the childish romance that they had taught her
at the Institution, that she must sink or swim
with him, and be prepared to cast in her lot
with that kind of existence which had become
his second nature, and out of which he could
never hope to move. Even if he could move
from it, he added, he did not think that he
would wish to do so, and there must be an end
to the matter.

There was an end to the matter. From that
time forth, Harriet Routh buried her past, buried
her former self, and devoted herself, soul and
body, to her husband. Her influence over him
strengthened with each year that they lived
together, and was traceable in many little ways.
The fact once faced, that their precarious livelihood
was to be earned by the exercise of sharpness
superior to that enjoyed by those with
whom they were brought into contact, Harriet
laid herself out at once for the fulfilment of her
new duties, and in a very short time compelled
her husband's surprised laudation of the ease
and coolness with which she discharged them.
There were no other women in that strange
society; but if there had been, Harriet would
have queened it over them, not merely by her
beauty, but by her bright spirit, her quick
appreciation, her thorough readiness to enter
exactly into the fancy of the moment. The men
who lost their money to Routh and his
companion, treated her not merely with a punctilio
which forbade the smallest verbal excess, but
treated their losses with comparative good
humour so long as Mrs. Routh was present.
The men who looked up to Routh as the arch
concocter of and prime mover in all their
dark deeds, had a blind faith in her, and their
first question, on the suggestion of any scheme,
would be "what Mrs. Routh thought of it."
Ah, the change, the change! The favourite
pupil of the Institution, who used to take such
close notes of the sermon on Sunday mornings,
and illustrate the chaplain's meaning with such
apposite texts from other portions of Scripture,
as quite to astonish the chaplain himself, which
perhaps was not to be wondered at, as the chaplain
(a bibulous old gentleman, who had been
appointed on the strength of his social qualities
by the committee, who valued him as "a parson,
you know, without any nonsense about him")
was in the habit of purchasing his discourses
ready made, and only just ran them through on
Saturday nights. The show pupil of the
Institution, who did all kinds of arithmetical problems
"in her head," by which the worthy instructors
meant without the aid of paper and pencil—the
staid and decorous pupil of the Institution,
who, when after her last examination she was
quitting the table loaded with prizes—books—
was called back by the bishop of the diocese,
who with feeble hands pinned a silver medal on
to her dress, and said, in a trembling voice,
"I had nearly forgotten the best of all. This is
in testimony of your excellent conduct, my dear."
What was become of this model miss? She was
utilising her talents in a different way. That
was all. The memory which had enabled her to
summarise and annotate the chaplain's sermons
now served as her husband's note-book, and was
stored with all kinds of odd information, "good
things" to "come off," trials of horses, names
and fortunes of heirs who had just succeeded to
their estates, lists of their most pressing debts,
names of the men who were supposed to be
doubtful in money matters, and with whom
it was thought inexpedient to bet or play—all
these matters dwelt in Harriet Routh's brain,
and her husband had only to turn his head
and ask, "What is it, Harry?" to have the
information at once. The arithmetical quickness
stood her in good stead, in the calculation
of odds on all kinds of sporting events, on the
clear knowledge of which the success of most of
Routh's business depended; and as for the good
conduct—well, the worthy bishop would have
held up his hands in pious horror at the life led
by the favourite pupil of the Institution, and at
her surroundings; but against Mrs. Routh, as
Mrs. Routh, as the devoted, affectionate,
self-denying, spotless wife, the veriest ribald in all
that loose crew had never ventured to breathe
a doubt.

Devoted and affectionate! See her now as
she comes quietly into the room—a small
compact partridge of a woman with deep blue eyes
in a very pale face, with smooth shining light
brown hair falling on either side in two long
curls, and gathered into a clump at the back
of her head, with an impertinent nose only
just redeemed from being a snub, with a
small mouth, and a very provoking pattable chin.
See how she steals behind her husband, her
dark linsey dress draping her closely and easily,
and not making the slightest rustle; her round
arm showing its symmetry in her tight sleeve
twining round his neck; her plump shapely
hand resting on his head; her pale cheek laid
against his face. Devoted and affectionate!
No simulation here.

"Anything gone wrong, Stewart?" she asked,
in a very sweet voice.

"No, dear. Why?" said Routh, who was now
sitting at a table strewn with papers, a pen in
his right hand, and his left supporting his handsome
worn face.

"You looked gloomy, I thought; but, if you
say so, it's all right," returned his wife, cheerfully,
leaving his side as she spoke, and
proceeding to sweep up the hearth, put on fresh
coals, and make the whole room look comfortable,
with a few rapid indefinable touches. Then
she sat down in a low chair by the fire, perfectly
still, and turned her calm pale face to her
husband with a business-like air. He made some
idle scratches with his pen in silence, then threw
it down, and, suddenly pushing away his chair,
began to walk up and down the room with long
light strides.

"What do you make of Deane, Harriet?"
he said, at length, stopping for a moment opposite
his wife, and looking closely at her.

"How do you mean? In character or in
probabilities? As regards himself, or as
regards us?"