CHAPTER VIII.

THE VALLEY OF THE NIDD.

WHO has not heard of the Valley of the Nidd? Visitors who resort to Harrogate, that gay queen of inland watering places, are tolerably conversant with that fair tract of country, well watered as another Eden by the River Nidd, wherein lies this beautiful and picturesque valley.

Pateley Bridge, Nidderdale, Birst with, Hampsthwaite, and Ripley, all in their turn recall summer wanderings and pleasant days of excursion and holiday, and looking down over the rich extent of meadow and pasture, thickly sown with woods and plantations, one is driven to confess that this is the garden of the West Riding of Yorkshire. Down in a dip or hollow of the valley lies Birstwith, its postal town being Ripley, dropped down stugly on the banks of the Nidd, a tiny toy village, or "story-book village," as some chance visitors termed it.

There is a pleasant Arcadian simplicity about Birstwith, all the same that there is a flavor of monopoly about it. Though only twenty minutes by rail from Harrogate, and boasting a station of its own, the influx of visitors is rare; the only logings to be procured are just opposite the butcher's. "Not at home to strangers" is as plainly legible in the whole aspect of the village as though it were written up on a sign-board, and creaked noisily over the Railway Inn.

Not that there is any lack of hospitality among the Birstwithians; on the contrary, the curious stranger, though uninvited, and his presence by no means solicited, is always made heartily welcome at the vicarage and the mill. The hospitality of the North is proverbial, nor is Birst with one whit behind in this respect, though she guards her beauties coyly from undiscriminative eyes, and would fain hide herself from general observation. And a fairer English village never lay shrouded among the Yorkshire moors.

From the level platform of the station the view is singularly graceful and picturesque. The arch of the road leading to the village, with the weir self, is indeed hidden, but the mill and the millhouse, with its blackened ruin standing amid

the trim garden, is the first object visible; then the church and the Great House, which, from its elevation, looks down over the entire village; houses sparsely scattered here and there gleam out in soft whiteness among the park-like meadows, the River Nidd flowing through them, now gliding on between its banks under a wealth of umbrageous foliage, now chafing over its smooth white boulders, now twined into narrow curves, or forming dark cool pools, where the small red oxen come down to drink-river and meadows and richly wooded banks going on alluringly for miles.

Dym, who was well tired by her journey and her long waiting at the bustling Harrogate station, trusted, from the slackening of the engine, that they were drawing to their journey's end, and could not help an audible sigh of disappointment when Hampsthwaite instead of Birst with met her Her sole fellow-passenger, who had got in at Harrogate, put down his paper and smiled, and then, with a thorough Englishman's mauvaise honte, not being able to make up his mind to speak, took it up again.

eye.

Dym yawned and looked at him; he was a tall muscular-looking man, very tanned and freckled, as though by constant exposure to sun and wind, with strongly developed homely features, and sandy-no, red hair, somewhat sun-dried, too, he was dressed in a rough gray suit, and wore shooting-gaiters and a broad-brimmed straw hat, almost as broad as a planter's; his hands were large and freckled also; nevertheless Dym felt he was a gentleman.

But his face did not interest her, so she read the back of the paper instead. The Pateley Bridge, Nidderdale, and Ripon Herald-how dull it sounded after the Daily Telegraph! Dym could just catch sight of the right hand advertisement"The Braisty Woods Estate, in the parish of Kirkby Malzeard"-what names! there's a worse one lower down-"Scriven-with-Tentergate;' who ever heard of such a place! and Dym read on: "Scriven-with-Tentergate. To be sold by auction at the Commercial Hotel, Knaresborough, all that close of excellent grass land called Half

penny Close, containing IA. 2R. OP."-whatever does that mean I wonder!-"be the same more or less'-how enigmatical!" situate in the township of Scriven-with-Tentergate, adjoining the Knaresborough and Boroughbridge Road," read on Dym perplexedly, till she was aware of a pair of light hazel eyes peering at her over the top of the paper. Dym bit her lip and turned away. "May I offer you the paper?" volunteered the owner of the eyes in a voice not quite free from the northern dialect, and with a decided burr in it. Dym declined in rather a shamefaced manner, and then, curiosity getting the better of her timidity, "Are we far from Birstwith?" she asked, with difficulty suppressing another yawn. The gentleman smiled; he had a wide mouth, and when he smiled, he showed a row of strong white teeth, and the skin under his eyes puckered and wrinkled up; it was odd, but it was irresistible; it made Dym smile, too.

"We shall be there in a very few minutes now," he observed. "We have just passed Hampsthwaite."

"Where the station-master had a wooden leg; yes, I know," and then, in spite of her efforts to be very proper, Dym could not help putting another rather funny question-" Do all the station masters about here have only one leg or cne arm?" for Dym's quick eyes had noted this singularity.

It was impossible to help laughing, which her new acquaintance did very heartily; it is astonishing how a laugh does away with all stiffness, even in a railway compartment where there are only two occupants.

"You have noticed this peculiarity at our three little stations, then; these disabled pensioners of the service are placed there because traffic is easy and work light. Our station-master at Birstwith has his full complement of legs and arms. You are passing through?" with an interrogative glance, not inquisitive, but courteous.

"I am staying there; please let me know as soon as we are in sight of it," she added in a pleading voice.

"Which will be in a few minutes. Ah, I know now, you are the young lady from London whom Mrs. Chichester is expecting."

"How do you know that ?" turning on him sharply, and her manner said very plainly, "Who are you, I should like to know?"

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'Everyone knows everyone else's business in Birstwith; that comes of living in a village. Now look out from your or my window; there's the mill."

"What a pretty garden, and water, too! Oh, and what an ugly black ruin !"

"Marks of some recent fire; there now, you see the church-such a lovely church-and the Great House, as we call it; Ingleside, I mean. Now here we are at the station; let me help you out."

A fresh free wind blew around Dym as she alighted; the late beams of an August sun touched the level glories of meadows and rivers, and lit them up into radiance; the west was a mass of rose color and purple clouds; from woods and meadows the birds sang lustily; the lowing of cattle came over the uplands. Dym stood on the high platform, a little doubtful and confused by the sudden beauty, while her traveling companion handed out plaid shawl, bonnet-box, and black box.

"Halloa, Humphrey, playing ladies' man, by way of change. Leave all that for Dison, man. Here, Dison, see after this lady's luggage, and send it up to Ingleside. Now, Miss Elliott, and how do you do?"

A moment before, Dym was feeling strange ani uneasy, now she seemed to be back at St. Luke's again, or even in the narrow close school-room at Lansdowne House. Guy Chichester's figure, in the old shooting-coat, looked so delightfully fa miliar, even amid its new surroundings, that her courage rose again. She put her hand in his, and declared, in answer to his inquiry, she was only a very, very little bit tired, albeit a few minutes since she had been yawning fearfully.

"That's well," he replied, with a glance of amity that made her foolish little heart beat more quickly. "You must have had a terribly dall journey, though, all alone from King's Cross Where did you put in an appearance, Humphrey?"

"Harrogate," was the laconic answer.

"Harrogate! Harry Trevor has come up by this train, too, I see. Well, you may safely trust your goods and chattels to Dison. Miss Elliott, will you come with me, please? Humphrey, I suppose I can't give you a lift ?"

"Not exactly; Honor is waiting tea for me. Well, squire, good-night. Good-night, MissMiss-"

"They are late at work to-night," she heard Mr. Chichester say to Peter.

"Been far, squire? The bays look heated." "Only to Ripley and back. Took the wagonette, you see. What's the matter with the mare's foot, Peter-the off-side one?" And Mr. Chichester went anxiously around to see, returning a moment later with "all right," and bidding Dym jump in.

"Down, Kelpie, down."

"Kelpie-oh, I know. What a beautiful dog!" exclaimed Dym, as a large Scotch collie dashed delightedly around Mr. Nethecote, and then slobbered, well pleased, over his hand.

"Kelpie knows his friends, Humphrey. His delight is a tacit reproach for not coming up oftener to Ingleside. Change your mind now, man, and throw over tea for a slice of our black mutton." Mr. Nethecote shook his head. "What would Honor say?"

Mr. Chichester, who was drawing on his driving-gloves, merely shrugged his shoulders expressively. "Well, if you won't be persuaded, good-bye, and love to Honor. We will bring Miss Elliott to see her some day. Are you quite comfortable, Miss Elliott?" regarding her benevolently from his seat. "We will drive slowly through the village for your sake. You won't mind the mare being a little playful at starting. No matter how much I work her, she's always skittish, the jade-like the rest of her sex," Dym was sure she heard him add under his breath. "There, let go her head, Peter;" and the next minute they were clattering over the bridge, where Mr. Nethecote, who was striding on, nearly tumbled over a perambulator and a baby, the two elder children being too much engaged in curtsying to the squire to wheel it out of the way.

Dym uttered a little cry of admiration as they passed the mouth of the weir. Some boys were splashing bare-legged among the boulders; the water had a silvery gleam and flash; the trees on either side drooped their dark branches into the

Past two shady-looking houses, with a drinking pump beside them; past a long stretch of level grass-land, so evenly kept and so well planted with trees, that Dym thought it must be the park

her mistake afterward; past the almshouses, with the monumental inscription in the centre of the garden; past the post-office, the tailor's, and one or two other shops; then came the vicarage, a low gray house, set prettily in its own grounds, and looking on to the church, which stood high and had to be gained by formidable tiers of steps; round a sharp corner, and past another gray house; then the lodge gates, and a long, but not very wide, sweep of carriage road leading to the Great House itself. But Dym noticed they had been ascending ever since they had left the mill; this elevation gave her a glorious view of the country. In Dym's eyes, Ingleside was a very imposing residence. A large, white, irregularly built house, with innumerable windows, each commanding separate views of interest, surrounded by large sloping gardens, laid out tastefully in flower parterres and terraces, and with walled-in kitchen gardens, whereof Dym caught sunny glimpses.

"Voilà Ingleside. Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest-that's our motto, Miss Elliott. Take care of the wheel; let me help you down," coming around to her assistance. "Where's my mother?" he inquired of the gray-haired butler, to whom the sound of wheels had advertised their arrival.

"In the drawing-room. squire."

Dinner is ready,

"Not served, I hope. Miss Elliott, you will not be able to change your toilette to-night. Tired, eh?" with one of those abrupt surveys that were natural to Mr. Chichester.

"No," replied Dym, almost inaudibly; but she did not volunteer the statement that she felt very nervous. She followed Mr. Chichester, keeping very closely in his shadow, as they passed through the large pleasant hall, prettily inlaid with tesselated pavement, and then into a side corridor, with a painted window, and a conservatory, where Dym got a delicious glimpse of cool green ferns, and heard the bubble of a fountain; then a door

was flung open, a sweet soft perfume as of roses suddenly pervaded the air, and then Dym found herself in a large low room, with narrow windows opening on to the lawn, and full of old fashioned chintz couches and settees. A tall beautiful-faced woman, looking in her brocade and lace ruffles as though she had just stepped out from a pictureframe, came forward to meet them.

"Mother, I have brought Miss Elliott after all. I told you that I should be back from Ripley in time to meet the train."

observed Mrs. Chichester, as they went up the low broad stairs together.

Dym, who was admiring the polished oak and the antique carving of the balustrades, said grate fully, "Oh, yes, thank you."

"It is the gray room. We call all our rooms after the color of the paper and hangings-mile is the blue room, and my son's, which is opposite, the red room. This is yours, Miss Elliott."

Dym remembered her garret and throne of boxes at Lansdowne House, and the little glimpse

"You are very welcome, my dear;" then the tone relaxing from its slight formality with exces sive surprise, "How very young you are, Miss Elliott! Why, Guy, this is hardly more than a child."

Mr. Chichester laughed. "Why, indeed, mother, I believe Miss Elliott has attained the sober age of eighteen," he began; but Dym, who by reason of her frequent failures had been taught to consider her youth as a fault, broke out here a little pitifully.

"Please don't say I am too young," she said, addressing Mrs. Chichester; "I shall get older soon. They all tell me that, and then I lose heart about things; but, indeed, I do mean to try my best and please you;" and as Dym ended her little speech, faltering and blushing and looking ready to cry, she found a motherly kiss imprinted on her cheek, and herself placed on a corner of the couch with kindly peremptoriness.

"That's right, mother; she looks terribly tired. I believe Miles is just going to sound the gong for dinner. Miss Elliott, you have had the dust and fatigue of a long journey. Ingleside is Liberty Hall-we have no rules of the Medes and Persians here. My mother will let you do just as you like. Will you come down to dinner with us, or have a cup of tea in your own room?"

"Oh, a cup of tea, please," gasped out Dym. It was all so strange and grand, and Dym felt so travel-soiled beside Mrs. Chichester's silvery broçade, a little rest and quiet would be refreshing; it was so thoughtful of Mr. Chichester to propose it. "Shall I ring for Dorothy, mother?" "No, Guy, thank you. I will show Miss Elliott to her room myself. Come, my dear, come;" and Dym was thankful to obey.

"I thought you would prefer a small room next to me rather than a large one in the next wing,"

The gray room was small, but its two windows coramanded an enchanting prospect of the garden, church, and meadows, with silvery flashes of the Nidd sparkling through the trees. Dym's brief survey took in an easy-chair, a reading-table, with a bowl of roses on it, and a little bed, all gray and rose-pink; and then Cinderella gave a longdrawn sigh of pleasure.

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How nice and pretty! too pretty for me, is it not? I have never had such a room in my life before."

Mrs. Chichester smiled benignantly at the girl's frankness.

"I hope you will enjoy many pleasant dreams. in it, my dear. Ah, there's the gong, and I must not keep my son waiting. You shall have some tea, and when you are rested, Dorothy shall help you to unpack and arrange your things. Remenber, you are to make yourself quite at home."

Dym's first thought when she was left alone was if only Will could see her, and the next a feeling of wonderment that this should be Mrs. Tresslian's sister.

Mrs. Tressilian was very kind and motherly, but "how unlike," soliloquized Dym, as she recalled the fair lymphatic face and somewhat obese proportions of that lady.

Mrs. Chichester was tall and somewhat full in person, but she carried herself as erect as a girl. Her complexion had retained its delicate coloring of youth, and the large soft white curls were just suited to her peculiar style of beauty. She hid evidently been a belle in her youth, and still gloried innocently in that fact. Dym thought she had never seen a statelier gentlewoman. She told Mr. Chichester afterward that she admired his mother's quaint old-fashioned way of dressing herself. "It is so picturesque, and so out of the common,” she said.

"Ah, we've got to grogram at last," he re

turned, smiling. "None of your flimsy material, your fly-catching sort of dresses, for my mother. If Jeremy Taylor had drawn up sumptuary laws, ondering that ye habits of ye gentlewomen be always silken or of clothe of velvet or brocaded tissues,' my mother could not have worn those fabrics more obediently. Have you noticed what a beautiful hand she has, Miss Elliott, and how she always wears lace ruffles to set it off? You have not an ugly hand yourself, by the way-why not try what real Valenciennes will do for you? Isn't my mother a regular female Louis Quatorze?'*

"Miss Beatrix doesn't fit her dresses better," she observed, during the confidential period when she was brushing out her mistress's hair.

The new inmate at Ingleside was sleeping peacefully when Mrs. Chichester and her maid were discussing her with the kindly curiosity and discrimination natural to women. "And then everything so neat, too. She can work lace rarely, I see; and her cuffs and collars were of such a beautiful color! One always knows when one touches a lady's things; a lady's a lady, be she ever so poor."

I think it would have been a salve to Dym's pride if she had heard Dorothy.

Dym was delighted with Phyllis, but she stood greatly in awe of Mistress Dorothy. Dorothy wore a black silk, which was fresher than Dym's very best company dress; she had gray curls, pinned up in imitation of Mrs. Chichester, and a sober, somewhat hard-featured face. Dym would willingly have declined her assistance if she dared, but eighteen is not prolific in inoral courage. Dorothy's attentions were terrifying, but they were scarcely to be set aside.

Dym's cheeks burned as her one box was unpacked, and her poor little dresses laid out on the bed one by one by Dorothy's skillful hands. What would Mrs. Chichester's grand maid think of their scanty number, and of all her little contrivances; the few laces she had picked to pieces, and washed and ironed herself; the collars she had stitched; her little stock of ribbon and finery; the one simple straw bonnet, with its fresh trimmings, which, with her old brown hat, was all Dym could boast ?

Dym's heart need not have throbbed so in its girlish pride and wounded vanity. If Dorothy had a hard-featured face, she had a warm heart. Her quick eyes certainly detected the poverty, but it only moved her to kindly pity for the young stranger.

Dym did not do this, but sat up instead, writing, a letter to Will, which drowsiness did not permit her to finish. She had only laid her head on her lavender-scented pillow, when she smelt the fragrance of a cigar under her window, and heard Guy Chichester's step on the graveled terrace below. A moment after he called to his dog, and Dym was sure she could hear them both scrunching through the shrubbery; and so still was the night, that the clang of the iron gate nearly a quarter of mile off was distinctly audible.

Going out for a walk. Why, it must be eleven o'clock. How strange !" thought Dym drowsily; and then she fell asleep.

It was late next morning-nearly nine o'clock -when Phyllis woke her. Dym jumped up in a fright.

"Mrs. Chichester said you were not to be disturbed earlier, miss," observed her little handmaiden.

But Dym was not to be convinced, and dressed herself in a hurry.

She turned the handles of several doors-the dining-room, billiard-room, and lastly Mr. Chichester's library-before she discovered the morning-room, or green room, as it was phrased, where she found Mrs. Chichester sitting alone knitting, while a substantial meal, evidently untouched, lay on the table.

"Good-morning, my dear."

"Good-morning-but oh, Mrs. Chichester, have I kept you waiting?"

"Breakfast never waits for any one at Ingle