r. She received his marked politeness and nothing
more. But he interested her daily. Some new trait of character would
break out--some little touch of deep feeling--some symptom of a highly
sensitive nature, which told her how much he must have felt her cutting
words. He was proud, too, and she liked him for it, although she was
striving to humble her own pride. What would she not have given to have
recalled those words! The Rowland Prothero of London, esteemed and loved
by the wise and good, for his unpretending but strenuous parochial
labours, his clear, forcible, but very simple preaching--was to her
quite a different person from him of Glanyravon Farm, the son of her
father's tenant. In short they were no longer identical. As she was no
longer the heiress of Glanyravon, but simply Miss Gwynne, Mrs. Jones'
friend--so he was Mr. Rowland Prothero, a respectable and respected
London clergyman.

And these are the relations under which they appear, sitting near one
another over the accounts of the ragged school, which Freda has
undertaken to keep.

'I think there is a slight fault here, Miss Gwynne,' he says, pointing
out an error in calculation.

'Of course, I never had a head for figures, and Mrs. Jones could never
get me to do my sums.'

'Still, the account is quite right in the main, the errors were in the
adding up, and it is rightly balanced.'

'Thank you, I am so very much obliged to you. I should never have got
through them. And now, will you tell me of those wretched people that
Mr. Jones would not let me go and see.'

'I gave them the money you kindly sent, or, at least, laid it out for
them, as they would have spent it in gin, and they are already more
comfortable; but the father is gone away, and the mother apparently
dying.'

'Is there no way of alleviating all this wretchedness?'

'I fear none. Sin is at the root, and as long as the present world
lasts, there must be misery with it.'

Rowland spoke these words in an unusually melancholy and depressed tone
of voice, which caused Miss Gwynne to look up from the papers, directly
at him. He was paler than usual, and his lip quivered. He met her
glance, and making an effort to rise, said hastily,--

'Can I have the honour of doing anything more for you, Miss Gwynne. I am
sure I can return you the thanks of the committee, indeed of every one
concerned for--'

'I want no thanks, I deserve no thanks from any one; are you ill, Mr.
Rowland? You have bee