"Alice," he said, ironically, "you are not
practical—you are anything but practical.
You are a poor dependant; a word from me
to my father would make you homeless and
destitute to-morrow."

"It is generous in you to remind me of it,
Carl—generous and kind."

"It is true. With me you would have
position, money, society, if you wished. I
am rich; my father is rich and old—he cannot
live much longer. I would restore to
Robin part of his share which his
prodigality has justly forfeited—"

"Carl, if you were to talk till midnight
you could not change my mind or your own
nature. You are rich. Well, there are
women to be bought; for myself, I would
rather toil and go clad in hodden grey than
be your wife—to be worshipped six months,
and neglected afterwards to the end of my
days."

"You are very hard, Alice."

"For you, Carl, hard as the nether mill-
stone, and not hard only. Be satisfied. If I
were caught by the name of your wealth, I
should come to hate you—I should grow
wicked. Go away, Carl; you and I have
nothing in common—go!"

She was moved at last. Her grey, calm
eyes had a tawny, dangerous spark in them;
her heart was not marble—it was smouldering
fire, rather.

Carl took heart of grace. "She is worth
winning—she may be won: only let me find
out the way," he said to himself. And,
feigning a deep depression, he slowly left her,
and went straight to his father.

The old man was in a sarcastic mood.
"Carl Branston plays Lothario ill," cried he.
"Pluck up a spirit, man, or ask Robin to
give thee a lesson how to woo. Robin has
her ear."

"Do you think Robin loves her, father? I
told her he did not."

"She knows better than thee, Carl, and
laughed at thee for a liar."

"She never laughed."

The young man gnawed his lips, and gave
his father a darkling look. He was wondering
why Alice preferred his brother, whom
he despised and hated, to himself, who
was handsomer, cleverer, richer, and more
respected. People loved Robin, but they
respected Carl, who had a position and
money, and a hard, sensible head. Ike
Branston fathomed his son's thoughts.

"Thou'rt a marvellous proper man, Carl,"
said he, laughing. "What a pity Alice don't
fancy thee, or that thou don't fancy another
woman! When I was thy age I was not so
easily downcast. Thy mother said nay a full
score of times before she said yea."

"Alice is of a different sort. You would
not tell me to try her again, if you had heard
her bid me go ten minutes since."

"I'll not keep her here to vex thee, Carl. Say
the word, and she shall go to Margery
Pilkington to-morrow. She will be glad enough
to come back, even with thee, a month or
two hence."

Carl's face cleared. "Robin would never
find her out there," he said.

"Yes, man, he'd find her in Hades, if he
loves her. But you must be beforehand
with him—assiduous, flattering, mind that.
Take her gifts—bless me! I'll court her for
you, if you don't know how. I should like
to hear her say nay to Ike Branston!"

"Let her alone, father, but send to
Margery Pilkington to come and fetch her.
Robin must not hear of it." And Carl went
out.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

MARGERY PILKINGTON was a woman whose
bones were as brass, and her blood as iced
mud: a slow, stagnant woman, who never
did a kind deed, or thought a good thought,
but who was congealed into a statue of
pharisaical hypocrisy and earthy selfishness.
She was Ike Branston's cousin—Ike Branston's
feminine counterpart divested of his
sleek beauty; he was a very handsome old
man, she was plain to repulsiveness, but
their minds were stamped with the same
die, and their views bounded by the same
limit. Margery Pilkington lived in a square,
obtrusive-looking brick house overlooking
the village green of Beckford, at the further
side of which was a row of ugly cottages, her
property. From her parlour window she
could exercise surveillance over her tenants,
and both them and her servants she ruled
arbitrarily; she ruled Alice Deane
arbitrarily also when she got her—Cousin Ike
had said the girl was wilful and obstinate, and
wanted bringing to reason. Margery undertook
the task with unctuous satisfaction.

Did Alice want to walk by the river-side,
she must sit in-doors, and refresh herself with
darning stockings; did the north-east wind
blow, she must go out for her health; had
she a headache, it was affectation, she must
work at a solid, improving book; was she
deep in some interesting study, she must
relinquish it. Well, indeed, did Mistress
Margery Pilkington understand the art
and science of thwarting everybody in an
aggravating, considerate way, which could
not be complained of, for it wore the guise of
kindness. Alice contradicted her once, but
she scolded and fretted for an hour without
taking breath, and impressed such an awful
picture of her sensitiveness on her victim's
mind that she felt no inclination to transgress
again. Alice saw through her feint, and
despised it, but submitted to captivity with
a tolerable grace.

Carl Branston came down to Beckford in
buoyant humour when his cousin had been
there about ten days—long enough to weary
of Miss Margery Pilkington's purgatorial
discipline. He had made a successful speculation,
and chose to augur therefrom good to