way, Mrs. Collingwood told me a long story about one of her poor parishioners, always an inexhaustible subject with her.  This arrangement left Mrs. Darrell unoccupied; and after standing at one of the open windows looking listlessly out, she sauntered out upon the terrace, her favourite lounge always in this summer weather.  I saw her repass the windows a few minutes afterwards, in earnest conversation with Angus Egerton.  This was some time before the other gentlemen left the dining-room; and they were still walking slowly up and down when Mr. Darrell and the Rector came to the drawing-room.  The storm had not yet come, and it was bright moonlight.  Mr. Darrell went out and brought his wife in, with some gentle reproof on her imprudence in remaining out of doors so late in her thin muslin dress.

After this there came some music.  Augusta Darrell sang some old English ballads which I had never heard her sing before—­simple pathetic melodies, which, I think, brought tears to the eyes of all of us.

Mr. Egerton sat near one of the open windows, with his face in shadow, while she was singing; and as she began the last of these old songs he rose with a half-impatient gesture, and went out upon the terrace.  If I watched him closely, and others in relation to him, at this time, it was from no frivolous or impertinent curiosity, but because I felt very certain that my darling’s happiness was at stake.  I saw her little disappointed look when he remained at the farther end of the room, talking to the gentlemen, all the rest of that evening, instead of contriving by some means to be near her, as he always had done during our pleasant evenings at the Rectory.

CHAPTER IX.

ANGUS EGERTON IS REJECTED.

The expected storm came next day, and Milly and I were caught in it.  We had gone for a ramble across the moor, and were luckily within a short distance of Rebecca Thatcher’s cottage when the first vivid flash broke through the leaden clouds, and the first long peal of thunder came crashing over the open landscape.  We set off for Mrs. Thatcher’s habitation at a run, and arrived there breathless.

The herbalist was not alone.  A tall dark figure stood between us and the little window as we went in, blotting out all the light.

Milly gave a faint cry of surprise; and as the figure turned towards us I recognised Mr. Egerton.

In all our visits among the poor we had never met him before.

‘Caught again, young ladies!’ he cried, laughing; ’you’ve neither of you grown weatherwise yet, I see.  Luckily you’re under cover before the rain has begun.  I think we shall have it pretty heavy presently.  How surprised you look to see me here, Miss Darrell!  Becky is a very old friend of mine.  I remember her ever since I can remember anything.  She was in my grandfather’s service once upon a time.’

’That I was, Mr. Egerton, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you and yours—­for you at least, for there’s none but you left now.  But I suppose you’ll be getting married one of these days; you’re not going to let the old name of Egerton die out?’