te the
money, and the old lady, though with perceptible hesitation, had decided
to trust him rather than her daughter. It was so. Lydia considered that
her mother was stingy, and that finery was indispensable while she was
husband-hunting.

"You see, there'll be one less to feed, and it would only bother her; and
you've always been so regular with your money," said Mrs. Bryant
wistfully.

"Oh, I see, perfectly," Thorne replied. "I won't trouble Miss Bryant about
it. It shall be all ready for you when you come back, of course. A
pleasant journey to you!"

The old lady went off, not without anxiety, but very favorably impressed
with Percival's lofty manner. And he thought no more about it. But the
time came when he wished that Mrs. Bryant had never thought of visiting
Mrs. Smith of Bethnal Green at all.

Easter fell very late that year, far on in April, and it seemed to Judith
that the holidays would never come. At last, however, they were within a
week of the breaking-up day. It was Sunday, and she could say to herself,
"Next Thursday I shall be free."

Bertie and she had just breakfasted, and he was leaning in his favorite
attitude against the chimney-piece. She had taxed him with looking ill,
but he had smilingly declared that there was nothing amiss with him.

"Do you sleep well, Bertie?" she asked wistfully.

"Pretty well. Not very much last night, by the way. But you are whiter
than I am: look at yourself in the glass. Even if you deduct the green--"

Judith gazed into the verdant depths. "I don't know how much to allow,"
she said thoughtfully. "By the way, Bertie, I'm not going with you to St.
Sylvester's this morning."

"All right!" said Bertie.

"I have a fancy to go to St. Andrew's for once," said Judith, arranging
the ribbon at her throat as she spoke--"just for a change. You don't mind,
do you?"

"Mind? no," said Bertie, but something in his voice caused her to look
round. He was as pale as death, grasping the chimney-piece with one hand
while the other was pressed upon his heart.

"Bertie! You _are_ ill! Lean on me." The little sofa was close by, and she
helped him to it and ran for eau de cologne. When she came back he was
lying with his head thrown back, white and still, yet looking more like
himself than in that first ghastly moment. Presently the blood came back
to cheek and lip, and he looked up and smiled. "You are better?" she said
anxiously.

"Oh yes, I'm better. I'm all right. Can't