no it were possible; if not now, then
in ten years' time--if not in ten years, then in twenty? Had he not
been as faithless to her, was he not as much man-sworn, as though a
thousand oaths had passed between them? Oaths between lovers are but
Cupid's phrases, made to enable them to talk of love. They are the
playthings of love, as kisses are. When lovers trust each other they
are sweet bonds; but they will never bind those who do not trust.
When he had told her that she, and she only, understood his feelings,
that she, and she only, knew his moods, and when she had answered
him by the encouragement of her soft smile, could it be that more
was necessary between them? Ah! yes, Adela, much more! Never know a
gentleman's moods, never understand his feelings till, in the plain
language of his mother-tongue, he has asked you to be mistress of
them.

When her father came in before dinner, she was still pacing up and
down the room. But she had not spent the two hours since Arthur had
left her in vain sorrow or in vainer anger. She had felt that it
behoved her to resolve how she would act, and what she would do; and
in those two hours she had resolved. A great misfortune, a stunning
blow had fallen on her; but the fault had been with her rather than
with him. She would school herself to bear the punishment, to see him
occasionally, and bear with him as she would have done had he never
taken those walks along the river; she would still love his sisters;
still go when needs was to the Hurst Staple parsonage. As for him,
she would wish him no evil, rather every good. As for herself, she
would check her rebel heart if she could; but, at any rate, she would
learn to check the rising blood which would otherwise tell her tale.

"Arthur Wilkinson has been here to-day, papa," she was able to say,
with composed voice; "they are quite settled again at the parsonage."

"Ah! he is a lucky fellow," said the old vicar; "he'll be wanting a
wife now before the year's out."

CHAPTER V.

THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION.

We must now go back to our other hero, or, rather, to another of our
heroes. Arthur Wilkinson is our melancholy love-lorn tenor, George
Bertram our eager, excitable barytone, and Mr. Harcourt--Henry
Harcourt--our bass, wide awake to the world's good things, impervious
to sentimentality, and not over-scrupulous--as is always the case
with your true deep-mouthed opera bass.

Our present business is with the excitable bar