one, or cares for number two, only that she
can't bear being miserable."

"But, my dear Mary, do consider what a
mere baby poor Elsie was when she married first
—only sixteen on her wedding-day. I should not
wonder if Denbigh were the true love after
all."

"May be; there is no accounting for tastes.
Ah, dear, dear! Doesn't it seem only yesterday,
John, that you married those two happy-
looking young creatures: Herbert Clavering,
and sweet, pretty Elsie Willis?"

"Four years, my dear Mary."

"And only four months of happiness for the
poor little thing in all that time! How bright
she looked, didn't she, on her wedding visits?
and how sure she seemed that all was to go
right, and he was to get an appointment where
she could be with him; and then, when he had
to go off at twelve hours' notice, what a weary
waiting it was when the Amethyst did not arrive
at Hong-Kong in proper time. Odd, by-the-by,
that Mr. Clavering should have come here as
Mr. Denbigh's friend! They were school-
fellows, don't you remember?"

There was a pause, during which the vicar
had moved to the tea-table, and was busied in
carving ham and dispensing poached eggs.
Presently Mrs. Carter spoke again.

"I suppose Mr. Denbigh has always been in
love with her. In those days he was
dependent on his uncle, you know, and he could
not have married. And don't you recollect
how queer we thought it that he would not
come to the wedding, though the bridegroom
was his friend? However, I dare say he won't
make a bad husband; though I must say, John,
I think he might come to church now and then,
if it were only once a year."

"Yes, that is a flaw in Denbigh's character,
certainly. You know I have remonstrated
with him about it before now; but, as he says,
it is not easy to manage so as to make the
services fit in with his other duties. Yes, I
know, my dear. I understand all you mean by
that look; but live and let live. We must
judge people by their own standard."

"Must we? I thought there was only one
standard for everybody."

"Well, for that matter," retorted the vicar,
"I don't read anywhere that we are
commanded to judge. People must do what is
given them to do, my dear; and, if Denbigh's
faith isn't all it might be, he has charity, which
covereth a multitude of sins; he is thoroughly
kind, and careful, and conscientious among the
poor; and that is saying a great deal, let me
tell you."

"You are too tolerant for me," said Mrs.
Carter, with an expressive little shrug of
her shoulders. She had never given in her
allegiance to the vicar's rather broad church
views. There was a long pause, till she spoke
again, in a lower and more earnest tone.

"John, one thing does strike me. Is it
certain that the poor man is really dead? Is
Elsie justified in marrying again?"

"My dear Mary," said her husband, laughing,
"if he is not dead, what do you suppose has
become of him? It is two years, or nearly so,
since we heard of the loss of the Amethyst."

"True," assented Mrs. Carter, thoughtfully.
"Well, I hope it is all right. What a shame,
though! Poor Herbert Clavering! Here am
I wishing that he may be dead! John, that
all comes of these hateful second marriages;
they make one wish all kinds of horrid
murderous things.'

The meal being by this time ended, Mr.
Carter rang the bell, and ordered candles to
be taken into his study. His wife settled
herself to her evening's work, but still, as she
plied her needle, her thoughts were busy with
the sad little village romance of which a new
chapter seemed to be opening.

Meanwhile, the two parties principally
concerned, whose affairs were the engrossing topic
of conversation among all classes in Sedgbrook,
were happily oblivious of every human being
except themselves.

Elsie Clavering had lived almost all her short
life in the Churchyard Cottage, as it was called:
a picturesque, ivy-grown, inconvenient little
abode, close to the churchyard gate. There, her
grandmother, the widow of a former vicar, had
received her in her orphan babyhood; there, her
young husband had seen her, and wooed her,
and won her, all in the course of his fortnight's
visit; there, he had left her during the voyage,
which had ended so fatally; there, she had
continued to reside, first with her grandmother,
and alone after the old lady's death; there
she was seated now, on a low chair close to the
cheery fire, which lighted up the little square
parlour with a comfortable red brightness. She
looked very very young to have passed through
the greatest joy and sorrow of a woman's life—
younger even than her twenty years warranted.
Hers was the soft, fair, flower-like beauty which
seems to belong to childhood. It was difficult
to believe that the thin black dress which set
off her dazzling fairness, was worn for a husband,
or that the bright locks, which curled down
on her shoulders, were too short to plait or twist,
because they had so lately been cut, and tucked
away under a widow's cap. No doubt she had
known anxious days and watchful nights, but
they had left no traces on the fair young face;
there was a sweet pensive gravity on the drooping
eyelids, with their heavy dark fringe, and on
the quiet mouth; but the delicate tint on her
cheek was fresh and healthful, and there was
not a furrow on her brow to tell of the heart-
sickness of hope deferred. Her lover sate close
beside her, on a seat lower than her own, so
that he was almost at her feet. The
contrast was striking, between her peculiarly
fragile youthful beauty and the dark middle-
aged gravity which made him seem much older
than he really was.

"Let it be the fifteenth, Elsie," he was saying;
"life is very short, and my last four years have
been almost more than a man can bear. I
shall never rest till you are quite my own."