hern county; a post which he had held only
for a twelvemonth. Like his sister's husband, Thistlewood suffered from
disappointed ambition, for he had aimed at great things as a painter;
but he accepted his defeat, and at thirty-five was seeking content in a
'sphere of usefulness' which promised, after all, to give scope to his
best faculties. Not long ago he would have scorned the thought of
becoming a 'teacher'; yet for a teacher he was born, and the truth, in
dawning upon his mind, had brought with it a measure of consolation.

A finger missing from his left hand told a story of student life in
Paris. It was a quarrel with a young Frenchman, about a girl. He and
his rival happening to sit opposite to each other at a restaurant
table, high words arose between them, and the Frenchman eventually made
a stab at Thistlewood's hand with his dinner-fork. That ended the
dispute, but the finger had to come off. Not long afterwards
Thistlewood accepted an engagement to go as artist with a party of
English explorers into Siberia. On his return he lingered for a week or
two in St Petersburg, and there chanced to meet the girl who had cost
him one of his digits. She, like himself, had been in pursuit of
adventures; but, whereas the artist came back with a well-filled purse,
the wandering damsel was at her last sou. They journeyed together to
London, and for the next year or two Thistlewood had the honour of
working himself almost to death to support a very expensive young
woman, who cared no more for him than for her cast-off shoes. Happily,
some richer man was at length found who envied him his privilege, and
therewith ended Thistlewood's devotion to the joys of a bohemian life.
Ever since, his habits had been excessively sober--perhaps a little
morose. But Mrs. Langland, who now saw him once a year; thought him in
every respect improved. Moreover, she had a project for his happiness,
and on that account frequently glanced at him during dinner, as he
conversed, much more fluently than of wont, with his neighbour, Mrs.
Abbott.

Alma sat on the other side of the table, and was no less observant than
the hostess of a peculiar animation on Mr. Thistlewood's dark visage.
To be sure, she knew nothing of him, and it might be his habit to wear
that look when he talked with ladies; but Alma thought it unlikely. And
it seemed to her that Mary Abbott, though much as usual in manner, had
a just perceptible gleam of countenance beyond what on