The Hall and the Grange. Archibald Marshall

he said. "It made a man of me. And it isn't over yet. I'd practically won my battle over there, and could go back and rest on my laurels. But I've a mind to begin it all again over here. There's something exhilarating in the fight itself; and if I win it the rewards will be greater."

      It sounded rather fine to her. She did not translate the symbolism into the struggle of a young man of considerable commercial astuteness to gain a footing for himself, and when he had done so to seek the best opportunity of enlarging it. He was worthy of respect, in having already made a success of his work at an early age, and having left it to fight for the great cause, in which he had also made good. There was stuff in him, as there had been in his boyhood, when he had done well at his school; and it showed up now, to the disguising of what might have turned her against him. She had no suspicion that he was rapidly falling under the spell of her bright charm, for he had learnt some wisdom and self-control, and knew that there was a long and difficult road to travel before she could be expected even to see him on her level. He was content now, after the first little mistake, the reception of which had given him warning, to arouse and keep alive her interest in him, and to establish terms of friendship with her, upon which there would be no suspicion of his presuming. She found it interesting to talk to him already, and was inclined to back him up with Norman, though not to the extent of turning herself into his champion. But he ought not to be held to the mistakes of his boyhood; and with all his faults he had been poor Hugo's friend, and had fought well in the war and been wounded, not lightly.

      She asked him about that, and he answered her questions, modestly enough, though not without the design of attracting her sympathy. And they talked a little about Hugo. He seemed to have seen more good in Hugo than Norman had ever done, though Norman had never criticized him to her. But Norman had never said, as Fred did, that Hugo was a thoroughly good fellow, who had been a bit wild, like a good many more, but no more than that; and of course his fine service in the war had wiped out those mistakes many times over.

      "Yes, that's what I feel," she said gratefully. "There was some trouble with Jim. I don't know what it was, but I know that Lord Crowborough made a fuss about it, and Dad was very angry. So it couldn't have been very bad. Besides, you can see what Jim is. If poor Hugo is supposed to have led him into mischief he couldn't have led him very far. Nobody could lead Jim very far into mischief. He wouldn't go."

      She laughed her tinkling laugh, which was delicious music in Fred's ears. He laughed too, but did not make the mistake of taking up her criticism of Horsham. "I heard something about that too," he said; "but I don't know any details either. I shouldn't think there could have been much in it. Naturally, Colonel Eldridge would have felt sore at his being criticized at all."

      Norman had always kept off this subject, and would answer no questions about it. But he had never exonerated Hugo, though he had said that Jim was ass enough for anything. Norman was apt to be over-critical. He had nothing much to say in favour of Hugo, her own brother, who had been killed; he was contemptuous of Jim, who was only rather slow, and perhaps dull; and he was almost violent in his dislike of Fred, whom he hadn't seen for years. Of course he was head and shoulders above all three of them in everything that mattered, but perhaps he should have left it more to others to recognize that fact. At any rate, Fred was giving her something now which Norman withheld from her, and she was grateful for it.

      Judith, left alone with Horsham, showed no disposition to regard herself in the light of a sacrifice. It seemed as if she really did take an interest in his statistics, and though she did not talk much herself her attention had the effect of drawing him out to be more informative than ever. "I do like to hear about real things," she said. "Such a lot that you read is so—so fluffy: do you know what I mean?"

      "I suppose you mean poetry," he said.

      "Well, I like some poetry; but it doesn't seem to be the sort that people who think they know call good poetry." She laughed at herself, the low musical laugh that was all her own. "Pam and Norman are always making fun of my tastes."