t exquisite countenance with the wonderful eyes--that face
which had held me in fascination, that woman who, indeed, held me now
for life or death.

In those ten days which had passed, the first days of my
home-coming after my long absence, I knew, by the blankness of our
separation--though I would not admit it to myself--that she was my
affinity. I was hers. She, the elegant little wanderer, possessed me,
body and soul. I felt for her a strong affection, and affection is the
half-and-half of love.

Why had her friend, that thin-faced country clergyman, called?
Evidently he was endeavouring to satisfy himself as to my _bona
fides_. And yet, for what reason? What had I to do with him? She had
told me that she owed very much to that man. Why, however, should he
interest himself in me?

I took down a big black volume from the shelf--_Crockford's
Clerical Directory_--and from it learned that Edmund Charles
Talbot Shuttleworth, M.A., was rector of the parish of
Middleton-cum-Bowbridge, near Andover, in the Bishopric of Winchester.
He had held his living for the past eight years, and its value was
L550 per annum. He had had a distinguished career at Cambridge, and
had been curate in half-a-dozen places in various parts of the
country.

I felt half inclined to run down to Middleton and call upon him. I
could make some excuse or other, for I felt that he might, perhaps,
give me some further information regarding the mysterious Pennington
and his daughter.

Yet, on further reflection, I hesitated, for I saw that by acting thus
I might incur Sylvia's displeasure.

During the three following days I remained much puzzled. I deeply
regretted that Browning had treated the country parson abruptly, and
wondered whether I could not make excuse to call by pretending to
express regret for the rudeness of my servant.

I was all eagerness to know something concerning this man Pennington,
and was prepared even to sink my own pride in order to learn it.

Jack Marlowe was away in Copenhagen, and would not return for a week.
In London I had many friends, but there were few who interested me,
for I was ever thinking of Sylvia--of her only and always.

At last, one morning I made up my mind, and, leaving Waterloo,
travelled down to Andover Junction, where I hired a trap, and, after
driving through the little old-fashioned town out upon the dusty
London Road for a couple of miles or so, I came to the long straggling
village of Middlet