adding fuel day by day, till it should burn
his very heart out, till it should come to
be at once an all-absorbing thought and a
terror unto himself—this was what he never
foresaw in those early days. Attracted
first by her handsome face and figure, and
secondly by her peculiar manner, the
bluntness of which excited him in the
pursuit far more than the coquetries to
which he was used, each time he talked to
her he was more and more struck by her
shrewdness, the unflinching truth of what
she said, and her skill in parrying his
attacks. He was used to the conversation
of women (of whom society now has
plenty, and an increasing stock of
examples), with whom he could say many
things that would have been better left
unsaid, perhaps; and talking to any others,
the wives and daughters of his quiet
country neighbours, for instance,
generally bored him horribly. But here was a
girl—only a maid-servant, too!—to whom
he very soon found he could not say
anything he liked, and yet who did not bore
him; but very much the contrary. It was
a new and strange experience; he could
not account for it; he could only accept it
as a fact which he felt to be asserting
itself more strongly very day.

How came it to pass that the lynx-eyed
Rouse never suspected what was going on
all this time? Fate for some days favoured
Lowndes; but the jealousy of the
disappointed Dapper at last revealed to him the
truth; and, through him, that truth reached
his formidable colleague in office.

"She flies at 'igh game, she does, Mrs.
Rouse. Her equals is not good enough for 'er.
I come in with the coals, and there, sure
enough, was Mr. Lowndes and 'er alone—
'er at 'er work, and 'im lolling on the sofa
—chatting away like anything, she as won't
so much as open 'er mouth to answer a
civil thing when I speak. It's easy to
understand now why she gives 'erself such
hairs."

"I'll soon put a stop to that!" said Mrs.
Rouse, flaming up. " I won't have nothing
disrespectable go on in this house—let it
be master, or let it be man. You know that,
Mr. Dapper. I won't have no skylarking
and playing the fool as long as I'm here,
and so I'll tell Mr. Lowndes to his face.
Only I'll make sure that you're right first."

And she left no stone unturned to make
sure; but was unable to detect a single act
of encouragement or doubtful propriety in
the girl's demeanour towards the son of
her mistress; though Mrs. Rouse bounced
into the boudoir at all hours, now, on some
pretext or other. Once only did she find
them alone; and then Maud was at one end
of the room, busying herself at some shelves,
and the young man was at the other, with
his back to her, looking out of window.
This is what had happened. He had come
in, as usual, to his mother's boudoir, on
ascertaining that Maud was alone there;
and, after talking to her for some time, he
said abruptly:

"I want to know, Mary, where you were
educated?"

"At school, sir, of course. "Why do you
ask?"

"Because your education is a cut above
your station. I never heard of a village-girl
speaking French before."

"It is my only accomplishment—I hope
there is no harm in it? A young lady"
(she was thinking of herself who taught
the real Mary Hind) " thought it might be
useful to me when I went out to service,
and so gave me some lessons."

"What provision! She must have had
Beckworth in her eye. As to me, I was
always so bothered about French, that I
hate it. And then its history! Do you
know I never have been able to master all
those confounded kings my mother is so
fond of, yet!"

"So I should think. It needs some
application and perseverance to master
history, neither of which, I imagine, you
possess."

"You are wrong, Mary. I have no
application, but plenty of perseverance,
when the object is one I care sufficiently
about."

"What a pity—" Here she broke off.

"Dear me! I have lost my needle!"

"Here it is. Well? what is a pity?
Come, out with it."

"No, Mr. Cartaret, it was nothing. I
was forgetting myself."

"Nonsense! Come, what was it?"

"Well, then, I was going to say, what a
pity it is you don't care sufficiently about
something that is useful in life. An
independent young man like you can, of course,
do what he chooses. To see him wasting his
best years in idleness is deplorable, I think.
But then I have a very strong feeling about
idleness. I left my home because I could
not stand it."

"What you call usefulness is all humbug,
Mary. Some fellows like fancying they do
an enormous deal of work, and they make
asses of themselves on the magistrates'
bench, and preside at agricultural dinners,