which may be, though it is odd if so, that we
never heard about him from any one—if this
should turn out to be the case, why then
nobody hereabout need be the wiser, and we
shall save gossip. Let your inquiries at a
distance be made first, at all events. And I should
like to lay it all before Denbigh to begin
with."

"Really?" exclaimed Mr. Smith, with a
shrewd half-wondering glance at Mr. Carter's
face. "You would like to lay it before—?
Well, we can talk of that to-morrow. Good-by."

"He left the vicar to his own solitary thoughts.
Melancholy thoughts they were, as he sat by
the hearth in the drawing-room, where the
servants had kept up the fire, and where candles
were burning. From time to time one of them
came stealthily in to replenish the fire, and
presently they brought some tea; and then a
ring at the bell announced the nurse who had
been sent for, and finally arrived Mr. Scott, to
whom, for the time being, Mrs. Carter resigned
the management of the sick room. Soon after,
she came into the drawing-room, where her
husband, exclaiming at her white looks, wheeled
an armchair to the fire for her, and hastened
to pour her out a reviving cup of tea.

"How is Mrs. Denbigh?"

"Very, very ill, I am afraid. Her state is so
unnatural, that it terrifies me. Through all
these hours she has not once spoken, has
scarcely moved, and is as cold as a stone. It is
like trying to warm a corpse. O, John, what
is it?  Whatever it is, I believe she has
received her death blow."

"She has had frightful news. It is a long
story."

And then, drawing his seat close to his
wife's, the vicar told her all that Mr. Smith
had told him.

After the first exclamation of astonishment,
she listened quite silently, with none of the
questions and comments with which she was
at times wont to try her husband's patience.
Long after he had ceased to speak, she remained
looking into the fire, until he began again:

"There are three things, to my mind, any
one of which may have happened. He may
have died on the voyage; that we can easily
ascertain. Or, coming home and finding poor
Elsie married, he may—foolishly, poor young
fellow, and wrongly, too—have resolved to keep
out of her way, and never let her know of his
existence."

"Not like Herbert Clavering," said Mrs.
Carter, shaking her head.

"The third conjecture is the worst of all;
but I am afraid it is the most probable. Think
of the tremendous blow of finding her married
again; he may have destroyed himself."

Mrs. Carter shook her head again, but did
not speak. Her husband said impatiently:
"You always have an idea in your head; tell
me, Mary, what you think? I see you have
some belief about this matter."

"No, no; indeed I have not; what grounds
have I to go on? Did you say that this man
was quite sure that the steamboat reached
England?"

"Yes; he saw the date of her arrival
mentioned in a newspaper; he says, it was the 14th
of January, this day, three years.'"

"What? Have you forgotten what happened
on the 15th of January in that year? I
know I am not mistaken. I never forget Elsie's
wedding day, because it is Johnny's birthday
—a year old he was—don't you remember?
Oh! John."

Her husband uttered a sound of sorrowful
surprise, as if much impressed.

"It seems extraordinary," he muttered, "that
the poor fellow should not have rushed straight
home. Could he?——I suppose—I wonder—
whether he could have come into the
neighbourhood—to Slowcombe, perhaps—and
heard——"

The vicar spoke slowly, and his wife watched
his face as he knitted his brows, and passed
his hand over his forehead, groping his way
towards the conclusion at which her quicker
feminine instinct had already arrived. When he
raised his eyes, he met hers fixed upon him, as if
she half hoped, half dreaded, to hear from him
a suggestion that she could not bear to make
herself.

"What are you thinking of, Mary?"

"I am thinking," she answered, with a
lowered, and an agitated voice, "that the
short cut for any one walking from Slowcombe,
passes this very door. I am thinking how
Herbert Clavering first came to Sedgbrook, and
how very fond he was of Mr. Denbigh. And,
oh, John! I can't help thinking of Mr. Denbigh's
face on his wedding morning."

"You are not supposing surely that those
two met? That Denbigh knew of Clavering's
being alive? Preposterous! Why should
Clavering keep out of the way, if he came
before the wedding? And, even if he were so
terribly misguided, how can you suppose
Denbigh to be so utterly vile as to let him? A
man of his proud sensitive nature, upright to a
fault."

He stopped short. For, his wife, with a
smothered exclamation, laid her hand upon his
arm, and he saw the horrible thought that had
just darted into his own miud, reflected in her
frightened eyes.

CHAPTER VI.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they
     grind exceeding small:
Though with patience He stands waiting, with
    exactness grinds He all.

LONGFELLOW.

"How is she?" asked Mrs. Carter of old
Isott the following day.

"She's living yet, but the Lord'll take her
to Hisself, poor lamb, afore long, there can't
be no doubt. Her poor baby be gone before
her."

"The baby born?  Born dead?"