situation; but what Mr. Miles said of Mary
Hind I believe he would say of me. He is
our curate; question him. I will not
return home; nothing shall induce me. If I
leave you it will be to go to London, and
work for a living there. Will you cast me
off, Mrs. Cartaret? You have been most
kind; I never can forget your kindness.
Will you not forgive me, now?"

"Forgive you? Only hear her! Listen
to the impudence of the coquine! A false
character – une fille qui court les aventures
– who tries to entrap my son – a regular
intrigante – and she asks me to forgive her!
Kind? I was kind, because I thought you
to be an honest girl, above deception, and I
find you are as rusée as an old actress. I
see now our little affair of yesterday with
wide-open eyes. What! You promise
monsieur mon fils not to go away, do you ?
And you come, with a fine indignation, to
declare to me you must leave the house at
once. And I am such a sotte that I do not
see through it all. I would not believe my
good Rouse. But enough of this. I will
not listen to another word. Come, pack up
your clothes, and be off, and you, sir, let me
have a few words with you in private. This
way." And the old lady, trembling with
anger, turned towards the door. Maud
stood there motionless, as if turned to stone.
The bitter humiliation of that moment may
surely have atoned for many of the mistakes
of her life, poor girl! To her proud nature
a sorer chastisement could hardly have
been devised.

"I have a fly here. Be ready in a quarter
of an hour if you can, and we shall save the
down train," said Miles, gently, as he
followed Mrs. Cartaret from the room.

What passed in that interview between
the curate and the incensed old lady need
not be recorded. It is suflicient to say
that he sought in vain to mitigate the
vehemence of her resentment against Maud.
Mrs. Cartaret's suspicions being now not
only aroused, but confirmed beyond the
possibility of doubt, the sense of her son's
danger made her pitiless to the girl, whose
unhappiness had driven her to seek for an
independence by means which John Miles
could not attempt to justify. She would
sooner have pardoned a peasant's daughter;
but a young lady! to run away from home
and enter service, and by a false character,
too! It shocked all her fine old notions of
a gentlewoman, in the first place; in the
second, she was far too sharp not to
perceive that if Lowndes's infatuation should
unhappily prove to be lasting, the girl's
birth would prove a powerful weapon in
his hands. She was too much irritated to
take a dispassionate view of the case. She
heard all that Miles had to say, but she
shook her head incredulously when he tried
to convince her that the estimate she had
formed of Maud's character was utterly
false, and she declined seeing her again.

"Look you, my good sir, it is of no use
to say that I forgive her, because I do not.
Take her home to her friends, and never let
me hear of her again, if possible. Religion?
Christian forgiveness? Ta-ta! That is
all very well, but forgiveness does not
cast out devils; and this one has made so
much mischief here, and I had grown so
fond of her, that I require all my force to
cast her out. You see me in a rage, sir.
Yes; because she made me her dupe. There,
say no more about it. Pour I'amour de
Dieu, let us hear no more about her!"

And so, poor girl, she went her way, her
proud spirit wounded, her heart full to
bursting, and with a grievous sense of
injustice against which, nevertheless, she had
deprived herself of all right to complain.
Not yet a month had passed since she first
crossed the threshold of Beckworth, and
how eventful had those weeks proved to
her!

Their short journey to Salisbury was
performed in absolute silence. She offered no
resistance to Miles's plan that she should
go to his aunt's for the time being. All
places were alike to her; it was a matter
of indifference now where she went,
provided she did not return to Mortlands.

MR. DICKENS'S NEW WORK.
Just Published, PRICE ONE SHILLING,
PART FIVE OF
THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY S. L. FILDES.
London: CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, Piccadilly.

Just published, price 5s. 6d., bound in green cloth,
THE THIRD VOLUME
OF THE NEW SERIES OF
ALL THE YEAR ROUND.
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