had given long and serious thought as to
his future. He had taken the trouble to do
something which he knew he ought to have
done long since, but which he had always
resolutely shirked— to look into the actual
condition of his school, and more especially
of his boarders; and after careful examination,
he confessed to himself, as he smoked
a costly cigar, pacing slowly up and down the
lane which was ablaze with apple-blossom
—it would never have done to have been
caught in the wildly dissipated act of
smoking by any of the boys, or, indeed, by
a good many of the villagers— he confessed
to himself that he wanted a companion,
and his establishment wanted a head, and
that Mrs. Covey, excellent in her way, was
scarcely a proper representative of the
female element in the household of the
head-master of Helmingham school. Thus
minded, Mr. Benthall rode over to
Woolgreaves, was received by a benevolent grin
from the stable-helper, to whom he
confided his horse (confound those fellows,
with what an extraordinary facility they
blunder on to the right scent in these
matters!), went into the house, paid his
suit to the two young ladies, had but a few
words with Miss Maud, whose services, in
consequence of an unfavourable turn of
Mrs. Ashurst's illness, were required
upstairs, and a prolonged interview of a very
satisfactory kind with Miss Gertrude.
With a portion only of this interview have
we to do; the remaining portion can be
much "more easily imagined than
described," at least by those to whom the
circumstances of the position have been, or
actually are, familiar —perhaps no
inconsiderable proportion of the world.

"By the way," said Mr. Benthall, as,
after a third ridiculous attempt at
pretending he was going, he had again settled
himself in his chair, but had not thought it
necessary to give up Miss Gertrude's hand,
which he had taken in his own when he
had last risen to say adieu— "by the way,
Miss—well, Gertrude—what was that you
were saying last time I was here about Mrs.
Creswell?"

"What I was saying about Mrs.
Creswell? I don't exactly know, but it
wouldn't be very difficult to guess! I
hate her!" said Gertrude, roundly.

"Ah, yes!" said Mr. Benthall, "I think
I managed to gather that from the general
tone of your conversation, but what were
you saying specifically?"

"I don't know what specifically means,
I think!" said Gertrude, after a moment's
reflection; "but I do know why I hate her!"

"And that is because——"

"Because she pretends to be so awfully
superior, and goes in to be so horribly
good and demure, and all that kind of
thing," said Miss Gertrude, growing very
becomingly red with excitement. "She
always reminds me of the publican in the
parable, who, 'standing afar off'—you
know what I mean! I always thought
that the publican went in to draw more
attention to himself by his mock humility
than all the noise and outcry which the
Pharisee made, and which any one would
have put down to what it was worth! and
that's just like Miss A.—I mean Mrs.
Creswell—I'm sure I shall call her Miss A. to
my dying day, Maud and I are so
accustomed to speak of her like that— you'd
think butter wouldn't melt in her mouth,
and this is so shocking, and that is so
dreadful, and she is so prim, and so
innocent, and so self-sacrificing — and then she
steps in and carries off our uncle, for whom
all the unmarried girls in the county were
angling years ago, and had given up the
attempt in despair!"

"But you must have seen all this in her
for months, ever since she has been in the
same house with you! And yet it is only
since she achieved her conquest of your
uncle that you've been so bitter against
her!"

"Not at all, George! That's so like a
man, always to try and say an unpleasant
thing about the want of generosity and all
that! Not at all! I don't mind so much
about her marrying uncle; if he's such a silly
old thing as to like to marry her, that's his
look-out, and not ours. And I've no doubt
she'll make him what people call a good
wife, awfully respectable, and all that kind
of thing. And I don't believe she's ever
been in love with anybody else,
notwithstanding your stories about that Mr. Joyce.
I like your talking about women's gossip,
sir; a fine story that was you brought us,
and all started by some old woman, wasn't
it? But what annoyed me worst was the way
in which she wrote about making Maud give
up her music-room! I call that regularly
cruel, because she knew well enough that
Maud was awfully fond of that room, and
—and that's what makes me hate her!"

"And Maud seemed to think that that
was to be but the beginning of a series of
unpleasant measures."

"Well, you know Maud's blood is
regularly up in this matter, and of course she