wever great his trouble, the rector had generally contrived to put a
good face on things. He considered his difficulties as entirely the
result of his own improvidence, and rejoiced to think that Sydney's
position was assured, no matter what might happen to himself. Yet often
in the silence of the night he would toss upon his restless bed, or vex
his soul with complicated accounts in the privacy of his study, and none
but the two faithful women who lived with him suspected what he suffered
in his weakest moments.

He had come to lean more and more constantly on the companionship of
Lettice. Mrs. Campion had never been the kind of woman to whom a man
looks for strength or consolation, and when she condoled with her
husband he usually felt himself twice as miserable as before. Some wives
have a way of making their condolences sound like reproaches; and they
may be none the less loving wives for that. Mrs. Campion sincerely loved
her husband, but she never thoroughly understood him.

When the boy arrived with Sydney's telegram, Lettice intercepted him at
the door. She was accustomed to keep watch over everything that entered
the house, and saved her father a great deal of trouble by reading his
letters, and, if need be, by answering them. What he would have done
without her, he was wont to aver, nobody could tell.

Time had dealt gently with Lettice, in spite of her anxieties, in spite
of that passionate revolt against fate which from time to time had
shaken her very soul. She was nearly five-and-twenty, and she certainly
looked no more then twenty-one. The sweet country air had preserved the
delicate freshness of her complexion: her dark grey eyes were clear, her
white brow unlined by trouble, her rippling brown hair shining and
abundant. Her slender hands were a little tanned--the only sign that
country life had laid upon her--because she was never very careful about
wearing gloves when she worked in the garden; but neither tan nor
freckle ever appeared upon her face, the bloom of which was tender and
refined as that of a briar-rose. The old wistful look of her sweet eyes
remained unchanged, but the mouth was sadder in repose than it had been
when she was a child. When she smiled, however, there could not have
been a brighter face.

Notwithstanding this touch of sadness on her lips, and a faint shadow of
thought on the clear fine brows, the face of Lettice was noticeable for
its tranquillity. No storm of passion had e