Over his stiff collar Lord Saint Sinnes looks down at her--with something of the deep intuition which makes him the finest steeplechaser in England. Perhaps he notes the quiver of the lip, the sinews drawn tense about her throat. Such silent signals of distress are his business. Certainly he notes the little shiver of abject fear which pa.s.ses through the girl's slight form as they pa.s.s out of the room together. Their departure is noted by several persons--mostly _chaperons_.

"He must do it to-night," murmurs the girl's mother with a complacent smile on her worldly, cruel face, "and then Mabel will soon see that--the other--was all a mistake."

Some mothers believe such worn-out theories as this--and others--are merely heartless.

Lord Saint Sinnes leads the way deliberately to the most secluded part of the garden. There are two chairs at the end of a narrow pathway. Mabel sits down hopelessly. She is a quiet-eyed little girl, with brown hair and gentle ways. Just--in a word--the sort of girl who usually engages the affections of blushing, open-air, horsey men.

She has no spirit, and those who know her mother are not surprised.

She is going to say yes, because she dare not say no. At least two lives are going to be wrecked at the end of the narrow path.

Lord Saint Sinnes sits down at her side and contemplates his pointed toes. Then he looks at her--his clean-shaven face very grave--with the eye of the steeplechase rider.

"Miss Maddison"--jerk of the chin and pull at collar--"you're in a ghastly fright."

Miss Maddison draws in a sudden breath, like a sob, and looks at her lacework handkerchief.

"You think I'm going to ask you to marry me?"

Still no answer. The stiff collar gleams in the light of a Chinese lantern. Lord Saint Sinnes's linen is a matter of proverb.

"But I'm not. I'm not such a cad as that."

The girl raises her head, as if she hears a far-off sound.

"I know that old worn----. I daresay I would give great satisfaction to some people if I did! But ... I can't help that."

Mabel is bending forward, hiding her face. A tear falls on her silk dress with a little dull flop. Young Saint Sinnes looks at her--almost as if he were going to take her in his arms. Then he shuts his upper teeth over his lower lip, hard--just as he does when riding at the water jump.

"A fellow mayn't be much to look at," he says, gruffly, "but he can ride straight, for all that."

Mabel half turns her head, and he has the satisfaction of concluding that she has no fault to find with his riding.

"Of course," he says, abruptly, "there is s'm' other fellow?"

After a pause, Miss Maddison nods.

"Miss Maddison," says Lord Saint Sinnes, rising and jerking his knees back after the manner of horsey persons, "you can go back into that room and take your Bible oath that I never asked you to marry me."

Mabel rises also. She wants to say something, but there is a lump in her throat.

"Some people," he goes on, "will say that you bungled it, others that I behaved abominably, but--but we know better, eh?"

He offers his arm, and they walk toward the house.

Suddenly he stops, and fidgets in his collar.

"Don't trouble about me," he says, simply. "I shan't marry anyone else--I couldn't do that--but--but I didn't suspect until to-night, y'know, that there was another man, and a chap must ride straight, you know."

H. S. M.

WOMEN AND WORK.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

"Always a hindrance, are we? You didn't think that of old; With never a han' to help a man, and only a tongue to scold?

Timid as hares in danger--weak as a lamb in strife, With never a heart to bear a part in the rattle and battle of life!

Just fit to see to the children and manage the home affairs, With only a head for b.u.t.ter and bread, a soul for tables and chairs?

Where would you be to-morrow if half of the lie were true?

It's well some women are weak at heart, if only for saving you.

"We haven't much time to be merry who marry a struggling man, Making and mending and saving and spending, and doing the best we can.

Skimming and scamming and plotting and planning, and making the done for do, Grinding the mill with the old grist still and turning the old into new; Picking and paring and shaving and sharing, and when not enough for us all, Giving up tea that whatever may be the 'bacca sha'n't go to the wall; With never a rest from the riot and zest, the hustle and bustle and noise Of the boys who all try to be men like you, and the girls who all try to be boys.

"You know the tale of the eagle that carried the child away To its eyrie high in the mountain sky, grim and rugged and gray; Of the sailor who climbed to save it, who, ere he had half-way sped Up the mountain wild, _met_ mother and child returning as from the dead There's many a bearded giant had never have grown a span, If in peril's power in childhood's hour he'd had to wait for a man.

And who is the one among you but is living and hale to-day, Because he was tied to a woman's side in the old home far away?

"You have heard the tale of the lifeboat, and the women of Mumbles Head, Who, when the men stood shivering by, or out from the danger fled, Tore their shawls into striplets and knotted them end to end, And then went down to the gates of death for father and brother and friend.

Deeper and deeper into the sea, ready of heart and head, Hauling them home through the blinding foam, and raising them from the dead.

There's many of you to-morrow who, but for a woman's hand, Would be drifting about with the sh.o.r.e lights out and never a chance to land.

"You've read of the n.o.ble woman in the midst of a Border fray Who held her own in a castle lone, for her lord who was far away.

For the children who gather'd round her and the home that she loved so well, And the deathless fame of a woman's name whom nothing but love could quell.

Who, when the men would have yielded, with her own sweet lily hand, Led them straight from the postern gate, and drove the foe from the land.

There's many a little homestead that is cosy and sung to-day, Because of a woman who stood in the door and kept the wolves at bay.

"Only a hindrance are we? then we'll be a hindrance still.

We hinder the devil and all his works, and I reckon he takes it ill.

We do the work that is nearest, and that is the surest plan, But if ever you want a hero, and you cannot wait for a man, You need not tell us the chances, you've only the need to show, And there's many a woman in all the world who is willing and ready to go, For trust in trial, for work in woe, for comfort and care in sorrow, The wives of the world are its strength to-day, the daughters it's hope to-morrow."

A COUNTRY STORY.

(Founded on an old Legend.)

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

At the little town of Norton, in a famous western shire, There dwelt a sightless maiden with her venerated sire.

To him she was the legacy her mother had bequeathed; To her he was the very sun that warmed the air she breathed.

Old Alec was a carter, and he moved from town to town, Taking parcels from the "The Wheatsheaf" to "The Mitre" or "The Crown;"

And on festival occasions would the sightless maiden ride To the old cathedral city by the honest carter's side.

Ere he tended to his duty at the market or the fair He would seek the lofty Gothic pile, and leave the maiden there, That the choir's joyous singing and the organ's solemn strain Might beguile her simple fancy till he journeyed home again.