man
melody, in a great room garlanded with flowers, was a temporary
cessation of all earthly care, the idea of which was in no wise
unpleasant to her. She had enjoyed her waltzes even at that
charity-ball at the Pavilion, to which she had gone so unwillingly.

The March night was fine, but blustery, when Mrs. Tempest and her
daughter started for the Southminster ball. The stars were shining in a
windy sky, the tall forest trees were tossing their heads, the brambles
were shivering, and a shrill shriek came up out of the woodland every
now and then like a human cry for help.

Mrs Tempest had offered to take Mrs. Scobel and Captain Winstanley in
her roomy carriage. Mr. Scobel was not going to the ball. All such
entertainments were an abhorrence to him; but this particular ball,
being given in Lent, was more especially abhorrent.

"I shouldn't think of going for my own amusement," Mrs. Scobel told her
husband, "but I want to see Violet Tempest at her first local ball
dance. I want to see the impression she makes. I believe she will be
the belle of the ball."

"That would mean the belle of South Hants," said the parson. "She has a
beautiful face for a painted window--there is such a glow of colour."

"She is absolutely lovely, when she likes," replied his wife; "but she
has a curious temper; and there is something very repellent about her
when she does not like people. Strange, is it not, that she should not
like Captain Winstanley?"

"She would be a very noble girl under more spiritual influences,"
sighed the Reverend Ignatius. "Her present surroundings are appallingly
earthly. Horses, dogs, a table loaded with meat in Lent and Advent, a
total ignoring of daily matins and even-song. It is sad to see those we
like treading the broad path so blindly. I feel sorry, my dear, that
you should go to this ball."

"It is only on Violet's account," repeated Mrs. Scobel. "Mrs. Tempest
will be thinking of nothing but her dress; there will be nobody
interested in that poor girl."

Urged thus, on purely benevolent grounds, Mr. Scobel could not withhold
his consent; more especially as he had acquired the habit of letting
his wife do what she liked on most occasions--a marital custom not
easily broken through. So Mrs. Scobel, who was an economical little
woman, "did up" her silver-gray silk dinner-dress with ten shillings'
worth of black tulle and pink rosebuds, and felt she had made a success
that Madame Elise might have approv