not seen him since the day I came here. He
has called to inquire for me constantly."

"I thought of it before you left us," she
said, sadly, " and I fear it more every day. He
is—you are both strangely altered. Margery,
don't jilt my son. He is not as fine a gentleman
as others you may see, but you will never
meet his like."

I turned my head away, and said nothing.
What was there that I could say? My heart
was big with much, that I could not tell, and I
was silent. And so the occasion passed away.
Mrs. Hollingford went home with a bitter
doubt in her heart; and the doubt was all
of me.

After she had gone, Mrs. Hill came and sat
with me, and tried to amuse me. She was a
good little woman, but her gossip was tiresome,
and her anecdotes worldly. I was glad when
her duty to her other guests carried her away.
You will find it hard, my dears, to understand
from my account of this time that I was staying
at a pleasant country-house full of merry-
making people. But the people were only
shadows to me, and the time a puzzle. What
was not real to me then, I cannot make real to
you now.

The afternoon was wet and windy, and the
riding-party returned early, all but Rachel and
another lady and gentleman. These came home
later. I was sitting in my room, in the firelight,
alone, when Rachel came to me, laughing, in
her wet riding-habit, saying she had had enough
of the weather.

"I said, " Yes, it is a pity you went."

"No, not a pity," she said. Then, "Has
not Mrs. Hollingford been here?"

"Yes," I said.

"Here, in this room, with you?"

"There, in that chair by your side."

She turned and looked at the chair with a
strange look, which was wonderful to see, but
quite indescribable. She drew it to the hearth,
and sat down in it, throwing back her wet
skirts and leaning towards the fire. Then I
saw that she looked pale and worn, as if her
riding had not done her much good.

"Do you not love her, this Mrs. Hollingford?"
she said, presently.

"Dearly," I said.

"Will you describe her to me?" said Rachel.

"She is tall and handsome," I began.

"Yes," put in Rachel, " I have heard so."

"There is something grand about her, though
she dresses as gravely and poorly as a nun.
Her face is sweet and sad, and can be stern.
Her hair is silver grey——"

"No," said Rachel, hurriedly, " brown. I
heard that it was a beautiful chesnut-brown."

"It is nearly white now," said I.

Rachel did not speak again for some minutes.
Looking at her presently, I was surprised to see
her face quivering, and great shining tears
following one another swiftly and silently into
her lap.

"Do not mind me," she said. " I went to
see a poor girl on the estate, who is dying.
Her mother was sitting at the head of her bed.
She told me the girl had never vexed her in her
life."

"And has that made you sad?" asked I,
thinking the girl was to be envied.

"Very sad," said Rachel; "sadder than I
could tell."

We were silent awhile, and then said Rachel,

"It must have made her grow old before her
time, that trouble."

"Do you mean Mrs. Hollingford?" said I.

"Yes," said Rachel. "The grief, and the
shame, and the blight."

"There should be no shame, no blight for
the innocent," I said.

"The world does not think so," said Rachel,
with a stern cloud on her face.

"The world!" I said, contemptuously.

She lifted her eyes from the fire to my face.
"Yes, I know you are a brave independent
little soul," she said. " Will you answer me
one thing truly? Did you not feel even a
shadow of shrinking or regret when you
promised to marry John Hollingford?"

"Not a shadow," I said, bitterly. " I
accepted him for what I believed him to be, not
for what the world might think of him."

"I wish God had made me like you," she
said, solemnly; and then got up, with a wild
sad look in her face, and left me without another
word, forgetting to lift up her wet trailing habit,
which she dragged along the ground as she
went.

After she had gone I sat there, angry, amazed,
and sick at heart. I thought she had well said
to John, " I am weak and selfish." I had never
told her of my engagement, and she had talked
to me of it unblushingly. Thinking of her own
sacrifice, she had forgotten my wrong and pain.
I had seen into the working of her thoughts.
She could love John and injure me, but she
could not be content without the approval of
the world. The young farmer was worthy of
love, but he was not rich enough, nor grand
enough, nor was his soiled name fitted for the
spoilt child of wealth. She could steal away
my treasure without enriching herself—could
destroy the peace of two minds, without creating
any contentment for herself out of the wreck.
"Poor John!" I thought, "your chances of
happiness are no better than my own, even
though you have paid a dishonourable price for
them." And I hated her after that.