her doings that no had no eye nor ear for
any one else, and he would probably have
been very much astonished if he had been
told that a complete estrangement had
taken place between him and the other
members of his family, and would positively
have denied it. Such, however, was the
case. The girls, beyond seeing their uncle
at meals, were left entirely to their own
devices, and it was, under the circumstances,
fortunate for their future that their
past training had been such as it had been.
Gertrude, indeed, was perfectly happy; for
although Mr. Benthall had not actually
proposed to her, there was a tacit
understanding of engagement between them.
He occasionally visited at Woolgreaves, and
during the summer they had met frequently
at various garden parties in the neighbourhood.
And Maud was as quiet and earnest
and self-contained as ever, busied in her
work, delighting in her music, and, oddly
enough, having one thing in common with
Mrs. Creswell—an interest in the forth-
coming election, of which she had heard
from Mr. Benthall, who was a violent
politician of the Liberal school.

One day the girls were sitting in the
room which had been assigned to them on
the establishment of the boudoir, and which
was a huge, lofty, and by no means
uncomfortable room, rendered additionally bright
and cheerful by Gertrude's tasty handiwork
and clever arrangement. It was one
of those close warm days which come upon
as suddenly sometimes, when the autumn
has been deepening into winter, and the
reign of fires has commenced. The sun
had been shining with much of his old
summer power, and the girls had been
enjoying its warmth, and had let the fire out,
and left the door open, and had just
suspended their occupations—Maud had been
copying music, and Gertrude letter-writing
—owing to the want of light, and were
chatting previous to the summons of the
dressing-bell.

"Where is madam, this afternoon,
Maud?" asked Gertrude, after a little
silence.

"Shut up in the library with uncle and
Mr. Gould, that man who comes from
London about the election. I heard uncle
send for her!"

"Lor, now, how odd!" said unsophisticated
Gertrude; "she seems all of a sudden
to have taken great interest in this election
thing!"

"Naturally enough, Gerty," said Maud.
"Mrs. Creswell is one of the most
ambitious women in the world, and this 'election
thing,' as you call it, is to do her more good
and gain her higher position than she ever
dreamed of until she heard of it."

"What a curious girl you are, Maud!
How you do think of things! What makes
you think that?"

"Think it—I'm sure of it. I've noticed
the difference in her manner, and the way
in which she has thrown herself into this
question more than any other since her
marriage, and brought all her brains—and
she has plenty—to uncle's help—poor, dear
uncle!"

"Ah, poor, dear uncle! Do you think
madam really cares for him?"

"Cares for him? Yes, as a stepping-
stone for herself, as a means to the end
she requires!"

"Ah, Maud, how dreadful! but you know
what I mean—do you think she loves him
—you know?"

"My dear Gerty, Marian Ashurst never
loved anybody but one, and——"

"Ah, I know who you mean, that man
who kept the school—no, not kept the
school, was usher to Mr. Ashurst. Mr.—
Joyce. That was it! She was fond of him,
wasn't she?"

"She was engaged to him, if the report
we heard was true, but as to fond of him!
The only person Marian Ashurst ever cared
for was—Marian Ashurst! Who's there?"

A figure glided past the open door,
dimly seen in the waning light. But there
was no response, and Gertrude's remark of
"Only one of the servants" was almost
drowned in the clanging summons of the
dinner-bell.

VILLAGE LIFE IN BENGAL.

OUR Bengalee village is almost as quiet in
the hot weather as the water of the river on
whose bank it is situated. Time was when it
was the channel of a stream of commerce as
mighty as the torrent which swells the river in
the rains. Then, the road on which it stands
was the highway for goods passing down the
country to the great port of Calcutta. Now
they are sent by an iron road which passes at
a distance from our streets. The inhabitants
seem to live in an eternal hot weather of
fortune. Like their own paddy-fields, when shorn
of their crops, they have a dry, poor, parched-
up appearance. The large buildings, ghauts,
temples, and houses are tumbling to decay;
luxury has fled the spot; cleanliness dwells
only with the poor. And, truly, in spite of its
mud walls and thatched roof, an Indian hut is
one of the cleanest habitations that you could
discover in a journey round the world. The