e learnt from Mrs.
Lessingham to what this seclusion was due. The ladies had a singular
little conversation, for Eleanor was inwardly so amused at this speedy
practical comment on Mrs. Lessingham's utterances of the other day,
that with difficulty she kept her countenance; while Mrs. Lessingham
herself, impelled to make the admission without delay, that she might
exhibit a philosophic acceptance of fact, had much ado to hide her
chagrin beneath the show of half-cynical frankness that became a woman
of the world. Eleanor--passably roguish within the limits of becoming
mirth--acted the scene to her husband, who laughed shamelessly. Then
came explanations between Eleanor and Miriam.

The following day passed without news, but on the morning after, Miriam
had a letter from Cecily; not a long letter, nor very effusive, but
telling all that was to be told. And it ended with a promise that
Cecily would come to the villa that afternoon. This was communicated to
Eleanor.

"Where's Mallard, I wonder?" said Spence, when his wife came to talk to
him. "Not, I suspect, at the old quarters, It would be like him to go
off somewhere without a word. Confound that fellow Elgar!"

"I'm half disposed to think that it serves Mr. Mallard right," was
Eleanor's remark.

"Well, for heartlessness commend me to a comfortable woman."

"And for folly commend me to a strong-minded man."

"Pooh! He'll growl and mutter a little, and then get on with his
painting."

"If I thought so, my liking for him would diminish. I hope he is
tearing his hair."

"I shall go seek him."

"Do; and give my best love to him, poor fellow."

Cecily came alone. She was closeted with Miriam for a long time, then
saw Eleanor. Spence purposely kept away from home.

Dante lay unread, as well as the other books which Eleanor placed
insidiously in her cousin's room. Letters lay unanswered--among them
several relating to the proposed new chapel at Bartles. How did Miriam
employ herself during the hours that she spent alone?

Not seldom, in looking back upon her childhood and maidenhood.

Imagine a very ugly cubical brick house of two stories, in a suburb of
Manchester. It stands a few yards back from the road. On one side, it
is parted by a row of poplars from several mean cottages; on the other,
by a narrow field from a house somewhat larger and possibly a little
uglier than itself. Its outlook, over the highway, is on to a tract of
country just being broken up b