had grown into that yet more
inscrutable being a Member of Parliament;
but their wonderment was simply
expressed in gaping and staring. They kept
their distance peasant-like, and never
dreamed of button-holing their member,
as did the Brocksoppians. The road that
led from the station to the village skirted
the wall of the school-garden. It was a
low wall, and, looking over it, Joyce saw
Maud Creswell tying up a creeper which
was trained round the study window. Her
attitude was pretty, a sunbeam shone on
her hatless head, and the exertion given to
her task had brought a bright colour to
her usually pale face. Never before had
she looked so attractive in Joyce's eyes.
He dismissed from his mind the interesting
question of compulsory education for
factory children, which he had been revolving
therein for the last hour and a half, and
quickened his pace towards the house.

Maud was in the study when he entered.
The flush had left her face, but returned
when she saw him. He advanced and
took her hand.

"So soon back!" she cried. "When I
came down yesterday, they told me you
had gone to town, and probably would not
return; and I was so horribly vexed!"

"Were you? That's kind of you,
indeed!"

"Well you know— I mean— "

"What you say. I believe that firmly,
for you have the credit of being quite
unconventional. No, I merely went to London
on business, and, that finished, I returned
at once. Where is your sister?"

"Out."

"And her husband?"

"How can you ask such a question?
With her, of course. They have gone to
pay a visit."

"A visit; where? I, I beg your pardon,
how very rude of me to ask such a
question! What a tell-tale face you have, Miss
Creswell. I saw the rudeness I had
committed by your expression."

"You give me credit for more power than l
possess. There was no rudeness in your
asking. They have gone to Woolgreaves."

"To Woolgreaves!"

"Yes. Mrs. Creswell called here two
days ago, the day you went to London,
but Gertrude and George were out, so she
left a note stating she was very anxious to
see them, and they have gone over there
to-day. They had no notion you would
have come down, or they would not have
gone. I am so sorry they're not here."

I confess I am not."

"Not sorry! That's not polite. Why
are you not sorry?"

"Because I wanted to talk to you."

"To me?"

"Yes, to you. I've something to consult
you about, in relation to my recent visit to
town, rather a difficult matter, but I have
all faith in your good judgment."

"I'm afraid you rate my judgment too
highly, Mr. Joyce; but at all events you
may be assured of my answering you
honestly, and to the best of my power."

"That is all I ask. That granted, I can
make sure of the rest. And really it is not
such a great matter after all. Only a little
advice, but such advice as only a woman,
more than that, only a peculiar kind of
woman, can give."

"Do I fulfil the requirements?"

"Exactly."

"Then proceed at once. And I will
promise to answer exactly as I think."

"Well, then, I have a friend, about my
own age, of sufficiently mean birth, whose
father was a man of restricted views and
small mind, both cramped and narrowed
by the doctrines of the religious sect to
which he belonged, but whose mother was
an angel. Unfortunately the mother died
too soon after the boy's birth to be of much
good to him, beyond leaving him the
recollection of her sweet face and voice and
influence; a recollection which he cherishes
to this day. After his wife's death the boy's
father became more and more imbued with
the sectarian doctrines, an undue observance
of which had already had its effect in his
home, and, dying shortly after, left his son
almost unprovided for, and friendless, save
in such friendship as the lad might have
made for himself. This, however, proved
sufficient. The master of the school at
which the lad attended took great interest
in him, half adopted him as it were, and
when the youth was old enough, took him
as his assistant in the school. This would
have met my friend's views sufficiently, for
he was a plodding hardworking fellow, had
he had no other motive; but he had another:
he was in love with the schoolmaster's
daughter, and she returned his passion.
Am I wearying you with this rigmarole?"

"You know you are not. Please go
on!"

"So they proceeded in their Arcadian
simplicity, until the schoolmaster died,
leaving his wife and daughter unprovided
for, and my friend had to go out into
the world to seek his fortune— to seek his