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 himself with an arrangement of affairs consequent upon his giving up the school, which he had decided upon doing at Midsummer. In the course of that long conversation Walter mentioned that he was about to write to Lady Caroline, acquainting her with what had taken place, and also told the girls of his having consulted her previous to the step which he had taken. He thought this information, as showing Lady Caroline's approbation of the match, would be hailed with great delight; and he was surprised to see a look pass between Maud and Gertrude, and to hear the latter say:

"O Walter, you don't mean to say you asked Lady Caroline's advice as to your marrying Maud?"

"Certainly I did; and I am sure Maud will see nothing strange in it. She knows perfectly well that"

"It is not for Maud's sake that I spoke; but—but, Walter, had you no idea, no suspicion that"

"That what, my dear Gertrude? Pray finish your sentence."

"That Lady Caroline cared for you herself?"

"Cared for me!"

"Cared for you! loved you! wanted to marry you! Can I find plainer language than that?"

"Good heavens, child, what nonsense are you talking! There is not the remotest foundation for any such belief. Lady Caroline is my kindest and best friend. If there were no social difference between us, I should say she had behaved to me as a sister; but as for anything else—nonsense, Gertrude!"

Gertrude said no more; she merely shrugged her shoulders, and changed the subject. But the effect of that conversation was not lost on Walter Joyce. It showed in the tone of his letter to Lady Caroline written that night, softening it and removing it entirely from the brusque and business-like style of correspondence which he generally indulged in.

The next day he left Helmingham early, having had a stroll with Maud—in which he expressed his wish that the marriage should take place as soon as possible—and a short talk with Gertrude, in which, however, he made no reference to the topic discussed on the previous evening.

It was a lucky thing that Mr. Joyce had started by an early train; for the Benthalls had scarcely finished their luncheon, before there was a violent ringing at the gate-bell—there was no servant in the county who, for his size, could make more noise than Marian's tiger—and Mrs. Creswell was announced. She had driven the ponies slowly over from Woolgreaves, and had been enjoying the bows and adulation of the villagers as she came along. Though of course she had driven through the village scores of times, she had never been to the schoolhouse since she left it with her mother on their memorable visit to Woolgreaves, that visit which resulted in her marriage.

Mrs. Creswell was not an emotional woman; but her heart beat rather faster than was its placid wont as she crossed the threshold of the gate, and stepped at once into the garden, where so many of the scenes of her early history had been passed. There was the lawn, as untidy as in her poor father's days, bordered by the big elm-trees, under whose shadow she had walked in the dull summer evenings, as the hum from the dormitories settled down into silence and slumber; and her lover was free to join her there, and to walk with her until their frugal supper was announced. There were the queer star- and pear-shaped flower-beds, the Virginia-creeper waving in feathery elegance along the high wall, the other side of which was put to far more practical purposes: bore stucco instead of climbers, and re-echoed to the balls of the fives players. There were the narrow walks, the old paintless gate-bell, that lived behind iron bars, the hideous stone pine-apples on either side of the door, just as she remembered them.

In the drawing-room, too, where she was received by Mrs. Benthall, with the exception of a smell of stale tobacco, there was no difference: the old paper on the walls, the old furniture, the old dreary out-look.

After the first round of visiting-talk, Marian asked Gertrude how she liked her new home.

Gerty was, if anything, frank.

"Well, I like it pretty well," she said. "Of course it's all new to me, and the boys are great fun."

"Are they?" said Marian, with an odd smile; "they must have changed a great deal. I know I didn't think them 'great fun' in my day."

"Well, I mean for a little time. Of course they'd bore one awfully very soon; and I think this place would bore one frightfully after a time, so dull and grim, isn't it?"