The Hoyden. Duchess

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      "You see that. But how to bring Maurice to the point? He is so very difficult. You, Marian—you have influence with him——"

      "I?"

      Mrs. Bethune rises in the slow, beautiful fashion that is hers always; she moves towards the window. There is no hurry, no undue haste, to betray the disquietude of her soul.

      "You—you, of course," says Lady Rylton peevishly. "I always rely upon you."

      "I have no influence!"

      "You mean, of course, that you will not use it," says Lady Rylton angrily. "You still think that you will marry him yourself, that perhaps his uncle will die and leave him once more a rich man—the master of The Place, as the old Place's master should be; but that is a distant prospect, Marian."

      Mrs. Bethune has swung around, her beautiful figure is drawn up to its most stately height.

      "Not another word!" says she imperiously. "What have I to do with your son? Let him marry—let him marry——" She pauses as if choking, but goes on again: "I tell you I have no influence—none! Appeal to Margaret, she may help you!"

      "She—no!"

      "Hush! here she is. Yes; ask her," says Mrs. Bethune, as if desirous of letting Lady Rylton hear the opinion of the new-comer on this extraordinary subject.

CHAPTER II.

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      HOW MARGARET PLEADS FOR THE LITTLE HOYDEN, AND WITH WHAT ILL-SUCCESS.

      Margaret Knollys, entering the room and seeing the signs of agitation in the two faces before her, stops on the threshold.

      "I am disturbing you. I can come again," says she, in her clear, calm voice.

      "No," says Mrs. Bethune abruptly.

      She makes a gesture as if to keep her.

      "Not at all. Not at all, dear Margaret. Pray stay, and give me a little help," says Lady Rylton plaintively.

      She pulls forward a little chair near her, as if to show Margaret that she must say, and Miss Knollys comes quickly to her. Marian Bethune is Lady Rylton's real niece. Margaret is her niece by marriage.

      A niece to be proud of, in spite of the fact that she is thirty years of age and still unmarried. Her features, taken separately, would debar her for ever from being called either pretty or beautiful; yet there have been many in her life-time who admired her, and three, at all events, who would have gladly given their all to call her theirs. Of these one is dead, and one is married, and one—still hopes.

      There had been a fourth. Margaret loved him! Yet he was the only one whom Margaret should not have loved. He was unworthy in all points. Yet, when he went abroad, breaking cruelly and indifferently all ties with her (they had been engaged), Margaret still clung to him, and ever since has refused all comers for his sake. Her face is long and utterly devoid of colour; her nose is too large; her mouth a trifle too firm for beauty; her eyes, dark and earnest, have, however, a singular fascination of their own, and when she smiles one feels that one must love her. She is a very tall woman, and slight, and gracious in her ways. She is, too, a great heiress, and a woman of business, having been left to manage a huge property at the age of twenty-two. Her management up to this has been faultless.

      "Now, how can I help you?" asks she, looking at Lady Rylton. "What is distressing you?"

      "Oh! you know," says Mrs. Bethune, breaking impatiently into the conversation. "About Maurice and this girl! This new girl! There," contemptuously, "have been so many of them!"

      "You mean Miss Bolton," says Margaret, in her quiet way. "Do you seriously mean," addressing Lady Rylton, "that you desire this marriage?"

       "Desire it? No. It is a necessity!" says Lady Rylton. "Who could desire a daughter-in-law of no lineage, and with the most objectionable tastes? But she has money! That throws a cloak over all defects."

      "I don't think that poor child has so many defects as you fancy," says Miss Knollys. "But for all that I should not regard her as a suitable wife for Maurice."

      Mrs. Bethune leans back in her chair and laughs.

      "A suitable wife for Maurice!" repeats she. "Where is she to be found?"

      "Here! In this girl!" declares Lady Rylton solemnly. "Margaret, you know how we are situated. You know how low we have fallen—you can understand that in this marriage lies our last hope. If Maurice can be induced to marry Miss Bolton——"

      A sound of merry laughter interrupts her here. There comes the sound of steps upon the terrace—running steps. Instinctively the three women within the room grow silent and draw back a little. Barely in time; a tiny, vivacious figure springs into view, followed by a young man of rather stout proportions.

      "No, no, no!" cries the little figure, "you couldn't beat me. I bet you anything you like you couldn't. You may play me again if you will, and then," smiling and shaking her head at him, "we shall see!"

      The windows are open and every word can be heard.

      "Your future daughter-in-law," says Mrs. Bethune, in a low voice, nodding her beautiful head at Lady Rylton.

      "Oh, it is detestable! A hoyden—a mere hoyden," says Lady Rylton pettishly. "Look at her hair!"

      And, indeed, it must be confessed that the hoyden's hair is not all it ought to be. It is in effect "all over the place"—it is straight here, and wandering there; but perhaps its wildness helps to make more charming the naughty childish little face that peeps out of it.

      "She has no manners—none!" says Lady Rylton. "She——"

      "Ah, is that you, Lady Rylton?" cries the small creature on the terrace, having caught a glimpse of her hostess through the window.

      "Yes, come in—come in!" cries Lady Rylton, changing her tone at once, and smiling and beckoning to the girl with long fingers. "I hope you have not been fatiguing yourself on the tennis-courts, you dearest child!"

      Her tones are cooing.

      "I have won, at all events!" says Tita, jumping in over the window-sill. "Though Mr. Gower," glancing back at her companion, "won't acknowledge it."

      "Why should I acknowledge it?" says the stout young man. "It's folly to acknowledge anything."

      "But the truth is the truth!" says the girl, facing him.

      "Oh, no; on the contrary, it's generally a lie," says he.

      "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," says Miss Bolton, turning her back on him, which proceeding seems to fill the stout young man's soul with delight.

      "Do come and sit down, dear child; you look exhausted," says Lady

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