"Well, madame, I've been to his house; it is a fine place, lots of old oak furniture and pictures, expensive pictures-very bad though, some of them; vulgar old dog his father; thinks money everything; but they all think that; I quoted a few great men who were notoriously poor; but Phil Ransford would be friends."

Tom lighted his pipe and drew down the blinds.

"You don't think money can do everything? Do you, my love? I shall ask you in person soon. I am going to be rash, because I love you very much. I only went to that Cotton house to see what he was like at home, to study him, to find him out; and I do not like him, Clytie; no, my dear girl, he is not what we men call straight. You have not been to his house. Mrs. Ransford does not know you; the Misses Ransford don't-I asked them. They do not think you are beautiful; they professed not even to think you pretty; they had seen you often, oh, yes, at the Cathedral and at St. Bride's; it is Sunday to-morrow, and I shall be at your church in the morning, and I shall walk home with you-if possible."

The next day was a hot, lazy summer Sunday. All nature seemed to be resting. The bells which chimed for service sounded as if they were dressed up in their Sunday clothes, and only leaned upon their elbows and simpered what they had to say. The sun slept on the river, hot and rosy, like an infant. The water lay tranquilly beneath the trees. Shadows of towers and gables and moss-covered walls fell here and there, brown and motionless. The only stir seemed to be

The birds were still. A bee

a sort of sunny pulsation of the air. or butterfly might be seen poised on an open flower. The laburnum and lilac near the archway of the Prebend's Bridge seemed to swoon with happiness in the glowing light. It was a day for love and worship, for dreaming, for sitting in the shade of the Banks, for standing inside the Cathedral porch and listening to the choristers, for doing nothing, and doing that lazily.

Tom Mayfield went to St. Bride's on that summer Sunday morning, and Luke Waller had one of his musical dreams in the opening voluntary. When service was over, Tom went straight to the organloft. The organist was playing the congregation out. When the last footfall was heard, the blower, hot and tired, began to let the wind run down.

'Go on,” said Tom, slipping a shilling into his hand.

“All right,” said the man, and up went the indicator.

The organist turned and with a pleasant smile recognised the young student.

"Don't get up, sir," said Tom; "pray go on. You are just in the vein. It is a lovely bit of harmonisation."

The old man was pleased.. His fingers pressed the ivory keys with a loving fondness. It seemed as if he caressed them, and they responded with tender voices. The music wandered about the old church, laden with the scent of lilac that crept in from an adjacent garden. A soft tread and a rustle of silk came up the gallery stairs, and presently the beauty of the Hermitage drew the organ-loft curtains and stood by the player. She moved with graceful condescension to Tom Mayfield, whose eyes responded, full of respect and love. Clytie laid her hand upon her grandfather's shoulder.

Come, grandfather dear, we shall not have time for our little walk."

In Dunelm everybody walked a little way after morning church until dinner-time, which on Sundays with all classes was in the middle of the day.

The old man took her hand in his right hand, finishing his extempore performance with the left; then he put in the stops one after the other, until the music seemed to go far away in the distance, finishing in a sort of harmonic sigh.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the young student. finale. There is nothing like the minor key." Clytie smiled approvingly.

"A most touching

"May I walk a little way with you, Mr. Waller?" Tom asked, looking all the time at the lady.

"Yes, yes," said the old man, "by all means; we shall only stroll in the shade of the trees, through the Banks, round over the Bridge, and then home."

The lady was dressed with becoming taste. A light, thin silk dress -lilac flowers on a creamy ground-a Brussels-lace pellerine, a chip bonnet trimmed with lilac flowers, light gloves, and her dress slightly open at the neck so that you saw the full throat, purer in shade and whiteness than the small pearl brooch that rested there. She was indeed supremely beautiful, this belle of the northern city. No wonder match-making mammas tried to keep her out of the inner ring of Dunelm society. Their task was not altogether an easy one. Tom Mayfield now felt how lonely he was. If his father and mother had been alive, they should have called upon her, and given him the right to invite the organist and his grand-daughter home.

Tom walked by her side in the Banks, and talked to her with his voice specially attuned to her ear. She knew that he loved her. She could read it in every glance of his eye. She tried to justify his admiration. It made her happy to be admired. Even in church she

enjoyed the silent homage of the people.

A few of the Dunelm

women were as mad about her as the men; she was so sweet and pretty. Clytie knew people turned round to look at her. She seemed to fill the street; her soft sympathetic eyes, her perfectly oval face, her red lips, her brown wavy hair; her exquisite figure, round and full, like the ideal woman of a painter's dream; her gentle dove-like manner, impressed beholders as if they had seen a vision of beauty; and the old grey walls of the city set off the picture; she was so bright and graceful—a contrast to the big solemn houses and the quaint crumbling towers.

He

Passing over Prebend's Bridge they met the Ransfords; old Ransford, Mrs. Ransford, the sisters, young Ransford, and Phil. The whole family swept by, receiving with a vulgar effort at hauteur, intended for Clytie, the polite recognition of Mr. Mayfield. When the flood of silk and muslin and perfume had passed, the Wallers and Tom discovered that Phil Ransford was left behind. shook hands with Clytie, looked through Tom Mayfield (who met his gaze with calm defiance), and told Mr. Waller that it was awfully hot. Luke said he rather thought it was warmer than usual, but that was to be expected at this time of the year. Clytie seemed a little confused, but presently recovered and enjoyed her triumph. She saw that the two men were jealous, and she really did not care a button for either of them. If she had any choice between the two, the balance of liking was in Phil Ransford's favour. He was rich, very rich she understood; and he had already made her several valuable presents. Among these was a necklet of pearls with a diamond clasp. She had not dared to show it to her grandfather, because somehow she had felt that she ought not to have accepted so costly a gift. She had, however, done an odd thing: one day when she was on a visit at a friend of Luke's, a widow at Newcastle, she had called upon a jeweller there and asked him the value of the necklet. He said it was worth a hundred and fifty guineas; and from that moment Phil Ransford seemed to have some special claim upon her, some mysterious authority. She had admitted to herself a peculiar sense of obligation which she could not explain it kindled a new desire within her, an ambition which for the time got possession of her, body and soul. She would like to be a fine lady, a queen of fashion and beauty, a goddess in that grand society of wealth and loveliness, of show and pomp, which Phil Ransford had described to her as existing in London, where she ought to live. All this was in her mind when she looked at Tom Mayfield and Phil Ransford on this summer Sunday. The new, wellfitting clothes of her rich admirer, his heavy watch-guard, his silver

headed cane, his gloves, his shiny hat, his general air of wealth, told in her inexperienced mind against Tom Mayfield's dingy college gown and grey trousers. Moreover, Tom talked of books, of poetry, of music, and the earnestness of life; while Phil was full of flower shows, archery meetings, and the pretty frivolities of existence.

Phil walked with the party to the Hermitage, and monopolised a great deal of Clytie's attention; and he did it with an air of authority that did not even escape the notice of Grandfather Waller, who resolved in his own mind to speak about it to Clytie before the day

was over.

Meanwhile the two young men left the Wallers at the front door of the Hermitage, and walked together along the Bailey to Tom Mayfield's rooms. They did not speak until they were within the welcome shadow of St. Cuthbert's Gateway, and then Phil Ransford said,

"Mr. Mayfield, you and I must have a serious conversation."

66

By all means," said Tom, looking up calmly into the face of his stalwart companion.

"A serious conversation," Phil repeated.

"When you please," said Tom.

"Good morning," said Phil, and the two parted.

The reader will already have gleaned that Tom did not live i college. He preferred an independent existence outside. His littl bachelor dinner was waiting for him as he entered his room. H ate it thoughtfully, and, lighting his pipe immediately afterwards, sa near the window where he could see the College Green and hear th bees humming in the lime trees. He had turned his back upon h favourite bust, but he was questioning his own heart about the livin prototype, and Phil Ransford seemed to him like a dark, ugly shado in the sunshine. He sat dreaming until the Cathedral chimes lazil invited Dunelm to afternoon service; Dunelm responded wit suitable lethargy. Tom Mayfield laid down his pipe, and castin a longing look at the white unconscious statue, slipped out upon Green, glided through the cloisters, and found rest for his trouble thoughts in the soft, soothing, dreamy music of the Cathedral choi

CHAPTER IV.

THE WARNING.

The flowers were oldAt the bottom of the

THERE was a square, old-fashioned garden at the Hermitage. It was shut in by high walls covered with ivy. The garden beds were marked out by tall boundaries of box-wood. fashioned and sweet beyond description. garden there was a narrow terrace, upon which stood a summer-house, a round sort of chalet, covered with ivy, with which half a dozen other creepers struggled for recognition. Terrace and summer-house overlooked a broad expanse of ornamental lawn belonging to the next house, which in its turn was shut in by the River Wear. Nothing could be more picturesque than this bit of Dunelm. Occasionally on summer afternoons the Wallers drank tea on the terrace, the old man entertaining his grand-daughter with his violin and with stories of the great world of London, in which she took an inextinguishable interest.

"After dinner, Mary, let the servant go out, and lock the door; we will have a quiet hour in the summer-house before evening service; if there are callers, they will think we are out too."

"Yes, dear," said Clytie; but after dinner she seemed loth to go; and when they were alone in the house she sat down to the piano, and commenced to sing.

"Now, my pet, come along," said the old man, putting her garden hat upon her head-" come along; I want to talk to you."

He took her arm, and put it within his own, and they went together to the summer-house.

"There; now we can have a good long talk," said the old man, placing a low rush chair for the young girl, and patting her cheek as she sat down and looked inquiringly at him.

"You know how dearly I love you,” he said.

"My dear grandfather!"

"That I would willingly lay my life down for you-sit still, my darling that no sacrifice would be too great for me to make to secure your happiness."

"Dear grandfather, what have I done that you should think it necessary to say this ?" asked Clytie, almost in tears.

"Nothing, love ; nothing. Mr. Philip Ransford evidently admires you very much. I noticed that to-day when you saw him you changed colour; and I thought he seemed more familiar in his manner than our acquaintance with him warranted."