which seemed to him almost hopeless in
their chaotic disarrangement.

What a wonderful girl she was, Mr.
Creswell thought, as he looked at her
poring over the items of account as he read
them out to her, and marked the sudden
manner in which her cheek flushed, and her
bosom heaved, and her eye dilated, while
that ready pen never ceased in its noiseless
course over the paper. How thoroughly
natural to be able to throw herself so
entirely into the work before her, to take
evident interest in what would be to others
the driest detail, mere husk and draff of
soulless business! He knew nothing of
Marian Ashurst, less than nothing. That
dry detail, and those soulless figures were
to her more interesting than the finest
fiction, the most soul-stirring poetry. For
they meant something much better than
fiction; they meant fact—wealth, position,
everything. She remembered, even as she
jotted down from Mr. Creswell's loose
memoranda or vague recollections of sums
invested here or securities lying there, or
interest payable at such and such dates—she
remembered how, as a child, she had read
of Sinbad's visit to the Valley of Diamonds,
and how, in one of the few novels she had
come across in later life, she had been
breathlessly interested in the account of the
treasure in Monte Christo's grotto. Those
delights were fictional, but the wealth
recorded in her own handwriting before her
own eyes was real—real, and, if she mistook
not, if the golden dreams had not warped
her intellect and dazzled her brain,
enjoyable by her. Thoroughly enjoyable, not
as a miserable dependant permitted to bask
in the rays of prosperity, but as the originator
of the prosperity itself, the mistress
of the fortune—the——. No wonder her
cheek flushed; she felt her brain throb
and her head whirl; the magnitude of the
stakes, the chances of success appalled her.
She had never realised them before, and
while they were beginning to dawn on her,
the desperate effect of her proposed end
upon one who had hitherto been loved by
her she had steadfastly contrived to ignore.

If she dared to do it? Why should she
not dare; what was it to dare after all?
Was she to lose her chance in life, and
such a chance, simply because as a girl she
had agreed to a foolish contract, which, as
it seemed, it was impossible could ever be
fulfilled? Was her youth to be sacrificed
to a preposterous engagement, which, if
it was ratified at all. could only be ratified
in grim middle age, when all power of
enjoying life would have fled, even if the
hope of anything to enjoy were then
vouchsafed her? She knew well that people
would be ready enough to bring accusations
against her, but of what could they
accuse her? Of selfishness? but it would
not be merely for her own self-advancement,
that she would take advantage of
the opportunity that offered for bettering
her position in life. Her mother was
thoroughly dependent upon her, and the
past few months had made a wonderful
difference in her mother's physical condition.
With plenty of comfort and attention,
with a command of certain luxuries
and the power of remaining perfectly
quiescent, knowing that there was not the
smallest occasion for mental disquietude,
Mrs. Ashurst's life might last for some
time, but the smallest mental worry would
probably be fatal. This Dr. Osborne had
said, and it behoved Marian to think of her
mother before any one else in the world.

And yet—and yet? Was it all to be
forgotten and stamped out, that one halcyon
time of her existence, that one period in
which she had ceased to think of the
struggle for living, and to love life for
being as it was? Was that one green
oasis where she had rested so pleasantly,
forgetful of the annoyances past, not caring
for the dangers to come, as she lay beside
the bubbling fountain of Hope, and drank
of its pure waters, was that to be swallowed
up in the world's Simoom, and to vanish
with every trace obliterated? Or was it
but a mere mirage, unsubstantial and
unreal? As she battled with herself she
pressed her eyes tightly with her hands,
and endeavoured to recall those scenes of
her life. She would see her lover, modest,
earnest, hopeful, delighted at his so-far
success, sanguine as to that which was to
come. She would remember the cheery
manner in which he would meet her doubts,
the calm self-reliance, never degenerating
into bravado, with which he spoke of
their future as perfected by his efforts.
Reminiscences, looks, tones, each had their
effect upon her. Then she would think of
that future, even when painted as glowingly
as in Walter's fervent expectation. And
what was it? Genteel poverty, at its best.
The coming together of two hearts in a
cheap lodging, with a necessity for watching
the outlay of every sixpence, and a
short career of starved gentility as the
crowning result of a long life of labour and
waiting. And to give up all she had in
prospect, all she had in command, she might