e subject was dropped.

An hour and a half later, when the last stranger had taken his leave,
Jasper examined two or three letters which had arrived since dinner-time
and were lying on the hall table. With one of them open in his hand, he
suddenly sprang up the stairs and leaped, rather than stepped, into the
drawing-room. Amy was reading an evening paper.

'Look at this!' he cried, holding the letter to her.

It was a communication from the publishers who owned The Current; they
stated that the editorship of that review would shortly be resigned
by Mr Fadge, and they inquired whether Milvain would feel disposed to
assume the vacant chair.

Amy sprang up and threw her arms about her husband's neck, uttering a
cry of delight.

'So soon! Oh, this is great! this is glorious!'

'Do you think this would have been offered to me but for the spacious
life we have led of late? Never! Was I right in my calculations, Amy?'

'Did I ever doubt it?'

He returned her embrace ardently, and gazed into her eyes with profound
tenderness.

'Doesn't the future brighten?'

'It has been very bright to me, Jasper, since I became your wife.'

'And I owe my fortune to you, dear girl. Now the way is smooth!'

They placed themselves on a settee, Jasper with an arm about his wife's
waist, as if they were newly plighted lovers. When they had talked for a
long time, Milvain said in a changed tone:

'I am told that your uncle is dead.'

He mentioned how the news had reached him.

'I must make inquiries to-morrow. I suppose there will be a notice in
The Study and some of the other papers. I hope somebody will make it an
opportunity to have a hit at that ruffian Fadge. By-the-by, it doesn't
much matter now how you speak of Fadge; but I was a trifle anxious when
I heard your story at dinner.'

'Oh, you can afford to be more independent.--What are you thinking
about?'

'Nothing.'

'Why do you look sad?--Yes, I know, I know. I'll try to forgive you.'

'I can't help thinking at times of the poor girl, Amy. Life will be
easier for her now, with only her mother to support. Someone spoke of
her this evening, and repeated Fadge's lie that she used to do all her
father's writing.'

'She was capable of doing it. I must seem to you rather a poor-brained
woman in comparison. Isn't it true?'

'My dearest, you are a perfect woman, and poor Marian was only a clever
school-girl. Do you know, I never could help imagining that she had
ink-stai