Margaret Vincent

Waterloo to the Langham-the bridge, the stream of people, the shops-were all

you," Mr. Vincent said

aimed. "Only I should like t

all pre

into all t

I couldn't

something, then we s

he little door at the top of the hansom, which was in it

r-" She was

a Gladstone bag

tarted for the North Pole or the South, to fight battles, or to go on strange missions to foreign courts? No one guesses the happy extravagance of

b and a good, serviceable, tan-colored Gladstone had been safely put on th

ther-it's

as if he, too, felt that they had come out on a wonderful journey in this simple one to town. But he had suddenly discovered a new pl

er every moment, all the time at the back of her head she saw a white road with clumps of heather and gorse beside it, and a church on a hill; a mile farther there was a duck-pond and a lane t

on business," Mr. Vincent said. "But I must try and show you some sights presently, t

" At a safe distance it was amu

g that won't hurt us very much. I believe "King John" is goin

h you now-I mean a

e always thought out his words before answering even trivial questio

family," s

. "You know that my brother-he is your uncle Cyril,

ather,

it is possible, from the account he gi

nything about him. I

is why he inher

e of the snobbishness of London, but titles are picturesq

y praiseworthy possession. It generally suggests that there has been extravagance or bad management, or something of the sort." He stopped again

ou rich, father-can yo

five hundred pounds-it came in some time ag

ition. "It must be dreadful for his wife, to be al

garet for thinking of her. "Yes, I suppose it is," he said; "though I believe she wasn't a very desirable pers

hands to him as if she were groping her way through the world

old cry-the cry of his own youth. "I wo

e had expected, and yet it was different. She felt herself so near to the heart of things, as if the people going to and fro were the pulse of the world; she could almost hear the throb of their lives. She wanted to be in the whirl of things, too, to know what it was all like, to understand-oh, no, no! the farm was better, the Dutch garden and the best parlor and the mother who was thinking of her. She would sit down and write to her this v

hey were difficult. She read all the little odds and ends of news, even the advertisements; and these were oddly fascinating. There was one that set her thinking. It was of a dramatic agency in the Strand. Young ladies could be trained for the stage, it said, and engagements were guaranteed. She wondered what the

He looked worried, and she was able to imag

ews bad?"

r father had put on the manner that was his armor-the grave manner of few words that made questions impossible. He opened the door with as much courtesy as a stranger would hav

d like his hair, covered his mouth; his eyes were brown and alert, though time had made them dim and lines had gathered round them; his face was that of a man who

we were at Oxford together,"

degree." Looking at him now, she saw that he was quite elderly, though in the distance she had taken him to be almost young. "I had not seen him for more than twenty years," he went on a

ew where t

thing that is never kicked aside unless it clamors, till the allotted numbe

surroundings. The people at the different tables put a pleasant curiosity into her eyes, or provoked a little smile; now and then

he done?"

the hill had been let wh

ng that I should have hit

ibe, for, though he was old-to her young eyes-he was so agreeable. And he would be some one else for her father to talk with; they would discuss all manner of things concerning the world that she was discovering to be a wonderful place, though Chidhurst, with its

ooms in Mount Street, their luxury and loneliness, the precision with which everything kept to its place, their silence and dulness. Vincent had made a mull of his life, but he had a home, and a wife who, though no doubt she was homely enough-mended his socks

at we lived at Woodside

house. You remember his father? He was President of the Union just before your time. He died about a year ago worth a quarter of a million, and left

could never be cou

ndhead-in red-brick houses that ought to be blown up with gunpowder, especially when they have weather-cocks on their gables. Hindhead, as you probably

aid, bewildered. But Sir George enjoyed talking, a

emans were staying in the neighborhood. He rode over to Chidhurst, saw this

tol

for quite so much unadulterated nature as there is in your neighborhood, so the house didn't s

o." Mr. Vincent's man

ly. "Why, of course, I rem

ere this afternoon. Who was

ir George smiled to himself, and took a liqueur with his coffee. "She

p-stairs, Margey. We'll

woman," he said. "Rather a shame to hide her on a farm at Chidhurst, though, f

responsibility when he joined her half an hour later. "You o

"and lunched at a little table at the h

ter Abbey, at any rate. Hannah gave us leave,

is

as a great man; she had a vague idea that he lived in a cathedral and slept in his mitre. "He died a good many years ago," Mr. Vincent continued, with a jerk in his voice. "He gave me a living when I was a young man; but I re