Slowly, and with methodical nicety, Walden folded up the letter and put it in his pocket. With a kind of dazed air he looked about him, vaguely surprised that the evening seemed to have fallen so soon. Streaks of the sunset still glowed redly here and there in the sky, but the dense purple of the night had widened steadily over the spaces of the air, and just above the highest bough of the apple- tree on the lawn, the planet Venus twinkled bravely in all its silver panoply of pride as the Evening Star. Low and sweet on the fragrant silence came the dulcet piping of a nightingale, and the soft swishing sound of the river flowing among the rushes, and pushing against the pebbly shore. A sudden smarting sense of pain stung Walden's eyes,—pressing them with one hand he found it wet,— with tears? No, no!—not with tears,—merely with the moisture of strain and fatigue,—his sight was not so good as it used to be;—of course he was getting old,—and Bishop Brent's small caligraphy had been difficult to decipher by the half-light. All at once something burning and passionate stirred in him,—a wave of chivalrous indignation that poured itself swiftly through every channel of his clean and honest blood, and he involuntarily clenched his hand.

"What liars there are in the world!" he said aloud and fiercely— "What liars!"

Venus, peeping at him over the apple-boughs, gave out a diamond-like sparkle as though she were no greater thing than a loving eye,—the unseen nightingale, tuning its voice to richer certainties, broke into a fuller, deeper warble,—more stars flew, like shining fire- flies, into space, and on the lowest line of the western horizon a white cloud fringed with silver, floated slowly, the noiseless herald of the coming moon. But Walden saw nothing of the mystically beautiful transfiguration of the evening into night. His thoughts were elsewhere.

"And yet"—he mused sorrowfully—"How do I know? How can I tell? The clear childlike eyes may be trained to deceive,—the smile of the sweet, all too sweet mouth, may be insincere—the pretty, impulsive confiding manner may be a mere trick—-and—-after all—-what is it to me? I demand of myself plainly and fairly—what is it to me?"

He gave a kind of unconscious despairing gesture. Was there some devil in his soul whom he was bound to wrestle with by fasting and prayer, and conquer in the end? Or was it an angel that had entered there, before whose heavenly aspect he must kneel and succumb? Why this new and appalling loneliness which had struck himself and his home-surroundings as with an earthquake shock, shaking the foundations of all that had seemed so safe and secure? Why this feverish restlessness in his mind, which forbade him to occupy himself with any of the work waiting for him to do, and which made him unhappy and ill at ease for no visible or reasonable cause?

He walked slowly across the lawn to his favourite seat under the apple-tree,—and there, beneath the scented fruiting boughs, with the evening dews gathering on the grass at his feet, he tried manfully to face the problem that troubled his own inner consciousness.

"Let me brave it out!" he said—"Let me realise and master the thoughts that seek to master ME, otherwise I am no man, but merely a straw to be caught by the idle wind of an emotion. Why should I shirk the analysis of what I feel to be true of myself? For, after all, it is only a weakness of nature,—a sense of regret and loss,— a knowledge of something I have missed in life,—all surely pardonable if quelled in the beginning. She,—Maryllia Vancourt—is only at woman,—I am only a man. There is more than at first seems apparent in that simple qualification 'only'! She, the woman, has charm, and is instinctively conscious of her power, as why should she not be?—she has tried it, and found it no doubt in every case effectual. I, the man, am long past the fervours and frenzies of life,—and charm, whether it be hers or that of any other of her sex, should have, or ought to have, no effect upon me, particularly in my vocation, and with my settled habits. If I am so easily moved as to be conscious of a certain strange glamour and fascination in this girl,—for she is a girl to me, nay almost a child,—that is not her fault, but mine. As well expect the sun not to shine or a bird not to sing, as expect Maryllia Vancourt not to smile and look sweet! Walking with her in her rose-garden, where she took me with such a pretty air of confiding grace, to show me her border of old French damask roses, I listened to her half-serious, sometimes playful talk as in a dream, and answered her kindly questions concerning some of the sick and poor in the village as best I could, though I fear I must occasionally have spoken at random. Oh, those old French damask roses! I have known them growing in that border for years,—yet I never saw them as I saw them to-day,—never looked they so darkly red and glowing!—so large and open-hearted! I fancy I shall smell their fragrance all my life! 'Are they doing well, do you think?'—she said, and the little white chin perked up from under the pink ribbon which tied her hat, and the dark blue eyes gleamed drowsily from beneath their drooping lids,—and the lips parted, smiling—and then—then came the devil and tempted me! I was no longer middle-aged John Walden, the quiet parson of a country 'cure,'—I was a man unknown to myself,—possessed as it were, by the ghost of a dead youth, clamouring for youthful joy! I longed to touch that delicate little pink-and-white creature, so like a rose herself!—I was moved by an insane desire—yes!—it was insane, and fortunately quite momentary,—such impulses are not uncommon"—and here, as he unravelled, to his own satisfaction, the tangled web of his impressions, his brow cleared, and he smiled gravely,—"I was, I say, moved by an insane desire to draw that dainty small bundle of frippery and prettiness into my arms—yes,—it was so, and why should I not confess it to myself? Why should I be ashamed? Other men have felt the same, though perhaps they do not count so many years of life as I do. At any rate with me the feeling was momentary,—and passed. Then,—some moments later,—under the cedar- tree she dropped a rose from the cluster she had gathered,—and in giving it back to her I touched her hand—and our eyes met."

Here his thoughts became disconnected, and wandered beyond his control. He let them go,—and listened, instead of thinking, to the notes of the nightingale singing in his garden. It was now being answered by others at a distance, with incessant repetitions of a flute-like warble,—and then came the long sobbing trill and cry of love, piercing the night with insistant passion.

"The Bird of Life is singing on the bough, His two eternal notes of 'I and Thou'— O hearken well, for soon the song sings through, And would we hear it, we must hear it Now."

A faint tremor shook him as the lines quoted by Cicely Bourne rang back upon his memory. He rose to go indoors.

"I am a fool!"—he said—"I must not trouble my head any more about a summer day's fancy. It was a kind of 'old moonlight in the blood,' as Hafiz says,—an aching sense of loss,—or rather a touch of the spring affecting a decaying tree!" He sighed. "I shall not suffer from it again, because I will not. Brent's letter has arrived opportunely,—though I think—nay, I am sure, he has been misinformed. However, Miss Vancourt's affairs have nothing to do with me,—nor need I interest myself in what is not my concern. My business is with those who depend on my care,—I must not forget myself—I must attend to my work."

He went into the house,—and there was confronted in his own hall by a big burly figure clad in rough corduroys,—that of Farmer Thorpe, who doffed his cap and pulled his forelock respectfully at the sight of him.

"'Evenin', Passon!" he said—"I thought as 'ow I'd make bold to coom an' tell ye my red cow's took the turn an' doin' wonderful! Seems a special mussy of th' A'mighty, an' if there's anythin' me an' my darter can do fur ye, ye'll let us know, Passon, for I'm darn grateful, an' feels as 'ow the beast pulled round arter I'd spoke t'ye about 'er. An' though as ye told me, 'tain't the thing to say no prayers for beasties which is worldly goods, I makes a venture to arsk ye if ye'll step round to the farm to-morrer, jest to please Mattie my darter, an' take a look at the finest litter o' pigs as ever was seen in this county, barrin' none! A litter as clean an' sweet as daisies in new-mown hay, an' now's the time for ye to look at 'em, Passon, an' choose yer own suckin' beast for bilin' or roastin' which ye please, for both's as good as t'other,—an' there ain't no man about 'ere what desarves a sweet suckin' pig more'n you do, an' that I say an' swear to. It's a real prize litter I do assure you!—an' Mattie my darter, she be that proud, an' all ye wants to do is just to coom along an' choose your own!"

"Thank you, Mr. Thorpe!" said Walden with his usual patient courtesy—"Thank you very much! I will certainly come. Glad to hear the cow is better. And is Miss Thorpe well?"

"She's that foine,"—rejoined the farmer—"that only the pigs can beat 'er! I'll be tellin' 'er you'll coom to-morrer then?"

"Oh yes—by all means! Certainly! Most kind of you, I'm sure! Good- evening, Thorpe!"

"Same t'ye, Passon, an' thank ye kindly!" Whereat John escaped at last into his own solitary sanctum.

"My work!" he said, with a faint smile, as he seated himself at his desk—"I must do my work! I must attend to the pigs as much as anything else in the parish! My work!"



XVIII

It was the first Sunday in July. Under a sky of pure and cloudless blue the village of St. Rest lay cradled in floral and foliage loveliness, with all the glory of the morning sunshine and the full summer bathing it in floods of living gold. It had reached the perfect height of its annual beauty with the full flowering of its orchards and fields, and with all the wealth of colour which was flung like spray against the dark brown thatched roofs of its clustering cottages by the masses of roses, red and white, that clambered as high as the tops of the chimneys, and turning back from thence, dropped downwards again in a tangle of blossoms, and twined over latticed windows with a gay and gracious air like garlands hung up for some great festival. The stillness of the Seventh Day's pause was in the air,—even the swallows, darting in and out from their prettily contrived nests under the bulging old-fashioned eaves, seemed less busy, less active on their bright pinions, and skimmed to and fro with a gliding ease, suggestive of happy indolence and peace. The doors of the church were set wide open,—and Adam Frost, sexton and verger, was busy inside the building, placing the chairs, as was his usual Sunday custom, in orderly rows for the coming congregation. It was about half-past ten, and the bell-ringers, arriving and ascending into the belfry, were beginning to 'tone' the bells before pealing the full chime for the eleven o'clock service, when Bainton, arrayed in his Sunday best, strolled with a casual air into the churchyard, looked round approvingly for a minute or two, and then with some apparent hesitation, entered the church porch, lifting his cap reverently as he did so. Once there, he coughed softly to attract Frost's attention, but that individual was too much engrossed with his work to heed any lesser sound than the grating of the chairs he was arranging. Bainton waited patiently, standing near the carved oaken portal, till by chance the verger turned and saw him, whereupon he beckoned mysteriously with a crook'd forefinger.

"Adam! Hi! A word wi' ye!"

Adam came down the nave somewhat reluctantly, his countenance showing signs of evident preoccupation and harassment.

"What now?" he demanded, in a hoarse whisper-'"Can't ye see I'm busy?"

"O' coorse you're busy—I knows you're busy,"—returned Bainton, soothingly—"I ain't goin' to keep ye back nohow. All I wants to know is, ef it's true?"

"Ef what's true?"

"This 'ere, wot the folks are all a' clicketin' about,—that Miss Vancourt 'as got a party o' Lunnon fash'nables stayin' at the Manor, an' that they're comin' to church this marnin'?"

"True enough!" said Frost—"Don't ye see me a-settin' chairs for 'em near the poopit? There'll be what's called a 'crush' I can tell ye!- -for there ain't none too much room in the church at the best o' times for our own poor folk, but when rich folks comes as well, we'll be put to it to seat 'em. Mister Primmins, he comes down to me nigh 'arf an hour ago, an' he sez, sez he: 'Miss Vancourt 'as friends from Lunnon stayin' with 'er, an' they're comin' to church this marnin'. 'Ope you'll find room?' An' I sez to 'im, 'I'll do my best, but there ain't no reserve seats in the 'ouse o' God, an' them as comes fust gits fust served.' Ay, it's true enough they're a- comin', but 'ow it got round in the village, I don't know. I ain't sed a wurrd."

"Ill news travels fast,"—said Bainton, sententiously, "Mister Primmins no doubt called on his young 'ooman at the 'Mother Huff' an' told 'er to put on 'er best 'at. She's a reg'ler telephone tube for information—any bit o' news runs right through 'er as though she was a wire. 'Ave ye told Passon Waldon as 'ow Miss Vancourt an' visitors is a-comin' to 'ear 'im preach?"

"No,"—replied Adam, with some vigour—"I ain't told 'im nothin'. An' I ain't goin' to neither!"

Bainton looked into the crown of his cap, and finding his handkerchief there wiped the top of his head with it.

"It be powerful warm this marnin', Adam,"—he said—"Powerful warm it be. So you ain't goin' to tell Passon nothin',—an' for why, may I ask, if to be so bold."

"Look 'ere, Tummas,"—rejoined the verger, speaking slowly and emphatically—"Passon, 'e be a rare good man, m'appen no better man anywheres, an' what he's goin' to say to us this blessed Sunday is all settled-like. He's been thinkin' it out all the week. He knows what's what. 'Tain't for us,—'tain't for you nor me, to go puttin' 'im out an' tellin' 'im o' the world the flesh an' the devil all a- comin' to church. Mebbe he'a been a-prayin' to the Lord A'mighty to put the 'Oly Spirit into 'im, an' mebbe he's got it—just THERE." And Adam touched his breast significantly. "Now if I goes, or you goes and sez to 'im: 'Passon, there's fash'nable folks from Lunnon comin' 'ere to look at ye an' listen to ye, an' for all we kin tell make mock o' ye as well as o' the Gospel itself in their 'arts'— d'ye think he'd be any the better for it? No, Tummas, no! I say leave Passon alone. Don't upset 'im. Let 'im come out of 'is 'ouse wise an' peaceful like as he allus do, an' let 'im speak as the fiery tongues from Heaven moves 'im, an' as if there worn't no fashion nor silly nonsense in the world. He's best so, Tummas!—you b'lieve me,—he's best so!"

"Mebbe—mebbe!" and Bainton twirled his cap round and round dubiously—"But Miss Vancourt—-"

"Miss Vancourt ain't been to church once till now,"—said Adam,— "An' she's only comin' now to show it to her friends. I doesn't want to think 'ard of her, for she's a sweet-looking little lady an' a kind one—an' my Ipsie just worships 'er,—an' what my baby likes I'm bound to like too—but I do 'ope she ain't a 'eathen, an' that once comin' to church means comin' again, an' reg'lar ever arterwards. Anyway, it's for you an' me, Tummas, to leave Passon to the Lord an' the fiery tongues,—we ain't no call to interfere with 'im by tellin' 'im who's comin' to church an' who ain't. Anyone's free to enter the 'ouse o' God, rich or poor, an 'tain't a world's wonder if strangers worships at the Saint's Rest as well as our own folk."

Here the bells began to ring in perfect unison, with regular rhythm and sweet concord.

"I must go,"—continued Adam—"I ain't done fixin' the chairs yet, an' it's a quarter to eleven. We'll be 'avin 'em all 'ere d'rectly."

He hurried into the church again just as Miss Eden and her boy-and- girl 'choir' entered the churchyard, and Bainton seeing them, and also perceiving in the near distance the slow halting figure of Josey Letherbarrow, who made it a point never to be a minute late for divine service, rightly concluded that there was no time now, even if he were disposed to such a course, to 'warn Passon' that he would have to preach to 'fashionable folks' that morning.

"Mebbe Adam's right," he reflected—"An' yet it do worry me a bit to think of 'im comin' out of 'is garden innercent like an' not knowin' what's a-waitin' for 'im. For he's been rare quiet lately—seems as if he was studyin' an' prayin' from mornin' to night, an' he ain't bin nowhere,—an' no one's bin to see 'im, 'cept that scarecrow- lookin' chap, Adderley, which HE stayed a 'ole arternoon, jabberin' an' readin' to 'im. An' what's mighty queer to me is that he ain't bin fidgettin' over 'is garden like he used to. He don't seem to care no more whether the flowers blooms or doesn't. Them phloxes up against the west wall now—a finer show I never seen—an' as for the lilum candidum, they're a perfect picter. But he don't notice 'em much, an' he's not so keen on his water-lilies as I thought he would be, for they're promisin' better this year than they've ever done before, an' the buds all a-floatin' up on top o' the river just lovely. An' as for vegetables—Lord!—he don't seem to know whether 'tis beans or peas he 'as—there's a kind o' sap gone out o' the garden this summer, for all that it's so fine an' flourishin'. There's a missin' o' somethin' somewheres!"

His meditations were put to an end by the continuous arrival of all the villagers coming to church;—by twos and threes, and then by half dozens and dozens, they filed in through the churchyard, exchanging brief neighbourly greetings with one another as they passed quietly into the sacred edifice, where the soft strains of the organ now began to mingle with the outside chiming of the bells. Bainton still lingered near the porch, moved by a pardonable curiosity. He was anxious to see the first glimpse of the people who were staying at the Manor, but as yet there was no sign of any one of them, though the time wanted only five minutes to eleven.

The familiar click of the latch of the gate which divided the church precincts from the rectory garden, made him turn his head in that direction, to watch his master approaching the scene of his morning's ministrations. The Reverend John walked slowly, with uplifted head and tranquil demeanour, and, as he turned aside up the narrow path which led to the vestry at the back of the church the faithful 'Tummas' felt a sudden pang. 'Passon' looked too good for this world, he thought,—his dignity of movement, his serene and steadfast eyes, his fine, thoughtful, though somewhat pale countenance, were all expressive of that repose and integrity of soul which lifts a man above the common level, and unconsciously to himself, wins for him the silent honour and respect of all his fellows. And yet there was a touch of pathetic isolation about him, too,—as of one who is with, yet not of, the ordinary joys, hopes, and loves of humanity,—and it was this which instinctively moved Bainton, though that simple rustic would have been at a loss to express the sense of what he felt in words. However there was no more leisure for thinking, if he wished to be in his place at the commencement of service. The servants from Abbot's Manor were just entering the churchyard-gates, marshalled, as usual, by the housekeeper, Mrs. Spruce, and her deaf but ever dutiful husband,— and though Bainton longed to ask one of them if Miss Vancourt and her guests were really coming, he hesitated,—and in that moment of hesitation, the whole domestic retinue passed into church before him, and he judged it best and wisest to follow quickly in silence, lest, when prayers began, his master should note his absence.

The building was very full,—and it was difficult to see where, if any strangers did arrive, they could be accommodated. Miss Eden, in her capacity as organist, was still playing the opening voluntary, but, despite the fact that there was no apparent disturbance of the usual order of things, there was a certain air of hushed expectancy among the people which was decidedly foreign to the normal atmosphere of St. Rest. The village lasses looked at each other's hats with keener interest,—the lads fidgeted with their ties and collars more strenuously, and secreted their caps more surreptitiously behind their legs,—and the most placid-looking personage in the whole congregation was Josey Letherbarrow, who, in a very clean smock, with a small red rose in his buttonhole, and his silvery hair parted on either side and just touching his shoulders, sat restfully in his own special corner not far from the pulpit, leaning on his stick and listening with rapt attention to the fall and flow of the organ music as it swept round him in soft and ever decreasing eddies of sound. The bells ceased, and eleven o'clock struck slowly from the church tower. At the last stroke, the Reverend John entered the chancel in his plain white surplice, spotless as new-fallen snow,-and as he knelt for a moment in silent devotion, the voluntary ended with a grave, long, sustained chord. A pause,—and then the 'Passon' rose, and faced his little flock, his hand laid on the open 'Book of Common Prayer.'

"When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive."

Walden's voice rang clear and sonorous,—the sunshine pouring through the plain glass of the high rose-window behind and above him, shed effulgence over the ancient sarcophagus in front of the altar and struck from its alabaster whiteness a kind of double light which, circling round his tall slight figure made it stand out in singularly bold relief.

"If we say that we have no sin we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us, but if we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."

A ripple of gay laughter here echoed in through the church doors, which were left open for air on account of the great heat of the day. There was an uneasy movement in the congregation,—some men and women glanced at one another. That light, careless laughter was distinctly discordant. The Reverend John drew himself up a little more rigidly erect, and his face grew a shade paler. Steadily, he read on:—

"Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness; and that we should not dissemble nor cloke them before the face of Almighty God our Heavenly Father, but confess them with an humble, lowly, penitent and obedient heart—-"

He ceased abruptly. A glimmer of colour,—a soft gliding swish of silken skirts, an affectation of tip-toe movement up the nave,—a wave of indescribable artificial perfume,—and then, a general stir and head-turning among the people showed that a new and unaccustomed element had suddenly merged into the simple human material whereof the village of St. Rest was composed,—an element altogether strange to it, not to say troublous and confusing. Walden saw, and bit his lips hard,—his hand instinctively clenched itself nervously on the 'Book of Common Prayer.' But his rigid attitude did not relax, and he remained mute, his eyes fixed steadily on the fashionably dressed new-comers, who, greatly embarrassed by the interruption their late entrance had caused,—an interruption emphasised in so marked a manner by the silence of the officiating minister, made haste to take the chairs pointed out to them by the verger, with crimsoning faces and lowered eyelids. It was a new and most unpleasant experience for them. They did not know, of course, that it was Walden's habit to pause in whatever part of the service he was reading if anyone came in late,—to wait till the tardy arrivals took their places,—and then to begin the interrupted sentence over again,—a habit which had effectually succeeded in making all his parishioners punctual.

But Maryllia, whose guests they were,—Maryllia, who was responsible as their hostess for bringing them to church at all, and who herself, with Cicely, was the last to enter after service had begun, felt a rebellious wave of colour rushing up to her brows. It was very rude of Mr. Walden, she thought, to stop short in his reading and cause the whole congregation to turn and stare curiously at herself and her friends just because they were a little bit behind time! It exposed them all to public rebuke! And when the stir caused by their entrance had subsided, she stood up almost defiantly, lifting her graceful head haughtily, her soft cheeks glowing and her eyes flashing, looking twenty times prettier even than usual as she opened her daintily bound prayer-book with a careless, not to eay indifferent air, as though her thoughts were thousands of miles away from St. Rest and all belonging to it. Glancing at the different members of her party, she was glad that one of them at least, Lady Eva Beaulyon, had secured a front seat, for her ladyship was never content unless she was well to the foremost of everything. She was a reigning beauty,—the darling of the society press, and the model of all aspiring photographers,—and she could hardly be expected to put up with any obscure corner, even in a church;—if she ever went to the Heaven of monkish legend, one could well imagine St. Peter standing aside for her to pass. Close beside her was another wonderful looking woman, a Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, a 'leader' in society, who went everywhere, did everything, wore the newest coat, skirt or hat from Paris directly it was put on the market, and wrote accounts of herself and her 'smartness' to the American press under a 'nom-de-plume.' She was not, like Lady Beaulyon, celebrated for her beauty, but for her perennial youth. Her face, without being in the least interesting or charming, was smooth and peach-coloured, without a line of thought or a wrinkle of care upon it. Her eyes were bright and quite baby-like in their meaningless expression, and her hair was of the loveliest Titian red. She had a figure which was the envy of all modellers of dress-stands,—and as she was wont to say of herself, it would have been difficult to find fault with the 'chic' of her outward appearance. Painters and sculptors would have found her an affront to nature—but then Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay had no acquaintance with painters and sculptors. She thought them 'queer' people, with very improper ideas. She was exceedingly put out by Walden's abrupt pause in his reading of the 'Dearly beloved,' while she and the other members of the Manor house-party rustled into their places,—and when he recommenced the exordium she revenged herself by staring at him quizzically through a long- handled tortoiseshell-mounted lorgnon. But she did not succeed in confusing him at all, or in even attracting his attention,—so she merely shrugged her shoulders, with what the French call an 'air moqueuse.'

The momentary confusion caused by the pause in the service soon passed, and the spirit of calm again settled on the scene after the 'General Confession.' But Maryllia was deeply conscious of hurt and vexation. It was too bad of Mr. Walden, she kept on. saying to herself over and over again,—too bad! Her friends and herself were only five or six minutes late, and to have stopped in his reading of the service like that to put them all to shame was unkind—'yes, unkind,' she said in her vexed soul,—vexed all the more because she was inwardly conscious that Walden was right and herself wrong. She knew well enough that she could have reached the church at eleven had she chosen, and have brought her friends punctual to time as well. She knew it was neither reverent nor respectful to interrupt divine worship. But she was too irritated to reason the matter out calmly just then,—all she could think of was that she and her London guests had received a reproof from the minister of the parish—silent, but none the less severe—before all the villagers- before her own servants—and on the first occasion of her coming to church, too! She could not get over it.

"If he can see me," she thought, "he will know that I am angry!"

Chafed little spirit!—as if it mattered to Walden whether she was angry or not! He saw her well enough,—he noted her face 'red as a rose,' with its mobile play of expression, set in its frame of golden-brown hair,—it flitted, sunbeam-like between his eyes and the 'Book of Common Prayer'—and, when he ceased reading, while the village choir, rendered slightly nervous by the presence of 'the quality,' chanted the 'O come let us sing unto the Lord,' he was conscious of a sudden lassitude, arising, as he knew, from the strain he had put upon himself for the past few minutes. He was, however, quite calm and self-possessed when he rose to read the Lessons of the Day, and the service proceeded as usual in the perfectly simple, unadorned style of 'that pure and reformed part of Christ's Holy Catholic Church which is established in this Realm.' Now and then his attention wandered—once or twice his eyes rested on the well-dressed group directly opposite to him with a kind of vague regret and doubt. There was an emotion working in his soul to which he could scarcely give a name. Instinctively he was conscious that a certain embarrassment and uneasiness affected the ordinary members of his congregation,—he knew that their minds were disquieted and distracted,—that the girls and women were open-eyed and almost open-mouthed at the sight of the fashionable costumes and wondrous millinery which the ladies of Miss Vancourt's house-party wore, and were dissatisfied with their own clothing in consequence,- -and that the lads and men felt themselves to be awkward, uncouth and foolish in the near presence of personages belonging to quite another sphere than their own. He knew that the showy ephemera of this world had by a temporary fire-fly glitter, fascinated the simple souls that had been erstwhile glad to dwell for a space on the contemplation of spiritual and heavenly things. He saw that the matchless lesson of Christ's love to humanity was scarcely heeded in the contemplation of how very much humanity was able to do for itself even without Christ's love, provided it had money and the devil to 'push' it on! He sighed a little;—and certain words in the letter of his friend Bishop Brent came back to his memory—"Many things seem to me hopeless,-utterly irremediable ... I grow tired of my own puny efforts to lift the burden which is laid upon me." Then other, and stronger, thoughts came to him, and when the time arrived to read the Commandments, a rush of passion and vigorous intensity filled him with a force far greater than he knew. Cicely Bourne said afterwards that she should never forget the thrill that ran through her like a shock of electricity, when he proclaimed from the altar:- -"GOD spake these words and said: Thou shalt have none other gods but me!"

Looking up at this moment, she saw Julian Adderley in the aisle on her left-hand side,—he too was staring at Walden as though he saw the figure of a saint in a vision. But Maryllia kept her face hidden, listening in a kind of awe, as each 'Commandment' was, as it seemed, grandly and strenuously insisted upon by the clear voice that had no tone of hypocrisy in its whole scale.

"Thou shalt NOT bear false witness against thy neighbour!"

Lady Beaulyon forgot to droop her head in the usual studied way which she knew was so becoming to her,—the NOT was so emphatic. An unpleasant shiver ran through her daintily-clothed person,—dear me!—how often and often she had 'borne false witness,' not only against her neighbour, but against everyone she could think of or talk about! Where could be the fun of living if you must NOT swear to as many lies about your neighbour as possible? No spice or savour would be left in the delicate ragout of 'swagger' society! The minister of St. Rest was really quite objectionable,—a ranter,—a noisy, 'stagey' creature!—and both she and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay murmured to each other that they 'did not like him.'

"So loud!" said Lady Beaulyon, breathing the words delicately against her friend's Titian-red hair.

"So provincial!" rejoined Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the same dulcet undertone, adding to her remark the fervent—"Lord have mercy upon us and incline our hearts to keep this law!"

One very gratifying circumstance to these ladies, however, and one that considerably astonished all the members of Miss Vancourt's house-party, as well as Miss Vancourt herself, was that no 'collection' was made. Neither the church, the poor, nor some distant mission to the heathen served as any excuse for begging, in the shrine of the 'Saint's Rest.' No vestige of a money-box or 'plate' was to be seen anywhere. And this fact pre-disposed them to survey Walden's face and figure with critical attention as he left the chancel and ascended the pulpit during the singing of 'The Lord is my Shepherd.' At the opening chords of that quaint and simple hymn, Cicely Bourne glanced at Miss Eden and Susie Prescott with a little suggestive smile, and caught their appealing glances,—then, as the quavering chorus of boys and girls began, she raised her voice as the 'leading soprano,' and like a thread of gold it twined round all the notes and tied them together in clear and lovely unison:

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, He maketh me down to lie, In pleasant fields where the lilies grow, And the river runneth by."

Everyone in the congregation stared and seemed stricken with sudden wonderment. Such singing they had never heard before. Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay put up her lorgnon.

"It's Maryllia Vancourt's creature,"—she whispered—"The ugly child she picked up in Paris. I suppose it really IS a voice?"

"It really is, I think!" responded Lady Beaulyon, languidly, turning her fair head to look at the plain sallow girl with the untidy black hair whom she had only seen for a few minutes on her arrival at Abbot's Manor the previous day, and whom she had scarcely noticed. But Cicely saw her not—her whole soul was in her singing,—and she had no glance even for Julian Adderley, who, gazing at her as if she were already the prima donna in an opera, listened enrapt.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me, In the depth of a desert land; And, lest I should in the darkness slip, He holdeth me by the hand."

Maryllia felt a contraction in her throat, and her eyes unconsciously filled with tears. How sweet that hymn was!—how very sweet! Tender memories of her father crowded upon her,—her mother's face, grown familiar to her sight from her daily visits to the now no longer veiled picture in the Manor gallery, shone out upon her from the altar like a glorified angel above the white sarcophagus where the word 'Resurget' sparkled jewel-like in the sunshine,—and she began to feel that after all there was something in the Christian faith that was divinely helpful and uplifting to the soul.

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, My mind on Him is stayed, And though through the Valley of Death I walk, I shall not be afraid!"

Pure and true rang Cicely's young, fresh and glorious voice, carrying all the voices of the children with it on the pulsating waves of the organ chords,—and an impression of high exaltation, serenity and peace, rested on the whole congregation with the singing of the last verse—

"The Lord is my Shepherd: O Shepherd sweet, Leave me not here to stray; But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold, And keep me there, I pray! Amen!"

During the silence that immediately followed, Walden stood erect in the pulpit, looking down upon the people. He saw Maryllia's face,— he saw all the eyes of her London friends fixed on him with a more or less critical and supercilious stare,—he saw his own flock' waiting for his first word with their usual air of respectful attention,—every small point and detail in his surroundings became suddenly magnified to his sight,—even the little rose in old Josey Letherbarrow's smock caught his eye with an almost obtrusive flare. The blithe soft carol of the birds outside sounded close and loud,— the buzzing of a bumble-bee that had found its way into the church and was now bouncing fussily against a sunlit window, in its efforts to pass through what seemed to itself clear space, made quite an abnormal noise. His heart beat heavily,—he fancied he could hear it thudding in his breast,—then, all at once, an inflow of energy rushed upon him as though the 'fiery tongues' of which Adam Frost had spoken, were in very truth descending upon him. Maryllia's face! There it was—so winsome, so bright, and proud and provocative in its every feature,—and the old French damask roses growing in her garden borders could not show a prettier colour than her cheeks! He lifted his hands. "Let us pray!"

The villagers all obediently dropped on their knees. The Manor 'house-party' politely bent their heads.

"Supreme Creator of the Universe, without Whose power and permission no thought is ever generated in the brain of Thy creature, man; Be pleased to teach me, Thy unworthy servant, Thy will and law this day, that I may speak to this congregation even as Thou shalt command, without any care for myself or my words, but in entire submission to Thee and Thy Holy Spirit! Amen."

He rose. The congregation rose with him. Some of the village folks exchanged uneasy glances with one another. Was their beloved 'Passon' quite himself? He looked so very pale,—his eyes were so unusually bright,—and his whole aspect so more than commonly commanding. Almost nervously they fumbled with their Bibles as he gave out the text:—"The twenty-sixth verse of the sixteenth chapter of the Gospel according to St. Matthew."

He paused, and then, as was his usual custom, patiently repeated— "The sixteenth chapter of the Gospel according to St. Matthew, twenty-sixth verse." Again he waited, while the subdued rustling of pages and turning over of books continued,—and finally pronounced the words—"What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" Here he closed the Testament, leaning one hand upon it. He had resolved to speak 'extempore,' just as the mood moved him, and to make his discourse as brief as possible,—a mere twelve minutes' sermon. For he knew that his ordinary congregation were more affected by a sense of restlessness and impatience than they themselves realised, and that such strangers as were present were of a temperament more likely to be bored, than interested.

"What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?"—he began, slowly, and with emphasis, his eyes resting steadfastly on the fashionably-attired group of persons immediately under his observation—"This was one of the questions put by the Divine Man Christ, to men,—and was no doubt considered then, as it surely is considered now, a very foolish enquiry. For to 'gain the whole world' is judged as so exceedingly profitable to most people that they are quite willing to lose everything else they have in exchange for it. They will gladly barter conscience, principle, honour and truth to gain 'the whole world'—and as for the 'soul,' that fine and immortal essence is treated by the majority as a mere poetic phrase—a figure of speech, without any real meaning behind it. I know well how some of you here to-day will regret wasting your time in listening, even for a few minutes, to anything about so obsolete a subject as the Soul! The Soul! What is it? A fiction or a fact? How many of us possess a Soul, or THINK we possess one? Of what is it composed, that it should be judged as so much more precious than the Body?—the dear Body, which we pamper and feed and clothe and cosset and cocker, till it struts on the face of the planet, a mere magnified Ape of conceit and trickery, sloth and sensuality, the one unforgivable anachronism in an otherwise perfect Creation! For Body without Soul is a blot on the Universe,—a distortion and abomination of nature, with which nature by and by will have nothing to do. Yet I freely grant that while Soul animates and inspires all creation, man cannot or will not comprehend it; he may, therefore, in part, be condoned for not endeavouring to 'save' what he is not taught to truly recognise. To explain the 'Soul' more clearly, I will refer you all to the Book of Genesis, where it is written—'And God made man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became A LIVING SOUL.' Thus we see that 'Soul' is the breath of God, which is also the Eternal breath of Eternal Life. Each human being is endowed with this essence of immortality, which cannot die with death, being, as it is, the embryo of endless lives to come. This is why it is pre-eminently valuable—this is why we should take heed that it be not 'lost.' It may be argued—'How can anything be lost which is eternally alive?' That proposition is easily answered. A jewel may be 'lost' in the sea, but it is still existent as a jewel. In the same way a man may 'lose' his Soul, though he can never destroy it. It is the 'breath of God'—the germ of immortal Life,— and if one 'loses' it, another may find it. This is not only religion,—it is also science. In the present age, when all imagination, all poetry, all instinctive sense of the divine, is being subordinated to what we consider as Fact, there is one supreme mystery which eludes the research of the most acute and pitiless materialist—and that is life itself,—its origin, its evolution and its intention. We can do many wonderful things,—but we cannot re- animate the corpse of a friend! Christ could do this, being Divinity incarnate,—but we can only wring our hands helplessly, and wonder where the spirit has fled,—that spirit which made our beloved one speak to us, smile, and exchange the looks which express the emotions of the heart more truly than words. We want the 'Soul' we loved! The inanimate clay, stretched cold in its coffined rest, is a strange sight to us. We do not know it. It is not our friend! Our friend was the 'Soul' that lived in the clay,—the 'breath of God' that moved our own 'Soul' to respond to it in affection and tenderness. And we instinctively know and feel that though this breath of God' is gone from us, it cannot be dead. And 'lost' is not an expression that we would ever apply to it, because we hope and believe it is 'found'—found by its Creator, and taught to realise and rejoice in its own immortality. All religion means this,—the 'finding' of the Soul. The passion of our Saviour teaches this,—His resurrection, His ascension into Heaven, symbolises and expresses the same thing. Yet, in the words of Christ Himself, it would nevertheless seem, that the 'Soul' divinely generated and immortal as it is, can be 'lost' by our own act and will. 'What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?' I venture to think the text implies, that in the very attempt to 'gain the whole world,' the loss of the soul is involved. I am not going to detain you here this morning with a long exordium concerning how some of you can and may, if you choose, play havoc with the priceless gift God baa bestowed upon each one of you. I only desire to impress upon you all, with the utmost earnestness, that it is idle to say among yourselves 'We have no souls,' or 'The soul is an unknown quantity and cannot be proved.' The soul is as and actual a part of you as the main artery is of the body,—and that you cannot see it, touch it, or put it under the surgeon's dissecting knife is no proof that it is not there. You might as well say life itself does not exist, because you cannot see its primaeval causes or beginnings. The Soul is the centre of your being,—the compass of your life-journey,—the pivot round which, whether you will or not, you shape your actions in this world for the next. If you lose that mainspring of motive, you lose all. Your conduct, your speech, your expression in every movement and feature all show the ungoverned and ungovernable condition in which you are. God is not mocked,—and in many cases,—taking the grand majority of the human race,—neither is man!"

He paused. The congregation was very quiet. He felt, rather than saw, that Maryllia's eyes were fixed upon him,—and he was perfectly aware that Lady Beaulyon,—whom he recognised, as he would have recognised an actress, on account of the innumerable photographs of her which were on sale in the windows of every stationer in every moderate-sized town,—was gazing straight up at him with a bright, mocking glance in which lurked a suspicion of disdain and laughter. Moved by a sudden impulse, he bent his own regard straight down upon her with an inflexible cool serenity. An ugly frown puckered her ladyship's brow at once,—and she lowered her eyelids angrily.

"I say God is not mocked,"—he continued slowly; "Neither is man! The miserable human being that has 'lost' his or her Soul, may be assured that the 'gain' of the whole world in exchange, will prove but Dead Sea fruit, bitter and tasteless, and in the end wholly poisonous. Loss of the Soul is marked by moral degradation and deterioration,—and this inward crumbling and rotting of all noble and fine feeling into baseness, shows itself on the fairest face,— the proudest form. The man who lies against his neighbour for the sake of worldly convenience or personal revenge, writes the lie in his own countenance as he utters it. It engraves its mark,—it can be seen by all who read physiognomy—it says plainly—'Let not this man be trusted!' The woman who is false and treacherous carries the stigma on her features, be they never so perfect. The creature of clay who has lost Soul, likewise lacks Heart,—and the starved, hopeless poverty of such an one is disclosed in him, even if he be a world's millionaire. Moreover, 'Soul'—that delicate, divine, eternal essence, is easily lost. Any earthly passion carried to excess, will overwhelm it, and sink it in an unfathomable sea. It can slip away in the pursuit of ambition,—in schemes for self- aggrandisement,—in the building up of huge fortunes,—in the pomp, and show, and vanity of mundane things. It flies from selfishness and sensuality. It can be lost in hate,—it can equally be lost in love!"

Again he paused—then went on—"Yes—for even in love, that purest and most elevating of human emotions, the Soul must have its way rather than the Body. Loss of the 'Soul' in love, means that love then becomes the mere corpse of itself, and must needs decay with all other such dust-like things. In every sentiment, in every thought, in every hope, in every action, let us find the 'Soul,' and never let it go! For without it, no great deed can be done, no worthy task accomplished, no life lived honourably and straightly in the sight of God. It shall profit us nothing to be famous, witty, wealthy, or admired, if we are mere stuffed figures of clay without the 'breath of God' as our animating life principle. The simple peasant, who has enough 'soul' in him to reverently watch the sunset across the hills, and think of God as the author of all that splendour, is higher in the spiritual scale than the learned scholar who is too occupied with himself and his own small matters to notice whether it is a sunset or a house on fire. The 'soul' in a man should be his sense, his sight, his touch, his very inmost and dearest centre,—the germ of all good,—the generator of all peace and hope and happiness. It is the one and only thing to foster,—the one and only thing to save,—the only part of man which, belonging as it does to God, God will require again. Some of you here present to-day will perhaps think for a little while on what I have said when you leave this church,—and others will at once forget it,—but think, forget, or remember as you choose, the truth remains, that all of you, young and old, rich and poor, are endowed in your own selves with the 'making of an angel.' The 'Soul' within you, which you may elect to keep or to lose, is the infant of Heaven. It depends on you for care,—for sustenance;—it needs all your work and will to aid it in growing up to its full stature and perfection. It shall profit you nothing if you gain the whole world, and at death have naught to give to your Maker but crumbling clay. Let the Angel be ready,—the 'Soul' in you prepared, and full-winged for flight! According to the power and purity with which you have invested and surrounded it, will be its fate. If you have voluntarily checked and stunted its aspirations, even so checked and stunted must be its next probation,—but if you have faithfully done your best to nourish it with loving thoughts and noble aims,—if you have given it room to expand and shine forth with all its own original God-born radiance, then will its ascension to a higher sphere of action and attainment be attended with unimaginable joy and glory. Let the world go, rather than lose the Divine Light within you! For that Light will, and must, attract all that is worth knowing, worth loving and worth keeping in our actual environment. The rest can be well spared,—whether it be money, position, notoriety or social influence,—for none of these things last,—none of them are in any way precious, save to such ignorant and misguided persons as are deceived by external shows. The Soul is all! Keep but that 'breath of God' within you, and the world becomes merely one step of the ladder on which you may easily mount through everlasting love upon love, joy upon joy, to the utmost height of Heaven!"

He ceased. For a moment there was a profound stillness. And then, with the usual formula—"Now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost be praise, honour and glory for ever and ever"—the congregation stood up. Lady Beaulyon shook her silken skirts delicately. Mrs. Bludlip Oourtenay put her hand to her back hair coil and made sure that it was safe. And there was a general stir and movement, which instantly subsided again, as the people knelt to receive the parting benediction. Maryllia's eyes were riveted on Walden as he stretched out his hands;—she was conscious of a certain vague awe and reverence for this man with whom she had so casually walked and talked, only as it seemed the other day;—he appeared, as it were, removed from her by an immeasurable distance,- -his spirit and hers had gone wide apart,—his was throned upon a height of noble ideals,—hers was low, low down in a little valley of worldly nothings,—and oh, how small and insignificant she felt! Cicely's hand caught hers and gave it an affectionate little pressure, as they bowed their heads together under the solemnly pronounced blessing.

"The peace of God which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of His Son Jesus Christ our Lord,"—here Walden turned ever so slightly towards the place where Maryllia knelt; "and the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you and remain with you always!"

"A—-men!"

With this last response from the choir, the congregation began to disperse, and Walden, glancing over the little moving crowd, saw the eager bustle and pressure of all its units to look at 'the ladies from the Manor' and take stock of their wonderful costumes. The grip of 'the world' was on them, and the only worshipper remaining quietly in his place, with hands clasped across his stick, and eyes closed, was Josey Letherbarrow. The old man seemed to be praying inwardly—his face was rapt and serene. Walden looked down upon him very tenderly. A verse of Browning's ran through his mind:—

"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life for which the first was made. Our times are in His hand, Who saith: 'A whole I planned,' Youth shows but half; trust God; see all, nor be afraid!"

And musing on this, he descended slowly from the pulpit and retired.



XIX

Outside in the churchyard, there was a general little flutter of local excitement. Maryllia lingered there for several minutes, pointing out the various beauties in the architecture of the church to her guests, not that these individuals were very much interested in such matters, for they were of that particular social type which considers that the highest form of good breeding is to show a polite nullity of feeling concerning everything and everybody. They were eminently 'cultured,' which nowadays means pre-eminently dull. Had they been asked, they would have said that it is dangerous to express any opinion on any subject,—even on the architecture of a church. Because the architect himself might be somewhere near,—or the architect's father, or his mother or his great-grandam—one never knows! And by a hasty remark in the wrong place and at the wrong moment, one might make an unnecessary enemy. It is so much nicer—so much safer to say nothing at all! Of course they looked at the church,—it would have been uncivil to their hostess not to look at it, as she was taking the trouble to call their attention to its various points, and they assumed the usual conventional air of appreciative admiration. But none of, them understood anything about it,—and none of them cared to understand. They had not even noticed the ancient sarcophagus in front of the altar except as 'some odd kind of sculptured ornament.' When they wore told what it was, they smiled vacuously, and said: 'How curious!' But further than this mild and non-aggressive exclamation they did not venture. The villagers hung about shyly, loth to lose sight of the 'quality';— two or three 'county' people lingered also, to stare at, and comment upon, the notorious 'beauty,' Lady Beaulyon, whose physical charms, having been freely advertised for some years in the society columns of the press, were naturally 'on show' for the criticism of Tom, Dick and Harry,—Mrs. Mandeville Poreham, marshalling her five marriageable daughters together, stalked magisterially to her private 'bus, very much en evidence, and considerably put out by the supercilious gaze and smile of the perfectly costumed Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay,—Julian Adderley, coming up in response to the beckoning finger of Cicely Bourne, was kindly greeted by Maryllia, introduced to one or two of her friends, and asked then and there to luncheon, an invitation he accepted with alacrity, and, after this, all the Manor party started with their hostess to walk home, leaving the village and villagers behind them, and discussing as they went, the morning's service and sermon in the usual brief and desultory style common to fashionable church-goers. The principal impression they appeared to have on their minds was one of vague amusement. The notion that any clergyman should have the 'impudence'—(this was the word used by Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay)—to pause in the service because people came in late, touched the very apex of absurdity.

"So against his own interests too,"—said Lady Beaulyon, carelessly- -"Because where would all the parsons be if they offended their patrons?"

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, a thin gentleman with a monocle—assented to this proposition with a "Where indeed!" He considered that clergymen should not forget themselves,—they should show proper respect towards those on whom they depended for support.

"Mr. Walden depends on God for support, I believe,"—said Cicely Bourne suddenly.

Mr. Bludlip Courtenay fixed his monocle firmly in his left eye and stared at her.

"Really!" he drawled dubiously—"You surprise me!"

"It IS funny, isn't it?" pursued Cicely—"So unlike the Apostles!"

Maryllia smiled. Lady Beaulyon laughed outright.

"Are you trying to be satirical, you droll child?" she enquired languidly.

"Oh no, I'm not trying,"—replied Cicely, with a quick flash of her dark eyes—"It comes quite easy! You were talking about clergymen offending their patrons. Now Mr. Walden hasn't got any patron to offend. He's his own patron." "Has he purchased the advowson, then?" enquired Mr. Courtenay—"Or, to put it more conventionally, has he obtained it through a friend at court?"

"I don't know anything about the how or the why or the when,"—said Cicely—"But I know he owns the living and the church. So of course if he chooses to show people what he thinks of them when they come in to service late, he can do it. If they don't like it, he doesn't care. He doesn't ask anybody for anything,—he doesn't even send round a collection plate."

"No—I noticed that!—awfully jolly!"—said a good-natured looking man who had been walking beside Julian Adderley,—a certain Lord Charlemont whose one joy in life was motoring—"Awfully game! Ought to make him quite famous!"

"It ought,—it ought indeed!" agreed Adderley—"I do not suppose there is another clergyman in England who obliterates the plate from the worship of the Almighty! It is so remote—so very remote!"

"I think he's a funny sort of parson altogether,"—said Cicely meditatively—"He doesn't beg, borrow or steal,—he isn't a toady, he isn't a hypocrite, and he speaks his mind. Queer, isn't it?"

"Very!" laughed Lord Charlemont—"I don't know another like him, give you my word!"

"Well, he can't preach,"—said Lady Beaulyon, decisively—"I never heard quite such a stupid sermon."

All the members of the house-party glanced at one another to see if this verdict were generally endorsed. Apparently some differed in opinion.

"Didn't you like it, Eva?" asked Maryllia.

"My dear child! Who COULD like it! Such transcendental stuff! And all that nonsense about the Soul! In these scientific days too!"

"Ah science, science!" sighed Mr. Bludlip Courtenay, dropping his monocle with a sharp click against his top waistcoat button—"Where will it end?"

Nobody volunteered a reply to this profound proposition.

"'Souls' are noted for something else than being saved for heaven nowadays, aren't they, Lady Beaulyon?" queried Lord Charlemont, with a knowing smile.

Lady Beaulyon's small, rather hard mouth tightened into a thin line.

"I really don't know!"—she said carelessly—"If you mean the social 'Souls,' they are rather unconventional certainly, and not always discreet. But they are generally interesting—much more so, I should think, than such 'Souls' as the parson preached about just now."

"Indeed, yes!" agreed Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay—"I can imagine nothing more tiresome than to be a Soul without a Body, climbing from height to height of a heaven where there is no night, no sleep, no rest for ever and ever. Simply dreadful! But there!—one only goes to church for form's sake—just as an example to one's servants—and when it's done, don't you think it's best to forget it as soon as possible?"

She raised her baby eyes appealingly as she put the question.

Everybody laughed, or rather sniggered. Real honest laughter is not considered 'good form' by certain sections of society. A gentle imitation of the nanny-goat's bleat is the most seemly way for cultured persons to give vent to the expression of mirth. Maryllia alone was grave and preoccupied. The conversation of her guests annoyed her, though in London she had been quite well accustomed to hear people talk lightly and callously of religion and all religious subjects. Yet here, in the quiet country, things were different, somehow. God seemed nearer,—it was more difficult to blaspheme and ignore Him. And there was a greater sense of regret and humiliation in one's self for one's own lack of faith. Though, at the same time, it has to be reluctantly conceded that in no quarter of the world is religious hypocrisy and sham so openly manifested as in the English provinces, and especially in the small towns, where, notwithstanding the fact that all the Sundays are passed in persistent church and chapel going, the result of this strenuous sham piety is seen in the most unchristian back-biting and mischief-making on every week-day.

But St. Rest was not a town. It was a tiny village apart,—utterly free from the petty pretensions of its nearest neighbour, Riversford, which considered itself almost 'metropolitan' on account of its modern red-brick and stucco villas into which its trades- people 'retired' as soon as they had made enough money to be able to pretend that they had never stood behind a counter in their lives. St. Rest, on the contrary, was simple in its tastes,—so simple as to be almost primitive, particularly in its religious sentiments, which the ministry of John Walden had, so far, kept faithful and pure. Its atmosphere was therefore utterly at variance with the cheap atheism of the modern world, and it was this discordancy which struck so sharply on Maryllia's emotional nature and gave her such a sense of unaccustomed pain.

At the Manor there were a few other visitors who had not attended church,—none of them important, except to themselves and the society paragraphist,—none of them distinguished as ever having done anything particularly good, or useful in the world,—and none of them possessing any very unconventional characteristics, with the exception of two very quaint old ladies, who were known somewhat irreverently among their acquaintances as the 'Sisters Gemini.' They were of good birth and connection, but, being cast adrift as wrecks on the shores of Time,—the one as a widow, the other as a spinster,—had sworn eternal friendship on the altar of their several disillusioned and immolated affections. In the present day we are not overtroubled by any scruples of reverence for either old widowhood or old spinsterhood; and the 'Sisters Gemini' had become a standing joke with the self-styled 'wise and witty' of London restaurants and late suppers. Lady Wicketts and Miss Fosby were their actual names, and they were happily unconscious of the unfeeling sobriquet bestowed upon them when they were out of hearing. Lady Wicketts had once been a reigning 'beauty,' and she lived on the reputation of that glorious past. Miss Fosby aided and abetted her in this harmless self-deception. Lady Wicketts had been painted by all the famous artists of her era, from the time of her seventeeth birthday to her thirtieth. She had been represented as a 'Shepherdess,' a 'Madonna,' a 'Girl with Lilies,' a 'Lady with a Greyhound,' a 'Nymph Sleeping,' and more briefly and to the purpose, as 'Portrait of Lady Wicketts,' in every exhibition of pictures that had been held during her youth and prime. Miss Fosby carried prints and photographs of these works of art everywhere about with her. She would surprise people by casually taking one of them out of her album and saying softly "Isn't that beautiful?"

And then, if the beholders fell into the trap and uttered exclamations of rapture at the 'Shepherdess' or the 'Madonna,' or whatever allegorical subject it happened to be, she would smile triumphantly and say-'Lady Wicketts!'—to all appearance enjoying the violent shock of incredulous amazement which her announcement invariably inflicted on all those who received it.

"Not possible!" they would murmur—"Lady Wicketts—-!"

"Yes,—Lady Wicketts when she was young,"—Miss Fosby would say mildly—"She was very beautiful when she was twenty. She is sixty- seven now. But she is still beautiful,—don't you think so? She has such an angelic expression! And she is so good—ah!—so very goodl There is no one like Lady Wicketts!"

All this was very sweet and touching on the part of Miss Fosby, so far as Miss Fosby alone was concerned. To her there was but one woman in the world, and that was Lady Wicketts. But the majority of people saw Lady Wicketts in quite another light. They knew she had been, in her time, as unprincipled as beautiful, and that she had 'gone the pace' more openly than most of her class. They beheld her now without spectacles,—an enormously fat woman, with a large round flaccid face, scarred all over by Time's ploughshare with such deep furrows that one might have sown seed in them and expected it to grow.

But Miss Fosby still recognised the 'Shepherdess,' the 'Madonna' and the 'Girl with Lilies,' in the decaying composition of her friend, and Miss Fosby was something of a bore in consequence, though the constancy of her devotion to a totally unworthy object was quaintly pathetic in its way. The poor soul herself was nearer seventy than sixty, and she was quite as lean as her idol was fat,—she had never been loved by anyone in all her life, but,—in her palmy days,—she had loved. And the necessity of loving had apparently remained a part of her nature, otherwise it would have been a sheer impossibility for her to have selected so strange a fetish as Lady Wicketts for her adoration. Lady Wicketts did not, in any marked way, respond to Miss Fosby's tenderness,—she merely allowed herself to be worshipped, just as in her youth she had allowed scores of young bloods to kiss her hand and murmur soft nothings in her then 'shell-like' ear. The young bloods were gone, but Miss Fosby remained. Better the worship of Miss Fosby than no worship at all. Maryllia had met these two old ladies frequently at various Continental resorts, when she had travelled about with her aunt,— and she had found something amusing and interesting in them both, especially in Miss Fosby, who was really a good creature,—and when in consultation with Cicely as to who, among the various people she knew, should be asked down to the Manor and who should not, she had selected them as a set-off to the younger, more flippant and casual of her list, and also because they were likely to be convenient personages to play chaperones if necessary.

For the rest, the people were of the usual type one has got accustomed to in what is termed 'smart' society nowadays,—listless, lazy, more or less hypocritical and malicious,—apathetic and indifferent to most things and most persons, save and except those with whom unsavoury intrigues might or would be possible,—sneering and salacious in conversation, bitter and carping of criticism, generally blase, and suffering from the incurable ennui of utter selfishness,—the men concentrating their thoughts chiefly on racing, gaining, and Other Men's Wives,—the women dividing all their stock of emotions between Bridge, Dress, and Other Women's Husbands. And when Julian Adderley, as an author in embryo, found himself seated at luncheon with this particular set of persons, all of whom were more or less well known in the small orbit wherein they moved, he felt considerably enlivened and exhilarated. Life was worth living, he said to himself, when one might study at leisure the little tell-tale lines of vice and animalism on the exquisite features of Lady Beaulyon, and at the same time note admiringly how completely the united forces of massage and self-complacency had eradicated every wrinkle from the expressionless countenance of Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay. These two women were, in a way, notorious as 'leaders' of their own special coteries of social scandalmongers and political brokers; Lady Beaulyon was known best among Jew financiers; Mrs. Courtenay among American 'Kings' of oil and steel. Each was in her own line a 'power,'—each could coax large advances of money out of the pockets of millionaires to further certain 'schemes' which were vaguely talked about, but which never came to fruition,—each had a little bevy of young journalists in attendance,—press boys whom they petted and flattered, and persuaded to write paragraphs concerning their wit, wisdom and beauty, and how they 'looked radiant in pink' or 'dazzling in pea green.' Contemplating first one and then the other of these ladies, Julian almost resolved to compose a poem about them, entitled 'The Sirens' and, dividing it into Two Cantos, to dedicate the First Canto to Lady Beaulyon and the Second to Mrs. Courtenay.

"It would be so new—so fresh!" he mused, with a bland anticipation of the flutter such a work might possibly cause among society dove- cots—"And if ALL the truth were told, so much more risque than 'Don Juan'!"

Glancing up and down, and across the hospitable board, exquisitely arranged with the loveliest flowers and fruit, and the most priceless old silver, he noticed that every woman of the party was painted and powdered except Maryllia, and her young protegee, Cicely. The dining-room of Abbot's Manor was not a light apartment,- -its oak-panelled walls and raftered ceiling created shadow rather than luminance,—and though the windows were large and lofty, rising from the floor to the cornice, their topmost panes were of very old stained glass, so that the brightest sunshine only filtered, as it were, through the deeply-encrusted hues of rose and amber and amethyst squares, painted with the arms of the Vancourts, and heraldic emblems of bygone days. Grateful and beautiful indeed was this mysteriously softened light to the ladies round the table,—and for a brief space they almost LOVED Maryllia. For HER face was flushed, and quite uncooled by powder—'like a dairymaid's—she will get so coarse if she lives in the country always!' Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay confided softly to Lord Charlemont, who vaguely murmured— 'Ah! Yes! I daresay!' quite without any idea of what the woman was talking about. Maryllia's pretty hair too was ruffled, she having merely taken off her hat in the hall on her return from church, without troubling to go up to her room and 'touch up' her appearance as all the other ladies who had suffered from walking exercise had done,—and her eyes looked just a trifle tired. Adderley found her charming with this shade of fatigue and listlessness upon her,—more charming than in her most radiant phases of vivacity. Her peach-like skin, warmed as it was by the sun, was tinted with Nature's own exquisite colouring, and compared most favourably with the cosmetic art so freely displayed by her female friends on either side of her. Julian began to con verses in his head, and he recalled the lines of seventeeth-century Eichard Crashaw:—

"A Face that's best By its own beauty drest, And can alone command the rest."

And he caught himself wondering why,—whenever he came near the Lady of the Manor,—he was anxious to seem less artificial, less affected, and more of a man than his particular 'Omar Kayyam' set had taught him to be. The same praiseworthy desire moved him in the company of John Walden, therefore sex could have nothing to do with it. Was it 'Soul'?—that 'breath of God' which had been spoken of in the pulpit that morning?

He could not, however, dwell upon this rather serious proposition at luncheon, his thoughts being distracted by the conversation, if conversation it could be called, that was buzzing on either side of the table, amidst the clattering of plates and the popping of champagne corks. It was neither brilliant, witty nor impersonal,— brilliant, witty and impersonal talk is never generated in modem society nowadays. "I would much rather listen to the conversation of lunatics in the common room of an asylum, than to the inane gabble of modern society in a modern drawing-room"—said a late distinguished politician to the present writer—"For the lunatics always have the glimmering of an idea somewhere in their troubled brains, but modern society has neither brains nor ideas." Fragmentary sentences, often slangy, and occasionally ungrammatical, seemed most in favour with the Manor 'house-party,'—and for a time splinters of language flew about like the chips from dry timber under a woodman's axe, without shape, or use, or meaning. It was a mere confused and senseless jabber—a jabber in which Maryllia took no part. She sat very quietly looking from one face to the other at table with a critical interest. These were the people she had met every day more or less in London,—some of them had visited her aunt constantly, and had invited her out to dinners and luncheons, 'at homes,' balls and race parties, and all were considered to be 'very select' in every form that is commended by an up-to-date civilisation. Down here, in the stately old-world surroundings of Abbot's Manor, they looked very strange to her,—nay, even more than strange. Clowns, columbines and harlequins with all their 'make-up' on, could not have seemed more out of place than these socially popular persons in the historic house of her ancestors. Lady Beaulyon was perhaps the most remarkable 'revelation' of the whole company. Maryllia had always admired Eva Beaulyon with quite an extravagant admiration, on account of her physical charm and grace,- -and had also liked her sufficiently well to entirely discredit the stories that were rife about the number of her unlawful amours. That she was an open flirt could not be denied,—but that she ever carried a flirtation beyond bounds, Maryllia would never have believed. Now, however, a new light seemed thrown upon her—there was a touch of something base in her beauty—a flash of cruelty in her smile—a hardness in her eyes. Maryllia looked at her wistfully now and then, and was half sorry she had invited her, the disillusion was so complete.

The luncheon went on, and was soon over, and coffee and cigarettes were served. All the women smoked with the exception of Maryllia, Cicely and old Miss Fosby. The rings of pale blue vapour circled before Maryllia's eyes in a dim cloud,—she had seen the same kind of mixed smoking going on before, scores of times, and yet now—why was it that she felt vaguely annoyed by a sense of discrepancy and vulgarity She could not tell. Cicely watched her lovingly,—and every now and again Julian Adderley, waving away the smoke of his own cigar with one hand, studied her face and tried to fathom its expression. She spoke but little, and that chiefly to Lord Charlemont who was on her left-hand side.

"And how long are you going to stay in this jolly old place, Miss Vancourt?" he asked.

"All my life, I hope,"—she said with a little smile—"It is my own home, you know."

"Oh yes!—I know!—but—" he hesitated for a moment; "But your aunt- —"

"Aunt Emily and I don't quite agree,"—said Maryllia, quietly—"She has been very kind to me in the past,—but since Uncle Fred's death, things have not been just as pleasant. You see, I speak frankly. Besides I'm getting on towards thirty,—it's time I lived my own life, and tried to do something useful."

Charlemont laughed.

"You look more like eighteen than thirty,"—he said—"Why give yourself away?"

"Is that giving myself away?" and she raised her eyebrows quizzically—"I'm not thirty yet—I'm twenty-seven,—but that's old enough to begin to take things seriously. I've made up my mind to live here at Abbot's Manor and do all I can for the tenantry and the village generally—I'm sure I shall be perfectly happy." "How about getting married?" he queried.

Her blue eyes darkened with a shade of offence.

"The old story!" she said—"Men always think a woman must be married to be happy. It doesn't at all follow. I know heaps and heaps of married women, and they are in anything but an enviable state. I would not change with one of them!"

"Would you like to be another Miss Fosby?" he suggested in a mirthful undertone.

She smiled.

"Well—no! But I would rather be Miss Fosby than Lady Wicketts!"

Here she rose, giving the signal for general adjournment to the drawing-room. The windows of this apartment were set open, and a charming garden vista of lawn and terraee and rose-walk opened out before the eyes.

"Now for Bridge!" said Lady Beaulyon—"I'm simply dying for a game!"

"So am I!" declared Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay—"Lord Charlemont, you'll play?"

"Charmed, I'm sure!" was the ready response. "Where shall we put the card tables? Near the window? Such an enjoyable prospect!"

"We'll have two tables, or even three,"—said Lady Beaulyon; "I suppose most of us will play?"

"Oh yes!" "Why of course!" "I should think so!" "Just what we're all longing for!" Such were the expressions of general delight and acceptance chorussed by the whole party.

"You'll join, Lady Wicketts?"

"With pleasure!" and Lady Wicketts' sunken old eyes gleamed with an anxious light over the furrows of flesh which encircled them, as she promptly deserted Miss Fosby, who had been sitting next to her, for the purpose of livelier entertainment;—and in a moment there was a general gathering together in the wide embrasure of the window nook, and an animated discussion as to who should play Bridge and who should not. Maryllia watched the group silently. There were varying shades of expression on her mobile features. She held Cicely's hand in her own,—and was listening to some of Adderley's observations on quite ordinary topics, when suddenly, with, an impulsive movement, she let Cicely go, and with an 'Excuse me!' to Julian, went towards her guests. She had made a resolve;—it would be an attempt to swim against the social current, and it was fraught with difficulty and unpleasantness,—yet she was determined to do it. "If I am a coward now," she thought—"I shall never be brave!" Her heart beat uncomfortably, and she could feel the blood throbbing nervously in her veins, as she bent her mind to the attitude she was about to take up, regardless of mockery or censure. Scraps of the window conversation fell on her ears—"I won forty pounds last Wednesday,— it just paid my boot-bill!" said one young woman, laughing carelessly.

"Luckier than me!" retorted a man next to her—"I had to pay a girl's losses to the tune of a hundred. It's all right though!" And he grinned suggestively.

"Is she pretty?"

"Ripping!"

"I want to make up five hundred pounds this week," observed Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the most serious and matter-of-fact way—"I've won it all but a hundred and fifty."

"Good for you!"

"Rather!" said Lord Charlemont, nodding approval—"I'd like to get you for a partner!"

"I AM considered lucky,"—smiled Mrs. Courtenay, with an air of virtuous pride—"I always win SOMETHING!"

"Well, let's begin at once,—we'll play all the afternoon." said Lady Beaulyon.

"Where are the tables?" "AND the cards?"

"Ask Maryllia—-"

But at that moment Maryllia stepped gently into their midst, her eyes shining, her face very pale.

"Not on Sunday, please!" she said.

A stillness fell upon them all. They gazed upon each other in sheer stupefaction. Lady Beaulyon smiled disdainfully.

"Not on Sunday? What are you talking about, Maryllia? Not WHAT on Sunday?"

"Not Bridge,"—replied Maryllia, in her clear soft voice—"I do not allow it."

Fresh glances of wonderment were exchanged. The men hummed and hawed and turned themselves about on their heels—the women simply stared. Lady Beaulyon burst out laughing.

"Ridiculous!" she exclaimed,—then flushed, and bit her lip, knowing that such an ejaculation was scarcely civil to her hostess. But Maryllia took no offence.

"Pray do not think me discourteous,"—she said, very sweetly. "I would not interfere with your pleasure in any way if I could possibly help it. But in this instance I really must do so."

"Oh certainly, Miss Vancourt!" "We would not think of playing if you do not wish it!" These, and similar expressions came from Lord Charlemont, and one or two others.

"My dear Maryllia," said Mrs. Courtenay, reproachfully—"You are really VERY odd! I have myself seen you playing Bridge, Sunday after Sunday at your aunt's house in London. Why should you now suddenly object to your friends doing what you have so often done yourself?"

Maryllia flushed a pretty rose-red.

"In my aunt's house I had to do as my aunt wished, Mrs. Courtenay," she said—"In my own house I do as I wish!"

Here her face relaxed into a bright smile, as she raised her candid blue eyes to the men standing about her—"I'm sure you won't mind amusing yourselves with something else than cards, just for one day, will you? Come into the garden,—it's such a perfect afternoon! The rose-walk just opposite leads down to the bank of the river,—would some of you like to go on the water? There are two boats ready there if you would. And do forgive me for stopping your intended game!— you can play Bridge every day in the week if you like, but spare the Sunday!"

There was a brief awkward pause. Then Eva Beaulyon turned her back indifferently on the whole party and stepped out on the lawn. She was followed by Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, and both ladies gave vent to small smothered bleats of mocking laughter as they sauntered across the grass side by side. But Maryllia did not care. She had carried her point, and was satisfied. The Sunday's observance in Abbot's Manor, always rigorously insisted upon by her father, would not be desecrated by card-playing and gambling under his daughter's sway. That was enough for her. A serene content dwelt in her eyes as she watched her guests disperse and scatter themselves in sections of twos and threes all over the garden and grounds—and she said the pleasantest and kindest things when any of them passed her on their way, telling them just where to find the prettiest nooks, and where to pick the choicest fruit and flowers. Lord Charlemont watched her with a sense of admiration for her 'pluck.'

"By Jove!" he thought—"I'd rather have fronted the guns in a pitched battle than have forbidden my own guests to play Bridge on Sunday! Wants nerve,—upon my soul it does!—and the little woman's got it—you bet she has!" Aloud he said—

"I'm awfully glad to be let off Bridge, Miss Vancourt! A day's respite is a positive boon!"

"Do you play it so often, then?" she asked gently. He flushed slightly.

"Too often, I'm afraid! But how can I help it? One must do something to kill time!"

"Poor Time!" said Maryllia, with a smile—"Why should he be killed? I would rather make much of him while I have him!"

Charlemont did not answer. He lit a cigar and strolled away by himself to meditate.

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay just then re-entered the drawing-room from the garden, fanning herself vigorously with her handkerchief.

"It is so frightfully warm!" she complained—"Such a burning sun! So bad for the skin! They are picking strawberries and eating them off the plants—very nice, I daresay—but quite messy. Eva Beaulyon and two of the men have taken a boat and gone on the water. If you don't mind, Maryllia, I shall rest and massage till dinner."

"Pray do so!" returned Maryllia, kindly, smiling, despite herself; Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay's life was well-nigh, spent in 'massage' and various other processes for effacing the prints of Time from her carefully guarded epidermis—"But I was just going to ask Cicely to play us something. Won't you wait five minutes and hear her?"

Mrs. Courtenay sighed and sank into a chair. Nothing bored her so utterly as music,—but as it was only for 'five minutes,' she resigned herself to destiny. And Cicely, at a sign from Maryllia, went to the piano and played divinely,—wild snatches of Polish and Hungarian folk-songs, nocturnes and romances, making the instrument speak a thousand things of love and laughter, of sorrow and death,— till the glorious rush of melody captivated some of the wanderers in the garden and brought them near the open window to listen. When she ceased, there was a little outbreak of applause, and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay rose languidly.

"Yes, very nice!" she said—"Very nice indeed! But you know, Maryllia, if you would only get one of those wonderful box things one sees advertised so much in the papers, the pianista or mutuscope or gramophone—no, I THINK it's pianola, but I'm not quite sure—you would save such a lot of study and brain-work for this poor child! And it sounds quite as well! I'm sure she could manage a gramophone thing—I mean pianista—pianola—quite nicely for you when you want any music. Couldn't you, my dear?"

And she gazed at Cicely with a bland kindliness as she put the question. Cicely's eyes sparkled with fun and satire.

"I'm sure I could!" she declared, with the utmost seriousness—"It would be delightful! Just like organ-grinding, only much more so! I should enjoy it of all things! Of course one ought NEVER to use the brain in music!"

"Not nowadays,"—said Mrs. Courtenay, with conviction—"Things have improved so much. Mechanism does everything so well. And it is SUCH a pity to use up one's vital energy in doing what one of those box- things can do better. And do you too play music?"

And she addressed herself to Adderley who happened to be standing near her. He made one of his fantastic salutes.

"Not I, madam! I am merely a writer,—one who makes rhymes and verses—-"

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay waved him away with a hand on which at least five diamond rings sparkled gorgeously.

"Oh dear! Don't come near me!" she said, with a little affected laugh—"I simply HATE poetry! I'm so sorry you write it! I can't think why you do. Do you like it?—or are you doing it for somebody because you must?"

Julian smiled, and ran his fingers through his hair, sticking it up rather on end, much to Mrs. Courtenay's abhorrence.

"I like it more than anything else in the world!" he said. "I'm doing it quite for myself, and for nobody else."

"Really!"—and Mrs. Courtenay gave him a glance of displeased surprise—"How dreadful!" Here she turned to Maryllia. "Au revoir, my dear, for the present! As you won't allow any Bridge, I'm going to sleep. Then I shall do massage for an hour. May I have tea in my own room?"

"Certainly!" said Maryllia.

"Thanks!" She glided out, with a frou-frou of her silken skirts and a trail of perfume floating after her.

The three she left behind her exchanged amused glances.

"Wonderful woman!" said Adderley,—"And, no doubt, a perfectly happy one!"

"Why of course! I don't suppose she has ever shed a tear, lest it should make a wrinkle!" And Cicely, as she made these remarks, patted her own thin, sallow cheeks consolingly. "Look at my poor face and hers! Mine is all lined and puckered with tears and sad thoughts—SHE hasn't a wrinkle! And I'm fourteen, and she's forty! Oh dear! Why did I cry so much over all the sorrow and beauty of life when I was young!"

"Ah—and why didn't you have a pianista-pianola!" said Adderley. They all laughed,—and then at Maryllia's suggestion, joined the rest of the guests in the garden.

That same evening when Maryllia was dressing for dinner, there came a tap at her bedroom door, and in response to her 'Come in!' Eva Beaulyon entered.

"May I speak to you alone for a minute?" she said.

Maryllia assented, giving a sign to her maid to leave the room.

"Well, what is it, Eva?" said Maryllia, when the girl had gone— "Anything wrong?"

Eva Beaulyon sank into a chair somewhat wearily, and her beautiful violet eyes, despite artistic 'touching up' looked hard and tired.

"Not so far as I am concerned,"—she said, with a little mirthless laugh—"Only I think you behaved very oddly this afternoon. Do you really mean that you object to Bridge on Sundays, or was it only a put on?"

"It was a put off!" responded Maryllia, gaily—"It stopped the intended game! Seriously, Eva, I meant it and I do mean it. There's too much Bridge everywhere—and I don't think it necessary,—I don't think it even decent—to keep it going on Sundays."

"I suppose the parson of your parish has told you that!" said Lady Beaulyon, suddenly.

Maryllia's eyes met hers with a smile.

"The parson of the parish has not presumed to dictate to me on my actions,"—she said—"I should deeply resent it if he did."

"Well, he had no eyes for anyone but you in the church this morning. A mole could have seen that in the dark. He was preaching AT us and FOR you all the while!"

A slight flush swept over Maryllia's cheeks,—then she laughed.

"My dear Eva! I never thought you were imaginative! The parson has nothing whatever to do with me,—why, this is the first Sunday I have ever been to his church,—you know I never go to church."

Lady Beaulyon looked at her narrowly, unconvinced.

"What have you left your aunt for?" she asked.

"Simply because she wants me to marry Roxmouth, and I won't!" said Maryllia, emphatically.

"Why not?"

"First, because I don't love him,—second, because he has slandered me by telling people that I am running after his title, to excuse himself for running after Aunt Emily's millions; and lastly, but by no means leastly, because he is—unclean."

"All men are;" said Eva Beaulyon, drily—"It's no use objecting to that!"

Maryllia made no remark. She was standing before her dressing-table, singing softly to herself, while she dexterously fastened a tiny diamond arrow in her hair.

"I suppose you're going to try and 'live good' down here!"—went on Lady Beaulyon, after a pause—"It's a mistake,—no one born of human flesh and blood can do it. You can't 'live good' and enjoy yourself!"