And indeed as he looked, her face became
familiar to his eyes. She retained the
exquisite delicacy of skin which had been
one of her chief beauties, but it was now
blanched and wan, and marked with three
or four deep lines round the mouth, though
on the forehead it remained smooth. There
was still the regular clear-cut outline, but
exaggerated into sharpness. There were
still the large, finely- shaped, lustrous hazel
eyes, but with a glitter in them that seemed
too bright for health, and with traces of
much wailing and weeping in their heavy
lids. She was a kindly, foolish, garrulous,
utterly undignified woman.

"I have come," said the vicar, " to ask
you to give shelter and protection to this
dear child. My house is no home for her
now, and Heaven knows when I shall
return to it myself. I suppose Maud has
—has told you?"

"Ah, my dear Mr. Levincourt, where
would the child find shelter and protection
if not with her poor dear mother's only
sister? And hasn't it been the wish of
my heart to have her with me all these
years? And indeed when Clara died I
would have adopted her outright, if I'd
been let. But not having any daughter of
my own — though to be sure a boy would
have been best, because of the baronetcy,
and he never forgave me, I believe, for not
giving him a son — of course I — But
indeed I am truly distressed at your misfortune,
and I hope that things may not be so
bad as ye fear. A runaway mar'ge is
objictionable, there's no doubt of that in the
world. Still, ye know, my dear Mr.
Levincourt, it won't be the first, and I'd
wager not the last. And upon my honour
I can't see but that the runaway mar'ges
may turn out as well sometimes as those
that are arranged in the regular way;
though goodness knows that is not saying
much, after all."

Here the poor lady paused to heave a
deep sigh, and then, seating herself close to
Maud, she took her niece's hand and
pressed it affectionately.

The vicar perceived that Lady Tallis
had but a very imperfect conception of the
real state of the case. The truth was, that
she had not permitted Maud to explain it
to her, being too much absorbed in the joy
and surprise of seeing her niece to give
heed or sympathy to the fate of the vicar's
daughter. Her life had been so utterly
joyless and empty of affection for so many
years, that the lonely woman not
unnaturally clutched at this chance of happiness
with the selfish eagerness of a starving
creature who snatches at food.

"It is very, very dreadful, Aunt Hilda,"
Maud had said, lowering her voice, lest it
should reach the ears of the vicar in the
next room. "Mr. Levincourt will be
heartbroken if he does not find her. And
I love her so dearly. My poor Veronica!
Oh, why, why did she leave us?"

But her aunt could not help dwelling on
the hope that out of this trouble might
come a gleam of comfort to her own
desolate life.

She had soothed and kissed the sobbing
girl, and had poured out a stream of
incoherent talk, as she hastily huddled some
clothes about her.

"Hush, dear child! Don't be fretting,
my poor pet! You will stay here with
me, safe, now! Sure they'll find her
beyond a doubt. Of course the man will
marry her. And as to running away, why,
my darling child, though I'd be loath to
inculcate the practice, or to recommend it
to any well-brought-up girl, still ye know
very well that it's a thing that happens
every day. There was Miss Grogan, of the
Queen's County, one of the most dashing
girls that ye ever saw in all your days,
eloped with a subaltern in a marching
regiment. But she had fifty thousand
pounds of her own, the very moment she
came of age; so of course they were very
comfortable in a worldly point of view, and
the whole county visited them just as much
as if they had had banns published in the
parish church every day for a year. And
yet, at first, her family were in the greatest
distress—the very greatest distress — though
he was a second cousin of Lord Clontarf, and
an extremely elegant young fellow. But
of course I understand Mr. Levincourt' s
feelings, and I am sincerely sorry for him
—I am indeed."

So, in speaking to the vicar, her tone,
although not unsympathising, was very
different from what it would have been had
she at all realised the terrible apprehensions
which racked his mind.

"Ye'll stay and have a mouthful of
breakfast with me, my dear Mr.
Levincourt?" she said, seeing him about to
depart. "I will have it got ready
immediately. And indeed you must both be
fainting, after travelling all night, too—
What's the matter?"

The question was caused by a ghastly
change which had come over the vicar's
face. His eyes were fixed on the direction
on an envelope which lay on the table. He