Joseph and I go back to town, then?"

"Well—no—I am not quite prepared for that," he said, and dismay evidently filled his heart. "Especially if Meg hasn't any notion of housekeeping. I suppose it wouldn't do to take her to Florence with me, eh?—No—well, since she is so delicate, and, as you say, so pretty and attractive and guileless, perhaps I could hardly manage that; but she'll be terribly disappointed. I tell you what! I will think it all over, and write to her about it all from abroad. We need not give up the idea of her coming to me some time. No doubt we can arrange something."

Mrs. Russelthorpe acquiesced. "No doubt," she said; but she knew that she had won that game.

Mr. Deane left England a few weeks later.

As he rode through the village with rather a heavy heart, for to do him justice Meg's wistful face haunted him, he came upon an excited group of people, in the centre of which stood a delicate-looking youth, and a big fair-bearded man, who was talking with a strong north-country drawl.

"Why, that is Widow Penge's son, and he is walking without his crutches!" cried Mr. Deane, drawing rein. "And that other fellow must be the preacher little Meg is so mad about."

"I always thought Andrew Penge was a bit of an impostor," said Mrs. Russelthorpe, who accompanied him; "and now I know it! Come, Charles, my horse won't stand, and you'll miss the coach."

The preacher had made a step forward as she spoke.

"Is that Mr. Deane of Ravenshill? I've something to deliver to one o' his family," he said; but Mr. Deane had ridden on.

"He was going to give us a word in season," Mrs. Russelthorpe declared contemptuously. "Charles'" good-natured tolerance for all kinds of enthusiasts irritated her.

Mr. Deane laughed his light kindly laugh.

"Meg wanted me to make acquaintance with him, and I half promised I would. I've lost my chance," he said. And his words were truer than he thought.

CHAPTER IV.

It was Meg's twenty-first birthday. She woke early, and went into the garden while the dew was still thick on the grass, and there was a wet haze, precursor of a broiling day, over everything.

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