The two men—Walter was a man now—
grieved together over the overturned hopes
and the extinguished ambition. It was
impossible for Walter to attempt to go to
college just then. There was no scholarship
vacant, and if there had been, the amount to
be won might probably have been insufficient
even for this modest youth. There was
no help for it; he must give up the idea.
What, then, was he to do? Mr. Ashurst
answered that in his usual impulsive way.
Walter should become under-master in the
school. The number of boys had increased
immensely. There was more work than
he and Dr. Breitmann could manage; oh
yes, he was sure of it, he had thought so a
long time, and Walter should become third
classical master, with a salary of sixty
pounds a year, and board and lodging
in Mr. Ashurst's house. It was a rash
and wild suggestion, just likely to emanate
from such a man as James Ashurst.
The number of boys had increased, and
Mr. Ashurst's energy had decreased;
but there was Dr. Breitmann; a kindly,
well-read, well-educated doctor of
philosophy, from Leipzig; a fine classical
scholar, though he pronounced "amo" as
"ahmo," and "Dido" as "Taito;" a gentleman,
though his clothes were threadbare,
and he only ate meat once a week,
and sometimes not then unless he were
asked out; and a disciplinarian, though he
smoked like a limekiln; a habit which in
the Helmingham school-boys' eyes proclaimed
the confirmed debauchee of the
Giovanni or man-about-town type. Walter
Joyce had been a favourite pupil of the
doctor's, and was welcomed as a colleague
by his old tutor with the utmost warmth.
It was understood that his engagement
was only temporary; he would soon have
enough money to enable him, with a
scholarship, to astonish the university, and
then——! Meanwhile Mr. Ashurst and all
around repeated that his talents were marvellous,
and his future success indisputable.

That was the reason why Marian Ashurst
fell in love with him. As has before been
said, she thought nothing of outward
appearance, although Walter Joyce had grown
into a sufficiently comely man, small indeed,
but with fine eyes and an eloquent
mouth, and a neatly turned figure; nor,
though a refined and educated girl, did she
estimate his talents save for what they
would bring. He was to make a success
in his future life! that was what she
thought of—her father said so, and so far
in matters of cleverness and book learning,
and so on, her father's opinion was worth
something. Walter Joyce was to make
money and position, the two things of
which she thought, and dreamed, and
hoped for, night and day. There was no
one else among her acquaintance with his
power. No farmer within the memory of
living generations had done more than to
keep up the homestead bequeathed to him
whilst attempting to increase the number or
the value of his fields; and even the gratification
of her love of money would have been
but a poor compensation to a girl of Marian's
innate good breeding and refinement
for being compelled to pass her life in the
society of a boor or a churl. No! Walter
Joyce combined the advantage of education
and good looks, with the prospect of
attaining wealth and distinction; he was
her father's favourite, and was well thought
of by everybody, and—and she loved him
very much, and was delighted to comfort
herself with the thought that in doing so
she had not sacrificed any of what she was
pleased to consider the guiding principles
of her life.

And he, Walter Joyce, did he reciprocate,
was he in love with Marian? Has it
ever been your lot to see an ugly or, better
still, what is called an ordinary man—for
ugliness has become fashionable both in
fiction and in society—to see an ordinary
looking man hitherto politely ignored, if
not snubbed, suddenly taken special notice
of by a handsome woman, a recognised
leader of her set, who, for some special purpose
of her own, suddenly discovering that
he has brains, or conversational power, or
some peculiar fascination, singles him out
from the surrounding ruck, steeps him in the
sunlight of her eyes, and intoxicates him
with the subtle wiles of her address? It does
one good, it acts as a moral shower-bath, to
see such a man under such circumstances.
Your fine fellow simpers and purrs for a
moment, and takes it all as real legitimate
homage to his beauty; but the ordinary
man cannot, so soon as he has got over his
surprise at the sensation, cannot be too
grateful, cannot find ways and means—cumbrous
frequently and ungraceful, but eminently
sincere—of showing his appreciation
of the woman. Thus it was with Walter
Joyce. The knowledge that he was a
grocer's son had added immensely to the
original shyness and sensitiveness of his
disposition, and the free manner in
which his frank and delicate personal appearance
had been made the butt of outspoken