the bull; cutting him out by telegraph by just five minutes.  The latter had examined the bull in the island and had passed on to Paris, not suspecting there would be haste to sell him.  Beauchamp, seeing the bull advertized, took him on trust, galloped to the nearest telegraph station forthwith, and so obtained possession of him; and the bull was now shipped on the voyage.  But for this precious bull, however, and other business, he would have been able to spend almost the entire month with Dr. Shrapnel, he said regretfully.  Miss Denham on the contrary did not regret his active occupation.  The story of his rush from the breakfast-table to the stables, and gallop away to the station, while the American Quaker gentleman soberly paced down a street in Paris on the same errand, in invisible rivalry, touched her risible fancy.  She was especially pleased to think of him living in harmony with his uncle—­that strange, lofty, powerful man, who by plot or by violence punished opposition to his will, but who must be kind at heart, as well as forethoughtful of his nephew’s good; the assurance of it being, that when the conflict was at an end he had immediately installed him as manager of one of his estates, to give his energy play and make him practically useful.

The day before she left home was passed by the three in botanizing, some miles distant from Bevisham, over sand country, marsh and meadow; Dr. Shrapnel, deep in the science, on one side of her, and Beauchamp, requiring instruction in the names and properties of every plant and simple, on the other.  It was a day of summer sweetness, gentle laughter, conversation, and the happiest homeliness.  The politicians uttered barely a syllable of politics.  The dinner basket was emptied heartily to make way for herb and flower, and at night the expedition homeward was crowned with stars along a road refreshed by mid-day thunder-showers and smelling of the rain in the dust, past meadows keenly scenting, gardens giving out their innermost balm and odour.  Late at night they drank tea in Jenny’s own garden.  They separated a little after two in the morning, when the faded Western light still lay warm on a bow of sky, and on the level of the East it quickened.  Jenny felt sure she should long for that yesterday when she was among foreign scenes, even among high Alps-those mysterious eminences which seemed in her imagination to know of heaven and have the dawn of a new life for her beyond their peaks.

Her last words when stepping into the railway carriage were to Beauchamp:  ‘Will you take care of him?’ She flung her arms round Dr. Shrapnel’s neck, and gazed at him under troubled eyelids which seemed to be passing in review every vision of possible harm that might come to him during her absence; and so she continued gazing, and at no one but Dr. Shrapnel until the bend of the line cut him from her sight.  Beauchamp was a very secondary person on that occasion, and he was unused to being so in the society of women—­unused to find himself entirely eclipsed by their interest in another.  He speculated on it, wondering at her concentrated fervency; for he had not supposed her to possess much warmth.