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 when the mention of that name would have sent the blood flowing to his cheek, and his heart thumping audibly, and now here he was staying in the old house where all the love scenes had taken place, walking round the garden where all the soft words had been spoken, all the vows made which she had thrown to the winds, when the last parting, with what he then, and for so long afterwards, though its never-to-be-forgotten agony had occurred, and he had not felt one single extra palpitation. Mrs. Creswell was staying away from Woolgreaves just then, at some inland watering-place; for the benefit of her health, which it was said had suffered somewhat from her constant attendance on her husband, or Joyce might have met her. Such a meeting would not have caused him an emotion. When he had encountered her in the lane, during the canvassing time, there was yet lingering within his breast a remembrance of the great wrong she had done him, and that was fanned into additional fury by the nature of her request and the insolence with which she made it. But all those feelings had died out now, and were he then, he thought, to come across Marian Creswell's path, she would be to him as the merest stranger, and no more.

If he were to marry, he knew of no one more likely to suit him in all ways than Maud. Pretty to look at, clever to talk to, sufficiently accustomed to him and his ways of life, she would make him a far better wife than nine-tenths of the young ladies he was accustomed to meet in such little society as he could spare the time to cultivate. Why should he marry at all? He answered the question almost as soon as he asked it. His life wanted brightening, wanted refining, was at present too narrow and confined; all his hopes, thoughts, and aspirations were centred on himself. He was all wrong. There should be some one who—the chambers were confoundedly dreary too, when he came home to them from the office or the House; he should travel when the House rose, somewhere abroad, he thought, and it would be dull work moving about by himself, and

What pretty, earnest eyes Maud had, and shining hair, and delicate "bred" looking hands! She certainly was wonderfully nice, and if, as Benthall avowed, she really cared for him, he—who was this coming to break in on his pleasant day-dream? Oh, Gertrude.

"I was wondering where you were, Mr. Joyce! You said you wanted your holiday, and you seem to be passing it in slumber!"

"Nothing so commonplace, Mrs. Benthall"

"One moment, why do you call me Mrs. Benthall? What has made you so formal and ridiculous all of a sudden? You used to call me Gertrude, in London?"

"Yes, but then you were an unmarried girl, now you are a wedded woman, and there's a certain amount of respect due to matronhood."

"What nonsense! Do call me Gertrude again, please, Mrs. Benthall sounds so horrid! I should like the boarders here in the house to call me Gertrude, only George says it wouldn't be proper! And so you weren't asleep?"

"Not the least bit! Although I'm ready to allow I was dreaming."

"Dreaming! what about?"

"About the old days which I spent in this place—and their association!"

"Oh yes, I know—I mean to say"

"No, no, Gertrude, say what you had on your lips then! No prevarication and no hesitation; what was it?"

"No, really, nothing—it is only"

"I insist!"

"Well, what I mean to say is, of course people will talk in a village, you know, and we've heard about your engagement, you know, and how it was broken off, and how badly you were treated, and Oh, how silly I was to say a word about it! I'm sure George would be horribly cross if he knew!"

"And did you imagine I was grizzling over my past, cursing the day when I first saw the faithless fair, and indulging in other poetic rhapsodies! My dear Gertrude, it's not a pleasant thing being jilted, but one lives to get over it and forget all about it; even to forgive her whom I believe it is correct to call the false one!"

"Yes, I dare say! In fact George and Maud both said you didn't think anything about it now, and"

"Maud! did she know of it too?"

"Oh yes, we all knew of it! The old woman who had been housekeeper, or cook, or something here in the old Ashursts' time told George, and"

"What did Maud say about it?" interrupted Joyce.

"She said—I forget what! No! I recollect! she said that—that Mrs. Creswell was just the sort of woman that would fail to appreciate you!"

"That may be taken in two senses, as