lived. In that case a sense of justice would
have impelled the old gentleman to do
something for his nieces, but now he would
be entirely under the sway of this rnoney-
loving woman, who would take care to
keep everything to herself. It was a
confounded nuisance, for in regard to Gertrude
Creswell Mr. Benthall had progressed
considerably beyond the "liking" stage, and
was really very much attached to her.
What could be done? It would be impossible
for him to marry a portionless girl.
It would be utterly useless for him to ask
her uncle to endow her, as Mr. Creswell
would at once refer the question to his new
wife, who—as he, Mr. Benthall, happened to
know from one or two little scenes at which
ho had been present, and one or two little
circumstances of which he had heard—was
by no means lovingly inclined towards the
young ladies who had become her step-
nieces. It was horribly provoking, but
Mr. Benthall could not see his way at all.

One evening, some two or three days
after Mr. Creswell's marriage, Mr.
Benthall was sitting in his study when there
came a knock at the door, and a smart
housemaid entering told him that Mrs.
Covey had come back and would be glad
to see her master. Mrs. Covey was an old
woman who for many years had lived as
cook with the Ashursts, and who, on their
recommendation, had been accepted in a
similar capacity by Mr. Benthall, on his
assumption of office. But the old lady had
been away from her work for some few
weeks with a sharp attack of illness, which
rendered her unfit for her duties, and she
had been staying with a married daughter
some miles on the other side of Brocksopp.
A few days previously she had reported
herself as cured, and as about to return to
her place, and in due time she arrived at
the school-house. Mr. Benthall was glad
to hear of the old woman's safe return, not
that he cared in the least about her, or any
other old woman, but she understood the
place, and did her duty well, and some of
ilic boarders had given decided evidence of
the unpopularity of Mrs. Covey's locum
tenens by leaving their dinners untouched, and
making their meals in furtive snatches from
their lockers during school-hours of provisions
purchased at the "tuck-shop." This
sort of mutiny annoyed Mr. Benthall
considerably. and consequently he was very
glad to have the news of Mrs. Covey's
recovery, and gave orders that she should
be sent up to him at once.

Whatever might have been the nature
of Mrs. Covey's illness, it certainly had not
had the effect of toning down her
complexion. She was a singularly red-faced
old lady, looking as if constant exposure to
large fires had sent the blood to her cheeks
and kept it there, and she wore a very
fierce little black front with two screwy
little curls just in front of either ear, and in
honour of her return and of her presentation
to her master, she had put on a gigantic
structure of net and ribbon which did duty
for a cap. She seemed greatly pleased at
the notice which Mr. Benthall took of her,
and at the interest he seemed to show in
her recovery, but nothing would induce her
to be seated in his presence, though he
repeatedly urged the advisability of her
resting herself after her journey. Finding
her obdurate in this matter, Mr. Benthall
let the old lady have her way, and
after he had chatted with her about her
illness, and about her family, he thought
he had exhausted the topics of interest
between them, and inwardly wished she
would go. But as she evinced no
intention of stirring, he was obliged to cast
about for something to say, and oddly
enough hit upon a subject, the discussion
of which with this old woman, was
destined to have a certain amount of
influence on his future life.

"Well, we've had wonderful changes
here in Helmingham since you've been
away, Mrs. Covey," he remarked.

"Ah! so I did heer, sir!" said the old
woman. "Poor old Muster Pickering gone
to his feaythers, and Mrs. Slatter's bad leg
brokken out again, and not likely to heal
this time, Anne told me Dr. Osborne
says."

"Ay, ay, but I'm not talking about old
Pickering or Mrs. Slatter. I mean the
wedding—the great wedding!"

"Ah, well, I've heerd nowt o' that," said
Mrs. Covey, adding, in a grumbling undertone,
"I'm a stupid owd woman, and they
tell me nowt."

"Not heard of it? Well, I wonder at
that!" said Mr. Benthall, "more especially
as it concerns your young mistress that
was—Miss Ashurst, I mean!"

"What, is she married at last?" asked
the old woman.

"She is indeed, and to Mr. Creswell—-
Squire Creswell of Woolgreaves——"

What!" screamed Mrs. Covey, falling
backward into the chair, which was
fortunately close behind her. "You don't
tell me that!"

"I do indeed! When was it?—-last