A large old Indian jar was dragged from the drawing-room and constituted the fated urn; the tickets were deposited therein, and Cecilia was tying the handkerchief round Evelyn's eyes,--while Fortune struggled archly not to be as blind as she ought to be,--and the children, seated in a circle, were in full joy and expectation when there was a sudden pause.

The laughter stopped; so did Cissy's little hands.

What could it be?
Evelyn slipped the bandage, and her eyes rested on Maltravers! "Well, really, my dear Miss Cameron," said the rector, who was by the side of the intruder, and who, indeed, had just brought him to the spot, "I don't know what these little folks will do to you next." "I ought rather to be their victim," said Maltravers, good-humouredly; "the fairies always punish us grown-up mortals for trespassing on their revels." While he spoke, his eyes--those eyes, the most eloquent in the world--dwelt on Evelyn (as, to cover her blushes, she took Cecilia in her arms, and appeared to attend to nothing else) with a look of such admiration and delight as a mortal might well be supposed to cast on some beautiful fairy.
Sophy, a very bold child, ran up to him.

"How do, sir ?" she lisped, putting up her face to be kissed; "how's the pretty peacock ?" This opportune audacity served at once to renew the charm that had been broken,--to unite the stranger with the children.

Here was acquaintance claimed and allowed in an instant.