"Women never respect a snob;" and he felt
that there was something over-true in this.
But when he got home again, he heard the
harmonium pealing devotionally through the house.
Then he went up-stairs and entered softly, and
saw through the half light that devotional face,
turned upwards as if praying, while again a
patch of light fell upon the golden hair. It
brought back to him an old evening when she
was playing in the grand St. Alans cathedral,
and might have been a framed St. Cecilia
picture. There were images that never lost
their power with him, and as he thought of this
one, it soothed him like a potion; the sense of
perfect happiness came back on him with an
overflow, and he could almost smile at his doubts.
As he stole down again, not wishing to interrupt
her, he met Martha Malcolm on the
stairs. For her "grimness" and austerity he
always had a sort of indulgence. "Listen
to that, Martha," he said. "There's heavenly
music."

"I hear it, sir," she answered, "and have
heard it. It's good for those as like it. There
are the letters just come for you, on the
table."

"Any one here to-day, for me, Martha?" he
asked, wishing to change the subject.

"Yes," she said, "that foreign man who
comes when ye are at office."

"No one else? Not even the captain?"

This news disturbed him again. But there
was the music still playing and working on him
like a spell. Still, even for the curiosity of the
thing, it was strange that she who told him
everything, even trifles he did not care to know,
should keep this back from him. He gave a
sigh and looked at his letters.

Two for Mrs. Tillotson—one in a bold man's
hand, which he had an instinct was Grainger's;
the other in Ross's writing, which he knew very
well. None for him. He left them there, and
turned into the parlour.

That afternoon, not an hour before her
husband had returned, Mrs. Tillotson was sitting
in her drawing-room, when the grim Martha,
entering with a card, asked "would she see that
gentleman."

Now, she had been just thinking of "that
gentleman" only a few minutes before, and it had
occurred to her how foolish it was to have made
any "arrangement" with such a man, and that
the best course even in such a trifle was to be
open. When she looked on the card and read
"Mr. Grainger," she handed it back with a
little impatience. "What does he mean by
coming in this way?" she thought. "I am not
at home. I cannot see him."

"But I told him ye were at home," said the
other.

"I am sorry you did," Mrs. Tillotson said,
gravely. "Tell him Mr. Tillotson will be in in an
hour. There."

Martha went down. But came up again with
another card, on which was written in pencil,
"Do let me up. I wish to see you particularly.
I must see you." Some colour came into her
cheeks at the tone of this message. It was
lucky, she thought, she had made up her mind
about this free-and-easy intruder, and she sent
down word again that she was engaged, This
was all that had passed, and it was some
pleasure that Mrs. Tillotson thought how she
had thus obviated, what seemed to her, a little
false step. But in the evening her letters were
brought in to her; the first she opened was
Grainger's. "I am sorry," it ran, "you did not
see me to-day, when I called. I suppose some
suspicions were in your mind of the kind that I
hinted to you when I last saw you. I am quite
unselfish in the matter, and merely wished to
speak to you, as I do now, about one in
whom you have some little interest. I have
been away, and on my return find that he
has been leading a strange life, having 'broken
out,' as I am afraid he does occasionally.
I am a friend of his, and it is only to you
I would speak thus of his failings. I was
really shocked this morning, on my return, to
see the change in him. I believe he has no
money left, and seems to me—though he is too
proud to own it—in actual want . He is indeed
in a pitiable state. If you had seen him this
morning, I am sure you would have felt some
compassion for him. To see him there bewailing
himself, 'hunted,' he said, pursued by creditors,
and literally not knowing where to lay his head
or find rest. I have tried to help him a little, but
what I can do is very little—I have little myself.
Besides, what he wants is kindness, soothing and
humouring by those he likes and respects. These
fits of depression are too much for him, and I
know not how to treat them. In one of these
fits he left me, and I was sorry I let him go.
I tried to find him again, but could not, and am
really afraid he may fall into some trouble
from his creditors, or may have done so already.
This was what I wished to speak to you about this
morning, as I believe a word from you—or a
few words—would soothe and tranquillise him.
I know your husband—Mr. Tillotson—could
set him straight, and make him happy in a
moment, and would be delighted to do it; but
his name is like a piece of scarlet to Ross.
Naturally, you think you have reconciled him
perfectly to your husband: I must tell you that
this is a mistake. Here is a page from a letter
of Ross's not a week old, and it speaks for itself:
'I was with the pair to-day, and he played the
virtuous, suffering, and Christian man to
perfection. If you knew what I suffered, Grainger,
during that time, with his infernal air of
patronage, his fat contented superiority. I
could have eaten my heart out. Curses on him,
Grainger; and curses on me, too, if ever I get
over it to him!' This is very shocking, and it
pains me to have to show it to you; but I wish
to show you that I have been quite
disinterested in the matter from the beginning. I
only wished to save my friend and yours from
some fatal burst, which may, besides, bring ruin
into your family. You, however, know best,
and judge best."

This letter overwhelmed her. She saw all the