culpable, after the life to which she was
used, to drag her down to such poverty as
his wife's must be. He knew this, but he
was not the less miserable. He treasured
up every word of hers on the days when
they met; and when evening was come,
and he sat with the Times before him in
his chair by the fire, too often there rose
up between him and the leading article
two proud passionate eyes. At such times
the fate of nations was as dust in the
balance against the fate of a certain
unhappy young lady in the great house two
miles distant.

All this gave additional restraint and
hesitation to his manner towards Maud
at times, additional abruptness to it at
others. But however vigilant a guard he
might set upon his looks and words, no
woman can ever be long deceived in such
cases.

Maud Pomeroy was no coquette. To
play with the feelings of any man was not
sport to her taste, least of all with a man
whom she regarded as she did John Miles.
She, too, was not without her dream of
what love might be; of some possible man
to whom she could be devoted, body and
soul, and for whom she would sacrifice the
whole world; but it was not the curate.
She reverenced his character, and honoured
his opinions, even when they were
diametrically opposed to her own. In discussion
with Sir Andrew, Miles's manly
independence of spirit always delighted Maud.
She was too much accustomed to see every
one bow down before Sir Andrew, not to
value the firmness with which a shy and
awkward young man opposed many of the
arrogant old baronet's pet theories. John
Miles's was often a difficult position,
sitting at Sir Andrew's table, and hearing
opinions broached which he held to be
pernicious. The manner in which, without
forgetting the respect due to Sir Andrew's
age and position, the curate never shrank
from pointing out what was fallacious in the
baronet's statements, gave Miss Pomeroy a
high opinion of his honesty and moral
fearlessness. She had talked to him, therefore,
with less reserve than she had ever
done to any other human being; and it
was with sorrow that she found herself
compelled to renounce this privilege. She
very rarely, now, spoke to him with the
same openness as of old. They met in the
village and discussed the temporal wants
of some old woman, during which
interviews poor Miles always appeared to the
worst advantage, in the eager desire not to
betray his feelings, and to mete out to Miss
Pomeroy the same measure he would have
accorded to any other young lady. Or he
dined up at the great house, and shuffled
uncomfortably with his large feet (in boots
to which a good deal of gravel had adhered
in his walk) upon the polished oak floors,
and crumbled the bread incessantly while
he was talking at dinner, which little tricks
distressed Maud almost as much as they
did Lady Herriesson. At such times he
and Miss Pomeroy had seldom much
conversation.

One day, however, a circumstance
happened which made Maud, in her anger,
resolve on applying to the curate for help. Her
maid, to whom she was really attached, and
who had been a girl out of John Miles's
school, had just been dismissed by Sir
Andrew for a grave dereliction of duty.
She had, contrary to strict orders, which
forbade any villagers from entering the
park, brought in a party of boys and girls
there, surreptitiously, one Sunday afternoon,
and had there been discovered by Sir
Andrew. He was of those men who pride
themselves upon never forgiving a fault in
a servant. In vain Maud interceded,
supplicated: Mary Hind went away that day
month. A few days afterwards Miss Pomeroy
met John Miles in the village. She
stopped him.

"Poor Mary is gone, Mr. Miles. I did
all I could, but it was no use. My object
now is to get her a good place, and you,
who knew her in the school, who know
what a thoroughly good girl she is, must
help me."

"Certainly, Miss Pomeroy. Where is
she gone?"

"To an aunt in Bristol. Since her
mother's death, you know, she has no home
here."

"What is it I can do, Miss Pomeroy?
Lady Herriesson gives her a character, I
suppose?"

"Not such a one as I think Mary
deserves; not one that I think must ensure
her getting a good place. Mamma, of
course, is guided by Sir Andrew. They
both talk about that innocent Sunday walk
as if it were the greatest crime!"

John Miles coloured to the roots of his
hair, but said, boldly:

"The walk in itself was innocent enough,
but we must be just, Miss Pomeroy.
Disobedience to a direct order, if not the
'greatest crime,' is certainly a very grave
offence in a servant."

"I know you think disobedience a very