CHAPTER V.

THE afternoon sun was shining peacefully upon the thatched roofs of Malbourne, on the dark gray spire of its tree-girdled church, and on the southwest front of Malbourne Rectory. At one of the sun-lighted windows sat Lilian Maitland, busily writing, her face directed to the prospect without, which she occasionally looked upon in her thoughtful pauses.

The lawn sloped quickly from the windows to a road which was concealed by trees, and beyond which rose the park-like grounds of Northover House in such a manner as to appear but a continuation of the Rectory grounds. Somewhere down in the hollow by the road there danced and murmured the bright little stream which gave its name to Malbourne, and which Lilian knew was sparkling gayly now in the sunshine, as it washed the drooping hart's-tongue waving from its mossy bank. Beyond the cluster of village roofs on the right spread a range of flat, windy fields to the unseen sea. Behind the Rectory, and on the left of Lilian's window, rose the bleak chalk downs, strong barriers against the wild salt winds which swept over those regions summer and winter from the

sea.

Mark Antony, the cat, sat demurely on the table by the blottingbook, thoughtfully scanning the sunny landscape, and pretending not to see the pert little robin on the lawn, while he occasionally appealed to Lilian's sympathies by rubbing his velvet head against her cheek, or giving her a dainty little bite, which he had copied from his human friends, under the impression that it was a kiss. In a low chair, between the table and the fire, sat a very pretty, slender girl, toying with a piece of fancy work, but really intent upon trying to win a glance or responsive purr from Mark Antony, who regarded all her efforts with haughty indifference, and continued to evolve his philosophy of the visible universe unmoved.

"He is so tantalizing!" she cried, throwing away her work with a pretty pettish gesture. "If he would only once show some deference to me, I should not care. Puss, puss, I say! Come to me at once, sir!"

"He thoroughly understands the secret of his own supremacy, Marion," replied Lilian, coming to the end of her writing, and softly stroking the animal's snow-white breast. "He knows as well as

you do that you would think nothing of his caresses if he lavished them unasked."

"Selfish, hateful animal! "

"He is not selfish," replied Lilian; "he is a profound student of human nature. He has discovered that the deepest joy a human being can taste is to love disinterestedly. He therefore offers mankind this enjoyment by permitting them to adore him at a distance. Dogs afford a far lower enjoyment-that of being loved."

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Dogs are right," said Marion, her brown eyes softening in a wistful gaze; 66 the happiest thing is to be loved, I should die if people didn't love me. I almost hated Cyril when I thought, in that dreadful time last spring, that he didn't care for me.”

"It is delicious to be loved," rejoined Lilian, "but to love is best. How happy Henry is in his affection for you! You are the dearest thing in the world to him, and yet I think you care little comparatively for him; you even prefer your brother Leslie, who is always too busy with sport and gayeties to write to you."

"Well, it is different," replied Marion. "Henry is so full of learning that he seems older than Leslie, who is the darling of his regiment and so full of life. And then, Henry is not engaged. I am sure he has never cared for any girl, and will die an old bachelor. Of course, he cares much more for me than I care for him. And he is so devoted to Cyril."

"I think," said Lilian, pressing her cheek against her pet's glossy fur, "that neither of you know the real worth of Henry."

"Oh, he is the best old fellow in the world, but not clever and handsome like Cyril, and without the dash of Leslie. By the way, I suppose those bad boys will be here to-night."

"No doubt they will turn up some time, unless something serious detains them, in which case they will telegraph. Cyll has promised to preach to-morrow. Are you quite sure, Marion, that he did not mention his train? He always likes me to meet him at Oldport." "He said he would write later to name the train. I suppose he forgot."

"He does forget now, Marion, as he never used to. He is killing himself in that dreadful parish. Oh, I shall be so thankful when you are married! There will be a perfect holiday to begin with, and then you will keep him within reasonable bounds."

Marion laughed.

the parish," she said.

"He will have to take care of me as well as

"But what is this?"

"This" proved to be merely Eliza, the parlor-maid, who entered with her usual unmoved countenance.

"It is only Stevens, Miss Lilian," she said. please step down to the forge at once?"

"And could you

"The forge!" exclaimed Marion, with wide eyes of astonishment.

"What is the matter there, Eliza?" asked Lilian, tranquilly.

"Only Hotspur, Mr. Ingram's horse, miss. They've been trying this hour to get him shod. Straun says he wouldn't touch him for a hundred pounds."

"But what has the parish clerk to do with shoeing horses?" exclaimed the bewildered Marion.

"Or the parson's daughter?" added Lilian, laughing. "Why, nothing is done in the village without Stevens, Marion. He and Grandfer together are the oracles of Malbourne. No, you shall not come with me; you would be frightened to death. Go and see if mother wants anything. She will be waking now."

"Oh, I say, Lilian!" cried a little voice, as Lennie burst in, rosy and excited, "do come along. Such larks! Hotspur has kicked a cart to atoms, and now he is letting fly in all directions, and is killing Judkins, and there's Stevens stamping at the back door, and the whole village with its hair on end."

Hyperbole is Lennie's favorite figure," commented Lilian, going out into the hall and taking her hat and jacket. "Run on, Lennie, and say I am just coming. Matter? Oh, my dearest Marion, nothing! Only that Ingram Swaynestone spoils his horses' tempers, and then is surprised that his servants can't manage them."

In another minute Lilian had passed with quick, light step and erect carriage down the drive, and along the village high-road, bordered with its little gardens, in which one or two belated autumn flowers still made a brave show against the wintry rigor. She went quickly, but without hurry, and found time on the way to ́give some directions about the church to the clerk, a lean, rugged figure, stooping slightly beneath the fardel of some fifty winters, and crowned with a shock of grizzled red hair, who walked and talked excitedly at her side.

Soon she saw the forge, from the black heart of which streamed a ruddy glow, looking lurid in contrast with the sunshine, and round which was grouped a dense little crowd of women and children, with a few men. Straun, the smith, a burly, grimy, bare

armed figure in a leathern apron, stood in an attitude of defiant despair, one strong hand grasping his great hammer, which he had flung on the anvil, and calling silently on Heaven to witness that he was ready to shoe Christian horses, however rampant, but not demons, hippogriffs, or any such uncanny monsters. Near him, looking rather pale, but resolute, as became one superior to the weaker emotions, an old, bent, withered man, with shrewd gray eyes and pursed-up mouth, stood leaning forward on a stout oaken stick, and shook his head as one who despaired of finding virtue in these degenerate days in either man or beast.

“And I zays, as I zed afore,” he repeated, emphasizing his words with the stick, which he dug into the ground with all the force of his two withered hands, "zend for Miss Lilian-zend for she!"

"Lard love 'ee, Granfer," observed a stout fellow in a smockfrock, who stood inside the forge in attendance on a couple of massive, glossy-coated cart-horses, who were cozily munching some hay dropped before them, and contemplating the proceedings lazily with their great soft winking eyes," where's the use of a gal?" a proposition received by Granfer and the assembled village with silent

scorn.

The center of the excited little crowd, which occasionally burst asunder and flew outward with a wild mingling of women's and children's shrieks-for the men skurried off with a silent celerity that was all the more effectual-was a beautiful chestnut horse, not standing, according to the comfortable and decent wont of horses, on four firmly-planted feet, but outraging people's belief in the stability of natural laws by rearing himself wildly and insecurely on his two hind legs, and dangling from his mouth in mid-air a miserable white-faced biped in sleeved waistcoat and gaiters, whose cap had fallen off and whose damp hair streamed as wildly as Hotspur's own frenetic mane and quivering tail. Tired of this folly, with his ears laid back, his nostrils wide and red, and his eyes showing nothing but the whites, Hotspur would suddenly drop his victim to his native earth, and, plunging forward on his other end, as if intent on turning a somerset, would throw his hind hoofs up toward the sky in a manner most alarming to those who enjoyed a near view of the proceedings; and then, wearying of this, he would dance round on all four legs at once in a manner utterly bewildering to contemplate.

"Why, Hotspur," cried Lilian, in her clear, mellow voice, as she

stepped quickly through the crowd just as Hotspur dropped the unfortunate groom to the ground, and prepared to turn himself the other way up, "what is this, old fellow?" and she caught the rein from the groom's hand, pushing the latter gently away, and laid her slender, strong white hand firmly upon the quivering neck of the maddened, plunging horse. "Fie, Hotspur, fie!"

No one had observed Lilian's approach, and when she appeared as if dropped from the skies in the groom's place, a sudden quiet pervaded every human face and limb, the crowd fell back, and all looked on, save the skeptic with the cart-horses, with an air of tranquil expectancy; while Lilian, without a trace of anxiety or agitation, talked in caressing, reproving tones to the ill-conducted steed, whose limbs had quivered into some approach to quiet at the first touch of the slender, spirit-like hand on his neck.

But even Lilian's magic touch could not expel the demon of passion at once from the maddened creature. He still reared and plunged and danced, in a manner that led the spectators to give him plenty of room for his evolutions; but he became gradually quieter, until he stood as Providence intended horses should stand, on all four feet at once, and only betrayed the internal workings of his outraged feelings by the quivering of his limbs and body, the workings of his ears and eyes, and the redness of his wide nostrils, while Lilian's musical voice never ceased its low monologue of soothing and reproach, and her hand never left stroking and patting his shining neck and shoulders. At Hotspur's first backward rear, indeed, her hand left him perforce, and she only avoided being hoisted in mid-air like the luckless groom by giving him a long rein, and stepping quickly back out of the way of his formidable forefeet.

This was an ugly moment, and a woman in the crowd uttered an exclamation of dismay, and turned pale at the sight of the girl beneath the rearing horse, though no one else betrayed the least emotion, not even the skeptic in the smock-frock, whose mouth was too widely opened in astonishment to leave room for his features to express any other feeling; but Hotspur, finding that Lilian did not balk him of his dance on his hind legs, soon desisted from that uncomfortable performance, and yielded, as his betters frequently did, gradually to the soothing charm of her voice and touch, until he became, figuratively speaking, clothed and in his right mind. She found fault with Hotspur's bit, and pointed out the undue