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 with Maud as the sole bridesmaid, and Joyce as best man, and Lady Caroline, and, oddly enough, Lord Hetherington, who had just come up to town from Westhope, and, calling at his sister's, had learned what was going to take place, and "thought he should like to see it, don't you know. Had never been at any wedding except his own, and didn't recollect much about that, except that—curious thing, never should forget it—when he went into the vestry to sign his name, or something of that kind, saw surplice hanging up behind the door, thought it was ghost, or something of that kind, give you his word!" So the little earl arrived the next morning at eleven at the church, and took his place in a pew near the altar, and propped his ear up with his hand to listen to the marriage service, at which he seemed to be much affected. When the ceremony was over, he joined the party in the vestry, insisted on bestowing a formal salute upon the bride, Lady Hetherington, he knew, was safely moored at Westhope, and, as some recompense for the infliction, he clasped on Gertrude's arm a very handsome bracelet, as his bridal gift.

Such a marriage promised to prove a happy one. In its early days, of course, everything was rose-coloured, those days when Maud went down to stay with George and Gertrude at the school, and when, a little later, Walter Joyce ran down for the Easter holidays to his old quarters. He was glad of the chance of seeing them once again, he said, and determined to avail himself of it; and then George Benthall looked in his face and smiled knowingly. Walter returned the grin, and added, "For it's a chance that may not happen to me again!" And when his friend looked rather blank at this, and asked him what he meant, Joyce laughed again, and finally told him that Lord Hetherington had just had a piece of patronage fall to his share, the rectory of Newmanton-by-Perringden, a lovely place in the Isle of Wight, where the stipend was not sufficiently large to allow a man with a large family to live on it, but the exact place for a parson with a little money of his own. And Lord Hetherington had inquired of Joyce whether his friend, that remarkably pleasant fellow—bless my soul, forget my own name next! him wo saw married, don't you know?—whether he was not exactly the sort of fellow for this place, and would he like it? Walter thought that he was and he would; and Lord Hetherington, knowing Joyce was going down to see his friend, bid him inquire, and if all were straight, assure Mr. Benthall that the living was his. And this was how Walter Joyce executed his commission, and this was how George Benthall heard this most acceptable news.

"By the way, what made you grin, Benthall, when I said I had come down here for my holidav to look at my old quarters?" asked Walter.

"Because I thought there might be yet another reason, which you had not stated! Anxiety to see some one here!"

"Anxiety is the wrong word. Strong wish to see you and your wife again, and"

"My wife and I are out of the affair! Come, confess!"

"I give you my honour, I don't know what you mean!"

"Likely enough; but I'm older than you, and, parson though I am, I declare I think I've seen more of the world! Shall I tell you what brought you down here? I shall!—then I will!—to see Maud Creswell."

"Maud Creswell! What on earth should I—what—why—I mean—what, is Miss Creswell to me?"

"Simply the woman who thinks more about you than any other creature on earth. Simply the girl who is raving—head over ears in love with you. Don't pretend you don't know it. Natural instinct is too strong to allow any doubt upon that point."

"I swear you surprise me beyond behef! I swear that Do you mean this, Benthall?"

"As a gentleman and a Christian, I've told you what I believe; and as a man of the world I tell you what I think; whether wittingly or unwittingly, you are very far gone in returning the young lady's sentiments!"

"I—that is—there's no doubt she is a girl of very superior mind, and—by Jove, Benthall, you've given a most singular twist to my holiday!"

one Eastern city, in which I lived for some time, the Turks told me that at the creation of the world Allah provided three sacksful or bags of lies, and that he appropriated two of the three to that particular place, and one to all the rest of the world. I had strong reason to believe this legend.

What the Mussulmen want in inventive power, they make up for in capacity of belief. Numerous as are the cities on the surface, more numerous still (according to them) are the