she gladly saw the school visitors depart, with the intention of going on to the ford.
Sage sighed as she stood at the door and saw the sisters get into the handsomely appointed carriage that was waiting, and then she wished that she had asked them when they were going back to London, for it seemed to her that both she and Rue would feel happier and more at ease if the Mallow family were gone.
Then she recalled her last meeting with Luke at home, and his words upon learning—short conversation interrupted by her aunt—that there was to be no engagement until he had realised a better income than would accrue from the schools.
“That does not matter,” she said, brightening up. “Luke is so brave and determined, and has such spirit, that he will soon become rich enough for us to marry, and, of course, we can wait.”
There was no impatience in Sage’s love for Luke Ross. She told herself that she was very fond of him, and some day they would be man and wife, but when did not seem to her to matter, and she busied herself once more, light-hearted enough, with the children.
Then came the beginning of another train of thought, and there was once more a slight flush in her cheeks as her mind turned to Cyril Mallow, his coming to the school with his father, his meeting and speaking to her once or twice when she was leaving school, and then, too, of his coming to the farm to sit, and smoke, and talk with her uncle.
The colour deepened in her cheeks a little more as she thought of all this; but, directly after, she drove these thoughts away, and busied herself with the conclusion of the morning lessons.
Twelve o’clock, and the buzz and hurry of the dismissal, and then the pleasant scent of the cool outer air as the windows were thrown open, and again the bright elasticity of feeling as, well wrapped in warm furry jacket and with her natty little, not-too-fashionable hat setting off the freshness of her complexion and youthful looks, she started for her brisk walk along the lane and across the field to the farm.
She had to pass Mrs. Searby’s cottage on her way, where that worthy woman with upturned sleeves was standing at the open door in converse with another of the mothers whose children attended the school.
“Good-morning,” said Sage, as she passed them, and the second woman returned the salutation; but Miss Searby’s mamma replied by giving her an uncompromising stare, and saying aloud before the young mistress was out of hearing—
“Ah, she’s going to meet young Cyril Mallow. Nice goings on, indeed, for one like her.”
Sage’s cheeks turned scarlet as she hurried on, and a strange feeling of shame and confusion troubled her. It was nothing that she was perfectly innocent of any such intent, she felt horribly guilty all the same, and it was only by a great effort that she kept back the hot tears of indignation.
Then her conscience smote her with the recollection that she had thought a good deal of Cyril Mallow lately, and she asked herself whether she was turning traitorous to Luke Ross, but only to indignantly repel the self-inflicted charge.
It was monstrous, she told herself. She was sure that she loved Luke very dearly, as she always had from a child, when he had been like a brother to her. Some day when he had climbed higher she would be his wife, for she was sure her uncle never meant all that he had said. He was too fond of her, and too eager to do all he could to make her happy.
“Such a shameful thing to say! A wicked woman!” exclaimed Sage then; “as if I ever thought—Oh!”
She quickened her steps with her face growing scarlet once more, the red flush having died out to leave it pale, for there were footsteps behind her coming on quickly, and it was Cyril Mallow, she felt, hurrying to catch her; and that was why the spiteful woman had spoken in that bitter way.
The steps were coming nearer in spite of Sage’s efforts to get home before she was overtaken. Pat, pat, pat, pat! just as her heart was beating with excitement. She felt frightened, she hardly knew why, and dreaded being overtaken by Cyril, who seemed to have obtained some power over her that she could not understand.
He was very pleasant spoken, and frank, and manly-looking, but she did not like him nor his ways, for she was sure that he was a bad son.
“I wonder whether he would try to improve if I asked him, and pointed out how wrong it is of him to be so much trouble to his parents,” thought Sage; and then she shivered with a strange kind of dread.
Why had she thought all that? What was Cyril Mallow to her? It was only out of civility that he had spoken to her as he had, but she felt that it was out of place, and that Mr. Mallow would not have approved of it at all, and—and it was very dreadful.
As a rule, Sage Portlock was a firm, determined girl, full of decision and strength of character, but the words of the spiteful woman seemed to have quite unnerved her, and with the sense of being very guilty, and of having behaved treacherously to Luke Ross, she had hard work to keep from starting off, and breaking into a run.
“And he is coming on so quickly,” she thought. “He will overtake me before I get to the gate. How dare he follow me about like this, and why is not Luke here to protect me!”
Sage Portlock’s excitement had thoroughly mastered her, and she uttered quite a hysterical little cry, as the steps drew quite near now, and a voice exclaimed—
“Why, Sage, I almost had to run.”
“Luke!”
“Yes; Luke,” he replied, smiling, as he took her hand in his. “Who did you think it was?”
“I—I—didn’t know; I wanted to get home quickly,” she faltered. “I did not know it was you.”
“I know that,” he said, drawing her hand through his arm, “or else you would have stopped, wouldn’t you?”
“Why, of course, Luke,” she said, smiling in his face, and with a calm feeling of rest and protection coming over her disturbed spirit.
“I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “Let’s walk slowly, for I’ve a great deal to say to you before you go in.”
“But, first of all, tell me, Luke, dear,” she cried eagerly, “is the appointment confirmed?”
“No.”
“No? Not confirmed? Then, that wicked old Bone—”
“That wicked old Bone of contention,” he said, laughingly taking her up, “has had very little to do with it. At one time I thought that it would be very cruel to take his post, but I do not think so now.”
“But not confirmed, Luke?” she cried, stopping short and clinging to his arm, the picture of bitter disappointment. “Why, this is the meaning, then, of the opposition uncle spoke of yesterday. Who has dared to stop you from having the school?”
“You,” said Luke, as he gazed admiringly in her animated face.
“I, Luke? I?” she exclaimed, in a puzzled way.
“Well, it is through you, dear,” he said, smiling.
“But I have done nothing, Luke,” she cried. “You are teasing me! Has the meeting taken place?”
“Yes;
