Ithe country, perhaps not very

T was not a genial February in

genial in town either, but then to town-bred people the country in dull weather is absolutely intolerable.

So at least it appeared to the young lady who sat, this eve of Saint Valentine, on a couch of crimson velvet, by the fireside, and counted the days until her country visit should be over. 'Better a London fog than this eternal mist and drizzle,' was her verdict, as she walked to the window and looked out. In the country one should have sunshine and green fields, waving trees, summer flowers, and singing birds, whereas to look out here

The solitary brown leaf she had been watching on its bare branch swirled round in a sudden blast of wind and rain-drops, and fell to the ground.

'Die there!' said the girl, shivering; the fittest thing to do such days as this. I wonder where everybody is.'

She turned as the door opened, and a rosy urchin of some five winters bounded towards her and clutched the delicate folds of her evening dress in his sturdy fists.

'A horse, a horse!' sang out the urchin. 'Aunt Milly's a horse!my horse-gee!'

But the moment was unpropitious. Aunt Milly only extricated her dress and put the rebel fingers aside.

'Carl, where's mamma?' 'Don't know. Making Bertie say his prayers.'

A slight curl stole to the young lady's lips as she went back to the fire and sat down again on the couch of crimson velvet. Making Bertie say his prayers! In other words, putting him to bed. So that was what her sister-in-law did in the country by way of relieving its monotony-made herself into a nursery-maid.

She gave an instinctive glance round the room in which she sat, and in which every article was a standing witness to wealth and taste, a standing protest against the dull weariness which oppressed her. What business had the mistress of such a house as this to make a nursery-maid of herself? Was it expected that all wives and mothers in the country should do so; and why? Her eyes, travelling gradually from curtain to picture, from picture to table and couch, fell upon Master Carl rolling himself from side to side on the rug at her feet. He stopped rolling when he saw her look at him. He got up, put his chubby little fist once again on her light dress, and stared up at her, grinning.

Nurse says if we say our prayers we shall go to heaven, but I don't want to go.'

'Don't you?'

'No; not till I've worn this new frock a bit. Doesn't it look nice? And I've got a watch, only it won't tick; and a trumpet; and I shall have a valentine to-morrow; shall you?'

'No. Hush, Carl,' said Millicent, peremptorily, 'what was that?'

She had heard the drive gate swing backwards and forwards with a click each time the fastening failed to catch in passing, and now she saw a gentleman's hat above the shrubs, and had a shrewd suspicion that she knew who the owner of it

was.

For one moment she bent her head down towards the fire and a softened expression came over her face. A little while ago she would have hailed the coming of this visitor-any visitor-as a blessed break in the monotony of the day, but

now

'Well,' she said, sighing, 'it will be a change at least.'

When she raised her head all trace of the momentary softening had

passed away, and there was nothing but her usual look of cold indifference. She rose to greet the visitor when he came in; she put out her hand to him in a regal sort of way, and seated herself with an air that graciously permitted him to sit also in her presence.

'A dull day, Mr. Stuart; as all days seem to be here, at this season.'

Mr. Stuart responded. If he had noticed her air he did not seem to feel it. Carl was already at his knee, and his broad white hand stroked Carl's yellow curls and kept the boy quiet. On one of the fingers of that hand a diamond glittered, and Millicent noticed that the hand, considering that it belonged to a country gentleman and a sportsman, was very white. She thought too, as she had thought before, that if no one could possibly call Mr. Stuart a handsome man, neither could any one honestly call him ugly. He was not old, nor, seeing that he was past thirty, very young. He had a square white forehead, black hair and whiskers, a pair of eyes whose keen, steady light softened wonderfully when he spoke, and a smile which Millicent acknowledged to herself made him look almost handsome.

'Your visit is drawing to a close?' said Mr. Stuart, interrogatively. 'Yes, I go to town next week.' 'We shall be sorry to lose you.' Mr. Stuart had looked at her while he spoke, but afterwards he turned away and stroked Carl's hair absently. Perhaps he thought the faint tinge that had risen over her face was only the reflection of the firelight, or perhaps it was so faint as to be insignificant; anyhow, he looked like a man who had made his first throw and discovered a blank. 'Sir George and Lady Rochelle do not accompany you, I think?'

'My brother takes me to town, of course, but he will not remain. I believe Lady Rochelle is in the nursery. I will let her know you are here.'

She looked towards a crimson tassel which hung near the gentleman's hand, and Mr. Stuart got up, but not to ring the bell. He only required, it seemed, a change of

posture, for he stood with one hand on the mantelpiece, and said curtly, 'Pray don't. I would not disturb her on any account. I came to bid you good-bye.'

Something which Millicent would have scorned to think was disappointment crept over her at the words. There he stood, a stern, strong man, an obscure country squire, over thirty, with not even a handsome face to recommend him; courteous, indeed, but not with the insidious, flattering courtesy to which she was accustomed; a rugged figure enough in all conscience for a foreground, and yet she could not help a little absurd feeling of regret at the thought of saying good-bye to him. It was very odd, it was utterly unaccountable and preposterous. A man who would not even recognize the name of the composer whose new opera was shortly to startle the world into one great diapason of praise; who would probably confuse Meyerbeer with Verdi, and Alboni with Grisi; who sang only simple ballads in a very fair tenor, and knew nothing at all about his own 'register.' Neither would any of the great names of Tyburnia have produced an impression upon him. To all that went on in the world-her worldhe was, she considered, culpably indifferent; what then was there about him which roused her interest in spite of herself? She could not tell. She wondered why, if he had only come to say good-bye, he did not say it and go; why he chose to stand up there instead of sitting down; why there was something about him to-night stranger than usual, something which communicated to her an odd sensation of excitement and apprehension. She began to lose her cool composure and indifference, to tremble a little, to feel a little nervous and uneasy.

'You dislike the country, then,' said Mr. Stuart, in a tone of speculative deliberation. 'You really think that with all its glories of summer sun and winter hearth, it has nothing to offer which you would accept; that an existence in it would be simply insupportable under any circumstances ?

Millicent hesitated. Other glories, dazzling with luxurious appliances, splendid in the whirl that left no time for thought or dulness rose up and hid those simpler ones, but somehow she did not like to tell him so.

'You speak so seriously, Mr. Stuart.'

'I feel serious. I am more serious than ever I was in my life.'

'My brother is happy here,' said Millicent, and his wife too. I suppose if people have homes and home interests and pursuits like theirs, they may be happy in the country.' "Millicent!'

The sudden glow which lighted up his eyes and face as he turned towards her startled Miss Rochelle into a gesture which however would not have stopped him but for another interruption from the noisy lips of Master Carl.

'I shall have a valentine to-morrow,' shouted the boy. And Aunt Milly won't. She said so. She's got nobody to send her valentines, and I have.'

Mr. Stuart caught him by the arm and swung him round.

Your aunt thinks valentines are only for children, eh Carl? And Valentine's Day is vulgar, out of date? Ask her?'

'I told him nothing of the sort,' said Millicent. But of course it is out of date.'

"Nevertheless we will honour it as we do other institutions, for its antiquity. I have an immense respect for it; and the village people think that any enterprise begun on Valentine's Day is certain to be lucky. And now, Miss Rochelle, I will wish you good evening.'

'Good-bye,' responded Millicent. Mr. Stuart heard the emphasis on the words, and smiled. He went away with that half smile still on his lips, and Millicent got up and watched his dark figure as far as she could see it, which was not far. For night was closing in, the bare branches had formed themselves into a solemn black mat against the lead-coloured sky behind, and the rain dripped from them.

What did he mean? Why had he said that one word, and then

broken off so suddenly? And what was he going to do? Above all, what did it signify to her about him and his doings?

She listened to the wind moaning feebly amongst the trees, and the sullen beat of the rain-drops on the stone terrace; and asked herself how it would be possible to drag on such an existence as this, month after month, year after year, as her sisterin-law did.

'No,' said Millicent; 'I couldn't do it; nothing should induce me to do it.'

She was glad when the servants brought in lights and drew the curtains, and Sir George, her brother, came and took her down to dinner, his wife following with Master Carl, who had absolutely refused to go to bed before the dessert appeared.

Even dinner was a little changea little something to do and to talk about. She knew perfectly well that this perpetual dreariness was wrong; that she ought to have been able to occupy herself, as other people did, instead of hankering after the round of gaieties into which she was about to plunge; but knowing a thing to be wrong is very different from knowing how to remedy it, or even wishing to do

So.

And Millicent went to bed that night to dream horrible dreams of being shut up in dismal country houses with stone terraces in front,. and bare melancholy branches, from which rain dropped incessantly.

The

In the morning when she drew aside the curtain all was fair. sun shone, the birds were singing; the great lumbering fog had lifted itself away; and up above her there was the blue sky with tiny flecks of white dancing over it like the petals of a shaken rose. Millicent opened the window and leaned out, confessing to herself that it was very fair. But what of that? To-morrow the fog might come back again; and even if it did not, fine weather was a poor thing for happiness to depend upon.

Clamorous voices reached her ear as she went down stairs; a patter of tiny feet along the hall, rosy lips upturned to kiss her, fat hands