himself with an arrangement of affairs
consequent upon his giving up the school,
which he had decided upon doing at
Midsummer. In the course of that long
conversation Walter mentioned that he was
about to write to Lady Caroline, acquainting
her with what had taken place, and
also told the girls of his having consulted
her previous to the step which he had
taken. He thought this information, as
showing Lady Caroline's approbation of
the match, would be hailed with great
delight; and he was surprised to see a
look pass between Maud and Gertrude, and
to hear the latter say:

"O Walter, you don't mean to say you
asked Lady Caroline's advice as to your
marrying Maud?"

"Certainly I did; and I am sure Maud
will see nothing strange in it. She knows
perfectly well that——"

"It is not for Maud's sake that I
spoke; but—but, Walter, had you no idea,
no suspicion that——"

"That what, my dear Gertrude? Pray
finish your sentence."

"That Lady Caroline cared for you
herself?"

"Cared for me!"

"Cared for you! loved you! wanted to
marry you! Can I find plainer language
than that?"

"Good heavens child, what nonsense
are you talking! There is not the
remotest foundation for any such belief.
Lady Caroline is my kindest and best
friend. If there were no social difference
between us, I should say she had behaved
to me as a sister; but as for anything else
—nonsense, Gertrude!"

Gertrude said no more; she merely
shrugged her shoulders, and changed the
subject. But the effect of that conversation
was not lost on Walter Joyce. It
showed in the tone of his letter to Lady
Caroline written that night, softening it
and removing it entirely from the brusque
and business-like style of correspondence
which he generally indulged in.

The next day he left Helmingham early,
having had a stroll with Maud—in which
he expressed his wish that the marriage
should take place as soon as possible—and
a short talk with Gertrude, in which,
however, he made no reference to the topic
discussed on the previous evening.

It was a lucky thing that Mr. Joyce
had started by an early train; for the
Benthalls had scarcely finished their luncheon,
before there was a violent ringing at the
gate-bell—there was no servant in the
county who, for his size, could make more
noise than Marian's tiger—and Mrs. Creswell
was announced. She had driven the
ponies slowly over from Woolgreaves, and
had been enjoying the bows and adulation
of the villagers as she came along. Though
of course she had driven through the
village scores of times, she had never been
to the schoolhouse since she left it with
her mother on their memorable visit to
Woolgreaves, that visit which resulted in
her marriage.

Mrs. Creswell was not an emotional
woman; but her heart beat rather faster than
was its placid wont as she crossed the
threshold of the gate, and stepped at once
into the garden, where so many of the
scenes of her early history had been passed.
There was the lawn, as untidy as in her
poor father's days, bordered by the big
elm-trees, under whose shadow she had
walked in the dull summer evenings, as
the hum from the dormitories settled down
into silence and slumber; and her lover
was free to join her there, and to walk
with her until their frugal supper was
announced. There were the queer
star-and pear-shaped flower-beds, the Virginia-
creeper waving in feathery elegance along
the high wall, the other side of which was
put to far more practical purposes: bore
stucco instead of climbers, and re-echoed
to the balls of the fives players. There
were the narrow walks, the old paintless
gate-bell, that lived behind iron bars, the
hideous stone pine-apples on either side of
the door, just as she remembered them.

In the drawing-room, too, where she
was received by Mrs. Benthall, with the
exception of a smell of stale tobacco, there
was no difference: the old paper on the
walls, the old furniture, the old dreary
out-look.

After the first round of visiting-talk,
Marian asked Gertrude how she liked her
new home.

Gerty was, if anything, frank.

"Well, I like it pretty well," she said.
"Of course it's all new to me, and the boys
are great fun."

"Are they?" said Marian, with an odd
smile; "they must have changed a great
deal. I know I didn't think them 'great
fun' in my day."

"Well, I mean for a little time. Of
course they'd bore one awfully very soon;
and I think this place would bore one
frightfully after a time, so dull and grim,
isn't it?"