said it led to an undue appreciation of
ourselves, and was fatal to Christian humility,
she disliked him, in spite of his reverend locks
and paternal smile. She said he preached at
her in the pulpit; that she could not help
being cleverer than other people, and that his
own daughters—a set of unideal prosaic
dowdies—were just as vain as if they could
write. She said, "the world is turning away
from me, beloved! I shall be left desolate."
" No! " I said, " Marianne! I will never leave
you." "I want a congenial spirit," she said;
" my soul sighs for sympathy." "My dear,"
I said, "we live too lonely here. I must
invite a friend occasionally—perhaps Uncle
John would not mind coming for a week."

I never thought Marianne could look so
savage. She said nothing, but I felt as
if I had had a violent blow between the
eyes. I expected to find the mark of it
next day. I did not mention Uncle John any
more.

But the hint had been taken. We took a
paper once a week. It contained all the news
of fashion, and had a page devoted to charades
in rhyme. She saw an advertisement in it.
It was headed, " No Salary Required "—just
the thing for us. " A lady of rank and
accomplishment desires a happy home. A
sympathetic heart required—and nothing more."
Arrangements were speedily made. I went
over to the station in a car, and brought back
Mrs. Delormo, a fat lady of fifty, with very
little luggage—in fact, none but a small basket
in her hand—and the most prepossessing
manners I ever saw. We were all united at
once: three happier people did not exist in
the world. I wrote to Uncle John that we
had secured the society of a highly-cultivated
companion.  He wrote back that people now-
a-days seemed to get foolisher instead of
wiser as they grow older, and he had not
expected even me to be such an egregious
ass.  He enclosed, however, a cheque for
twenty-five pounds to buy a gig, and I left
him to the enjoyment of his ill-nature.

Marianne was enraptured.  "The tear of
genuine sensibility," she said, "trembled
in the eyes of Mrs. Delormo when she
read her some of her poems."  Mrs.
Delormo's voice was delightful, and her
experiences of life had been so sad that I
wondered she had any grief to bestow on
fictitious sorrow.  A dreadful life to be sure.
Separated from the husband that she adored,
who had volunteered into the service of some
struggling people (somewhere in America)
who were casting off the yoke of ages, she
said, and spurning the despot's throne,—how
had she struggled through years of poverty
and neglect!  Her father had died
impoverished by legal expenses in trying to
recover the forfeited title and estates of his
noble ancestor, who had bled on the scaffold
for his injured sovereign—and whose castles
and even whose honours were held by an
intruder into the possessions of the earldom.
Marianne wept for hours, and in about a
week we resolved, in deference to the rank
and sufferings of our guest, to resign the
best bed-room in her favour. She took it—
for she said the generous soul finds its true
reward in sacrifice of itself. Her trunks had
not come, Marianne's wardrobe was hers,
and I loved Marianne more and more:
she was so mindful of other's comforts, so
neglectful of her own—and also of mine. We
slept in the garret, for we had only furnished
one bed-room; and Mrs. Delormo's
correspondence was so great, and her love of privacy
during the forenoon so strong, that we gave
up the drawing-room to her as a sort of
library, and she soon looked on it as her
sanctum. The letters she wrote, I suppose,
were beautiful. Those she received were
touching in the extreme. The nobility of
England is not rich; the dignitaries of the
Church are not overpaid. The number of
Duke's grandchildren who confided the tale
of their necessities to Mrs. Delormo was
enormous. Marianne, dear liberal little soul,
pinched our domestic economy to a frightful
extent, and sent all the money she could
collect. Deans seem to me to be in the habit
of giving away all their income in charity,
and leaving their families unprovided for.
We sent our humble aid to the daughters of
thirteen deans in one month. The widow of a
general officer offered to come as cook—shame
on the parsimony of a paltry government, as
Mrs. Delormo said, that leaves its brave
defenders exposed to the sting of want! They
were most of them her cousins, or persons
whom she had known in happier hours. "I
am but the almoner of your bounty," she
said to Marianne, "and my poor cousin finds
a warmer response from your sympathetic
heart than from her uncle the bishop, or her
grand-aunt the Irish marchioness."

A letter came one day. Joy beamed in
Mrs. Delormo's eyes as she asked us to come
into her room, and threw herself on
Marianne's neck in a burst of gratitude. " He is
returned," she exclaimed. " The General is
restored to me, covered with glory—but
poorer than when he went. But oh! what is
wealth, my darling Marianne! " She had
never called her Marianne before; and my
little wife was proud of the familiar expression.
" What is wealth," repeated Mrs.
Delormo, "compared to honour! He is on his
way hither: we must meet him at the station.
In two hours he will be here to thank you
for your care of his unprotected wife. I envy
you the feelings of this moment, when your
kindness to me will be so nobly repaid."

Marianne sobbed out her congratulations,
and I got ready the gig. A tall and noble
figure was standing on the platform when I
arrived. By a sort of intuition he knew me
at once, lifted up a small portmanteau, and
hurried towards the gig. Just when he had
said, " My benefactor, my friend! " the
porter touched him on the shoulder and said,