“We are going; to ‘fix up a prance’ after the garrison sleigh drive on the 10th,” continued young Vavasour; “will you come my sleigh, Miss Leigh?”

Bluebell’s face brightened with anticipation; then she looked down, and demurred,—­“I don’t know that I shall be able to go.”

“That’s only a put off, I am sure; you came out last garrison sleigh-drive.”

“Yes, because Colonel Rolleston took me in his, but I mustn’t expect to go every time; and you see there’s Freddy; but I should like it awfully, Mr. Vavasour.”

“Well, I know they will make you come,” said he confidently.  “Promise me you won’t drive with any other fellow.”

“No fear of that; I don’t suppose any one else will ask me.”

“Wouldn’t they,” thought Vavasour.  “I know two or three of our fellows are death on driving her.”

“Cecil,” said Bertie, suddenly, “I think you have grown much quieter.”

“I am sure I might make the same remark, and for the purposes of conversation it requires two to talk.”

“You are so stiff, or something,” murmured he; “not like the jolly little girl who used to ride with me in the Farwoods.  Those were pleasant days, Cecil—­at least, I thought so.”

“You got very suddenly tired of them, however.”

“That I didn’t,” exclaimed he.  “I was obliged to go.”

“It was a yachting excursion, wasn’t it?” carelessly.

“Yes, ostensibly; I had business too.  Do you know Cecil very nearly wrote to you.  But then, I thought you wouldn’t care to hear from me, and might think it a bore answering.”

Cecil was silent.  “Did you miss me, my child?”

She forgot her resolves, and met his eyes with a dark, soft look.

Bertie pressed her hand under the table, and for a moment they were oblivious of anything passing around.

“Sweet or dry, sir?” said the deep voice of the liveried [unreadable], for the second time of asking.

Du Meresq darted a searching glance at the man, who looked as stolid as the Serjeant in ‘Our’s.’  No one could have guessed he was thinking what a piquante anecdote it would be to relate to his inamorata, the cook, over their supper-beer.  Bertie gave a laughing but relieved glance at his neighbour, whose eyes were fixed on her plate.  They both began simultaneously talking louder, with an exaggerated openness, on general topics.  Mrs. Rolleston joined in.

“You must stay over the sleighing-party, Bertie.”

“I hate driving a hired sleigh,” said he.  “I wish I could get mine up; but the Grand Trunk would be sure to deliver it the day after the fair.”

“But you have your musk-ox robes here; they would dress up the shabbiest sleigh.  I only saw one set like them on New Year’s Day, when we had at least sixty sleighs up here.”

“How did you enjoy that celebration?”