WRECKED IN PORT.
    A SERIAL STORY BY THE AUTHOR OF
                 "BLACK SHEEP."
                      BOOK II.
       CHAPTER VII. MARIAN'S REPLY.

MARIAN held the letter in her hand for a
moment, irresolute whether to open it and
read it at once, or to defer its perusal until
another opportunity, when her mind might
be less perturbed, and the feeling of
conscious guilt then uppermost in her soul
might have become quieted and soothed
down. She was fully alive to the
knowledge that she had behaved with the
blackest treachery to Walter Joyce, had
dealt him the severest stab, the deadliest
blow, of which she was capable, had — for
the time at least — completely blackened
his future prospects; and yet, although he
had done nothing to deserve this base
treatment — on the contrary had been for
ever loyal and devoted to her under the
most adverse circumstances — her feeling
for him was not one of pity, of regret, or
even of contempt, but of downright hatred.
She knew that she had been seriously to
blame in neglecting all correspondence
with her lover of late, and she imagined
that the letter, which she still held unopened
in her hand, was doubtless one of
remonstrance or complaint. He had no right
now to address her after such fashion, or
indeed after any fashion whatever. This
last thought struck her for an instant with
a touch of tenderness, but she quickly put
it aside as she thrust the letter into the
bosom of her dress, and made her way to
her mother's room.

She found Mrs. Ashurst seated in the
bay window, at the little round table, on
which lay her large-printed Bible, her
bottle of smelling salts, and her spectacle
case. Mrs. Ashurst had always been a
small-framed, delicate-featured woman, but
in these last few months she seemed to
have shrunk away almost to nothing. The
light steel frame of her spectacles looked
disproportionately heavy on her thin nose,
and her sunk pallid face, with the complexion
of that dead white colour so often
seen in old women, was almost lost in the
plaits and frills of her neat cap. Though
the day was fine and bright outside, the
old lady evidently felt the cold; she wore
a thick twilled woollen shawl thrown over
her shoulders, and her cosy arm-chair was
in the full view of the fire. She looked up
as Marian entered, and, when she
recognised the visitor, gave a little smile of
welcome, took off her spectacles, closed her
book, and put up her face for her daughter's
kiss.

"What a long time you have been away,
dear!" she said, in the softest little voice.
"I thought you were never coming back!
I was wondering what had become of you!"

"Did you think Dr. Osborne had run
off with me in the four-wheeler, mother?"
said Marian, smiling. "The knight and
his means of flight are about equally
romantic! We're later than usual, dear,
because Hooton church is closed for repairs,
and we've been to Helmingham!"

"Yes, I know that; but Maud and
Gertrude went to Helmingham too, didn't
they? And I'm sure I've heard their voices
about the house this half-hour!"

"There were all sorts of Helmingham
people to speak to in the churchyard after
service — Mrs. Simmons, who is growing
quite grey; and old Mrs. Peak, whose feet
are very bad again, so bad that she can
hardly get about now, poor soul; and
young Freeman and young Ball, who have
taken Mr. Smyth's cornchandlery business