Hetherington, who at once started off, so
soon as Joyce had left him, to tell her
ladyship the news. Lady Hetherington was
far more interested in the fact that the
secretary had given warning, as she
persisted in calling it, than her husband had
anticipated. She had always, except when
temporarily aroused on the occasion of the
accident, been so determined to ignore Mr.
Joyce's existence, or had treated him with
such marked coldness when compelled to
acknowledge it, that his lordship was quite
astonished to see how interested she showed
herself, how she persisted in cross-questioning
him as to what Joyce had stated to be
the cause of his leaving, and as to whether
he had mentioned it to any other person in
the house. On being assured by her
husband that he had come straight to her
boudoir after parting with the secretary,
Lady Hetherington seemed pleased, and
strictly enjoined the little lord not to
mention it to any one.

They were a very small party at dinner
that day, only Mr. Biscoe being present in
addition to the members of the family.
The conversation was not very brisk, the
countess being full of the coming London
season, a topic on which Mr. Biscoe, who
hated town, and never went near it when
he could help it, could scarcely expect to
be enthusiastic, Lord Hetherington being
always silent, and Lady Caroline on this
occasion pre-occupied. But when the cloth
was removed, and the servants had left the
room, Lady Hetherington, in the interval of
playing with a few grapes, looked across at
her sister-in-law, and said:

"By the way, Caroline, Lord Hetherington's
secretary has given warning!"

"You mean that Mr. Joyce is going
away, is that it? I thought so, but you
have such a curious way of putting things,
Margaret!"

"How should I have put it? I meant
exactly what I said!"

"Oh, of course, if you choose to import
the phraseology of the servants'-hall into
your conversation, you are at perfect liberty
to do so."

"Anyhow, the fact remains the same.
We are to be bereaved of the great secretary!
"Weren't you astonished when I told
you?"

Not the least in the world!"

"Bcause you had heard it before?"

"Exactly!"

'From Lord Hetherington?"
'Oh no!" laughed Lady Caroline;
"don't scold poor dear West on the idea
that he had anticipated you! I heard it
from Mr. Joyce himself."

"Oh, of course you did!" said Lady
Hetherington, slightly tossing her head.
"Well, of course you're very much grieved.
He was such a favourite of yours."

"Just because I like Mr. Joyce very
much, or, as you phrase it, because he is a
favourite of mine, I'm very pleased to think
that he's going away. A man of his abilities
is lost in his present position."

"I quite agree with you, Lady Caroline,"
said Mr. Biscoe. "Sound scholar, Mr.
Joyce, clear head, well grounded and quick
at picking up—good fellow, too!"

"I'm sure," said Lord Hetherington,
"I've grown so accustomed to him I shall
feel like—what's-his-name—fish out of
water, without him."

"I dare say we shall manage to exist
when Mr. Joyce has left us," said the countess;
"we scrambled on somehow before,
and I really don't see the enormous
improvement since he came."

Nobody commented on this, and the
conversation dropped. Lady Hetherington
was cross and disappointed. She expected
to have found her sister-in-law very much
annoyed at the fact of Mr. Joyce's departure,
whereas, in place of visible grief or
annoyance, there was a certain air of
satisfaction about Lady Caroline which was
dreadfully annoying to the countess.

Two days after, Joyce left for London,
Marian's letter, on Lady Caroline's advice,
and in accordance with his own feelings,
remaining without notice.

                        HOROLOGY.

WHAT should we do without clocks and
watches? Is there anything comparable to the
misery of being benighted on a country road
with a watch that has stopped in one's waistcoat
pocket, and not a clock within view to
tell one the time? The sun has set, every
minute's tramping on the dusky, murky road
seems as an hour. We have a train to catch,
a dinner to be in time for, or a district meeting
to attend, at which it won't do to be late. On
ordinary occasions, when cool and collected,
we might be able to compute the time, but in
straits like these our reckoning deserts us. It
may be five, or six, or seven, for all we know;
we should not be surprised to hear it was
eight. Our notions get muddled, and on we
trudge, breathless, nervous, and irritable;
pretty certain, too, to find in the end that we
have been fretting ourselves for nothing.

But it is of no use asking how we should get
on without clocks and watches. The timepiece
may almost be said to be the mainspring of