"She won't ha' nothing to say to 't till she
have seen you, squire," was the announcement.

"Devilish right of her," said the honest
squire; "I like her the better for it."

"She've something on her mind, which you
won't like so well, I do fear," remarked Mr.
Taffey, doubtfully. "Here she is."

Katy entered, as he spoke, deadly pale, eyes
a little red. She wore the dress of homely
grey, in which she was wont to go about her
cottage work; but the richest, the most
studied attire could have added nothing to the
grace and dignity of the girl's manner as she
curtseyed, with a sort of lofty respect, to the
lord of Llbwyddcoed. The latter, on his part,
thought that he had never seen her to such
advantage; for, in addition to the beauty with
which he was familiar, there was in her countenance
an expression of intense feeling that gave
to every lineament life and speech.

"Kaly——" began the squire. But she
stopped him.

"Please, Mr. Hurbandine, before you say one
word more, permit me to ask a question."

"Twenty, my dear," said the squire.

"Did you see your son last night?"

"I did."

"Did you speak of—of me?"

"Of nothing else," replied the squire.

"I must have misunderstood my father, then,"
said Katy, the colour rising in her cheeks.

"And why so, my dear child?" asked the
puzzled squire.

"Because," returned Katy, fixing her clear
eyes steadily on him— "because your son, if he
told you anything, must have told you that he
had asked me to become his wife, and that I
had consented."

"Merciful Heaven, child! what are you
saying?" ejaculated Mr. Hurbandine, in his
turn growing pale. "My son asked you to be
his wife?" Katy mistook his meaning.

"If you have not combined to insult me,"
she said, haughtily, "and if I understood your
message, it was an honour his father did not
disdain."

"My proposal was in earnest, my poor
child," said the squire, divided between anger
and sorrow.

"And his?" half whispered the girl.

"A lie!" shouted the squire. "A villanous
deceit!—the common pretext of a libertine,
whose other arts have failed. Alas! that I
should live to say it of my son! Child, child!
he had no thought of marriage. I gave him
the opportunity of breaking it to me. I spoke
with leniency—nay, with approbation—of a
similar union once contracted in my family. He
sneered it down. No, he is a rascal—the first,
thank Heaven, in my line. There is no taint
upon the honour of my ancestors; and the Veres
and Vavasours, if boobies, are not blackguards.
Forget him, my poor Katy."

The cottage-girl took him up unexpectedly.
Making one step towards him, she looked him
once more steadily in the face.

"Your son informed you, last night, that he
had no intention of making me his wife?"

"He distinctly repeated a declaration he had
made to me in the morning, that nothing should
induce him to marry beneath his station—my
consent (I conclude) notwithstanding."

"Fresh from my presence!" murmured Katy.

"Even so," said the squire, sadly.

"Mr. Hurbandine," resumed the girl, raising
her eyes suddenly, with a light in them he had
not seen before, "if I could believe this insult
possible——"

"Katy! you doubt my word! But go on.
If——"

"I would say, do with me as you please,"
said Katy, turning her crimson face from the
squire to her father, which latter gentleman had
been a silent, not to say bewildered, spectator
of this scene.

"What further proof do you require, Katy?"
inquired Mr. Hurbandine. "Would you hear
from his own lips the confirmation of what I
have told you?"

"Then, indeed, I could not doubt," said
Katy. "But, oh! sir, if you had heard him!"
The proud head drooped forward, to conceal
the tear that would not be denied.

"Then, so you shall!" exclaimed the squire.
"But, see, Katy. In vour father's presence,
I hold you to your pledge. If my son rejects
the treasure of your wifely love, it is mine, mine!
—and he that dared insult your innocence with
his profligate vows shall see you seated where
his mother sat, the mistress of Llbwyddcoed.
Taffey, my good friend, you are witness of our
compact. This very morning must decide all.
Explain everything to your good wife; bid her
soothe and guard my precious Kate, and come
up with her—you also, my old friend—to the
hall about noon. Leave the rest to me.

He was gone.

VII.

THE noonday sun was casting rich gleams
through the stained-glass windows of the squire's
library, and directing a particularly bright one
upon the face of Lady Susan Vavasour (born
Bubbs), at whom Mr. Hurbandine stood gazing
with an interest even more than common.

"I hate eavesdropping," said the squire,
leaving the picture, and beginning to pace the
room. "It's a shabby thing at best; but in
this case—at least, in my humble judgment—
'tis the best and shortest way. Half a dozen
words, and there an end! Whereas we may go
on fending and fencing, and proving and doubting,
for a week without it. Yes, better so,"
concluded the honest squire, as, with a slightly
heightened colour, he took a large light screen
that leaned against the wall, and, opening it,
drew it across the room in such a manner as to
conceal a door that opened upon a side-staircase.

At that door he listened for a moment.

"They are coming!"

The next moment Mr. and Mrs. Taffey, with
Katy, made their appearance under the guidance
of a trusty old servant of the squire's, who
withdrew.

The two elder visitors spoke in whispers, and