If I were given my choice of all the charming residences in the county of Midlandshire, I fancy I should decide in favour of Detwich Hall. To my thinking it is, in every respect, an ideal residence. While sufficiently old to have a history (one of the Charleses spent some days in hiding there), it has proved itself capable of being adapted to modern ideas of comfort. The main portion was built, I believe, toward the close of the reign of the Virgin Queen; a wing was added by the owner who occupied it in the time of the early Georges; while the father of the man who had bequeathed the property to Godfrey, was responsible for the stables, and a somewhat obscure wing on the southern front. It was admirably situated in the centre of a park of some three hundred acres, and was approached by a picturesque drive, about half a mile long, which ran for some distance along the banks of an ornamental lake. On this lake, by the way, some of the finest duck shooting in the county is to be obtained. In his boyhood Godfrey had spent many happy days there, little dreaming that some day it would become his own property. Indeed, it is quite certain it would not have done so had his cousin Wilfred not been killed in India in the performance of a piece of desperate heroism that will be remembered as long as a certain native regiment exists. As for Godfrey, the old man had always liked the boy, but had been bitterly disappointed when he had resolved to embark upon an artistic career instead of playing the part of a country gentleman, as so many of his ancestors had done before him. To have proved himself a capable Master of Hounds would have been in the old bachelor’s eyes a greater distinction than to have painted the finest picture that ever graced the walls of Burlington House. Yet in his heart he knew the power of the young man, and honoured him for the dogged persistence with which he had fought the uphill fight of a painter’s life.

“Well, well, I suppose he’ll come out of it all right in the end,” he was wont to say to himself when he thought of the matter. “He’ll be none the worse for having known a little poverty. I like the boy and he likes me, and, please God, he’ll do his best by the dear old place when he comes into it. I should like to see him in it.”

This, unfortunately, he was not able to do; but could he have heard the universal expression of approbation so lavishly bestowed upon the young master of Detwich when he had been six months in possession he would have felt that his generosity had been rewarded. Indeed, there could be no sort of doubt as to Godfrey’s popularity. He was received by the county with open arms, and by his tenantry with a quiet appreciation that showed they knew how to value the blood that ran in his veins without making a fuss about it. Owing to the short time that had elapsed since his uncle’s death it was necessarily impossible for him to see very much society, but those who partook of his hospitality returned home not only delighted with their host, but also with the quality of their entertainment.

“An acquisition, a decided acquisition,” said old Sir Vivian Devereux, the magnate of the district. “His idea of game preservation is excellent, and he is prepared to support the hunt with the utmost liberality. All he wants to make him perfect is a wife.”

On hearing this Lady Devereux looked at her lord and her lord looked at her. Between them they had a very shrewd idea that they knew where to look for the future mistress of Detwich Hall. Mistress Margaret, their daughter, called by her friends Molly, who had that season made her bow before her Majesty, said nothing, but maybe that was because she did not think there was anything to be said. She had her own ideas on the subject. She had seen the young squire of Detwich, though he had not been aware of the fact, and, being an unaffected, straightforward English girl, without prudery or conceit of any sort, had come to the conclusion that she liked the look of him. Eligible young men were scarce in the neighbourhood, and if she dreamt dreams of her own who shall blame her? Not I, for one.

Three months had passed since Godfrey had escorted Teresina and her mother to the Opera. The summons which had brought him home so hurriedly had, fortunately, proved to be a false alarm. Though his mother had been seriously ill, there had not been so much danger as they had led him to suppose. A month at Torquay had completely restored her to health, and now she was back at Detwich once more, as hale and hearty an old lady as any to be found in the kingdom. Assisted by her youngest daughter, Kitty, she welcomed the wanderer home with every sign of delight.

Godfrey, unlike so many other people, had the good fortune to be as popular in his own family circle as he was out of it, and he and his youngest sister had been on the best of terms from the days when they had gone bird’s-nesting together, until the time when she had assisted him in packing his first picture for the Academy. Since then, however, she had not seen so much of him.

“Kit’s no end of a brick,” he had been heard to say, “and the fellow who marries her may consider himself lucky.”

It was scarcely to be wondered at, therefore, if Miss Devereux and Kitty, living as they did within two miles of each other, should soon have become intimate. They were in the habit of seeing each other several times a week, a fact which Godfrey, from a distance, had felt somewhat inclined to resent.

“When I get home I shall find this girl continually in the house,” he said to himself; and when he did arrive and the many charming qualities of her friend had been explained to him he did not feel any the more disposed to be cordial.

“I can see what it will be,” he said to his sister, “I shall not catch a glimpse of you now.”

“Perhaps you won’t want to when you meet Molly,” was the arch rejoinder. “You have no idea what a pretty girl she is. They say she created a tremendous sensation when she was presented this year. Folks raved about her.”

“The bigger duffers they,” was the uncompromising reply. “You have one fault, my dear girl. Ever since I have known you your swans have invariably turned out to be geese. I fancy I can realize what Miss Devereux will be like.”

“In that case pray describe her,” was the saucy rejoinder, and Miss Kitty made a very pretty losing hazard (they were playing billiards at the time), after which she failed to score and chalked her cue.

Now it seems scarcely fair to say so, but Godfrey, being taken at a disadvantage, fell back on what can be only considered by all honest people a mean device. In describing Miss Devereux he used the almost identical terms used by Fensden when he had attempted to draw a picture of his friend’s future wife.

“You are quite at sea,” said Miss Kitty, patting her dainty shoe with the end of her cue as she spoke. “Some day, if you are not very careful, I will tell Miss Devereux what you have said about her. She would never forgive you the large feet and thick boots.”

“As you are strong be merciful,” said Godfrey, potting the red into the right-hand pocket and going into the left himself. “I don’t mind admitting without prejudice that I am getting anxious to see this paragon. When do you think she will next honour you with her society?”

“On Friday,” Kitty replied. “We have taken up wood-carving together, and she is coming to see some patterns I bought in town last week.”

“In that case we will defer consideration of her merits and demerits — for I suppose she has some — until then,” Godfrey replied, and then once more going into the pocket off the red he announced the game as standing at one hundred to ninety-five.

On the following afternoon he had occasion to drive to the market town. It was a bright, clear day, with a promise of frost in the air, and as his dog-cart rolled along the high road, drawn by a tandem team he had purchased the previous week, he felt as well satisfied with himself and his position in the world as it was possible for a young man to be. His business transacted in the town he turned his horses’ heads homeward once more. The handsome animals, knowing that they were on their way to their stables, stepped out bravely, and many an approving glance was thrown at the good-looking young squire of Detwich by folk upon the road. He had completed upward of half his journey when he became aware that a young lady, who had appeared from a by-road, was making her way in the same direction as himself.

“Whoever she is she certainly sits her horse well,” he said to himself, as he watched her swinging along at a slow canter on the soft side of the road. “I wonder who she can be?”

As soon as the turf gave place to hard metal she pulled her hack up and proceeded at a walk. This very soon brought Godfrey alongside, and as he passed he managed to steal a glance at a very pretty face and as neat a figure as he ever remembered to have seen.

“I wonder who she can be?” he repeated. And as he continued his drive he meditated on the subject.

On the Friday following he was unexpectedly called to town. His solicitors desired an interview with him respecting the purchase of a farm, and he had no option but to comply with their request. As luck would have it, however, he was able to return by a somewhat earlier train than he expected, and was just in time to hear from his butler that afternoon tea had been carried into the drawing-room.

“Are there any visitors?” he inquired.

“Miss Devereux, sir,” said the man; “she came to lunch.”

“I had forgotten that she was to be here to-day,” he said to himself as he crossed the hall in the direction of the drawing-room. “I wonder what she will be like?”

As every one who has visited Detwich is aware, the drawing-room is an exceedingly handsome room. It is long and lofty, if possible a little too long for cosiness. This fault, if fault it be, is amply atoned for, however, by a capitally constructed ingle-nook, in which it was the custom for the ladies to take afternoon tea. Godfrey strolled across the floor to this charming contrivance, little guessing what was in store for him. A lady was sitting with her back to him holding a cup of tea in her hand.

“I don’t think you have met Miss Devereux, Godfrey,” said his sister.

“I have not yet had that pleasure,” he replied. Then to himself he added: “Good gracious! It’s the fair equestrienne.” Then aloud: “I’ve heard a good deal of you from Kitty, Miss Devereux.”

“And I of you,” she answered. “You seem to have been everywhere, and to have seen everything. Doubtless you find this part of the world very dull.”

“Not at all,” he answered. “I am extremely fond of the country, and particularly of that about here.”

If the truth were told I fancy he had never thought much about it until that moment. For the future, however, under a certain magic influence, he was to view it with very different eyes.

“In spite of what some people say,” he continued, “I consider English country scenery charming.”

“And yet it must be very beautiful abroad. Kitty read me one or two of your letters, and from the description you gave of the various places you had visited, I gathered that you thought nothing could be so beautiful on earth.”

“No doubt they are very beautiful,” he answered. “But for my part give me the old-world peace of England. There is certainly nothing like that to be found elsewhere. I would rather stand on the hill yonder and look down the valley in summer-time, than gaze upon the Rhine at Heidelberg, or Naples harbour at daybreak, or visit ancient Phil?| by moonlight.”

What further heresies this young man would have pledged himself to in his enthusiasm I can not say. Fortunately for him, however, the vicar and his wife were announced at that moment, and a distraction was thus caused. Until that moment Miss Kitty had been regarding him with steadfast eyes. Clever beyond all other men, as she considered her brother, she had never seen him come out of his shell like this before. Hitherto he had been rather given to pooh-poohing the country, and had once been known even to assert that “London and Paris were the only two places in which it was possible for a civilized man to live.” What was the reason of this sudden change?

The vicar was a tall man with a pompous air, who looked forward some day to being a bishop, and had already assumed the appearance and manners of one. His wife, on the other hand, was small, and of a somewhat peevish disposition. It was currently reported that the husband and wife spent the greater portion of their time in squabbling, while it was certain that they contradicted each other in public with an openness and frequency that at times was apt to be a little embarrassing.

“Possibly I may have been wrong,” said the vicar, when he had seated himself and had taken a cup of tea from his hostess’s hands, “but did I not hear you extolling the beauties of a country life as I entered the room, Mr. Henderson?”

He put the question as if it were one of world-wide importance, which, answered carelessly, might involve great international complications. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued: “For my part, while admitting that a country life is possessed of many charms, with which the Metropolis can not compare, I must go on to say that there is a breadth, if I may so express it, in London life that is quite lacking outside.”

His wife saw her opportunity, and, as was her habit, was quick to take advantage of it.

“You have never had any experience of London life, William, so how can you possibly tell?” she said, sharply.

“My dear, I venture to say that it is a generally admitted fact,” her husband replied.

“Generally admitted facts are as often as not rubbish,” retorted the lady with some asperity. “What I say is, let a man do his duty wherever he is, and make the best of what he’s got, without grumbling.”

There was an unmistakable innuendo in this speech, and for a moment an awkward silence ensued.

“I hear you have built a new conservatory, Mr. Henderson?” said Miss Devereux, as if to change the subject.

“It is just completed,” said Godfrey. “Would you care to see it?”

A general desire to inspect this new wonder having been expressed, Godfrey led the way from the room, contriving, when all had passed out, to take up his position beside their youngest visitor.

“Will you take pity upon a stranger in the land?” he said, “and give me some information?”

“What can I tell you?” she asked.

He glanced at the vicar and his wife, who were some little distance in front.

“Do they always squabble like this?” he inquired.

“Yes, invariably,” she replied. “We are used to it, but strangers are apt to find it embarrassing. I really believe the habit of squabbling has grown upon them until they have become so accustomed to it that they do not notice it. By the way, Mr. Henderson, there is one question of vital importance I must decide with you. Are you going to hunt?”

As a matter of fact Godfrey had made up his mind to do so occasionally, but now, remembering that Miss Devereux possessed the reputation of a second Diana, he spoke as if it were the hunting that had mainly induced him to live in Midlandshire. He registered a vow that he would purchase a stud immediately, and that he would look upon missing a run as a sin that could only be expurgated by religiously attending the next.

By this time they had reached the new conservatory, which adjoined the studio Godfrey had built for himself. It was a handsome building, and gave a distinction to that side of the house which it certainly had lacked before.

“Admirable, admirable,” said the vicar, complacently. “It reminds me of the palm-house at Kew.”

“It is twenty years since you were at Kew, William; how can you possibly remember what the palm-house is like?” retorted his wife.

“My dear, I have always been noted for the excellence of my memory,” the vicar replied. “I assure you I have the most vivid recollection of the house in question.”

“You mislaid your spectacles this morning, and if I hadn’t seen you put them in your pocket you would never have thought of looking for them there,” said his wife, to whom this fact appeared to be relative to the matter at issue.

From the conservatory to the studio was a natural transition, and the latest work upon the easel was duly inspected and admired.

“I remember your picture in the Academy last year, Mr. Henderson,” said Miss Devereux. “I can assure you that it brought the tears into my eyes.”

“It is very kind of you to say so,” he said, feeling that no compliment that had ever been paid him was so much worth having.

Then a luminous idea occurred to him.

“I wonder if, some day, you would let me paint you a little picture?” he asked, almost timidly.

“I really could not think of such a thing,” his companion replied. “Your time is too valuable to be wasted in that way.”

“I shall paint one, nevertheless,” he replied. “In return, perhaps, you will instruct me in the ways of the Midlandshire hunt?”

“I shall be delighted,” she answered. “You must make Kitty come too.”

Godfrey promised to do so, but for once in his life he was ungallant enough to think that he could dispense with his sister’s society. Presently Miss Devereux’s cart was announced and Kitty and Godfrey accompanied her to the front door. She kissed Kitty and then held out her hand to Godfrey.

“Good-bye, Mr. Henderson,” she said. “Remember that the hounds meet at Spinkley Grove on Thursday, at eleven o’clock, when you will be permitted an opportunity of making the acquaintance of the Master and the Hunt.”

“I shall be there without fail,” he answered, as he helped her into the cart and arranged her rug for her. She thereupon nodded to the groom, who left the ponies’ heads and jumped on to the step behind as the cart passed him, with an adroitness that was the outcome of long practice. A moment later the vehicle had turned the corner of the drive and was lost to view.

“Well?” said Kitty as they turned to go in.

“Well,” Godfrey replied.

“You like her?”

“Very much indeed,” he answered, and as they passed down the hall together he made an important decision to himself. “Provided she will have me,” he said, “I think I have found my wife.”