r duty to your neighbour, and doing unto others, and all the
rest of it? You ain't got to think just of your own self; no more
haven't I."

Mary said to herself silently that it was John Gordon of whom she
had to think. She quite recognised the truth of the lesson about
selfishness; but love to her was more imperious than gratitude.

"There's them at Portsmouth as'll take care of me, no doubt. Don't
you mind about me. I ain't going to have a good time at Portsmouth,
but people ain't born to have good times of it. You're going to have
a good time. But it ain't for that, but for what your duty tells you.
You that haven't a bit or a sup but what comes from him, and you to
stand shilly-shallying! I can't abide the idea!"

It was thus that Mrs Baggett taught her great lesson,--the greatest
lesson we may say which a man or a woman can learn. And though she
taught it immoderately, fancying, as a woman, that another woman
should sacrifice everything to a man, still she taught it with truth.
She was minded to go to Portsmouth, although Portsmouth to her in the
present state of circumstances was little better than a hell upon
earth. But Mary could not quite see Mr Whittlestaff's claim in the
same light. The one point on which it did seem to her that she had
made up her mind was Mr Gordon's claim, which was paramount to
everything. Yes; he was gone, and might never return. It might be
that he was dead. It might be even that he had taken some other wife,
and she was conscious that not a word had passed her lips that could
be taken as a promise. There had not been even a hint of a promise.
But it seemed to her that this duty of which Mrs Baggett spoke was
due rather to John Gordon than to Mr Whittlestaff.

She counted the days,--nay, she counted the hours, till the week
had run by. And when the precise moment had come at which an answer
must be given,--for in such matters Mr Whittlestaff was very
precise,--John Gordon was still the hero of her thoughts. "Well,
dear," he said, putting his hand upon her arm, just as he had done
on that former occasion. He said no more, but there was a world of
entreaty in the tone of his voice as he uttered the words.

"Mr Whittlestaff!"

"Well, dear."

"I do not think I can. I do not think I ought. You never heard
of--Mr John Gordon."

"Never."

"He used to come to our house at Norwich, and--and--I loved him."

"What became of him?" he asked, in a strangely altered voice. Was
there to b