her. I have striven to believe that it was all gold that I saw.
But let that pass. I was forced to tell you that I am going to leave
Mr Stumfold's church, or I should not now have spoken about her or
him. And now comes the question, Miss Mackenzie."

"What is the question, Mr Maguire?"

"Miss Mackenzie--Margaret, will you share your lot with mine? It is
true that you have money. It is true that I have none,--not even a
curacy now. But I don't think that any such consideration as that
would weigh with you for a moment, if you can find it in your heart
to love me."

Miss Mackenzie sat thinking for some minutes before she gave her
answer--or striving to think; but she was so completely under the
terrible fire of his eye, that any thought was very difficult.

"I am not quite sure about that," she said after a while. "I think,
Mr Maguire, that there should be a little money on both sides. You
would hardly wish to live altogether on your wife's fortune."

"I have my profession," he replied, quickly.

"Yes, certainly; and a noble profession it is,--the most noble," said
she.

"Yes, indeed; the most noble."

"But somehow--"

"You mean the clergymen are not paid as they should be. No, they are
not, Miss Mackenzie. And is it not a shame for a Christian country
like this that it should be so? But still, as a profession, it has
its value. Look at Mrs Stumfold; where would she be if she were not a
clergyman's wife? The position has its value. A clergyman's wife is
received everywhere, you know."

"A man before he talks of marriage ought to have something of his
own, Mr Maguire, besides--"

"Besides what?"

"Well, I'll tell you. As you have done me this honour, I think that
I am now bound to tell you what Mrs Stumfold said to me. She had
no right to connect my name with yours or with that of any other
gentleman, and my quarrel with her is about that. As to what she said
about you, that is your affair and not mine."

Then she told him the whole of that conversation which was given in
the last chapter, not indeed repeating the hint about the three or
four wives, but recapitulating as clearly as she could all that had
been said about the suitable young lady.

"I knew it," said he; "I knew it. I knew it as well as though I had
heard it. Now what am I to think of that woman, Miss Mackenzie?"

"Of which woman?"

"Of Mrs Stumfold, of course. It's all jealousy: every bit of it
jealousy."

"Jealousy! Do you mean that