curiosity. He was the first man of a poetic temperament she had ever met. She had hitherto treated men scornfully, because she could not respect any she had encountered. She knew she was beautiful, but all the men she had hitherto met who strove to make an impression on her had dwelt altogether on her beauty. All the other men had languished and spoken only rhapsody and hyperbole. Her nature was too candid and too clear to be imposed upon by such means. How differently had George Osborne approached her! In fact she had, so to speak, made the first advances. When he first clearly betrayed to her that his admiration transcended the limits of ordinary admiration, and that he took an interest in herself, how different had been his course from the ways of other men! He had spoken gravely, seriously to her. He had expressed disapproval of her opinion on important matters; he had lectured her and shown no fear of injuring her good opinion of him by plain talking. He had come to her altogether, as a whole, as a man, not as a wooer only. The other men had tried to impress her by flattery, or by exhibiting themselves in their most pleasing light. He had told her of herself no more than she knew to be true-that she was handsome. He had not put aside the less serious or grave or unenticing characteristics. He was an honest, simple gentleman, who owned no arts, and had fallen in love with her. He was the unmistakable reply to a life-long yearning for something that was true and noble and honourable and just. He owned all these qualities. There was only one being on earth she had previously cared for, and that was Judith O'Connor. Judith was about her own age, but she always treated her mistress as a child. She had been in her employment for many years. The maid rebelled once a week, if not oftener, against her mistress. She was insolent almost beyond endurance at such times. Yet the mistress did not tell the maid to go; for down under this rage and insolence was a devotion, a loyalty no assault of circumstances could shake; and that devotion and loyalty Marie Gordon prized above all her other possessions. She could trust O'Connor as she could trust herself. O'Connor was more jealous of the welfare of her mistress than the mistress herself. When the maid's temper broke loose, and she petulantly demanded to be released from service, the mistress never heeded the rash words, but looked through them and below them, and saw the faithfulness and loyalty, and was conscious of no emotion in her own mind but that O'Connor was stupid and boring her, and that the maid must leave the room. She had spent all her life among frivolous people. All her life she had secretly worshipped intellect and solid acquirements. She had lead a life of ceaseless motion because she wished to keep her mind occupied by change, not from any natural love of new scenes. The one great hope of her life had been that some day she might settle down quietly where country lanes abounded, and you were awoke of summer mornings by the crack of the early carrier's whip or the crow of the barn-door cock. He had come upon her the embodiment of her dreams. She had fought against the fascination hour after hour, but hour after hour he had gained upon her heart. Here was the placid English gentleman, full of high honour, lofty chivalry, and poetic enthusiasm. Here, too, was this sincere man, the loyal citizen, the firm Christian. Here was a man up to whom a woman might look with pride, upon whom she might lean with confidence. Some of his words spoken in the Abbey had taken root in her soul and were bearing delicious fruit. A few of the lines of Spenser had remained with her intact: – 'For we be come into a quiet road.' Yes, to be with him was to enjoy contact with the great ocean of life, and yet to be free from all the dangers of traffic on the waters. When she touched his hand or his arm ever so slightly, peace and serenity descended upon her like a soothing dew. She never had been in love. Was she in love now? Was this love, or was there a deeper, a sweeter depth of feeling? She did not know. This was very sweet. She had done her best to tantalise him. That was only assaying the gold. Now she had found it unalloyed, she need question it no more. 'Sweet is the love that comes alone with willingness.' What could be sweeter? Nothing. Did other girls feel as she did when they were loved? If so, what happiness there must be in the world! No doubt it looked romantic that she should think she was in love with a man whom she had not seen a fortnight ago. But why need it look romantic? Suppose it did look romantic, what then? Was romance a sin? Who ever laid down a rule that romance was wrong, except sharp-nosed old maids and prosy fathers? What was the difference between falling in love in a week and taking a whole year about it? Romance was delightful. Love was beautiful. What could be better than to combine romance and love? Wasn't it out of a combination of romance and love that most of the noblest actions of men and women had sprung? Besides, after all, the thing was not romantic. There was nothing at all romantic about the circumstances under which they had met. There was nothing very extraordinary in a young man and young woman exchanging looks across the early dinner-table of a London hotel. There was nothing very unusual in a young man fresh from home getting red in the face when he wanted to say something civil to a pretty girl. A visit to St Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, the Criterion, the Albert Hall, and a few other things, were not astonishing adventures for even our very matter-of-fact days. No doubt very few men proposed in hansom cabs. But that was because a hansom cab was essentially a nonromantic place for proposing. Call it romance if you like. What difference did it make whether you called it romance and it was romance, or you called it romance and it wasn't romance, or you didn't call it romance? It was just as desirable whether you called it one thing or another or nothing, so long as it was delightful. She had told him he must wait a month for an answer. Now she was sorry she had not said a fortnight. What was the good of keeping him in suspense a month? It was cruel, barbarous. She should not do anything of the kind. She'd just put him at rest at once. That wasn't the correct thing to do, she knew. But she didn't care a bit about being correct. What was the good of being correct at his expense? She had by this time made up her mind she loved him, and would marry him. She might as well tell him so at once. She wasn't likely to change her mind or heart in another fortnight. Why should she not put things right at once? He would not mistake her, or take her up wrongly. He had a high chivalric nature, and would understand her motive. When she told him, what would he do? Kiss her. Kiss her! He, the man who a fortnight ago she had never seen, kiss her who had never been kissed by a man since she was a child! Kiss her! It wasn't, of course, necessary he should kiss her, but she supposed he would. She shouldn't like it a bit. It would be so strange to allow him to kiss her without shrieking or trying to run away. She supposed there was nothing for it but to submit. But it would seem so strange. How complete should be her happiness and their love! She, who had been such a gadabout, would settle down. They should live in his own town. She would try and be as good as ever she could. She'd learn housekeeping and rear poultry. She'd try and be pious and collected like him. He should write poetry, and she would mind the fowls. Poetry and poultry. Then when the sonnets and the cocks and hens had gone to roost, George would give her his arm, and take her out for a nice quiet walk and nice sensible talk. She'd tell him all about the cocks and the hens, and he'd talk to her about the hunt and the House of Commons and the poor-rates and Shakespeare, which were, she believed, the subjects educated country gentlemen usually spoke to their wives- Wife! When Marie Gordon first came upon this word she arrested her headlong thought, and, with a vivid blush, drew back from the visions she had been contemplating. There was something sudden, awful, in coming all at once upon the most important word in the vocabulary of life. She mentally reproved herself for dealing so lightly with serious matters; and, rousing herself from the long abstraction in which she had lain, she devoted her attention to the ordinary events of the breakfast-table. Nevill was still rattling on, and Miss Osborne looking at him in stupefied wonder. When breakfast was over, Osborne went to Marie and said, – 'Surely you don't intend staying within all this lovely day?' 'Yes, I do,' she answered, with a quiet smile. 'But,' he urged, 'you remember your promise that for the month-' 'Yes, I recollect. I am afraid I shall break that promise in more ways than one.' He started, and looked anxiously, eagerly at her. 'What do you mean?' 'I cannot tell you now.' 'When will you tell me? I shall be most uneasy until I hear.' 'This evening, perhaps.' 'Shall I have to wait so long?' 'There will be no opportunity sooner.' 'But is what I am to hear good or bad? You cannot do less than answer that question.' She looked into his eyes, and, with a half-roguish smile, answered, – 'That will depend on whether you are what I fancy you to be, or not.' 'If I am what you fancy, shall I be pleased with what you have to tell me?' 'I think so. You must not ask me any more now. Your sister and I will stay in all day, and you and Mr Nevill are to go somewhere. Go to some man's place, for we want you to take us to all the places we may go to; and, of course, if you two selfish men go to a place we may see, you will not make a second visit merely to bring us. Mr Nevill,' she called aloud. Nevill was standing at the farther end of the room talking to Miss Osborne. 'Since we are not to be favoured with the society of
