have taught you not to think quite so
lightly of women, that is all. Another
woman will, some day, complete the work
of which I have laid the small foundations."

"She never will. None will ever obtain
the ascendancy over me you have done."

"You think so now. If we meet years
hence, you will thank me for not believing
you——"

"May I, at least, write to you?"

"No; your mother shall never be able
to reproach me with keeping this fancy of
yours alive by any encouragement. Let it
die out as quickly as you can. . . . And
now, good-bye!"

"Stay, one moment longer. . . . Where
are you going? What are your plans?"

"I think of training for a hospital nurse."

"Good Heavens, what an idea! But
your people. . . . Sir Andrew will never
hear of such a thing. I assure you he and
Lady Herriesson seem distressed beyond
measure at——"

"You have seen them, then? You have
been at Mortlands?"

"I came from there last night. Sir
Andrew follows me here to-day. He will
plead my cause, perhaps, from the worldly
point of view; but I told him I knew that
would have no weight with you."

"Oh, he is coming here, is he? In spite
of my letting him know it was absolutely
useless? I am glad you do me the justice
to think that I am not likely to yield to any
of the arguments Sir Andrew is sure to
use. Nothing that he could say upon any
subject would have any weight with me.
At present, I mean to remain here. I can
be of use to this old lady, and, therefore,
I may as well stay."

"She's that curate's aunt, isn't she?"
asked Lowndes, sharply.

"Yes. He begged me to remain here,
as he was obliged to go away."

"I shouldn't think that was exactly the
reason; but of course he's anxious for you
to stay. He'll be running backwards and
forwards, no doubt. All parsons are cute
after their own interests. I saw his game
at once."

"He is a most excellent man," said
Maud, a little maliciously. "You don't
know him."

"I've seen him—that's quite enough.
Surely it's impossible;—but I suppose I
have no right to ask the question. Only
as he very plainly told us that he meant to
marry you, if he could, I venture to hope
you will not throw yourself away on a
fellow like that."

"I might go nearer and fare worse,
perhaps. If Mr. Miles married me, it
would be he who threw himself away. But
there is no possibility of that. I shall not
allow him to sacrifice himself so far," she
added, with a little smile.

"Well, he means to persevere—and so
do I. Only promise to wait, will you?
See, in six months, if my feelings are
changed. See if I haven't had the pluck
to work all that time. And see, then, if
my mother doesn't welcome you with open
arms."

A gig drove up to the door.

"There is the doctor," said Maud, glad
of the subterfuge to avoid replying to this
speech. She could not—she knew she
ought not—to believe him; but her head
was in a tumult. She could scarcely
master herself sufficiently to continue
calmly. "I must go, Mr. Cartaret. I
hope my preachings may really have some
effect in making you work. Good-bye."

They shook hands, like ordinary
acquaintances, while the old apothecary came
shuffling along the gravel-walk. And the
witness to this commonplace parting little
guessed the struggle and the conquest that
it sealed.

By one o'clock, Sir Andrew was in Salisbury.
He found a note awaiting him at
the inn. It ran thus:

    DEAR SIR ANDREW, No luck at present.
I am off to town by the next train, but I
don't despair yet.
                         Yours truly,
                                LOWNDES CARTARET.

When the baronet read that he was
sore displeased. And if he did not rend
his clothes, after the manner of the
wrathful kings of Judah, he rent his
language, at least, with a vengeance, as he
walked up and down the little inn-parlour,
scattering oaths broadcast. In this implacable
frame of mind, he set off for the
widow's house.

Maud was prepared, by Lowndes's
announcement, for this inevitable visit. She
said to herself that she would be as
conciliatory as possible; she would set a guard
upon her tongue: but she would be firm
as a rock.

And as a rock, in truth, she received the
white-crested breakers of Sir Andrew's
tide of reproach and indignation, as wave
after wave rolled in, and broke over her,
in a foam of vituperation. She was a
disgrace to the family—a byword in the
county: she had broken her step-mother's