temporal they felt a kind of protecting pity
for his lorn, condition. He was "such a
nice gen'leman, it's a pity as he hasn't a
good missus." But he was not likely to
marry, for reasons that will appear
presently. He was looked after by a dumpling
faced little maid, popularly called 'Liza,
who worshipped her master, and drew a
piteous picture of his loneliness in the long
winter evenings, when the night school was
over, and he had "never a soul to speak
to." But he did not complain; if he had
any secret troubles they were hid from
every mortal eye; in his dealings with his
parish he always seemed cheerful, and
encouraged a cheerful view of all human
affairs. But he was a shy man, especially
so in the society of young ladies. His nose
was large and red, his hands and feet were
clumsy. He was painfully conscious of
these physical defects when he found
himself in the society of refined women. It
was a weakness against which he fought,
but which, even in the pulpit, conquered
him at times, when he knew that his nose
was redder than usual, and felt that the
eyes of the congregation were rivetted
on it. Self-consciousness is a misfortune
against which religion and philosophy alike
struggle vainly. But as soon as John Miles
became thoroughly interested, whether in
the delivery of his message or in any earnest
conversation, he lost all shyness, forgot his
offending extremities, and threw himself,
with the force of a strong character, into
the discussion in hand.

Maud had a great respect and a sincere
liking for the young curate. No one knew
better how conscientious, how liberal-
minded, and how thoroughly to be trusted
he was. The poor were never weary of
singing his praises; and she envied the
poor their friend. She wished often that
she could speak openly to him about
herself, and of many difficulties that beset her.
But this she had grown to feel would be
dangerous.

"I hate my life, and would do anything
to escape from it," she had once said, when
writhing under some petty tyranny of Sir
Andrew's. "I am of no use in the world
—I wish I were dead."

They were walking from a poor woman's
cottage together. The young man stopped
short, and sighed, and shook his head, and
grew scarlet, as he said abruptly, "No
one has the right to say that. Every one
can be of some use in the world if he
chooses."

"I can't. What can I do? Mamma
doesn't want me. If I were her own child
it would be different. I am a burden to
Sir Andrew, and she feels it. Their only
idea now is to get rid of me. If I could
only get my own livelihood somehow—if
I could only be independent, I shouldn't
be so miserable. It is this inaction, this
utter stagnation, day after day, which kills
me."

John tried to stammer out some good
advice; he strove hard to pour oil upon
the bruised and irritated spirit of the girl,
but after that day she spoke to him but
little about herself. How a knowledge of
the truth came to her she could not tell: it
was nothing that he said or did, but a
conviction came upon her that it would be
unwise, and unkind towards John, to renew
such conversations.

The truth is that this shy, shame-faced
curate had been guilty of as great an act
of presumption as any man in the counties
of Somerset or Devon. He had dared to
fall in love with Lady Herriesson's step-
daughter. He had been curate here four
or five years: he had watched Miss Pomeroy
expand from girl into woman; he knew
all her faults, her pride, her impatience,
her scorn and intolerance of things around
her—pricks which it was worse than
useless to kick against. And he loved her
for her very faults. He saw how they
were the shadows, so to speak, cast by
what was large and noble in her character.
"Wo viel licht ist, ist starker schatten,"
as Schiller says. Under different
circumstances she might have been, might yet
become, an incomparable woman, he thought.
Unwise John! with thy sterling sense in
the affairs of others, not to crush at once
the germs of such folly as this! It was
madness, he said so constantly to himself;
no one could have a more thorough conviction
of that fact. In the first place his
person, was it not an insurmountable
obstacle against any woman's loving him?
It was all very well to preach that beauty is
as the grass of the field. In the summer
time, at all events, most of us prefer
verdure to an unlovely barrenness. Then
there was his worldly position and
prospects; a curacy with two hundred a year;
no chance of preferment; no chance of any
addition to his income from any source
whatever; unless a possible legacy from
an old aunt (John's only near relation)
might be so regarded. Miss Pomeroy had
nothing of her own. Even supposing,
therefore, that she could ever have been
induced to accept him, it would have been