ng before this vision of a wise man all her perplexities between Miss
Charlecote's religion and Miss Fennimore's reason, and all her practical
doubts between Robert's conflicting duties. Strangely enough, the
question, 'What would Mr. Charlecote have thought?' often aided her to
cast the balance. Though it was still Phoebe who decided, it was Phoebe
drawn out of herself, and strengthened by her mask.

With vivid interest, such as for a living man would have amounted to
love, she seized and hoarded each particle of intelligence that she could
gain respecting the object of her admiration. Honora herself, though far
more naturally enthusiastic, had, with her dreamy nature and diffused
raptures, never been capable of thus reverencing him, nor of the
intensity of feeling of one whose restrained imagination and unromantic
education gave force to all her sensations. Yet this deep individual
regard was a more wholesome tribute than Honor had ever paid to him, or
to her other idol, for to Phoebe it was a step, lifting her to things
above and beyond, a guide on the road, never a vision obscuring the true
object.

Six weeks had quietly passed, when, like a domestic thunderbolt, came
Juliana's notification of her intention to return home at the end of a
week. Mrs. Fulmort, clinging to her single thread of comfort, hoped that
Phoebe might still be allowed to come to her boudoir, but the gentlemen
more boldly declared that they wanted Phoebe, and would not have her
driven back into the schoolroom; to which the mother only replied with
fears that Juliana would be in a dreadful temper, whereon Mervyn
responded, 'Let her! Never mind her, Phoebe. Stick up for yourself, and
we'll put her down.'

Except for knowing that she was useful to her mother, Phoebe would have
thankfully retired into the west wing, rather than have given umbrage.
Mervyn's partisanship was particularly alarming, and, endeavour as she
might to hope that Juliana would be amiable enough to be disarmed by her
own humility and unobtrusiveness, she lived under the impression of
disagreeables impending.

One morning at breakfast, Mr. Fulmort, after grumbling out his wonder at
Juliana's writing to him, suddenly changed his tone into, 'Hollo! what's
this? "My engagement--"'

'By Jove!' shouted Mervyn; 'too good to be true. So she's done it. I
didn't think he'd been such an ass, having had one escape.'

'Who?' continued Mr. Fulmort, puzzling, as he held the let