She watched the clock incessantly, hoping
he might intend to surprise her by arriving
earlier than he had promised to come; and,
knowing every turn of the road, she traced
him accurately through each stride of it, to
his meeting-place with his groom, and thence
to her own door, and into her own arms.
Then, Fancy being at fault with Reality,
she tried back and went over the ground
again; but, when imagination brought him
again to the door, and Reality denied
his presence, it was not with the full
bitterness of disappointment; for, although
every faculty of her mind, every fibre of
her frame, strained itself towards the one
absorbing expectation, desire for his arrival
was not unmixed with a wayward dread
of its realisation. The ecstasy of the meeting
would be insupportable; and, whenever
it seemed to be imminent, she felt herself too
weak to bear it. Every successive disappointment
when she heard, or fancied she heard,
a horse approaching, and when the sounds
died away, was, therefore, tempered with a
sensation of relief.

The acuteness of Eusta's suffering would
have been much lessened had there been any
one to confide in; any one to speak to. But
she was isolated: even those who had come
near her seemed to have entered into a
league to preserve an ominous reserve, or to
torture her with innuendoes.

To banish such recollections, she gave up
her imagination once more to picturing the
coming meeting. She went on acting over
again the minutest incident. She imagined
George Dornley gaining the top of the hill;
she heard him cantering down towards
her, on the brave old grey. She was at the
door to receive him; she was in his strong
embrace; she felt, upon her cheek, the breath
of his deep noble voice softened to murmurs
of passionate tenderness and love. . . . Her
head swam—she was fainting.

Dr. Bole, knowing better than any one
how very critical her condition was at this
time, would, had he been present, have
reckoned the noiseless entrance of Mrs.
Calder Dornley into the room (which
happened at that moment) a very fortunate
intrusion. That lady, having been set down
from the carriage by her husband at the
church, had walked across the churchyard,
had entered the cottage, and deposited
her wet bonnet and cloak in the passage,
unheard and unobserved. She appeared—
her countenance as frigid and dry, and her
short thick curls as crisp, as if she had
stepped out of the frost—exactly in time
to change the current of Eusta's blood and
to preserve her from fainting. Eusta
experienced so complete a reaction, on seeing
Mrs. Calder Dornley, that she soon
recovered sufficient composure to speak. It
was her nature to be timid; but now, hope
so near realisation, gave her courage and
strength, beset and helpless as she was. She |
ventured to say that her visitor's presence
was, at that time, very undesirable.

Mrs. Calder Dornley established herself
on the hardest and straightest chair, and
deliberately produced from her pocket some
muslin-work with a stiff geometrical pattern
—a proceeding which denoted that the stay
would not be short. "This is a visit of duty,"
she said, "and I have arranged with my
husband to remain here until he fetches me on
his return in the carriage from Matlock.
However disagreeable to you and to me,
Miss Levine, I must perform the duty which
is imposed upon me."

"By whom?" Eusta innocently asked.

"By my husband and my own conscience,"
was the answer. "There is no time to be
lost; for we half expect my brother-in-law
to arrive to-day, this being his birthday;
when he arranged to come home, and——"

"Half expect?" Eusta interrupted, dreading
that news implying delay had transpired.
"Are you not sure he will come?"

Mrs. Calder Dornley was always so
indisputably right in her statements and surmises
that she never noticed interruptions. "And,"
she went on, with the same breath she had
began with, "as my husband thinks it
imperative that I should ascertain certain facts
from you, which are important to our family
to be known, I am here to ascertain them."
She then pointed out, in the clearest and most
convincing manner, the county, the national
importance of the Crookston property and
the Crookston lineage; contrasting it with the
meanness of Miss Levine's own origin; for,
although her late mother was the daughter
of a bishop, that bishop's father had been a
brewer, and Miss Levine's paternal grand-
father was a very small farmer. Any thought
of an alliance between two such families,
therefore, would excite a fever of indignation
from one end of the county to the other;
putting any additionally discreditable
circumstances out of the question.

It was Mrs. Dornley's habit not to look
people in the face while speaking to them;
least of all, persons she disliked. She did not,
therefore, notice that Eusta—tortured by the
doubts dropped into her mind one minute,
and the next persuading herself that George
was galloping towards her only a few miles off
—paid no attention to what was said. Restless
and impatient, she could not remain
upon the sofa, and moved about the room,
distraught, but silent.

The persecutor bore this silence very
stoically. Never ceasing to draw out her
needle and thread with vicious regularity—
never once looking up; patiently waiting
until Eusta returned to the sofa.

And when Eusta seated herself, Mrs.
Calder said in hard cold accents, "I really
must obtain some satisfactory explanation
for my husband. It is now nine o'clock,
and he agreed to be here at a quarter past
nine. Before he comes, and before his