are going to lead a decent life for the future. In the second place, mind what you are about with old Trenchard, who seems to have got you under his thumb, and who

"He has been the best of friends to me," interrupted Nigel warmly.

"I don't know so much about that; the proof of the pudding is in the eating. What I do know is that he has contrived to ingratiate himself with your tenants and to make some of them dislike you."

"You are quite mistaken; it was I who unfortunately made some of them dislike me."

"Yes, by following his instructions. I may be prejudiced, but it strikes me that he is an uncommonly cunning old fox, and I shouldn't be inclined to trust him a yard farther than I could see him."

"I know you don't like him," said Nigel. "I do, and I should be very ungrateful if I didn't; though I confess that he put my back up a short time ago by preaching to me. I thought he might have understood that if my own conscience and my own priests couldn't hold me in, his rebukes weren't likely to do much good. Well-anything more?"

"I am in danger of coming under the same condemnation as old Trenchard, I'm afraid; but I'll risk it and say one thing more. Don't keep your eyes so persistently turned upon yourself. People who get into that habit naturally contract a squint, which prevents them from getting a clear view of their neighbours. There!-now I've done."

"And you haven't offended me," said Nigel. What you say about introspection is true enough; I am too much given that way, no doubt. As for the first part of your advice, I am going to act upon it; though not with the object that you name. What will become of

me ultimately I can't foresee; but I think you may take it as certain now that I shall never marry."

"I am glad to say," returned Cuthbert, "that I look forward confidently to seeing you married to Miss Ferrand before you are much older.

Now, if you haven't

anything better to do, we might stroll round to my club

and have a smoke."

CHAPTER XV

SLEIGHS AND SNOW-SHOES

HE climate of these islands, in addition to providing their inhabitants with a topic of never-failing interest, has perhaps played a more important part in the formation of the national character than is generally realised. All sorts of things may be said against us (the number and the somewhat startling nature of them may be gathered any day from a perusal of the leading foreign newspapers); but it will be admitted by our least benevolent critics that we do take defeat pretty well, and this is probably because we are so accustomed to being totally defeated by the weather. Farmers, market-gardeners, sportsmen, our hopes are for ever being wrecked at the last moment, and we grumble, upon the whole, wonderfully little. Those who make the most fuss are always dwellers in cities, who suffer least. Cuthbert Gretton, although an involuntary Londoner, had been born and bred in the country, and doubtless that was why all he said, after seating himself in the Great Northern express which was to take him to Yorkshire for his Christmas holiday and noting the first small flakes of snow which evidently presaged a heavy fall, was What a bore!" It was the more of a bore because the snow was accompanied by a frost which was certain to strengthen towards night and because Uncle Robert, in one of those generous moods which

were apt to come upon him at the most unexpected moments, had purchased a hunter as a Christmas present for his nephew. Little prospect was there now of being able to test the value of the gift, while there was a very fair chance of its being withdrawn; for Robert Scarth hated to waste money.

Cuthbert, however, lighted his pipe philosophically, unfolded a newspaper, which he did not read, and gave himself up to meditations which were not altogether gloomy, despite the black sky and the bitter cold. He had always had a good time at Knaresby in winter, and he looked forward to a good time now, even though hunting should prove impossible. What he no longer looked forward to with any pleasure was the resumption of his intimacy with Ethel Dallison. It had taken him some little time to make up his mind about that young lady, and for a moment his heart had been in peril; but what he had seen and heard during the summer, supplemented by Nigel's narrative, had sufficed to enlighten him. He did not want to have anything more to do with her, and he was determined that he would have no more to do with her than he could help. In that way perhaps he might hope to escape Bessie's unremitting, unrelenting chaff, which, he had found, became rather trying to the temper in the long run.

Once upon a time, when they were both children, Bessie and he had exchanged vows of eternal fidelity. He remembered the circumstance very well, although she had no doubt forgotten it, and he could imagine how heartily she would laugh, were she to be informed that he still treasured a lock of hair which she had bestowed upon him in that callow period. Well, one cherishes these absurd, inanimate objects out of a sort of sentiment for the past and a futile clinging to what is dead and gone. Between Cuthbert and his cousin

there survived hardly so much as a friendly feeling; but that, as he said to himself, was wholly and solely her fault. The meekest and most goodhumoured of men ends by getting tired of being always snubbed, always turned into ridicule, always reminded of his insignificance.

He sighed, lighted a second pipe and glanced at his paper, from which he learned, amongst other interesting announcements, that "Lord Lannowe, who, with his daughter the Hon: Monica Ferrand, has been visiting the Duke and Duchess of Leith, has returned to Lannowe, where he will entertain a small party for Christmas. There is, we are assured, no foundation for the report which has been circulated of an engagement between Miss Ferrand and Mr. Nigel Scarth of Rixmouth Castle, the young man who, not very long ago, quitted a monastery in order to become a large landed proprietor."

"I suppose," mused Cuthbert, "that means that it is coming on again; when reports are contradicted in the newspapers one generally understands that they are only premature. Well, so much the better. Nigel has eaten humble pie and has been forgiven, I trust."

He had neither seen nor heard anything of his friend since the evening when they had dined together; but then he had really been very busy. Perhaps he found Nigel's affairs less engrossing as a subject of reflection than those with which he had previously been occupied ; for he soon fell asleep, and did not wake until he reached York, where he had to change carriages. Then, just as he was stepping into the slower train which was bound for his destination, he was smartly tapped on the back by a young lady, wrapped in furs, who remarked:

"Nice hunting weather, isn't it? It's just about all