“I wonder what on earth they’re waiting for,” thought Philip, craning his neck, in an endeavour to peer over the top of the pew. The next moment, the door of the pew was softly opened, and the ancient man who had ushered him into it, stood bowing, and obviously waiting for him to come out. In an instant, Philip recognised that the congregation waited, in conformity with an old custom, until the Squire should have passed out of church.

Rising, with his heart in his mouth, the supposed Dandy Chater faced that small sea of eyes, every one of which seemed to be turned in his direction; and every face, instead of being, as it should have been, familiar to him from his childhood, was the face of an utter stranger.

He thought hard, while he gathered up Dandy Chater’s hat and gloves—harder, probably, than he had ever thought before, within the same short space of time. And then, to crown it all, as he stepped from the pew came the most astounding event of all.

The young girl with the kindly eyes looked full at him, as he stepped into the aisle; hesitated a moment; and then, with a quick blush sweeping up over her face, rose to her full height—(and she was taller than the average of women)—and stepped out into the aisle beside him. Quite mechanically, and scarcely knowing what he did, he offered her his arm; and they passed slowly out of the church together, with the silent congregation, still seated, watching them.

Not a word was spoken by either of them, until they had almost crossed the churchyard; glancing back over his shoulder, Philip could see the people emerging from the porch, and breaking up into groups, and evidently talking eagerly. And still no word had been said between the two chief actors in this amazing scene.

At last, the girl turned her face towards his, (she had seemed quite content to walk on beside him, in silence, until this moment) and spoke. Her voice, the man thought, was as beautiful as her face.

“Well, Dandy dear—have you nothing to say to me?”

In a flash, light broke in upon Philip Chater. From the girl’s appearance, style of dress, and easy assurance with him, in the presence of a church-full of people he felt that this must be the Margaret Barnshaw whose letter he had read—the letter in which she promised to marry Dandy Chater. But, not being sure even of that, or of anything indeed, he decided to grope his way carefully; looking at her with a smile, he asked lightly—“What would you have me 

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