discovered his daughter's flight, and
afterwards the name of the man she had fled
with! Then every word, every gesture, had
been full of terrible rage, and grief, and
horror. The vicar had been in agonised
earnest then, no doubt. But now, as he
spoke, it was as though he felt the necessity
of assuming something that was not in his
heart, as though he were ashamed of
expressing relief at Maud's news, and made
it a point of pride to excite his own wrath
against his daughter.

Maud had yet more to tell him. She
must reveal the fact of Veronica's
engagement to the Prince Barletti. And she
much feared that the communication of
this fact would embitter her guardian still
more. She could not see the expression
of his face, as she spoke, and he did not
interrupt her by the least word, until she
paused, having finished what she had to
say. Then the vicar murmured in an
artificial voice, as though he were restraining
its natural expression:

"Her mother was a Barletti."

"Yes. This gentleman is Veronica's
cousin."

"Prince—Prince Barletti! Is that the
title?"

"Prince Cesare de' Barletti. Veronica
assured me that he is devotedly attached to
her. He was a friend to her in her trouble
abroad, and——"

"Barletti is a noble name: an old name.
That wretch was a parvenu, sprung from
the mud; a clay image covered with
gilding."

There was a long silence. At length
the vicar spoke again.

"And my daughter was in London, and
made no attempt to see me. She allows
me to learn this news from other lips than
her own! My sorrow, my misery, my
suspense, matter nothing to her."

"Veronica told me that she would write
to you as soon as we got back to Shipley.
She said that she believed it best, on the
sole ground of consideration for you, for
her to wait before addressing you until all
should be settled."

"Settled!" cried the vicar, sharply.
"What was there to settle?"

"Her—her inheritance; and—and the
proof of her marriage. She may have been
mistaken in delaying to communicate with
you; indeed, I think she was mistaken;
but I do believe she was sincere when she
professed to think it for the best."

The vicar rose and walked to the door.
Arrived there, he paused, and said, "Until
she does address me, and address me in
a proper spirit, I shall take no notice of her
whatsoever. None! She will still be to
me as one dead. Nothing—no human
power shall induce me to waver in my
resolution."

Maud could see the vicar's hands waving
through the gloom with the action of
repulsing or pushing away some one.

"She will write to you, dear Uncle
Charles," said Maud; still with the same
disagreeable perception that the vicar's
words and tone were hollow, and with
the same feeling of being ashamed of the
perception. Then the vicar left the room,
and went out into the garden. He relit
his pipe, and as he paced up and down the
gravel path, Maud watched his figure for a
long time, looming faintly as he came within
range of the light from the windows of the
house, and then receding again into the
darkness. Next day there came a letter
for Mr. Levincourt from Veronica. Maud
recognised her large, pretentious
handwriting on the black-bordered envelope
with its crest and monogram and faint,
sweet perfnme. The vicar took the letter
to his own room, and read it in private.
He did not show it to Maud, nor communicate
its contents to her further than to say
that evening, just before retiring to bed:
"It appears, Maud, that the present
baronet, Sir Matthew Gale, has behaved in
a very becoming manner, in immediately
receiving and acknowledging his cousin's
widow."

"Oh, dear Uncle Charles, the letter was
from Veronica! She has written to you.
I am so thankful."

The tears were in Maud's eyes as she
clasped her hands fervently together, and
looked up into her guardian's face. He
put his hand on her head, and kissed her
forehead.

"Good, sweet, pure-hearted child!" he
said, softly. "Ah, Maudie, would to God
that I had been blessed with a daughter like
you! But I did not deserve that blessing:
I did not deserve it, Maudie."

It was on all these sayings and doings
just narrated, that Maud Desmond was
pondering as she sat, alone, in the
churchyard of St. Gildas.

         CHAPTER II. MISS TURTLE

MAUD sat absorbed in a reverie that
prevented her from hearing a footstep that
approached quickly. Pit-pat, pit-pat, the
step came nearer. It was light, but as
regular as that of a soldier on the march.