ey thought they were, five years ago, when Horace,
fresh home from the Crimea, was all the heroes in the world in
Molly's eyes; and he was just in the mood to fall in love with
the first pretty bright girl he saw. But all that was over
long ago, and in these five years they have grown utterly
apart."

"Then the sooner they grow together again the better," said
the Doctor.

"I don't believe it is possible," answered his wife. "I don't
see how they can ever pull together; they have different
tastes, different aims, different ideas on every conceivable
subject. I am very fond of Molly; she is an excellent, good
girl in her way, but it is not the way that will fit her to
become Horace's wife. She will weary him, and he will--not
neglect her, he would never be unkind to a woman--but he will
not be the husband she deserves to have. For my part, I think
it will be a thousand pities if a mistaken sense of honour
makes them hold to their engagement."

"That may be all very well for Horace," said the Doctor; "but
what about Molly? When a girl has been looking forward to
marrying and having a house of her own, it is not so pleasant
for her to have all her prospects destroyed."

"Then she can marry Mr. Norris, if she pleases."

"Indeed! Well, if Maria's mistaken sense of honour does not
stand in the way of a flirtation with Morris, I shall be much
astonished if Horace's does not make itself felt one way or
another. However, it is no concern of mine; manage it your own
way."

"Indeed I have no intention of interfering," said Mrs.
Vavasour. "I can imagine nothing more useless, especially as
Horace will be here in less than a fortnight. But I will write
to-night to Aunt Barbara about Miss Linders."

"Oh, yes, ask Miss Linders down here, by all means; and if
Morris would only fall in love with her, that might settle all
difficulties; but I suppose there is not much chance of that."
And so saying, the Doctor went to dress for dinner.

It was a new world, this, in which our Madelon found herself,
after the still leisure of her home in Cornwall, with its
outlook on rocks, and sea, and sky, after the unbroken
regularity of her London life, with its ever-recurring round
of fixed employments--a new world, this sheltered English
village, lying amongst woods, and fields, and pastures,
divided by trim brown hedges, whose every twig was studded
with red March buds, and beneath which late March primroses
were blowing--and a new wor