“What nonsense is this?” was Mrs. Meredith’s anything but encouraging exclamation.  Then she read out—­

“’T is unworthy of you, and of your acceptance, but ’t is the fairest gift I could think of, and the best that I could do.  If you will but put it in the frame you have, it may seem more befitting a token of the feelings that inspired it.”

Janice, unable to restrain her curiosity, rose and peered over her mother’s shoulder.  From that vantage point she ejaculated, “Oh, how beautiful she is!”

What she looked at was an unset miniature of a young girl, with a wealth of darkest brown hair, powdered to a gray, and a little straight nose with just a suggestion of a tilt to it, giving the mignon face an expression of pride that the rest of the countenance by no means aided.  For the remaining features, the mouth was still that of a child, the short upper lip projecting markedly over the nether one, producing not so much a pouty look as one of innocence; the eyes were brilliant black, or at least were shadowed to look it by the long lashes, and the black eyebrows were slender and delicately arched upon a low forehead.

“Art a nizey, Janice,” cried her mother, “not to know thine own face?”

“Mommy!” exclaimed the girl.  “Is—­am I as pretty as that?”

“’T is vastly flattered,” said her mother, quickly.  “I should scarce know it.”

“Nay, Matilda,” dissented the squire, who was now also gazing at the miniature. “’T is a good phiz of our lass, and but does her justice.  Who ever sent it ye, Jan?”

“I suppose ’t was Mr. Evatt,” confessed Janice.

“Let’s have sight of the wrapper,” said the father.  “Nay, Jan.  This has been in no post-rider’s bag or ’t would bear the marks.”

“Peg, tell Charles to come here,” ordered Mrs. Meredith, and after a five minutes spent by the group in various surmises, the bond-servant, followed by the still attentive Peg, entered the room.

“Didst find this letter at the tavern?” demanded the squire.

The groom looked at the wrapper held out to him, and replied, “Mayhaps.”

“And what took ye there against my orders?”

Charles shrugged his shoulders, and then smiled.  “Ask
Hennion,” he said.

“What means he, Phil?” questioned the squire.

“Now you’ve been an’ told the whole thing,” exclaimed
Philemon, looking very much alarmed.

“Not I,” replied the servant. “’T is for you to tell it, man, if ’t is to be told.”

“Have done with such mingle-mangle talk,” ordered Mr. Meredith, fretfully.  “Is ’t not enough to have French gibberish in the world, without—­”

“Charles,” interrupted Mrs. Meredith, “who gave thee this letter?”

“Ask Miss Meredith,” Fownes responded, again smiling.

“It must be Mr. Evatt,” said Janice.  Then as the bond-servant turned sharply and looked at her, she became conscious that she was colouring.  “I wish there was no such thing as a blush,” she moaned to herself,—­a wish in which no one seeing Miss Meredith would have joined.