face brightened as he drew near. He took Mrs.
Tillotson's little hand, as he said, "Miss
Millwood, this is my wife." The young Mrs. Tillotson
was still looking at her with restless eager
eyes, almost dazzled by the sight. She only
answered in some strange confused words, for
her heart was beating with anxiety and anger.

Ada received her with a smile, and the very
light of interest and welcome in her soft tranquil
eyes. "I don't know what to say," she said;
"but indeed I feel for you. We have been
accustomed so to think of our side, and wish for his
victory."

The little lady tried hard to answer coldly
and with dignity that "she was very good and
kind."

"But," Ada went on to Mr. Tillotson, "I have
thought of something. Ross is ordered away to
Gibraltar—is going in the morning—and, somehow,
is in a softer vein. Leave it to me. He has
his good points, and can be generous when he
chooses. It is very miserable to go on this way,
and for her sake."

This she spoke in a sort of semi-confidence to
him. The light of the old St. Alans days and
nights came into his face. He forgot the
succession of events, the revolution almost, that lay
between, and said, gazing into that gentle face,
"Always kind and thoughtful."

Mrs. Tillotson felt herself a poor insignificant
cipher here. At that moment the gentleman she
had seen at Bangor came up hastily. He was in
great good humour. "Well, Tillotson, I saw
you in the court. I have beaten you again this
time, and I can sail to-morrow with comfort."

Deep reproach and anger was in the eyes of
the fair-haired girl. "This is Mrs. Tillotson,"
she said. "Don't you see?"

He coloured a little. "Well, perhaps I do.
O, I beg your pardon," he added, awkwardly.
"I did not see you. Well, you can't expect me
to say I am sorry, and that sort of thing.
Confound hypocrisy! But still, I wish it was some
one else that was 'appellant,' as they call it."

Ada smiled. "Ah! that is better!" she said.
"We must go now. They are waiting for us.
Good-bye!" she added, almost fondly, to Mrs.
Tillotson. "I am so glad to have seen you; and
don't be cast down. Something may come about
to put all right again, and for all parties. I shall
let you know," she said, "Mr. Tillotson."

They separated. Mr. Tillotson, as they went
home, found himself unconsciously dreaming
away back to St. Alans, to the shadow of the old
cathedral, even to that Sunday when the music
was playing, and he had heard Fugle sing and
the dean preach.

CHAPTER V. THE VISION OF AN ANGEL.

MRS. TILLOTSON, with a sort of fury tearing
at her little heart, looked at him now and again
with a strange inquiry. But she spoke scarcely
at all, and then only very shortly. When they
got home, with an effort he had finally put away
far from him the luxury of that dreaming, and
had frozen back to the cold material of business.

She had flown to her room. There the grim
Martha came to her, with something evidently
on her austere mind. "You were asking me,"
she said, "about those Tilneys the other day. I
think what I said was not received with
pleasure—certainly not believed. Well, I have now
found means to make out the whole truth."

"And so have I, so have I, Martha," said the
unhappy little lady, almost sobbing. "I see
it all now, and the meaning of their solemn
denials. Even nunkey to deceive me! But he
kept to the letter of the truth."

"And didn't I warn you?" said Martha; "do
me that justice. I knew what men of that sort,
gloomy and mysterious, must come to. A pity
young creatures will not be said and led."

"Yes, yes, Martha," she said. " And O, she
is so lovely, Martha, no man born could resist her.
I am like a low common creature near her."

Mr. Tillotson, for the rest of this day, got
absorbed with the business world. By night,
the glowing colours of that old picture had
grown cold, and faded out. Duty had shut up the
camera, and thrown wide open the shutters.
The dinner went by in the old routine. He fell
into his weary toleration, for he saw there was
a grievance, and, after the dinner, went back to
the study and to the business.

As he sat there, towards nine o'clock he heard
a cab drive up, and presently a servant came to
tell him a lady wished to see him. An instinct
told him who this was. Other ears, too, heard
the unusual stoppage of the wheels at the door,
had heard the subdued voices in the hall, and
the shutting of the study door.

Presently Mr. Tillotson was in the drawing-
room where his wife was sitting, the small lips
compressed together, and her cheeks flushed.
He entered hastily.

"She is an angel!" he said, eagerly; "she has
done what she said. Come down to her and
thank her."

"Who?" said she, with a trembling voice.
"Who am I to thank?"

"Ada Millwood," he answered; "come. She
is sitting in the study. She has been at that
Ross the whole day, pleading your cause. She
has prevailed, as such an angel's temper must
prevail always, and he has agreed, even now on
the eve of his departure, to enter into some sort
of compromise. He has some generous instincts
after all."

She looked at him with the same restless and
eager eyes. She knew that she could not find
the proper words, and that she could not trust
herself to speak. Suddenly she got up. "Let
us go down to her," she said, "and thank her at
least."

They went down. Ada ran to her, and
repeated her good news. "There," said Mr.
Tillotson, with glistening eyes, "see what good
friends God has given us. To-day everything
was against us, and this kind angel has changed
the face of all things. All is well now."

"Hush!" said Ada, softly. "You make too
much of it. You know what I owe to you!
Indeed, I would do more if I could."

"I dare say," said the young wife, with forced