er husband for her? Another time,
Andrew, you will, I hope, allow that I am the best judge in these
matters."

"My dear, you are always right," was the meekly conjugal reply, and then
Mrs. Miller went her way and talked to Beatrice for half-an-hour over the
sinful lives which are frequently led by young men of no family residing
in the Temple, and the shame and disgrace which must necessarily accrue
to any well-brought-up young woman who, in an ill-advised moment, shall
allow her affections to rove towards such unsanctified Pariahs of
society.

And Beatrice, listening to her blushingly, knew what she meant, and yet
had no words wherewith to clear her lover's character from the defamatory
evidence furnished against him by her own sunshade and gloves.

"Your father has seen with his own eyes, my dear, that which makes it
impossible for us ever to consent to your marrying that young man."

How was Beatrice to say to her mother, "It was I--your daughter--who was
there, shut up in Mr. Pryme's bedroom." She could not speak the words.

The sunshine twinkled in Shadonake's many windows, and flooded its
velvet lawns. Below, the Bath slumbered darkly in the shadow of its
ancient steps and its encircling belt of fir-trees; and beyond the
flower-gardens, half-an-acre of pineries, and vineries, and
orchard-houses glittered in a dazzling parterre of glass-roofs and white
paint. Something new--it was an orchard-house--was being built. There was
always something new, and Mr. Miller was superintending the building of
it. He stood over the workmen who were laying the foundation, watching
every brick that was laid down with delighted and absorbed interest. He
held a trowel himself, and had tucked up his shirt cuffs in order to lend
a helping hand in the operations. There was nothing that Andrew Miller
loved so well. Fate and his Caroline had made him a member of Parliament,
and had placed him in the position of a gentleman, but nature had
undoubtedly intended him for a bricklayer.

Beatrice came out of the drawing-room windows across the lawn to him. She
was in her habit, and stood tapping her little boot with her riding whip
for some minutes by her father's side.

"I am going to see uncle Tom, papa," she said; "have you any message?"

"Going to Lutterton? Ah, that's right; the ride will do you good, my
dear. No; I have no message."

Beatrice went back into the house; her little bay mare stood at the door.
She met her mother in