come to Brighton with some object of his own
in view. I had prepared quite a little Paradise
for my beloved Rachel—and here was the
Serpent already!

"Godfrey was very much vexed, Drusilla,
not to be able to come with us," said my Aunt
Ablewhite. " There was something in the way
which kept him in town. Mr. Bruff volunteered
to take his place, and make a holiday of
it till Monday morning. By-the-by, Mr. Bruff,
I'm ordered to take exercise, and I don't like
it. That," added Aunt Ablewhite, pointing
out of window to an invalid going by in a
chair on wheels, drawn by a man, "is my idea
of exercise. If it's air you want, you get it
in your chair. And if it's fatigue you want,
I'm sure it's fatiguing enough to look at the
man."

Rachel stood silent, at a window by herself,
with her eyes fixed on the sea.

"Tired, love?" I inquired.

"No. Only a little out of spirits," she
answered. "I have often seen the sea, on our
Yorkshire coast, with that light on it. And I
was thinking, Drusilla, of the days that can
never come again."

Mr. Bruff remained to dinner, and stayed
through the evening. The more I saw of him,
the more certain I felt that he had some
private end to serve in coming to Brighton. I
watched him carefully. He maintained the
same appearance of ease, and talked the same
godless gossip, hour after hour, until it was
time to take leave. As he shook hands with
Rachel, I caught his hard and cunning eye
resting on her for a moment with a very peculiar
interest and attention. She was plainly
concerned in the object that he had in view. He
said nothing out of the common to her or to any
one, on leaving. He invited himself to luncheon
the next day, and then he went away to his
hotel.

It was impossible, the next morning, to get
my Aunt Ablewhite out of her dressing-gown in
time for church. Her invalid daughter (suffering
from nothing, in my opinion, but incurable
laziness, inherited from her mother) announced
that she meant to remain in bed for the day.
Rachel and I went alone together to church.
A magnificent sermon was preached by my
gifted friend, on the heathen indifference of the
world to the sinfulness of little sins. For
more than an hour his eloquence (assisted by
his glorious voice) thundered through the sacred
edifice. I said to Rachel, when we came out,
"Has it found its way to your heart, dear?"
And she answered, " No; it has only made my
head ache." This might have been discouraging
to some people. But, once embarked on a
career of manifest usefulness, nothing
discourages Me.

We found Aunt Ablewhite and Mr. Bruff at
luncheon. When Rachel declined eating
anything, and gave as a reason for it that she was
suffering from a headache, the lawyer's cunning
instantly saw, and seized, the chance that she
had given him.

"There is only one remedy for a headache,"
said this horrible old man. "A walk, Miss
Rachel, is the thing to cure you. I am entirely
at your service, if you will honour me by accepting
my arm."

"With the greatest pleasure. A walk is the
very thing I was longing for."

"It's past two," I gently suggested. "And
the afternoon service, Rachel, begins at three."

"How can you expect me to go to church
again," she asked petulantly, "with such a
headache as mine?"

Mr. Bruff officiously opened the door for her.
In a minute more, they were both out of the
house. I don't know when I have felt the
solemn duty of interfering so strongly as I felt
it at that moment. But what was to be done?
Nothing was to be done but to interfere, at the
first opportunity, later in the day.

On my return from the afternoon service, I
found that they had just got back. One look
at them told me that the lawyer had said what
he wanted to say. I had never before seen
Rachel so silent and so thoughtful. I had
never before seen Mr. Bruff pay her such
devoted attention, and look at her with such
marked respect. He had (or pretended that he
had) an engagement to dinner that day—and he
took an early leave of us all; intending to go
back to London by the first train the next
morning.

"Are you sure of your own resolution?" he
said to Rachel at the door.

"Quite sure," she answered—and so they
parted.

The moment his back was turned, Rachel
withdrew to her own room. She never
appeared at dinner. Her maid (the person with
the cap-ribbons) was sent down-stairs to announce
that her headache had returned. I ran
up to her, and made all sorts of sisterly offers
through the door. It was locked, and she kept
it locked. Plenty of obstructive material to
work on, here! I felt greatly cheered and
stimulated by her locking the door.

When her cup of tea went up to her the next
morning, I followed it in. I sat by her bedside
and said a few earnest words. She listened
with languid civility. I noticed my serious
friend's precious publications huddled together
on a table in a corner. Had she chanced to
look into them?—I asked. Yes—and they had
not interested her. Would she allow me to
read a few passages, of the deepest interest,
which had probably escaped her eye? No;
not now—she had other things to think of.
She gave these answers, with her attention apparently
absorbed in folding and re-folding the
trilling of her nightgown. It was plainly necessary
to rouse her by some reference to those
worldly interests which she still had at heart.

"Do you know, love," I said, "I had an
odd fancy, yesterday, about Mr. Bruff? I
thought, when I saw you after your walk with
him, that he had been telling you some bad
news."

Her fingers dropped from the frilling of her