“No,” said she, the lips laughing now, as well as the eyes.  “In the old days—­I declare I don’t mind letting out the secret—­in the old days before he was married at all, mamma and Lady Verner contrived to let me know, by indirect hints, that Lionel Verner might be expected to—­to—­solicit the honour of my becoming his wife.  How I laughed behind their backs!  It would have been time enough to turn rebellious when the offer came—­which I was quite sure never would come—­to make them and him a low curtsy, and say, ’You are very kind, but I must decline the honour.’  Did you get any teasings on your side, Lionel?” asked she frankly.

A half smile flitted over Lionel’s lips.  He did not speak.

“No,” added Lady Mary, her joking tone turning to seriousness, her blue eyes to earnestness, “I and Lionel have ever been good friends, fond of each other, I believe, in a sober kind of way:  but—­any closer relationship, we should both have run apart from, as wide as the two poles.  I can answer for myself; and I think I can for him.”

“I see,” said John Massingbird.  “To be husband and wife would go against the grain:  you’d rather be brother and sister.”

What there could be in the remark to disturb the perfect equanimity of Mary Elmsley, she best knew.  Certain it was that her face turned of a fiery red, and it seemed that she did not know where to look.  She spoke rapid words, as if to cover her confusion.

“So you perceive, Mr. Massingbird, that I have nothing to do with Mr. Verner’s plans and projects; with his stopping at Deerham or going away from it.  I should not think any lady has.  You are not going, are you?” she asked turning to Lionel.

“Yes, I shall go, Mary,” he answered.  “As soon as Mr. Massingbird can
find somebody to replace me-----”

“Mr. Massingbird’s not going to find anybody to replace you,” burst forth John.  “I declare, Lionel, if you do go, I’ll take on Roy, just to spite you and your old tenants.  By the way, though, talking of Roy, who do you think has come back to Deerham?” he broke off, rather less vehemently.

“How can I guess?” asked Lionel.  “Some of the Mormons, perhaps.”

“No.  Luke Roy.  He has arrived this afternoon.”

“Has he indeed?” replied Lionel, a shade of sadness in his tone, more than surprise, for somehow the name of Luke, coupled with his return, brought back all too vividly the recollection of his departure, and the tragic end of Rachel Frost which had followed so close upon it.

“I have not seen him,” rejoined Mr. Massingbird.  “I met Mrs. Roy as I came on here, and she told me.  She was scuttering along with some muffins in her hand—­to regale him on, I suppose.”

“How glad she must be!” exclaimed Lucy.

“Rather sorry, I thought,” returned John.  “She looked very quaky and shivery.  I tell you what, Lionel,” he continued, turning to him, “your dinner will not be ready this three-quarters of an hour yet.  I’ll just go as far as old Roy’s, and have a word with Luke.  I have got a top-coat in the hall.”