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, had grown into that yet more inscrutable being a Member of Parliament; but their wonderment was simply expressed in gaping and staring. They kept their distance peasant-like, and never dreamed of button-holing their member, as did the Brocksoppians. The road that led from the station to the village skirted the wall of the school-garden. It was a low wall, and, looking over it, Joyce saw Maud Creswell tying up a creeper which was trained round the study window. Her attitude was pretty, a sunbeam shone on her hatless head, and the exertion given to her task had brought a bright colour to her usually pale face. Never before had she looked so attractive in Joyce's eyes. He dismissed from his mind the interesting question of compulsory education for factory children, which he had been revolving therein for the last hour and a half, and quickened his pace towards the house.

Maud was in the study when he entered. The flush had left her face, but returned when she saw him. He advanced and took her hand.

"So soon back!" she cried. "When I came down yesterday, they told me you had gone to town, and probably would not return; and I was so horribly vexed!"

"Were you? That's kind of you, indeed!"

"Well you know—I mean"

"What you say. I believe that firmly, for you have the credit of being quite unconventional. No, I merely went to London on business, and, that finished, I returned at once. Where is your sister?"

"Out."

"And her husband?"

"How can you ask such a question? With her, of course. They have gone to pay a visit."

"A visit; where? I, I beg your pardon, how very rude of me to ask such a question! What a tell-tale face you have, Miss Creswell. I saw the rudeness I had committed by your expression."

"You give me credit for more power than I possess. There was no rudeness in your asking. They have gone to Woolgreaves."

"To Woolgreaves!"

"Yes. Mrs. Creswell called here two days ago, the day you went to London, but Gertrude and George were out, so she left a note stating she was very anxious to see them, and they have gone over there to-day. They had no notion you would have come down, or they would not have gone. I am so sorry they're not here."

"I confess I am not."

"Not sorry! That's not polite. Why are you not sorry?"

"Because I wanted to talk to you."

"To me?"

"Yes, to you. I've something to consult you about, in relation to my recent visit to town, rather a difficult matter, but I have all faith in your good judgment."

"I'm afraid you rate my judgment too highly, Mr. Joyce; but at all events you may be assured of my answering you honestly, and to the best of my power."

"That is all I ask. That granted, I can make sure of the rest. And really it is not such a great matter after all. Only a little advice, but such advice as only a woman, more than that, only a peculiar kind of woman, can give."

"Do I fulfil the requirements?"

"Exactly."

"Then proceed at once. And I will promise to answer exactly as I think."

"Well, then, I have a friend, about my own age, of sufficiently mean birth, whose father was a man of restricted views and small mind, both cramped and narrowed by the doctrines of the religious sect to which he belonged, but whose mother was an angel. Unfortunately the mother died too soon after the boy's birth to be of much good to him, beyond leaving him the recollection of her sweet face and voice and influence; a recollection which he cherishes to this day. After his wife's death the boy's father became more and more imbued with the sectarian doctrines, an undue observance of which had already had its effect in his home, and, dying shortly after, left his son almost unprovided for, and friendless, save in such friendship as the lad might have made for himself. This, however, proved sufficient. The master of the school at which the lad attended took great interest in him, half adopted him as it were, and when the youth was old enough, took him as his assistant in the school. This would have met my friend's views sufficiently, for he was a plodding hard working fellow, had he had no other motive; but he had another: he was in love with the schoolmaster's daughter, and she returned his passion. Am I wearying you with this rigmarole?"

"You know you are not. Please go on!"

"So they proceeded in their Arcadian simplicity, until the schoolmaster died, leaving his wife and daughter unprovided for, and my friend had to go out into the world to seek his fortune—to seek his