popular with the village youth than would have
been at all agreeable to the inhabitants of
Abbot's Portion.

As Mr. Denbigh let himself in, he was met
by a comely-looking elderly servant with
a candle in her hand: a broad-faced, rough,
kindly West-country woman, once his nurse,
whom he had summoned two years before, on
his uncle's death, to act as housekeeper for
him, while her husband accompanied her as
groom, gardener, and factotum.

"What, Isott, not gone yet?" said her
master, in the quick short manner which was
habitual to him. "I thought I told you never
to wait for me."

"I be just agoin', sir; my master, he've bin
to bed most two hours agone," was the answer,
in a brisk good-tempered voice and a broad
Slowshire dialect.

"Has he? Then I advise you to follow
your master's example as quickly as you can."

She lingered a minute, looking wistfully at
his face. Then, as she caught his eye, broke
into a broad smile.

"Bain't I to know nothing, sir?" she said;
"there were a body here to-night as says the
volks be talking."

"Well, the folks are right for once. I am
going to be married, Isott."

Isott's sly smile became more sly still, and
demurely she replied,

"I could 'a tell'd ye that six months agone."

"It is only just settled," Philip said, impressively.
"What is the matter now?" as the
old woman stood fidgeting with the corner of
her apron.

"Now I be to turn out, I war'nt," she said,
in a grumbling tone.

"No, indeed, Isott, Mrs. Clavering is most
anxious to keep you on. But we will discuss
all that, another time. Be off now, and let me
lock the door after you."

The old servant lingered, as if anxious for a
little chat, but she knew of old that "master
'ood be minded," so she obeyed.

He held open the front door, and let the rays
of his candle fall on the dark wet lane, until
the click, click, of her pattens ceased, and he
knew that she had reached the cottage where
she and her husband lived, and which was only
on the opposite side of the narrow road. Then
he shut the door, and, taking the light, went
into the larger of the two back sitting-rooms,
and looked carefully around. The furniture was
solid and ugly, the paper and carpet were worn
to a general dull brownness of hue; but the
windows opened on the garden, and the mantel-
shelf was of dark old oak, quaintly carved.
Altogether, the room had capabilities. He
looked round it with a feeling of restless feverish
happiness. Often and often, and for very
long—too long!—had he planned how it
could be fitted up, so as to be worthy of Elsie.
To see her there, had been the one vision of his
life; for that faint uncertain hope he had lived,
and saved, and denied himself everything;
every sixpence that he could spare had been
laid aside for the decoration of this shrine, long
before the day when he knew that his goddess
was free to receive his homage.

Seldom, very seldom, does such idol-worship
take possession of a man's nature. Still more
rarely, is it followed by a blessing!

CHAPTER II.

"II y a une page effrayante dans le livre des
destinées humaines. On y lit en tête ces mots: 'les
désirs accomplis.'"
MADAME DE BONNEVAL.

So the hours came and the hours went, and
brought the eve of Philip and Elsie's wedding-
day. It was to be a quiet wedding, as all felt
that any rejoicings would be out of place after
so brief and sad a widowhood. Mrs. Clavering
herself, though thankful and content at heart,
would have shrunk from anything like bridal
display.

The few weeks which intervened between
the announcement of his engagement and his
marriage, had been spent by Philip Denbigh in
busy preparations for welcoming home his
bride. All was completed now; the house was
brightened up to receive its new mistress; the
two maids who were to assist old Isott, were
engaged to come at the end of the week's holiday,
which was all that so busy a man could
spare for his honeymoon; nothing remained for
him to do, but to pay a last visit to all his
patients, and to complete the final arrangement
with Mr. Scott, the Slowcombe surgeon, who
was to attend them during his short absence.
It was well, perhaps, that all these things kept
him so hard at work from the late winter's dawn
until the early twilight, that he had scarcely
time to think; for he was haunted on this last
day of his unmarried life by the feeling he had
described to Elsie: an unreasonable doubt and
dread lest the happiness so close before him never
could be his.

He had told Elsie that he would be too busy
to see her, that day; but splashing home late
in the evening from a visit to a patient, and
seeing a light still in her drawing-room, the
temptation was strong upon him to go in and wish
her good night, especially as he felt a jealous
fear lest, on this last evening of her widowhood,
the old love and the old memory might be rising
up to trouble her peace. The maid admitted
him, and hastily passing her, he opened the door
of the little parlour. Mrs. Clavering was sitting
in her usual low chair by the nearly dying fire,
but crouching forward, her face buried in her
hands, evidently weeping, though silently.
Philip's heart grew cold, and his face white and
set, at this sight; he had nearly turned to go
without betraying his presence, but at the
moment Elsie looked up, saw him, and, with a
little cry of relief, hurried across the room to
him: resting against him as he took her in his
arms, like a little frightened child that had
found its protector.

"Oh, I am so glad you are come!" she
whispered, with a fresh burst of tears.

"I began to think I had better not have