the neighbourhood of Veronica's hand,
and placed it near his own.

"Ha, mio povero Plew," she said,
nodding her head at him, " you little know!
This will have no effect upon me, I am
past that."

"What do you mean, Veronica?" he
said, sharply and sternly. " If you are
joking, the joke is a very bad one. I think
you are talking without rightly weighing
the meaning of what you say."

"Ah, per Bacco, it is likely enough.  I
often do!  But come, you don't eat— and
you don't drink! Won't you try this
wine?  It isn't bad."

"What is it? I am not used to these
costly vintages. I think I never tasted
that kind of wine in my life before."

"That which I poured out is sparkling
Moselle.  The other is Hock. Which are
you for?"

"Well—a little of this, I think," said
Mr. Plew, filling a small wine-glass full of
Hock.

"Oh misericordia, don't pour the Hock
into that thimble! The bigger glass— the
green glass—is meant for the Hock!"

"Thank you, this will do," said Mr.
Plew, sipping the wine gravely. " That
effervescent stuff I should take to be very
heating and unwholesome."

Veronica leaned back on her sofa cushions
and looked at him. He was small, common-
looking, ill-dressed, unpolished. His
boots were clumsy, his hands coarse and
ungloved. She saw all this as keenly as
she had ever seen it. But she saw also
that he was good, and generous, and
devoted. The only human being, she told
herself, who was true to her— the only one!

"I am so thankful you are come!" she
exclaimed.  The words broke from her
almost involuntarily.  Mr. Plew pushed
his plate aside.  In spite of what he had
said, he had scarcely touched the food they
had set before him.  Then he drew his
chair so as to front her sofa, and sat with
his knees a little apart, his body leaning
forward, his elbows resting on his knees,
and his hands loosely clasped together.  It
was a familiar attitude of his.  Veronica
had seen him sitting thus a hundred times
in the vicarage parlour, listening to her
father, and looking at herself.

"Now," said he, " let us talk seriously."

"You must not oppose my wish!  You
must not!  I tell you I cannot go on living
this life.  I must part from Cesare.  He
will not care!  Why should he?  He has
the money!"

As he now saw her, looking at her
intently, and marking her face, her voice,
her attitude, he perceived that she was
greatly and deplorably changed.  It cut
him to the heart to see it.

"Before we speak of that, Veronica,
I had best tell you something which I have
it in charge to tell you."

"In charge to tell me?  It is not about
yourself then?" An unreasonable suspicion
flashed through her mind that he was going
to tell her he was married— or betrothed.
She forgot how unlikely his very presence
there rendered such a suspicion: she
forgot his mother's recent death.  She only
thought, " I shall lose him!  He will slip
through my fingers!"

Poor, wasted, fevered, clinging fingers,
grasping with desperate selfishness at the
kind, true hand which offered the only
touch of sympathy, the only chance of
safety that remained to her!

"No: it is not about myself. It is news
that you will, I am afraid, be vexed to
hear.  Your father—is married."

"Married!"

"I feared it would be disagreeable to
you."

"Married! But when? Whom has he
married?"

"He was married the day before
yesterday to Farmer Meggitt's youngest
daughter."

"Cissy Meggitt!  Cissy Meggitt!  It is
impossible!  Why, in the first place, Cissy
is a child."

"She is very young certainly, for the
vicar. But she is not exactly a child. She
is turned seventeen."

"My father married to Cissy Meggitt!"

Veronica repeated the words as though
they were unintelligible to her.

"You must not let it afflict you too
much.  I am sorry for it, I confess.  But
you must hope for the best."

She remained silent and thoughtful for
a few minutes, idly plucking at the lace
around her sleeve.

"No," she said, at length. " I need not
be afflicted. I don't know that it makes
very much difference.  In any case my
father would not have been likely to do
much to help me."

"Perhaps not. But I was not contemplating
the event from that point of view.
I was thinking, when I said I was sorry—
of him," answered Mr. Plew, gently.

"Ah, yes—yes—very true—of him. I
suppose he will— it will be a bad thing for
papa."