to ask for his man, do his business, and get back as soon as possible.

Imagining that the building he had already seen was merely a farmhouse, he was surprised to find that he had jumped to another blunder. This two-storied house with the wide mullioned windows, the leaded lattices, the irregular gables, the round rough cast chimneys, the trained creepers, the trim garden, was no farmhouse, or if it were, it was something more.

He decided at once that he could not possibly intrude, yet even at the moment of decision, the door opened, and a tall, fair young man came out, and looked around him, evidently to see what had happened to the storm.

In a moment Purcell guessed that this was the man of his search, especially as he noticed King's colors in his tie. So he came forward and raised his cap.

Réné, seeing a drenched pedestrian struggling with a bicycle, also stepped forward.

"I beg your pardon, but my name is Purcell. I have come with a message from my uncle to Mr. de Renegil, and I was told

"Oh, how do you do?" said the other, holding out his hand; "do come in, please. What a terrible storm this has been!"

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Delightful, rather! But if I might just give my message. Really, I am not fit for anywhere-but possibly a kitchen or a stable!" and he laughed.

"Oh, nonsense! My aunt will only be delighted. You must come in, and I'll send some one to look after your bicycle."

The welcome was so cordial, and the young man seemed so thoroughly at home, that Purcell could not resist the adventure, and being, as Kit observed, a cool hand, he determined to make the best of the situation.

He was, however, somewhat outfaced to find that the porch ushered him directly into a kind of hall sittingroom, where he caught a quick impression of blueflagged floor, Turkish mats, old oak, weapons, shields, antlers, and a highly polished oak table, on which was laid a dainty tea which three ladies and a small boy were evidently enjoying.

He had stooped under the doorway, and stood to his full height.

"This is Mr. Purcell, Aunt Maud," said Réné, bringing his guest forward. "The nephew of Mr. Purcell, whom I want to give me the lessons, you know. Mr. Purcell, Lady de Renegil-my cousin, Miss de Renegil -my sister and last and least, my cousin, Sir Bobbie."

CHAPTER XXX

THE ladies bowed, and Bobbie, a small boy of about six, rose from a low stool by his mother, and held out his hand cheerfully.

Purcell's apologies were promptly dismissed by Lady de Renegil.

"Oh, not a word, please, Mr. Purcell, on our account! We are used to all kinds of weather effects here; but I am certain you ought not to remain a moment in those wet clothes. What can you suggest, Réné?"

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'Why, he can put on Cousin Réné's flannels, which he keeps in my bottom drawer!" said Bobbie, as he stood with his back against the table, surveying the stranger from head to foot with exceeding interest.

"You're bigger than he is, Cousin Réné-but you're not so fat!"

They laughed, and Purcell, who had never considered himself as verging on stoutness, received an unexpected shock; but Réné, to prevent more personalities, carried his new friend off, remarking that he always did keep a rig out at this house in case of emergencies.

"I hardly know myself as a King's man!" said Purcell, as, clean and comfortable, he surveyed his tie and blazer. "I was a black and yellow Clare man—dear old Clare!"

"Did you enjoy Cambridge?”

“I did—but I enjoy India more! Cambridge is all very well. Much preparation for much that never comes

off. It may be necessary, and good for one, but I prefer the real active service. It pulls you to pieces, but it discovers yourself to yourself!"

Réné was immediately interested, and before they came down-stairs the men had become almost intimate. The older one considered that this fair-haired, intelligent young man could not but please his uncle, and, with quick insight into character learned in his years of studying men and manners, he already foresaw the old seer and the young disciple fascinating each other in their enthusiasm over the picturesque old languages; and Réné, looking up at this dark-complexioned man who had seen the world, and actually controlled some of its forces, liked him thoroughly on the spot, which was a very long length for Réné to go.

"What an age you have been!" said Joan, as at last they appeared. "You hardly deserve this nice, fresh tea, and-oh! the scones-fancy forgetting the scones!"

She ran out of the room, and returned with a large plate of hot scones, which she handed round, coming last to her cousin.

"There, Réné. I made them this morning for you, and I only hope you will appreciate them! I couldn't let you come to tea for the first time without hot scones!"

"You will make Mr. Purcell think, Joan, that I view life as consisting in hot scones!" and Réné laughed happily.

"If Mr. Purcell knows anything of life, I am sure he will admit that happiness depends vastly on what one eats!" she retorted.

"I rather agree, Miss de Renegil! Even a thunderstorm drenching sinks into unimportance under the influence of tea-and scones!"

"As an old woman near here says, 'Eye, Miss Joan,

gie me me meals reggila, and then it don't mek mitch odds what comes!'"

"Oh, Joan!" ejaculated Bridget, under her breath.

So over the teacups they grew friendly, and Joan especially, glorying in the delights of having Réné home once more, discoursed as was her wont.

From a complete outsider's point of view, Purcell took his impressions.

He fell in love instantly with Lady de Renegil. She was dressed in simple mourning, and he concluded that she could not be much over forty. She seemed to treat her daughter and little boy more as if she were their elder sister than their mother.

Joan, the tall, dark girl, amused him at once. Yet he wondered that mother and daughter could be so utterly unlike. “She seems half a boy!" he thought as she ran in and out restlessly. But what large, dark eyes she had, and what a comical twist in her mouth. Her plentiful hair added to her distinguished appearance, though he had to look several times before he could satisfy himself that he was right as to the strand of white that curled to one side of the brow, and ran over the top of the head, and reappeared in the coils behind. Perhaps the white strand had something to do with the scar which he could trace distinctly when she puckered her forehead.

Sir Bobbie, as his cousin Réné invariably called him, was a strong, sturdy boy, very like his sister; evidently the pet of his mother, whose motions he watched, and upon whom he waited with great assiduity.

But it was when he looked across at the girl whom Réné had introduced as " My sister," that his heart failed him.

As the conversation passed from one to another, he found himself looking at her with increasing interest.