that Mrs. Creswell thought of
nothing in comparison with her own
self-interest. Certainly her conduct now seemed
to give colour to the assertion, for Marian
seemed annoyed at the idea of his
withdrawal from seeking a position by which
she would be benefited, even where his
health was concerned.

Mr. Creswell was mistaken. Marian, in
her inmost heart, had hailed this determination
of her husband's with the greatest
delight, seeing in it, if it were carried out,
an excellent opportunity for escaping the
ignominy of a defeat by Walter Joyce.
But after this one conversation, which she
brought to a close by hinting that of course
his wishes should be acted upon, but it
would perhaps be better to leave things as
they were, and not come to any definite
conclusion for the present, she did not
allude to the subject, but occupied her
whole time in attending to her husband,
who needed all her care. Mr. Creswell
was indeed very far from well. He went
into town occasionally, and, at Marian's
earnest request, still busied himself a
little about the affairs of the election, but
in a very spiritless manner; and when he
came home he would go straight to the
library, and there, ensconced in an easy
chair, sit for hours staring vacantly before
him, the shadow of his former self. At
times, too, Marian would find his eyes fixed
on her, watching all her motions, following
her about the room, not with the lingering
loving looks of old, but with an odd furtive
glance; and there was a pitiful expression
about his mouth, too, at those times which
was not pleasant to behold. Marian
wondered what her husband was thinking of.
It was a good thing that she did not know;
for as he looked at her—and his heart did not
refuse to acknowledge the prettiness, and the
grace, and the dignity which his eyes rested
on—the old man was wondering  within
himself what could have induced him, at his time
of life, to marry again—what could have
induced her, seemingly all sweetness and
kindness, to take an inveterate hatred to those
two poor girls, Maud and Gertrude, who
had been turned out of the house, forced
to leave the home which they had every
right to consider theirs, and he had been too
weak, too much infatuated with Marian to
prevent the execution of her plans. But
that should not be. He was ill then, but
he would soon be better, and so soon as
he found himself a little stronger he would
assume his proper position, and have the
girls back again. He had been giving way
too much recently, and must assert
himself. He was glad now he had said nothing
about giving up the election to any one
save Marian, as he should certainly go on
with it—it would be a little healthy excitement
to him; he had suffered himself to
fall into very dull, moping ways, but he
would soon be all right. If he could only
get rid of that odd numbing pain in the
left arm, he should soon be all right.

Little Dr. Osborne was in the habit of
retiring to rest at an early hour. In
the old days, before his "girl" married,
he liked to sit up and hear her warble
away at her piano, letting himself be
gradually lulled off to sleep by the music; and
in later times, when his fireside was lonely
and when he was not expecting any special
work, he would frequently drive over to
Woolgreaves, or to the Churchills at the
Park, and play a rubber. But since he
had quarrelled with Mrs. Creswell, since
her "most disrespectful treatment of him,"
as he phrased it, he had never crossed the
threshold at Woolgreaves, and the people
at the Park were away wintering in Italy,
so that the little doctor generally finished
his modest tumbler of grog at half-past ten
and "turned in" soon after. He was a
sound sleeper, his housekeeper was deaf,
and the maid, who slept up in the roof, never
heard anything, not even her own snoring,
so that a late visitor had a bad chance of
making his presence known. A few nights
after the events just recorded, however,
one of Mr. Creswell's grooms attached his
horse to the doctor's railings and gave
himself up to performing on the bell with such
energy and determination, that after two
minutes a window opened and the doctor's
voice was heard demanding "Who's there?"

"Sam, from Woolgreaves, doctor, wi' a
note."

"From Woolgreaves!—a note! What's
the matter?"

"Squire's bad, had a fit, I heerd
housekeeper say, and madam she have wrote this
note for you! Come down, doctor; it's
marked 'mediate, madam said. Do come
down!"

"Eh?—what—Woolgreaves—had a fit
—Mrs. Creswell—I'm coming!" and the
window was shut, and in a few minutes
Sam was shivering in the hall, while the
doctor read the note by the gaslight in his
surgery. "Hum!—'No doubt you'll be
surprised'—should think so, indeed—'has
been long ill'—thought so when I saw him
in the Corn Exchange on Saturday—'just