goodness knew how, by goodness knew whom, and had supplied herself with a few Plasmon biscuits, the which she handed round with the information that they contained more nourishment than ounces of beefsteak. They were very dull and very dry, however, and Darsie managed to get a crumb down the wrong way, and coughed continuously for the next hour in a tickling, aggravating manner, while Aunt Maria reiterated, “Really, my dear! Most unpleasant!” and seemed to consider herself personally aggrieved.

When Arden was reached the position improved, for stationmaster and porters alike flew to hover round the great lady of the neighbourhood, and Darsie sunned herself in the novel consciousness of importance. Outside the station a cart was waiting for luggage, and a large, old-fashioned barouche with two fat brown horses, and with two brown-liveried servants upon the box. The village children bobbed curtsies as the carriage bowled through the village street, and Darsie smiled benignly and bent her yellow head in gracious acknowledgment. As niece and guest of the Lady of the Towers, these greetings were surely partly intended for herself. She felt an exhilarating glow of complacence, and determined to describe the scene to Vie Vernon on the earliest possible opportunity.

The Towers was a large, very ugly, stucco house, surrounded by a beautiful rolling park. Inside, the rooms were huge and square, and one and all characterised by a depressing pitch of orderliness, which made it almost impossible to believe that they could be used as ordinary human habitations!

Darsie was escorted to a bedroom with ponderous mahogany furniture, so complete a contrast from her own shabby, cheery little den that the sight of it added the final touch to her depression. She refreshed herself by a long splash in hot water, brushed out her tangled mane, put on her Sunday dress, and descended in state to partake of dinner, which was served an hour earlier than usual in consideration of the travellers’ hunger and fatigue.

Despite her weariness and nervous exhaustion, Lady Hayes had made what appeared to Darsie’s unsophisticated eyes a magnificent toilette for the meal, and she eyed the Sunday frock with a criticism which was anything but approving. “But it’s the best I’ve got, except the party one, and I can’t wear that for one old lady,” said Darsie to herself as she followed meekly behind the moire antique train, and seated herself at the end of the dining-table. Two men-servants stood at attention—two! one for each diner, solemn, immovable-looking creatures who seemed to move on wheels and who kept 

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