her accustomed daily ways, yet not so much
without imagination as not to desire something
beyond the narrow range of knowledge and
experience in which her days had hitherto been
passed. Add to this her pretty figure, a bright
healthy complexion, lovely teeth, and quite enough
of beauty in her other features to have rendered
her the belle of a country town, if her lot had
been cast in such a place; and it is not to be
wondered at, that, after she had been secretly
in love with Duke with all her heart for nearly
a year, almost worshipping him, he should
discover that, of all the women he had ever
known—except perhaps the lost Theresa—
Bessy Hawtrey had it in her power to make him
the happiest of men.

Sir Mark grumbled a little; but now-a-days
he grumbled at everything, poor disappointed,
all but childless, old man! As to the vicar he
stood astonished and almost dismayed. " Have
you thought enough about it, Mr. Duke?"
the parson asked. " Young men are apt to do
things in a hurry, that they repent at leisure.
Bessy is a good girl, a good girl, God bless her:
but she has not been brought up as your wife
should have been: at least as folks will say
your wife should have been. Though I may say
for her she has a very pretty sprinkling of
mathematics. I taught her myself, Mr. Duke."

"May I go and ask her myself? I only want
your permission," urged Duke.

"Ay, go! But perhaps you'd better ask
Madam first. She will like to be told everything
as soon as me."

But Duke did not care for Madam. He rushed
through the open door of the Parsonage, into
the homely sitting-rooms, and softly called for
Bessy. When she came, he took her by the
hand and led her forth into the field-path at the
back of the orchard, and there he won his bride
to the full content of both their hearts.

All this time the inhabitants of Crowley Castle
and the quiet people of the neighbouring village
of Crowley, heard but little of "The Countess,"
as it was their fashion to call her. Sir Mark
had his letters from her, it is true, and he read
them over and over again, and moaned over
them, and sighed, and put them carefully away
in a bundle. But they were like arrows of
pain to him. None knew their contents; none,
even knowing them, would have dreamed, any
more than he did, for all his moans and sighs,
of the utter wretchedness of the writer. Love
had long since vanished from the habitation of
that pair; a habitation, not a home, even in its
brightest days. Love had gone out of the
window, long before poverty had come in at the
door: yet that grim visitant who never tarries
in tracking a disreputable gambler, had now
arrived. The count lost the last remnants of
his character as a man who played honourably,
and thenceforth—that being pretty nearly the
only sin which banished men from good society
in those days—he had to play where and how he
could. Theresa's money went as her poor angry
father had foretold. By-and-by, and without her
consent, her jewel-box was rifled; the diamonds
round the locket holding her mother's picture
were wrenched and picked out by no careful
hand. Victorine found Theresa crying over
the poor relics;—crying at last, without
disguise, as if her heart would break.

"Oh, mamma! mamma! mamma!" she sobbed
out, holding up the smashed and disfigured
miniature as an explanation of her grief. She
was sitting on the floor, on which she had thrown
herself in the first discovery of the theft.
Victorine sat down by her, taking her head upon
her breast, and soothing her. She did not ask
who had done it; she asked Theresa no question
which the latter would have shrunk from
answering; she knew all in that hour, without
the count's name having passed the lips of either
of them. And from that time she watched him
as a tiger watches his prey.

When the letters came from England, the
three letters from Sir Mark and the affianced
bride and bridegroom, announcing the approaching
marriage of Duke and Bessy, Theresa took
them straight to Victorine. Theresa's lips were
tightened, her pale cheeks were paler. She
waited for Victorine to speak. Not a word did
the Frenchwoman utter; but she smoothed the
letters one over the other, and tore them in
two, throwing the pieces on the ground, and
stamping on them.

"Oh, Victorine!" cried Theresa, dismayed at
passion that went so far beyond her own, "I
never expected it—I never thought of it—but,
perhaps, it was but natural."

"It was not natural; it was infamous! To
have loved you once, and not to wait for chances,
but to take up with that mean poor girl at the
Parsonage. Pah! and her letter! Sir Mark is
of my mind though, I can see. I am sorry I
tore up his letter. He feels, he knows, that Mr.
Duke Brownlow ought to have waited, waited,
waited. Some one waited fourteen years, did
he not? The count will not live for ever."

Theresa did not see the face of wicked meaning
as those last words were spoken.

Another year rolled heavily on its course of
wretchedness to Theresa. That same revolution
of time brought increase of peace and joy to the
English couple, striving humbly, striving well,
to do their duty as children to the unhappy and
deserted Sir Mark. They had their reward in
the birth of a little girl. Yet, close on the heels
of this birth, followed a great sorrow. The
good parson died, after a short sudden illness.
Then came the customary trouble after the
death of a clergyman. The widow had to leave
the Parsonage, the home of a lifetime, and seek
a new resting-place for her declining years.

Fortunately for all parties, the new vicar was
a bachelor; no other than the tutor who had
accompanied Duke on his grand tour; and it
was made a condition that he should allow the
widow of his predecessor to remain at the
Parsonage as his housekeeper. Bessy would fain
have had her mother at the castle, and this
course would have been infinitely preferred by
Madam Hawtrey, who, indeed, suggested the
wish to her daughter. But Sir Mark was