disguise gave her a sensation of dreaming.  Her imagination was already busy upon a drama, of which she was the heroine and Smilash the hero, though, with the real man before her, she could not indulge herself by attributing to him quite as much gloomy grandeur of character as to a wholly ideal personage.  The plot was simple, and an old favorite with her.  One of them was to love the other and to die broken-hearted because the loved one would not requite the passion.  For Agatha, prompt to ridicule sentimentality in her companions, and gifted with an infectious spirit of farce, secretly turned for imaginative luxury to visions of despair and death; and often endured the mortification of the successful clown who believes, whilst the public roar with laughter at him, that he was born a tragedian.  There was much in her nature, she felt, that did not find expression in her popular representation of the soldier in the chimney.

By three o’clock the local visitors had arrived, and tennis was proceeding in four courts, rolled and prepared by Smilash.  The two curates were there, with a few lay gentlemen.  Mrs. Miller, the vicar, and some mothers and other chaperons looked on and consumed light refreshments, which were brought out upon trays by Smilash, who had borrowed and put on a large white apron, and was making himself officiously busy.

At a quarter past the hour a message came from Miss Wilson, requesting Miss Wylie’s attendance.  The visitors were at a loss to account for the sudden distraction of the young ladies’ attention which ensued.  Jane almost burst into tears, and answered Josephs rudely when he innocently asked what the matter was.  Agatha went away apparently unconcerned, though her hand shook as she put aside her racket.

In a spacious drawing-room at the north side of the college she found her mother, a slight woman in widow’s weeds, with faded brown hair, and tearful eyes.  With her were Mrs. Jansenius and her daughter.  The two elder ladies kept severely silent whilst Agatha kissed them, and Mrs. Wylie sniffed.  Henrietta embraced Agatha effusively.

“Where’s Uncle John?” said Agatha.  “Hasn’t he come?”

“He is in the next room with Miss Wilson,” said Mrs. Jansenius coldly.  “They want you in there.”

“I thought somebody was dead,” said Agatha, “you all look so funereal.  Now, mamma, put your handkerchief back again.  If you cry I will give Miss Wilson a piece of my mind for worrying you.”

“No, no,” said Mrs. Wylie, alarmed.  “She has been so nice!”

“So good!” said Henrietta.

“She has been perfectly reasonable and kind,” said Mrs. Jansenius.

“She always is,” said Agatha complacently.  “You didn’t expect to find her in hysterics, did you?”

“Agatha,” pleaded Mrs. Wylie, “don’t be headstrong and foolish.”

“Oh, she won’t; I know she won’t,” said Henrietta coaxingly.  “Will you, dear Agatha?”