and here the ancient chariot swung heavily
with a sort of jerk, in acknowledgment of the
compliment, "you make us your slaves." The
voice of the major dropped suddenly into a low,
sweet, and meaning key. From the chariot
window full gelatine eyes swam and languished.

"Come and dine with me to-day," she said.
"You must."

"Too happy," said the major, with grateful
humility; "but may I ask a favour? Would
you send invitations," he was fond of this
old-fashioned expression, "to Hill and
Hoblush?"

"Those odious clerical creatures!" said she,
striving hard to recollect the mechanism of a
"pout," but failing in the attempt. "How can
you ask, Major Carter?"

"Dear Mrs. Wrigley," he said, "you don't
know how wicked the world is, and how envious
some natures are. Oblige me in this, will
you?"

And she did oblige him. There was a pleasant
little meeting that night, when the two clergymen
came, and the major was "delightful" and
in spirits, and enjoyed Mrs. Wrigley's old claret,
which she knew he liked, and which she "spilled"
profusely for him. After dinner, in the drawing-
room, the major sat upon his chair, stirring
his coffee, and profanely thought he was a sort
of social Providence well able to control the
little events and little worlds about him. And
before that night was over, he—still holding his
cup—had whispered some words to Mrs. Wrigley,
which had suffused her bowl-shaped cheeks
with the ghosts of ancient blushes, and she had
lisped a faltering answer of delighted
acquiescence.

But, at that very moment of success and
happiness, there was another scene going on down at
the little Welsh town, which, had he known
of, would have turned the major's well-trained
cheeks quite pale.

Miss Manuel had decided on her course
promptly. She took up the thread where good
foolish Young Brett had dropped it. The gloomy
brother wondered why she was getting her things
together, and where she could be thinking of
going to at that rough season. He looked on
suspiciously, and with roving eyes. "You are
getting tired of the work," he said. "ln good
time you will forget her."

Miss Manuel's face flushed up with an intelligent
look. "Ah, Louis," she said, " how little
you know me. I am living but for that. And it
is for this, and this only, that I go upon this
journey to-night." That strange, moody, and
injured manner was growing more and more upon
him, and he was only half satisfied.

She was to go with her maid, and on that
night. All during her illness, Fermor had been
at the door, restlessly coming to and fro. He
was never allowed to enter. Day by day he had
heard welcome news of her gradual mending.
Soon he heard of her being out, and of her
driving about, and came hurriedly. He found
a cab at the door, and luggage was being placed
on the top. What did this mean?

Miss Manuel met him on the steps. "What
does this mean?" he repeated. "Going away!
Why, you are not fit to travel."

He was struck by the change, and was almost
pleased with himself for the romantic and
quasi-paternal interest he was showing. She was
gay, and in spirits, and laughed.

"What am I going for?" she said; "for a
hundred reasons. Perhaps I want change of air—
perhaps it is a mere whim or perhaps I feel that
I dare not trust myself here any longer, and that
a woman's resolution is growing weaker every
day. Is not the only course to fly?  Adieu!"

This speech, had it been written, would have
thrown Fermor into a tumult of conceit. But as
it was spoken, something scoffing underlaid it.
He looked at her with doubt and trouble.

"Don't go," he said; "I want to speak to you.
They would not let me in during your illness;
and I came day after day. I saw others let in.
You should not treat me in this way. Don't
go yet; I have a thousand things to say to
you."

Again Miss Manuel laughed. "A thousand
things to say to me at a cab door! You should
learn to be more practical in these days of
railways. Good-by."

"But," he said, eagerly, "how long do
you stay? Tell me—do. Where shall I write
to——"

"Drive on," said she to the servant. "Everything
is in, I believe." Then to Fermor: " Well,
I believe a month, or six months—or perhaps
only a week. It depends. Good-by."

Fermor stood looking after the cab. This
strange treatment chafed him; yet there was
something pleasing under all.

Early the next morning, a lady's maid was asking
at the mouldy dispensary where the maid's
lady would be likely to find genteel and decent
apartments, by the week. A delicate lady,
newly recovered from sickness, who had been
recommended bracing air. This was spoken to
a boy behind the counter, who went in with the
request to a back parlour, and came out again
with an old man. The old man shaded his eyes
with his hand, to look well at her.

"I don't know," he said, in a trembling voice.
"My son Watkyn is away, and he would not
like it, perhaps. Still, my dear, Watkyn likes a
little money."

"But perhaps you know of some place?" said
the lady's maid.

The boy said eagerly that their rooms were
about the nicest in the place, and that the best
quality came and stayed there. The maid then went
away, and said she would report to her
mistress.

Later in the day a delicate lady, whose face
looked as if it could be very brilliant when in the
full colour and flush of health, came into the
shop, and the old man came out to her. He