Victorine heard her darling's passionate sobs, and
came in.

"What hast thou, my angel! Who has been
vexing thee,—tell me, my cherished?"

She tried to raise the girl, but Theresa would
not be raised; neither would she speak till she
chose, in spite of Victorine's entreaties. When
she chose, she lifted herself up, still sitting on
the floor, and putting her tangled hair off her
flushed tear-stained face, said:

"Never mind, it was only something Duke
said; I don't care for it now." And refusing
Victorine's aid, she got up, and stood thoughtfully
looking out of window.

"That Duke!" exclaimed Victorine. "What
business has that Mr. Duke to go vex my
darling? He is not your husband yet, that he
should scold you, or that you should mind what
he says."

Theresa listened and gained a new idea; but
she gave no outward sign of attention, or of
her now hearing for the first time how that she
was supposed to be intended for her cousin's
wife. She made no reply to Victorine's caresses
and speeches; one might almost say she shook
her off. As soon as she was left to herself,
she took her hat, and going out alone, as she
was wont, in the pleasure-grounds, she went
down the terrace steps, crossed the bowling-
green, and opened a little wicket-gate which led
into the garden of the parsonage. There, were
Bessy and her mother, gathering fruit. It was
Bessy whom Theresa sought; for there was
something in Madam Hawtrey's silky manner
that was always rather repugnant to her.
However, she was not going to shrink from her
resolution because Madam Hawtrey was there.
So she went up to the startled Bessy, and said
to her, as if she were reciting a prepared speech:
"Bessy, I behaved very crossly to you; I had
no business to have spoken to you as I did."—
"Will you forgive me?" was the pre-determined
end of this confession; but somehow, when it
came to that, she could not say it with Madam
Hawtrey standing by, ready to smile and to
curtsey as soon as she could catch Theresa's
eye. There was no need to ask forgiveness
though; for Bessy had put down her half filled
basket, and came softly up to Theresa, stealing
her brown soil-stained little hand into the
young lady's soft white one, and looking up at
her with loving brown eyes.

"I am so sorry, but I think it was the sums
on page 108. I have been looking and looking,
and I am almost sure."

Her exculpatory tone caught her mother's
ear, although her words did not.

"I am sure, Miss Theresa, Bessy is so grateful
for the privileges of learning with you! It is
such an advantage to her! I often tell her,
' Take pattern by Miss Theresa, and do as she
does, and try and speak as she does, and there'll
not be a parson's daughter in all Sussex to
compare with you.' Don't I, Bessy?"

Theresa shrugged her shoulders—a trick she
had caught from Victorine—and, turning to
Bessy, asked her what she was going to do with
those gooseberries she was gathering? And as
Theresa spoke, she lazily picked the ripest out
of the basket, and ate them.

"They are for a pudding," said Bessy. " As
soon as we have gathered enough, I am going in
to make it."

"I'll come and help you," said Theresa,
eagerly. " I should so like to make a pudding.
Our Monsieur Antoine never makes gooseberry
puddings."

Duke came past the parsonage an hour or so
afterwards: and, looking in by chance through
the open casement windows of the kitchen,
saw Theresa pinned up in a bib and apron,
her arms all over flour, flourishing a rolling-
pin, and laughing and chattering with Bessy
similarly attired. Duke had spent his morning
ostensibly in fishing; but in reality in weighing
in his own mind what he could do or say to
soften the obdurate heart of his cousin. And
here it was, all inexplicably right, as if by some
enchanter's wand!

The only conclusion Duke could come to
was the same that many a wise (and foolish)
man had come to before his day:

"Well! Women are past my comprehension,
that's all!"

When all this took place, Theresa was about
fifteen; Bessy was perhaps six months older;
Duke was just leaving Oxford. His uncle,
Sir Mark, was excessively fond of him; yes!
and proud, too, for he had distinguished
himself at college, and every one spoke well of him.
And he, for his part, loved Sir Mark, and,
unspoiled by the fame and reputation he had
gained at Christ Church, paid respectful deference
to Sir Mark's opinions.

As Theresa grew older, her father supposed
that he played his cards well in singing Duke's
praises on every possible occasion. She tossed
her head, and said nothing. Thanks to Victorine's
revelations, she understood the tendency of her
father's speeches. She intended to make her
own choice of a husband when the time came;
and it might be Duke, or it might be some one
else. When Duke did not lecture or prose, but
was sitting his horse so splendidly at the meet,
before the huntsman gave the blast, "Found;"
when Duke was holding his own in discourse
with other men; when Duke gave her a short
sharp word of command on any occasion; then
she decided that she would marry him, and no
one else. But when he found fault, or stumbled
about awkwardly in a minuet, or talked moralities
against duelling, then she was sure that Duke
should never be her husband. She wondered if
he knew about it; if any one had told him, as
Victorine had told her; if her father had revealed
his thoughts and wishes to his nephew, as plainly
as he had done to his daughter? This last query
made her cheeks burn; and, on days when the
suspicion had been brought by any chance
prominently before her mind, she was especially
rude and disagreeable to Duke.

He was to go abroad on the grand tour of
Europe, to which young men of fortune usually
devoted three years. He was to have a tutor,