who really was Mrs. Bolton, the mother of Sidney, a dismal female invariably arrayed in rusty, stuffy, aggressive mourning, although her husband had been dead for over twenty years. Because of this same mourning, and because she was always talking of the dead, she was called “Widow Anne,” and looked on the appellation as a compliment to her fidelity. At the present moment she stood at the gate of her tiny garden, mopping her red eyes with a dingy handkerchief. “Ah, young love, young love, my lady,” she groaned, when the couple passed, for she always gave Lucy a title as though she really and truly had become the wife of Sir Frank, “but who knows how long it may last?” “As long as we do,” retorted Lucy, annoyed by this prophetic speech. Widow Anne groaned with relish. “So me and Aaron, as is dead and gone, thought, my lady. But in six months he was knocking the head off me.” “The man who would lay his hand on a woman save in the way of--” “Oh, Archie, what nonsense, you talk!” cried Miss Kendal pettishly.