"About twelve or fourteen, thank you. Excuse me--I have something to finish in my own room."

They were very glad to excuse her, and the following note was concocted to serve both for those she might have invited and those she might not; and it was copied by the two daughters for all the acquaintance who had young folks in their houses. An appearance of want of unanimity was carefully avoided, and it stood thus:--

"I am desired by Mrs. Poynsett to say that the ladies' party already proposed for the 3rd is to undergo a little expansion, and that she much hopes to see you and ---, at 7 p.m., disposed for a few Christmas amusements."

CHAPTER XVI The Drive To Backsworth

She was betrothed to one now dead, Or worse, who had dishonoured fled.--SCOTT

The party set out for Backsworth early in the day. It included Julius, who had asked for a seat in the carriage in order to be able to go on to Rood House, where lived Dr. Easterby, whom he had not seen since he had been at Compton.

"The great light of the English Church," said Rosamond, gaily; while Anne shuddered a little, for Miss Slater had told her that he was the great fountain-head of all that distressed her in Julius and his curates. But Julius merely said, "I am very glad of the opportunity;" and the subject dropped in the eager discussion of the intended pastimes, which lasted beyond the well-known Wil'sbro'

bounds, when again Julius startled a Anne by observing, "No dancing?

That is a pity."

"There, Anne!" exclaimed Rosamond.

"It was out of kindness to me," said Anne: and then, with a wonderful advance of confidence, she added, "Please tell me how you, a minister, can regret it?"

"Because I think it would be easier to prevent mischief than when there has to be a continual invention of something original. There is more danger of offence and uncharitableness, to speak plainly."

"And you think that worse than dancing?" said Anne, thoughtfully.

"Why is dancing bad at all, Anne?" asked Rosamond.

Anne answered at once, "It is worldly."

"Not half so worldly as driving in a carriage with fine horses, and liveries, and arms, and servants, and all," said Rosamond from her comfortable corner, nestling under Miles's racoon-skin rug; "I wonder you can do that!"

"The carriage is not mine," said Anne.

"The worldliness would be in sacrificing a duty to the luxury and ostentation of keeping one," said Julius. "For instance, if I considered it due to my lady in the corner there to come out in this style, and put down a curate and a few such trifles with that object. To my mind, balls stand on the same ground; they are innocent as long as nothing right is given up for them."

"You would not dance?" said Anne.

"Wouldn't he?" said Rosamond. "I've seen him. It was at St.

Awdry's at a Christmas party, in our courting days. No, it wasn't with me. Oh no! That was the cruel cut! It was with little Miss Marks, whose father had just risen from the ranks. Such a figure she was, enough to set your teeth on edge; when, behold! this reverend minister extracts her from the wall-flowers, and goes through the Lancers with her in first-rate style, I assure you. It had such an effect, do you know, that what does my father do but go and ask her next; and I heard an old lady remarking that there were only two gentlemen in the room, Mr. Charnock and Lord Rathforlane.

So you see it was all worldliness after all, Anne."

"I suppose it was good-nature," said Anne.

"Indignation, I fancy," said Julius.

"Now, was he very wicked for it, Anne?"

"N--no, if dancing be not wrong."

"But why should it?"

"All the bad people danced in the Bible."

"Miriam--King David, eh?"

"That was part of their religious service."

"The welcome to the prodigal son?" further suggested Julius. "Does not this prove that the exercise is not sinful in itself?"

"But you would not do it again?" repeated Anne.

"I certainly should not make a practice of it, nor go to balls any more than I would be a sportsman or a cricketer, because I am bound to apply my whole self to the more direct service; but this does not show that there is evil necessarily connected with these amusements, or that they may not safely be enjoyed by those who have time, and who need an outlet for their spirits, or by those who wish to guard these pleasures by presiding over them."

"Don't persuade me!" exclaimed Anne. "I gave my word to Mr. Pilgrim that nothing should induce me to dance or play at cards."

"Mr. Pilgrim had no right--" began Rosamond; but Julius hushed her, saying, "No one wishes to persuade you, Anne. Your retirement during Miles's absence is very suitable and becoming."

"Till we live in the Bush, out of the way of it all," said Anne.

"I wish you could have seen one of our real old Christmas parties; but those can never be again, without mother herself or Mrs.

Douglas."

"Do tell me about those Douglases," said Rosamond. "Cecil hinted at some romance, but seemed to think you had suppressed the connection because he was an attorney."

"Not exactly," said Julius, smiling; "but it is a sad story, though we have no doubt he bore the guilt of others."

"Something about two thousand pounds!"

"Yes. It was the year that my mother and Raymond were abroad. She had been buying some property near, and sent home an order from Vevay. It did not come, and was inquired for; but as it was an order, not a draft, it was not stopped at the bank; and in about a fortnight more it was presented by a stranger, and paid without hesitation, as it was endorsed "Proudfoot and Moy." Old Proudfoot was away at Harrogate, and came home to investigate; young Proudfoot denied all knowledge of it, and so did his brother-in-law Moy; but Raymond, working at the other end, found that the waiter at the hotel at Vevay had forgotten to post the letter for more than a week, and it was traced through the post to Wil'sbro', where the postman remembered delivering a foreign-looking letter to Archie Douglas at the door of the office. It came alone by the afternoon post. His account was this: They were all taking it rather easy in old Proudfoot's absence; and when a sudden summons came to take the old farmer's instructions for his will, Archie, as the junior, was told off to do it. He left George Proudfoot and Moy in a private room at the office, with Tom Vivian leaning over the fire talking, as he had a habit of doing in old Proudfoot's absence. As he opened the office door the postman put the letter into his hand; and recognizing the writing, he ran back, and gave it in triumph to George Proudfoot, exclaiming that there it was at last, but he was in danger of being late for the train, and did not wait to see it opened; and when he came back he was told that it had been merely a letter of inquiry, with nothing in it, and destroyed at once. That was his account; but Proudfoot, Moy, and Vivian all denied any knowledge of this return of his, or of the letter. The night of this inquiry he was missing. Jenny Bowater, who was with an aunt in London, heard that a gentleman had called to see her while she was out for a couple of days; and a week later we saw his name among the passengers lost in the Hippolyta off Falmouth."

"Poor Jenny! Was she engaged to him?"

"On sufferance. On her death-bed Mrs. Douglas had wrung from Mr.

Bowater a promise that if Archie did well, and ever had means enough, he would not refuse consent; but he always distrusted poor Archie, because of his father, and I believe he sent Jenny away to be out of his reach. If any of us had only been near, I think we could have persuaded him to face it out, and trust to his innocence; but Raymond was abroad, Miles at sea, I at Oxford, and nothing like a counsellor was near. If Jenny had but seen him!"

"And has nothing happened to clear him?"

"No. Raymond hurried home, and did his best, but all in vain.

George Proudfoot was indeed known to have been in debt to Vivian; but Moy, his brother-in-law, an older man, was viewed as a person whose word was above all question, and they both declared the signature at the back of the order not to be genuine. Archie's flight, you see, made further investigation impossible; and there was no putting on oath, no cross-examination."

"Then you think those three had it?"

"We can think nothing else, knowing Archie as we did. Raymond showed his suspicions so strongly, that old Proudfoot threw up all agencies for our property, and there has been a kind of hostility ever since. Poor Vivian, as you know, came to his sad end the next year, but he had destroyed all his papers; and George Proudfoot has been dead four or five years, but without making any sign. Moy has almost risen above the business, and--see, there's Proudfoot Lawn, where he lives with the old man. He claims to compete with the county families, and would like to contest Wils'bro' with Raymond."

"And Jenny?" asked Anne. "Did she bear it as a Christian? I know she would."