about her. But she will do nothing for us, although I believe she would go out if you were to ask her. I wish you would, to please me."

He had not thought of that; and as he had a feeling that her present state was partly due to her notion that she had offended him, he was ready to take this means of satisfying her that she had not. So he did ask her that evening at dinner, and on the spot a skating party was arranged for the following day.

They went out-three of the girls and Jim with them. They were all very merry on the ice, and on the way home; the colour returned to Dahlia's cheeks, and from that day she rapidly recovered her former blithe ways.

"I am glad to see you yourself again," said Mrs. Meredith, cheerily, and with a significant smile, "I think there is some one else who is pleased too."

"Do you think so?" exclaimed Dahlia, eagerly.

"I am sure of it. Now, I want you to look your best to-night, because Mr. Rapier is coming, and as he is the only one who is permitted to see Mr. Dottridge, I want him to take back as good a report of you as possible.'

"I'll try," was the response. sake," she mentally added.

"But not for Mr. Rapier's

The evening was clear, dry, and bright. The full moon made the orchard a picture in black and white, and the trees cast fantastic shadows on the ground. The duck-pond became a brilliant little lake, in which there were curious silhouettes of surrounding objects.

Two of the figures reflected in the pond were those of a tall man and a lady. They had halted as if to look at the other shadows, as well as their own perhaps. But they were not lovers, for the lady was saying, somewhat petulantly,

"Why did you ask me to come out here, Mr. Rapier, and ask me, too, in such a way that I could not refuse?"

"Because it was such a beautiful night, Miss Whitcombe," answered Lewis Rapier, laughing.

"If there was no other reason, let us return to the house at once."

"Ah, you are angry because you are afraid that Meredith may be displeased. Is that so?"

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"I do not care for moonlight walks," she answered, evasively. He was studying her face as well as he could by the light of the moon. The face was very pretty, but pale in the moonlight. He could learn nothing from it, however, except that she was frowning.

"There, I shall not keep you long," he said, "but I thought you would be pleased to see an old friend, and would like to

have a few moments' conversation alone with him. I have another reason for asking you to come, but before telling you I want to remove that frown."

"I don't think you can."

"Wrong. I am quite sure it will go when I tell you that by appearing to coquet with me, Meredith may be piqued into saying something that will please you.”

The frown disappeared.

"I thought so," continued Rapier, sarcastically. "Now I can tell you what I really wished you to come out for. Mr. Dottridge is going away shortly, for an indefinite period, very likely to die. You know his wishes regarding yourself?"

"Yes; too well," she responded, bitterly.

"Then-will you answer frankly-have you hope now of obtaining your fortune?"

"I cannot say."

She was much agitated, and her head was bowed. He spoke earnestly, and in a low voice:

"You know how anxious I am for your welfare; you know that I am your true friend still, although you have so lightly turned away from one you once

"Stop; do not speak of that," she said, as if she were halffrightened. "It was folly, and you know the conditions under which I am here."

"You call it folly; you did not do so then."

"Oh, be silent," she pleaded piteously, "there is someone coming. Let us walk on."

"Very well," he said, calmly, "we shall say no more of that for the present. I do not excuse the strange conditions Dottridge has made; but I am anxious to know that in obeying them you are happy and have some prospect of winning your fortune."

"I am happy," was the hurried answer, "and I believe there is every prospect. Oh, it is cruel to force me to

"I would not like you to think that I was cruel-I, who am doing my best to serve you."

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was afraid you would get cold, Dahlia," said the quiet voice of Stephen, as he came up to them, "and I have brought a shawl for you."

Dahlia bit her lips with chagrin. She was not taken by surprise, for the sound of his footsteps on the hard, crisp ground had warned her of his approach. Her chagrin was due to disappointment, for she had been impressed at once by the probability that her strange friend's manoeuvre would prove successful, and that Stephen would be piqued-perhaps even a little jealous-on account of her moonlight ramble with Mr. Rapier. She would have been pleased if he had spoken coldly;

she would have been delighted had he displayed passion, or anything else, to indicate that his feelings for her differed from those he had towards other women.

But no! he came to her for the plain, commonplace reason that he was "afraid she would get cold!" A grandmother would have done as much.

"You are so very kind, Stephen," she said, with sarcastic politeness and suppressed passion, as she allowed him to place the shawl round her.

CHAPTER XIII.—A PROBLEM TO SOLVE.

There was a smile on Rapier's face and this question in his mind:

"Is he acting? If so, it is very well done. Or, is he indifferent as to whether she flirts or loves? If so, my little arrangement with Mrs. Meredith has only succeeded in bringing him after us to prove to her that his regard is only that of a brother. But no, a brother would not put on her shawl so carefully. She must feel that and be satisfied for the present."

Both Dahlia and Rapier were somewhat out in their estimate of Stephen's motives. He was not indifferent as to her conduct, and when his mother had suggested that he should take a shawl to her, as she had gone out with Mr. Rapier too thinly cloaked for the season, and the time she was staying, he was not pleased. But there was not a shade of jealousy in his displeasure.

"I do not like her or any of the girls receiving attention from Mr. Rapier," he had said hastily, and went out immediately. That was misinterpreted by his mother, of course, and she was glad that this strange friend of the family had come to speed the wooing.

But what he meant was this: with every disposition to like Rapier, he had always experienced a feeling of revulsion when near him, although the man had in every way endeavoured to prove himself a friend. He remembered the strong doubt of him which crossed his mind that night when, as he was leaving Kemerton, Rapier suggested that it was pure selfishness which induced Ruth to go away.

As if she could be selfish! He would trust her on that score at any rate: whatever her motive for this cruel separation might be, selfishness had nothing to do with it. He would have felt contempt for his nearest friend if he had suggested such a thing. It will be noted that, like all true lovers, as time and space increased between them, his ideal Ruth became nobler and more beautiful than ever.

Then he remembered Ruth's warning to beware of this man, and he had profound faith in her keen insight into character.

C

To crown all, Dahlia was, as he understood, an heiress, and Rapier was a man professedly poor, and of whom nothing more was known than that he was a friend of Mr. Dottridge, to whom he had been useful in various confidential and important matters of business.

All these things made Stephen feel displeased that she should be showing this man anything more than ordinary courtesy. "You read poetry, Meredith?" said Rapier, gaily. "Yes, sometimes," was the dry response, "when I find it in

an agricultural almanac."

Rapier laughed so heartily that it was almost infectious; and it certainly had the effect of dispelling the cloud of awkwardness which for a moment overhung the party.

"Ah, if that is all, I am afraid you will not be able to understand the-what shall I call it ?-sentimental nonsense of Miss Whitcombe and myself. We came out to enjoy the effects of the moonlight, and we have been trying to exaggerate the duckpond into a lake. You come with your confounded common sense in the shape of a shawl, and-whew! away goes poetry, and we immediately begin to think of influenzas and rheumatism."

"And a very good thing for yourself if you happen to think of them before they arrive. But we seldom do that. What a pity it is that we are so proud when we overcome an illness, and have not the slightest regard for the ill we escape."

"Natural ingratitude of mankind," said Rapier, with mock solemnity. "A friend lends you five shillings, and you think nothing of it: he refuses to lend it, and you think a great deal of it."

"Well, I think a great deal about colds and rheumatics," said Dahlia, with one of her pretty shudders, "and if you please, I should like to go indoors."

"Can you not be tempted to walk down as far as the river? The willows at the foot of the meadow must present a charming effect in this light," said Rapier.

But she knew that he was trying to bait Stephen, and had no real desire for her to go. She certainly had none herself.

"I don't like willows, even by moonlight, and beside a river," she replied coldly, "they always suggest misfortune of some kind to me. Besides, you think I should go in, Stephen, do you not?"

"Decidedly, unless you prepare yourself for a good swinging walk. Dawdling about here in the orchard may be pretty and poetical, but it is not healthy."

"What a prosaic beggar you are!" exclaimed Rapier, laughing. They escorted Dahlia to the house. At the door Rapier, who had been chatting merrily all the way, turned to Stephen.

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Suppose we take a turn and a cigar together? I have no notion of sleep yet, and I suppose the ladies will be pleased to dispense with our attendance as it is so late."

C 2

"All right, come along," said Stephen somewhat irritably, for he felt that Rapier was not being treated as a guest ought to be, and yet he could not help himself; so he made an effort to show that he wished to make him comfortable.

"Try one of these Partagas. I got them as a particular favour from a man who professes to have special knowledge of tobaccos, and he assured me they are the best things of the kind that can be procured."

They passed round the orchard and down the meadow towards the river. It was certainly a good cigar Rapier had given him, and Stephen enjoyed it. At the same time he wished that it had come from the hand of anyone else. His dislike for the man increased rapidly from the moment they had been standing together beside Dahlia at the duck-pond; and the curious fancy crossed his mind that if anybody wanted to administer poison to another, it would be done with the same flourish and assurances as those with which Rapier had given him the cigar. He smoked viciously, not enjoying the tobacco at all now, but wondering how he should deal with this man.

"I wanted to have a little time with you alone, Meredith," said Rapier, after they had been walking and smoking some time in silence.

"Well, here we are. You cannot be more alone with me than you are at present."

Rapier smoked meditatively and looked at the moon, as if he were seeking from it some suggestion as to the right course to pursue. Then, emitting a great whiff and holding his cigar daintily between his fingers, poised in the air

"Will you pardon me what is really a most impertinent. question?"

"If I can answer the question I shall do so," replied Stephen, cautiously. He did not like the opening of his companion's address.

"I am going to be quite frank with you, and I hope you will be the same with me. The question is about Miss Whitcombe." Rapier paused, took another whiff and looked at his companion with the air of one who has said something profound, and expects respectful acknowledgment of it.

"The subject is agreeable enough," was all Stephen said.

"Undoubtedly, and under ordinary circumstances I should have no difficulty in speaking of her--under any circumstances I can have no difficulty in praising her. Pretty, witty and good-tempered, I believe she deserves a good husband."

"I quite agree with you on that subject," said Stephen coldly, as he glanced sideways at the man, wondering what he was driving at.

"Very well, now comes the question for which I have apologised in advance-I never like to poach on a friend's