at that moment a letter, conveying in distinct,
not to say emphatic, terms an invitation to a
fistic encounter with a gentleman named
Cornelius Podgerbot, whose feelings had been
outraged by his—the Honourable Tom's—bearing
in reference to one "Ally Davis of the mill."
For, though far from being deficient in courage,
Mr. Castleton's soul revolted at the idea of
actual personal conflict, and the prospect of a
possible defeat at the hands of the burly clown
was intolerable.

Lighting their pipes at the lodge, and sending
back word from thence that they might not
return to dinner, the two gentlemen accordingly
set forth.

It was late when they returned, for the ascent
had proved practicable, and there was even a
very comfortable inn—the Welsh Harp—at the
top, at which the enterprising travellers
obtained a dinner that would not have discredited
Francatelli, accompanied by an appetite that not
even he could provide. It was still daylight,
however, when, on nearing the lodge, they met
Gerald Hurbandine striding hastily along.

"Anxious about us?" asked Mr. Castleton,
with feeling. "Really, my dear Hurbandine,
this is too—too much." (He wiped his eyes
with the cuff of his coat.) " 'Touching anecdote
of an elder brother!' "

Gerald laughed, but seemed disposed to
continue his way.

"I shall be back in half an. hour," said he.

His brother took him aside.

"Is all right? Where's the governor?"

"About the grounds, I think. Why?" asked
Gerald.

"Sweet?"

"As sugar. Again, why?"

"He does not suspect you. Gerald, I know
where you are going. Take my advice," said
the young man, earnestly—"don't."

"I must and will," replied Gerald, his forehead
flushing. "She is alone to-night—alone at the
farm. I have not had such a chance these six
months."

"Rude to whisper in company," said Mr.
Castleton. "I think I shall leave you. I also
think I felt a drop alight on my nose."

"It does rain," said Rochford. "Come,
Gerald. Well, if you will," he added, as the
other turned away,  take my overcoat. I
don't like the sky." And he flung him that
garment (of a light fawn-colour), which he was
carrying on his arm.

"Thanks, old fellow." And Gerald, throwing
it over his shoulders, hastened away.

V.

IT was a fact, howsoever Gerald arrived at
the knowledge of it, that "my lady" Katy was
alone that evening at the little farm-house, the
usual week-day garrison, an old woman and two
stout boys, having gone to a neighbouring fair.
But they would, of course, return before night,
when Katy would, in all probability, trip across
the fields to the town mansion in Llbwyddcoed.

As young Hurbandine hurried along, he
debated whether he would abide this chance or
boldly attack the cottage. In the former case,
Katy might not be alone; in the latter, she
certainly would be; and that which Gerald had
resolved upon demanded both time and secresy.
A side door, standing ajar, decided him; but,
though conscious of an ally within, a whisper in
Katy's heart that stood his friend, a tremor
unusual with him—arising, perhaps, from the
consciousness of taking an unfair advantage—
checked him, as he raised his hand to knock.
After a moment's irresolution, he pushed the
door a little wider open. Katy was before him.

Her back was towards the door, and, intent
on her occupation, she was as yet unconscious
of any beholder. The queen of beauty of
Llbwyddcoed was not attired in satin and gold.
She was neither working tapestry nor playing
the lute. Her dress was a very full, short
petticoat of some grey stuff, disclosing, as the
wearer bent over her work, a beauty and
amount of limb rarely vouchsafed to the gaze
of mortal man; for Katy's heart was not purer
than her taste, and, fair as she seemed, her
ordinary attire rather disguised than augmented
her loveliness. She had thrown off, for the
moment's exigence, her upper dress, and pearly
shoulders and rounded arms were having it all
their own way, in a manner so entrancing that
it was no wonder Gerald stood rooted to the
ground, like the bold hunter who surprised
Diana.

The bewitching creature was doing something
with a tub, but whether with milk or meal—
inasmuch as her arms emerged from the white
contents hardly whiter than before—it would
have been impossible to say.

"Katy!"

The girl sprang round, as if a shot had struck
her. The next instant the colour rushed into
her face. She snatched her scarlet cloak from
a clothes-horse that stood near, and wrapping
it hastily round her neck and bosom, confronted
her visitor with an air that had in it certainly
more of anger than of love.

"It seems you knew that I was left alone!"
she said, in a voice of unmistakable resentment.

Gerald pointed to the open door.

"That is part of my excuse. For the rest,
time is precious. I have that to say——"

"You will leave the house, without another
word," said Katy. "Then, I am not sure that
I should be justified in listening to your
excuses—even from the upper window."

"Consider my excuses made," said the young
man; "and, for pity's sake, hear——"

"Not where you stand," returned the
imperious young lady, as, with an air a duchess
might have envied, she pointed to the door.

Policy, as well as good taste, suggested
obedience, and Gerald, retreating, closed the
door, and walked round the angle of the
cottage into the little garden. As if to reward
this docility, Katy presently opened the lower
window—almost within arm's length. The
brief interval had sufficed her nimble fingers to
arrange her dress in its usual form, and when
Katy appeared in the window, her face was