and supplying her own feebleness by its
steady strength. She had been to his fancy
a creature to whom it was simply natural
and inevitable to be brilliant and stainless
as the petal of a lily. And now she was
smirched and fallen. After the first paroxysms
of impotent rage against the man
who had taken her away, almost the bitterest
reflection of all was the reflection
how base a bait had tempted her.

When her carriage stopped at the gate
of St. Gildas's churchyard, and he advanced,
hat in hand, and touched—very slightly
touched—her proffered hand, and stammered
a few incoherent words of greeting,
in his shy, awkward, unpolished manner,
Veronica thought, "He is overcome at
seeing me again, and seeing me in this
pomp! Poor little Plew! He really is
not a bad fellow; and I shan't forget the
good turn he did me about forwarding
my letter." Her gratitude did not by any
means go to the extent of relinquishing
her power to torture his feelings. But
the truth, could she have read it in his
heart, was, that he was crushed by the
humiliation of being ashamed for her.
And yet he loved her still. A more perfect
being would doubtless have ceased to
love that which his moral sense told him
ought to be utterly unloveable. But Mr.
Plew was a very far from perfect being;
and from the nature of the case, and the
nature of the man, there was mingled with
his love an almost feminine passion of pity
which rendered it indestructible.

"You used to have patients in Shipley
Magna, Mr. Plew," the "princess" had
said graciously. "Whenever your professional
duties bring you there, mind you
come and see us!"

But two days, three days, passed, and
Mr. Plew did not appear at the Crown
Inn. Veronica had, in her security that
he would come, given orders that he should
be admitted at any time. Still, he did not
appear. Then came Lord George Seagrave's
invitation to Cesare. Veronica
told him by all means to go, and told herself
that it was a relief to get rid of him
for a day. Poor Cesare was very fond of
her; almost too fond of her. It became a
bore to have his constant presence. But
when he was gone, and she was left alone
with no companion but her maid, and no
resource but the inspection of her jewelbox,
she began to feel depressed.

"I'm getting into a horrible habit of
being low spirited," she thought. "It is
habit, I suppose. I want keeping up.
This leaden weight is intolerable. Bah! I
won't stay in this odious hole! I always
hated it. I don't know whether one always
comes back to one's old loves, but
I do believe one returns unfailingly to one's
old hates. I will go away. But where?
Dio mio! Anywhere! Back to town.
But meanwhile I positively am not well.
I ought to see some one. I'll send for
little Plew!"

Miss Turtle happened to be spending the
afternoon with old Mrs. Plew, when the
Princess de' Barletti's pink, perfumed note
was brought into the cottage by a servant
from the Crown Inn. Mr. Plew was not
at home. He was expected back in the
course of an hour or so. Very good, the
man said. He would put up his horse and
gig in the village, and return in the course
of an hour to see if the doctor (so Mr.
Plew was always styled in Shipley parlance)
had come in. He had orders to
wait and drive him back to Shipley Magna.
Was anything the matter? Any one ill?
Not that he knew, special. The lady as
they called Barley-etty seemed a bit out o'sorts.
But he couldn't say much about it.
The moment the groom's back was turned,
the two women pounced upon the note.
They felt it, they smelt it, they turned it
this way and that.

"V. B." said Miss Turtle, deciphering
the monogram. "And a crown above.
The paper's for all the world like satin.
And how it is perfumed!"

"Ah! It smells to me like them yellow
lozenges in the surgery," said Mrs. Plew,
pushing the note away from her with a
little dissatisfied gesture.

"What a bold handwriting!" exclaimed
Miss Turtle. "Quite the aristocrat. Oh
dear me! I suppose Mr. Benjamin will be
taken up with high society now."

The tip of the poor governess's little nose
became red, and her eyes filled with tears.
Mrs. Plew grasped her wooden knitting
needles more tightly than was her wont,
and shook her head with the tremulous
movement of age.

"If you could but have seen the carriage
she was in," whispered Miss Turtle, plaintively.
She was by nature and habit so
humble-minded that her jealous comparison
of herself with Veronica had only resulted
in her crushing sense of the latter' s overwhelming
superiority in all points.

"But I did describe it to you, didn't I?
And the silver on the horses' harness? Mrs.
Meggitt thinks a deal of her spoons, but la!
Mrs. Plew, I tell you Mrs. Meggitt's spoons