was not a timid young lady, and on landing me safely at our own door he went so far as to congratulate me on my courageousness, and to add that he hoped I should be able to impart some portion of this desirable quality to his poor little shrinking, frightened girl, when she became my pupil.

"Give my love to Maggie," I said, after I had shaken hands with her father, and thanked him for all his kindness during the day, “and tell her I, at least, wished she had been with us, if only to have given papa a chance of enjoying the fête a little bit."

"How do you know I did not enjoy it ?" he asked, with a smile, I suppose, at my pretending to have understood his feelings.

"I am afraid you did not," I answered; and then I became unpleasantly conscious of growing red, as I thought of the strong desire which had arisen in my mind to comfort the good vicar when I fancied he was out of spirits.

Thanks to the gentleman's inveterate habit

of looking on the ground, he was none the wiser for my heightened colour, but he shook hands with me a second time (no doubt in forgetfulness that he had already once performed that little ceremony), and said, rather shyly:

"I enjoyed it all quite as much as I expected, or even wished to do. You need have no regrets on my account, Miss Ethel. Good bye, now, for your mother will be anxious about you, and I think these poor horses have had about enough of it."

CHAPTER XVII.

BY THE STEPPING STONES.

THE Beechwood entertainment, which to all appearance had begun and ended so serenely and uneventfully (with the exception, indeed, of the thunder-storm that only sent the majority of the guests to their homes an hour or two before they would otherwise have dispersed), did in reality sow the seeds of many important changes in the fate of several individuals who were at the time wholly unconscious of exciting the activity of the weird sisters presiding over human life and destiny. Amongst the immediate and visible results

of that one day's unaccustomed exertion and festivity, was the rather serious illness of poor Miss Dora Downing. We heard of it the next morning from our village Esculapius, dapper little Mr. Luke, whose periodical visit of inquiry at Lindenhurst happened to be due on that occasion.

He told us he had been sent for the previous evening, to recover the lady from a succession of fainting fits, and that, though she had enjoyed a tolerably good night, he had found her excessively weak and languid in the morning, and had been obliged to see her twice before starting on his usual rounds.

"A bad subject, I am afraid, for anything like a bona-fide illness," he had said, in concluding his account, "and, if I'm not mistaken, the poor nervous little woman is in for it in earnest now."

"What do you think it is?" mamma anxiously inquired, for Miss Dora, as well as her sister, was greatly liked amongst us.

"Oh, my dear lady," replied the discreet

surgeon, "that is far more than I am able at present to tell. It may be pleurisy, it may be congestion of the liver, it may be rheumatic fever, it be jaundice, it may be a

may

combination or a complication of all these; or it is just possible it may be nothing more than intense nervous exhaustion consequent upon the excitement and fatigue of yesterday. Why, there is my wife, a strong, active, healthy woman, as you all know; well, there she is, lying about on the sofa with head-ache and low spirits this morning. You'll excuse me saying it, but you ladies are really such impressionable, susceptible beings, that it takes less than nothing to knock you over. I am glad to find, however, that there are no patients waiting for me here. Your young people, Mrs. Beamish, are looking even more than usually bright and blooming."

"Thank you, they are in excellent health," mamma replied, smiling fondly round at Gertie and myself. "They have neither of