when he
chaunted the cathedral service as priest-vicar on the Sunday.

At this time Arabella was very ill, and was confined to her bed.
Mr. Martin declared that her system had become low from over
anxiety,--that she was nervous, weak, and liable to hysterics,--that
her feelings were in fact too many for her,--and that her efforts to
overcome them, and to face the realities of the world, had exhausted
her. This was, of course, not said openly, at the town-cross of
Exeter; but such was the opinion which Mr. Martin gave in confidence
to the mother. "Fiddle-de-dee!" said Camilla, when she was told of
feelings, susceptibilities, and hysterics. At the present moment she
had a claim to the undivided interest of the family, and she believed
that her sister's illness was feigned in order to defraud her of her
rights. "My dear, she is ill," said Mrs. French. "Then let her have
a dose of salts," said the stern Camilla. This was on the Sunday
afternoon. Camilla had endeavoured to see Mr. Gibson as he came out
of the cathedral, but had failed. Mr. Gibson had been detained within
the building,--no doubt by duties connected with the choral services.
On that evening he got a note from Camilla, and quite early on the
Monday morning he came up to Heavitree.

"You will find her in the drawing-room," said Mrs. French, as she
opened the hall-door for him. There was a smile on her face as she
spoke, but it was a forced smile. Mr. Gibson did not smile at all.

"Is it all right with her?" he asked.

"Well;--you had better go to her. You see, Mr. Gibson, young ladies,
when they are going to be married, think that they ought to have
their own way a little, just for the last time, you know." He took no
notice of the joke, but went with slow steps up to the drawing-room.
It would be inquiring too curiously to ask whether Camilla, when
she embraced him, discerned that he had fortified his courage that
morning with a glass of curacoa.

"What does all this mean, Thomas?" was the first question that
Camilla asked when the embrace was over.

"All what mean, dear?"

"This untoward delay. Thomas, you have almost broken my heart. You
have been away, and I have not heard from you."

"I wrote twice, Camilla."

"And what sort of letters? If there is anything the matter, Thomas,
you had better tell me at once." She paused, but Thomas held his
tongue. "I don't suppose you want to kill me."

"God forbid," said Thomas.

"But you will. What must ev