interest in you, you have succeeded in turning
against you. She has seen your character too."
"How dare you!" said the other, with a
trembling voice. "Now listen to me. For all
your air of triumph, you have not tricked me as
yet, even with your money and banker's work.
No, nor shall not. Now take this warning, I
advise you!"

Mr. Tillotson tossed his head impatiently, and
turned away.

"I may have to leave this place—this cursed
place—and I am glad of it. They may be too
much for me—for the moment only. But I shall
get the better, of them in a month or two. I am
not to be beaten by the world or by money,
or by wild schemers even. Now take this warning.
Go away, too, or by Heaven if I hear a
whisper of any tricks like what you have been
at these few weeks, I'll come back from any quarter
of the world and give you a lesson. There!
you'll think this all disappointed love, and that
sort of thing. But it's my pride, I can tell you.
You a rival indeed! You shake your cheque-
book in a foolish country girl's eyes, and of course
——Think of your age and looks, my friend!
Look at the matter calmly in your bank parlour."

"This sort of speech has no effect on me," the
other replied, calmly. "Only a madman would
talk as you do. But I shall tell you this openly
and fairly, as an answer to your 'warnings.'
What I have seen of you to-night, and before
to-night, would lay an obligation on me to try and
save a poor sweet gentle amiable girl from what
would be sheer misery and destruction. My
answer to your warning, therefore, is another
warning. And how little I fear your threats you
will find out from my behaviour, or from
whoever you leave behind you to watch it."

He walked away calmly, leaving the other
speechless with fury. The lady in the old
moss-covered window, just putting out her
light, thought that the two jocular canons had
said good night in the most friendly way, and
had gone home to their canons' roosts.

Thus did the days wear on at St. Alans, until
it came to the day or so before the assizes began.
Mr. Tillotson found a strange calm and quietness
in the place, and also a fascination, the
charm of which he could not bring himself to
break. He even fell into Mr. Tilney's raptures,
and began to look on "the grand old cathedral"
itself with a dreamy interest. The picture of
that evening, when she was playing the solemn
old organ, was in itself a sweet dream. He put
off his departure from day to day, and even
welcomed Mr. Tilney's eager importunities. That
old man of fashion, for all his platitudes, really
liked him. He told him all his heavy troubles
and anxieties in the most cheerful and enjoyable
way. It was only when he spoke of trifles that
he grew desponding.

"How about the bank, Tillotson?" asked Mr.
Tilney, one morning.

"I have nearly all the business settled," said
Mr. Tillotson. "In fact, I must be going in a
day or two."

"Ah, of course you must," said Mr. Tilney,
despondiugly. "This is not the place for you—
for any of us. Gentlemen don't do in country
towns. The air stifles me, you understand. I
wish to goodness, Tillotson, I was out of this
hole."

Mr. Tillotson did not press his companion
with the inconsistency of this statement with
other declarations; but said it seemed to him to
be a calm, retired place, where one could be
very happy. "I would change with you with
all my heart. One could grow fond of this quiet
common and of the old cathedral opposite."

"Ah," continued Mr. Tilney, moodily, "it is
very fine—very well—in its way, you know, for
the men who draw the good salaries to wear
lawn and keep up the thing. They're all common
creatures, you see: know no more of the world
than the big brass eagle in the choir. But for a
man like me, who has been in the clubs, sir, and
seen a better class of thing altogether, it don't
come natural. H.R.H. the late Dook said to me
once or twice, in his short way, 'Put you in the
country, Tilney! Put you in strait-waistcoat!'"

As they drew near to the house, he noticed
Mr. Tilney looking out nervously, and shading
his eyes anxiously. "Do you see, Tillotson?" he
asked. "My eyes are not so good. But is that
Still or Canby—-eh, now?"

"No, no," said Mr. Tillotson, looking; "seems
more a sort of tradesman."

A little twitch passed over Mr. Tilney. "Ah,
very good," he said. "A small account, you
know. I declare, of all the hole-and-corner
dunning places, these wretched towns are the
worst! They are none of 'em gentlemen—-no
mutual trust—-no confidence; but owe these
mean, pitiful, abo—-abo—-what's the word—-
rigines, fourpence-halfpenny, and they send two
dozen times for it. On my immortal soul they do,
Tillotson. I'm getting sick of it."

This was a strange burst from him, and in
the mean time he had mechanically turned
round, and said, with a cautious air, "There is
a view, Tillotson, of that old place yonder, at
the back there, which you can't find the match
of from this to the Alhambra, Noble, noble, sir.
Just come with me. Softly, softly, sir." And,
taking his friend's arm, he began to walk back
almost on tiptoe, as if for the proper effect it
was necessary—-the old fane nodding, as it were,
and not to be awakened.

In a moment, however, Mr. Tilney's quick ear
heard heavy steps, and he turned back sharply.
"Another time, Tillotson," he said; "far better
another time. Don't ask me now;" as if the old
fane had wakened up and caught them in the act.
"Excuse me, Tillotson," he went on; "only
a moment —- I quite forgot our friend."

"Our friend" was unmistakably pursuing
them, and running too. Mr. Tilney almost ran
to meet him with his arm and stick up, adroitly
made him turn back, and, looking round
occasionally, showed a joyous and jocund face, as if
he were discoursing on some amusing topic.
But Mr. Tillotson knew well all that was underneath,
even if he had not noticed the surly, blunt,