that is oftener on all our lips than ' What can
have made Mr. So-and-So marry that woman?'—
or 'How could Mrs. So-and-So throw herself
away on that man?' Has all your experience of
the world never yet shown you that girls take
perverse fancies for men who are totally unworthy
of them?"

"Very true," said Mrs. Vanstone, composedly.
"I forgot that. Still it seems unaccountable,
doesn't it?"

"Unaccountable, because it happens every
day!" retorted Miss Garth, good humouredly.
"I know a great many excellent people who
reason against plain experience in the same way
—who read the newspapers in the morning, and
deny in the evening that there is any romance
for writers or painters to work upon in modern
life. Seriously, Mrs. Vanstone, you may take my
word for it—thanks to those wretched theatricals
—Magdalen is going the way with Frank that a
great many young ladies have gone before her.
He is quite unworthy of her; he is, in almost
every respect, her exact opposite — and, without
knowing it herself, she has fallen in love with
him on that very account. She is resolute and
impetuous, clever and domineering; she is not
one of those model women who want a man to
look up to, and to protect them — her beau-ideal
(though she may not think it herself) is a man
she can henpeck. Well! one comfort is, there
are far better men, even of that sort, to be had
than Frank. It's a mercy he is going away,
before we have more trouble with them, and
before any serious mischief is done."

"Poor Frank!" said Mrs. Vanstone, smiling
compassionately. "We have known him since
he was in jackets and Magdalen in short frocks.
Don't let us give him up yet. He may do better,
this second time."

Miss Garth looked up in astonishment.

"And suppose he does better?" she asked.
"What then?"

Mrs. Vanstone cut off a loose thread in her
work, and laughed outright.

"My good friend," she said, " there is an old
farm-yard proverb which warns us not to count
our chickens before they are hatched. Let us
wait a little before we count ours."

It was not easy to silence Miss Garth, when
she was speaking under the influence of a
strong conviction; but this reply closed her lips.
She resumed her work; and looked, and thought,
unutterable things.

Mrs. Vanstone's behaviour was certainly
remarkable under the circumstances. Here, on
one side, was a girl — with great personal
attractions, with rare pecuniary prospects, with a
social position which might have justified the
best gentleman in the neighbourhood in making
her an offer of marriage — perversely casting
herself away on a penniless idle young fellow, who
had failed at his first start in life, and who, even
if he succeeded in his second attempt, must be
for years to come in no position to marry a young
lady of fortune on equal terms. And there, on
the other side, was that girl's mother, by no
means dismayed at the prospect of a connexion
which was, to say the least of it, far from
desirable; by no means certain, judging her by her
own words and looks, that a marriage between
Mr. Vanstone's daughter and Mr. Clare's son
might not prove to be as satisfactory a result of
the intimacy between the two young people, as
the parents on both sides could possibly wish
for! It was perplexing in the extreme. It was
almost as unintelligible as that past mystery—
that forgotten mystery now — of the journey to
London.

In the evening, Frank made his appearance,
and announced that his father had mercilessly
sentenced him to leave Combe-Raven by the
Parliamentary train the next morning. He
mentioned this circumstance with an air of
sentimental resignation; and listened to Mr.
Vanstone's boisterous rejoicings over his new
prospects, with a mild and mute surprise. His
gentle melancholy of look and manner greatly
assisted his personal advantages. In his own
effeminate way, he was more handsome than
ever, that evening. His soft brown eyes
wandered about the room with a melting tenderness;
his hair was beautifully brushed; his delicate
hands hung over the arms of his chair with a
languid grace. He looked like a convalescent
Apollo. Never, on any previous occasion, had he
practised more successfully the social art which
he habitually cultivated—the art of casting
himself on society in the character of a well-bred
Incubus, and conferring an obligation on his
fellow-creatures by allowing them to sit under
him. It was undeniably a dull evening. All the
talking fell to the share of Mr. Vanstone and Miss
Garth. Mrs. Vanstone was habitually silent;
Norah kept herself obstinately in the
background; Magdalen was quiet and undemonstrative
beyond all former precedent. From first to
last, she kept rigidly on her guard. The few
meaning looks that she cast on Frank, flashed at
him like lightning, and were gone before any one
else could see them. Even when she brought him
his tea; and, when in doing so, her self-control
gave way under the temptation which no woman
can resist — the temptation of touching the man
she loves — even then, she held the saucer so
dexterously that it screened her hand. Frank's
self-possession was far less steadily disciplined:
it only lasted as long as he remained passive.
When he rose to go; when he felt the warm
clinging pressure of Magdalen's fingers round his
hand, and the lock of her hair, which she slipped
into it at the same moment, he became awkward
and confused. He might have betrayed
Magdalen and betrayed himself, but for Mr. Vanstone,
who innocently covered his retreat by following
him out, and patting him on the shoulder all
the way. "God bless you, Frank!" cried the
friendly voice that never had a harsh note in