"You have no right to talk of me as though I had been bought."

The young man gasped. "But you said--"

"Oh, what does it matter what I said. I am going to marry you on three

hundred a year, so there it is. I suppose when Bolton returns, my father

will be glad to see the back of me, and then will go to Egypt with

Sidney to explore this secret tomb he is always talking about."

"That expedition will require more than a thousand pounds," said Archie

dryly. "The Professor explained the obstacles to me. However, his doings

have nothing to do with us, darling. Let Professor Braddock fumble

amongst the dead if he likes. We live!"

"Apart," sighed Lucy.

"Only for the next six months; then we can get our cottage and live on

love, my dearest."

"Plus three hundred a year," said the girl sensibly then she added, "Oh,

poor Frank Random!"

"Lucy," cried her lover indignantly.

"Well, I was only pitying him. He's a nice man, and you can't expect him

to be pleased at our marriage."

"Perhaps," said Hope in an icy tone, "you would like him to be the

bridegroom. If so, there is still time."

"Silly boy!" She took his arm. "As I have been bought, you know that I

can't run away from my purchaser."

"You denied being bought just now. It seems to me, Lucy, that I am to

marry a weather-cock."

"That is only an impolite name for a woman, dear. You have no sense of

humor, Frank, or you would call me an April lady."

"Because you change every five minutes. H'm! It's puzzling."

"Is it? Perhaps you would like me to resemble Widow Anne, who is always

funereal. Here she is, looking like Niobe."

They were strolling through Gartley village by this time, and the

cottagers came to their doors and front gates to look at the handsome

young couple. Everyone knew of the engagement, and approved of the same,

although some hinted that Lucy Kendal would have been wiser to marry

the soldier-baronet. Amongst these was Widow Anne, who really was Mrs.

Bolton, the mother of Sidney, a dismal female invariably arrayed in

rusty, stuffy, aggressive mourning, although her husband had been dead

for over twenty years. Because of this same mourning, and because she

was always talking of the dead, she was called "Widow Anne," and looked

on the appellation as a compliment to her fidelity. At the present

moment she stood at the gate of her tiny garden, mopping her red eyes

with a dingy handkerchief.




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