aith in no one! You know I
don't feel the same as you do about religion and such things, and I
don't suppose I ever shall. When I like people, I like them; I can't
ask what they believe and what they don't believe. We'd better not talk
about it any more.'

Mary's face assumed rather a hard look.

'Just as you like, my dear,' she said.

There ensued an awkward silence, which Lydia at length broke by speech
on some wholly different subject. Mary with difficulty adapted herself
to the change; tea was finished rather uncomfortably.

It was six o'clock. Lydia, hearing the hour strike, knew that Ackroyd
would be waiting at the end of Walnut Tree Walk. She was absent-minded,
halting between a desire to go at once, and tell him that they could
not come, and a disinclination not perhaps very clearly explained. The
minutes went on. It seemed to be decided for her that he should learn
the truth by their failure to join him.

Church bells began to sound. Mary rose and put on her hat, then, taking
up the devotional books she had with her, offered her hand as if to say
good-bye.

'But,' said Lydia in surprise, 'I'm going with you.'

'I didn't suppose you would,' the other returned quietly.

'But haven't you had tea with me?'

Mary had not now to learn that her friend held a promise inviolable;
her surprise would have been great if Lydia had allowed her to go forth
alone. She smiled.

'Will there be nice singing?' Lydia asked, as she prepared herself
quickly. 'I do really like the singing, at all events, Mary.'

The other shook her head, sadly.

They left the house and turned towards Kennington Road. Before Lydia
had gone half a dozen steps she saw that Ackroyd was waiting at the end
of the street. She felt a pang of self-reproach; it was wrong of her to
have allowed him to stand in miserable uncertainty all this time; she
ought to have gone out at six o'clock. In a low voice she said to her
companion:

'There's Mr. Ackroyd. I want just to speak a word to him. If you'll go
on when we get up, I'll soon overtake you.'

Mary acquiesced in silence. Lydia, approaching, saw disappointment on
the young man's face. He raised his hat to her--an unwonted attention
in these parts--and she gave him her hand.

'I'm going to chapel,' she said playfully.

He had a sudden hope.

'Then your sister'll come out?'

'No, Mr. Ackroyd; she can't to-night. She's having tea with Mrs. Grail.'

He looked down the street. Lydia was impel