y, and with a sort of
Christian trembling for him, the romance of his great position. Was
Marcella happy, was she proud of him, as she ought to be? Mary was often
puzzled by her.

"Oh no!" said Marcella, with a little laugh. "That wasn't Mr. Raeburn. I
don't know where your eyes were, Mary. That was Mr. Wharton, who is
staying with us. He has gone on to a meeting at Widrington."

Mary's face fell.

"Charles says Mr. Wharton's influence in the village is very bad," she
said quickly. "He makes everybody discontented; sets everybody by the
ears; and, after all, what can he do for anybody?"

"But that's just what he wants to do--to make them discontented," cried
Marcella. "Then, if they vote for him, that's the first practical step
towards improving their life."

"But it won't give them more wages or keep them out of the public
house," said Mary, bewildered. She came of a homely middle-class stock,
accustomed to a small range of thinking, and a high standard of doing.
Marcella's political opinions were an amazement, and on the whole a
scandal to her. She preferred generally to give them a wide berth.

Marcella did not reply. It was not worth while to talk to Mary on these
topics. But Mary stuck to the subject a moment longer.

"You can't want him to get in, though?" she said in a puzzled voice, as
she led the way to the little sitting-room across the passage, and took
her workbasket out of the cupboard. "It was only the week before last
Mr. Raeburn was speaking at the schoolroom for Mr. Dodgson. You weren't
there, Marcella?"

"No," said Marcella, shortly. "I thought you knew perfectly well, Mary,
that Mr. Raeburn and I don't agree politically. Certainly, I hope Mr.
Wharton will get in!"

Mary opened her eyes in wonderment. She stared at Marcella, forgetting
the sock she had just slipped over her left hand, and the darning needle
in her right.

Marcella laughed.

"I know you think that two people who are going to be married ought to
say ditto to each other in everything. Don't you--you dear old goose?"

She came and stood beside Mary, a stately and beautiful creature in her
loosened furs. She stroked Mary's straight sandy hair back from her
forehead. Mary looked up at her with a thrill, nay, a passionate throb
of envy--soon suppressed.

"I think," she said steadily, "it is very strange--that love should
oppose and disagree with what it loves."

Marcella went restlessly towards the fire and began to examine