it pleased her to mistake for assent. In her present mood it was sweet to think that her husband had been anxious, and the curate knew human nature too well to contradict her. And then she gave him a little history of the past three months during which he had been absent, and of Rose's engagement and all Mr. Incledon's good qualities. "He would have done anything for us," said Mrs. Damerel; "but oh, how glad I am we shall not want anything-only Rose's happiness, which in his hands is secure.'

"

"Mr. Incledon!" said the curate, with a little wonder in his voice. "Ah, and so that is it. I thought it could n't be nothing but money that made the child so pleased."

"You thought she looked very happy?" said the mother, with a sudden fright.

66

Happy! she looked like her name — nothing is so happy as that but the innocent creatures of God; and sure I did her injustice thinking 't was the money," the curate said, with mingled compunction and wonder; for the story altogether sounded very strange to him, and he could not but marvel at the thought that Mr. Incledon's love, once so evidently indifferent to her, should light such lamps of joy now in Rose's eyes.

Mrs. Damerel changed the subject abruptly. A mist of something like care came over her face. "I have had a great deal of trouble and much to think about since I saw you," she said; "but I must not enter upon that now that it is over. Tell me about yourself."

be

He shrugged his shoulders as he told her how little there was to tell. A new parish, with other poor folk much like those he had left, and other rich folk not far dissimilar- the one knowing as little about the other as the two classes generally do. “That is about all my life is ever likely to be," he said, with a half smile, tween the two, with no great hold on either. I miss Agatha, and Dick, and little Patty and you to come and talk to most of all," he said, looking at her with an affectionate wistfulness which went to her heart. Not that Mr. Nolan was "in love" with Mrs. Damerel, as vulgar persons would say, laughing; but the foss of her house and society was a great loss to the middle-aged curate, never likely to have a house of his own.

“We must make it up as much as we can by talking all day long now you are here," she said, with kind smiles; but the curate, though he was fond of her, was quick to see that she avoided the subject of Mr. Incledon, and was ready to talk of anything rather than that; though, indeed, the first love and first proposed marriage in a family has generally an interest exceeding everything else to the young heroine's immediate friends.

They had the merriest dinner at two o'clock, according to the habit

of their humility, with roast mutton, which was the only joint Mary Jane could not spoil; simple fare, which contented the curate

-

as well as a French chef could have done. He told them funny stories of his new people, at which the children shouted with laughter, and described the musical parties at the vicarage, and the solemn little dinners, and all the dreary entertainments of a small town. The White House had not heard so much innocent laughter, so many pleasant foolish jokes, for years -and I don't think that Rose had ever so distinguished herself in the domestic circle. She had been generally considered too old for fun among the children too dignified, more mamma's side-giving herself up to poetry and other such solemn occupations; but to-day the suppressed fountain burst forth. Even Mrs. Damerel did not escape the infection of that laughter which rang like silver bells. The deep mourning they all wore, the poor little rusty black frocks trimmed still with crape, perhaps reproached the laughter now and then; but fathers and mothers cannot expect to be mourned for a whole year, and, indeed, the rector, to these little ones at least, had not been much more than

a name.

on

Rose," said Mrs. Damerel, when the meal was over, and they had returned into the drawing-room, "I think we had better arrange to go up to town one of these days to see about your things I have been putting off, and putting off, on account of our poverty; but it is full time to think of your trousseau now."

Rose stood still as if she had been suddenly struck by some mortal blow. She looked at her mother with eyes opening wide, lips falling apart, and a sudden deadly paleness coming over her face. From the fresh sweetness of that rose tint which had come back to her she became all at once ashygray, like an old woman. “Mywhat, mamma?" she faltered, putting her hands upon the table to support herself. "I did not hear what you said."

"You'll find me in the garden, ladies, when you want me, said the curate, with a man's usual cowardice, "bolting" as he himself expressed it, through the open window.

Mrs. Damerel looked up from where she had seated herself at the table, and looked her daughter in the face.

"Your trousseau," she said, calmly,

"what else should it be?"

Rose gave a great and sudden cry. "That's all over, mamma, all over, is n't it?" she said, eagerly; then hastening round to her mother's side, fell on her knees by her chair, and caught her hand and arm, which she

embraced and held close to her breast. "Mamma! speak to me - it's all over - all over! You said the sacrifices we made would be required no longer. It is not needed any more, and it's all

Rose let her mother's hand go, bu she remained on her knees by the sid of the chair, as if unable to move looking up in Mrs. Damerel's fac with eyes twice their usual size.

"Then am I to be none the better -none the better?" she cried pite ously; "are they all to be saved, al rescued, except me?"

"Get up, Rose," said Mrs. Damerel impatiently," and do not let me hear any more of this folly. Saved! from an excellent man who loves you a great deal better than you deservefrom a lot that a queen might envyeverything that is beautiful and pleasant and good! You are the most ungrateful girl alive, or you would not venture to speak so to me."

Rose did not make any answer. She did not rise, but kept still by her mother's side, as if paralyzed. After a moment Mrs. Damerel, in angry impatience, turned from her and resumed her writing, and there the girl continued to kneel, making no movement, heart-stricken, turned into marble. At length, after an interval, she pulled timidly at her mother's dress, looking at her with eyes so full of entreaty, that they forced Mrs. Damerel, against her will, to turn round and meet that pathetic gaze.

66

66

-

Mamma," she said, under her breath, her voice having failed her, just one word is there no hope for me, can you do nothing for me? Oh, have a little pity! You could do some thing if you would but try."

"Are you mad, child?" cried the mother again - "do something for you? What can I do? You promised to marry him of your own will; you were not forced to do it. You told me you liked him not so long ago. How does this change the matter, except to make you more fit to be his wife? Are you mad?"

"Perhaps," said Rose softly; "if being very miserable is being mad, then I am mad, as you say."

"But you were not very miserable yesterday; you were cheerful enough." "Oh, mamma, then there was no hope," cried Rose, "I had to do it—

there was no help; but now hope has come - and must every one share it, every one get deliverance, but me?" "Rose," said Mrs. Damerel, "when you are Mr. Incledon's wife every one of these wild words will rise up in your mind and shame you. Why should you make yourself unhappy by constant discussions? you will be sorry enough after for all you have allowed yourself to say. You have promised Mr. Incledon to marry him, and you must marry him. If I had six times Uncle Edward's money it would still be a great match for you." "Oh, what do I care for a great match!'

"But I do," said Mrs. Damerel," and whether you care or not has nothing to do with it. You have pledged your word and your honor, and you cannot withdraw from them. Rose, your marriage is fixed for the end of July. We must have no more of this."

“Three months," she said, with a little convulsive shudder. She was thinking that perhaps even yet something might happen to save her in so long a time as three months.

Not quite three months," said Mrs. Damerel, whose thoughts were running on the many things that had to be done in the interval. "Rose, shake off this foolish repining, which is unworthy of you, and go out to good Mr. Nolan, who must be dull with only the children. Talk to him and amuse him till I am ready. I am going to take him up to Whitton to show him the house."

(To be continued.)

HIS TWO WIVES.1

BY MARY CLEMMER AMES.

CHAPTER XVII. SHUT IN THE CAPITOL.

AGNES could do naught but sit and hear the cruel words which smote her ears. They would penetrate through the little alcove in which she sat, and she could not leave it without being seen by the speakers. Presently she heard the click of the adjoining wicket and Cyril's voice again :

"The House adjourned earlier than I thought it would. Nugent is a droning bore. There were three refuges from him to call the previous question, to filibuster, or to adjourn. We were tired out and voted the latter. Nice for me. I've come to claim the honor and the pleasure"

"That awaits you on the East side," laughed Circe. "The carriage waits, my lord! We shall be only too happy, shall we not, Agatha?"

"Yes, indeed," chimed in another soft voice.

Agnes started to her feet. The impulse swept through her to pass out and confront them face to face as they left the alcove. She wanted Circe Sutherland to know that Cyril King's despised wife had heard every word that she had uttered.

Her feet had lost their cunning. She stood as one paralyzed. She could not move. The impulse to confront her rival was less powerful than her fear of Cyril. What would be the afterwards if she made an unpleasant scene for him in a public place? Perhaps she was just what Circe Sutherland said, poor, inferior in every way. She would confront her. She could

not him!

She sank back upon her chair, and as she did so the three passed out of the adjoining alcove. The light laugh, the voice cadence, deep and rich, and sweet and low, floated back to her as they went. She took down another book from the shelves and mechanically

1 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by H. O. HOUGHrow & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

turned over its leaves, but saw nothing on its pages. She was mentally stunned, like one not yet strong enough to react from a heavy blow. The just released members, eager to "read up" for a speech or a report, rushed through the space outside to the librarian's desk calling upon that gentle repository of forgotten lore to tell them what they wanted. Languid ladies turned over the leaves of the great catalogues in search of the latest novels; the readers clustered about the tables, seeking in silence the wisdom that they wanted. Through the great windows opposite, she could look out across an amphitheatre of space, and up into the empyrean. Through the blue-golden spaces stole the tremulous, ever-hovering purples, like opaline doves' necks' lustre. This purple haze hung above the city as it does above the hills of Rome. In the distance, the yellow walls of Arlington House seemed actually to shimmer through waves of amethystine mist. In the open vista wave on wave of light massed and rolled on with a delicacy of tint, a depth of hue, an immensity of volume, which no words can portray, and no eyes see otherwhere save in the intense refractions of polarized light on the Alpine glaciers. Agnes' eyes, resting on the great windows at last, saw all, noted all, and yet only as one would in a dream. She saw also the men and women moving softly to and fro, but saw them as one sees silent images. All the while thought, consciousness, intense and bitter, were busy within her.

66

alcove.

"It will be an unequal match" slowly said her soul, but I will try. I may be worsted at the last, but it shall not be without a struggle for what is mine. I'll not sink, repine, and let my all be taken from before my eyes without protest. If it is unequal, nevertheless it shall be battle." She did not look the least like a fighter of battles, even of the heart, as she sat there alone in the now shadowy alcove. The sea of color without now cast its waves of orange, purple, and gold against the western sky, till the Virginia hills looked like the emerald bastions of some flaming city of enchantment, whose transfusing hues were thrown backward, transfiguring in glory the city of the earth lying far below. They stole through the great windows of the Capitol; they laid their slanting bars of paling gold across the white face looking forth from the Agnes started and came back, she knew not from whence, to consciousness of the moment. Where was the silent throng that she gazed upon, as she thought, but a moment before? Where the gentlefaced librarian? Where her resolve to suffer? Yes, and to assert and be strong? She was alone. There was the young moon hanging its crest of light above the broad Potomac. There was Venus, pure and planand here was etary, resting above the western hillsshe, alone in the shadowy alcove. She must go to her children, to soft-eyed little Cyril, to happy, life-giving little Vida. Their father! Her heart gave one mighty throe, as if in an instant it would sink back, still, for"Cyril! How can you leave me!" it cried, true and tender no less for doubt and torture. "I must find you, Cyril;" and she essayed to rise and to go forth from the place in which she found herself. When she tried to stand, she began to realize the shock that she had received. It was with extreme difficulty that she bore her weight or took a single step, nor did she know, now, of the unconscious state into which she had passed, or realize aught of her present situation. She reached the ponderous outer door, and lifting her hand to move it on its ponderous hinges, found that it was locked.

ever.

Then came another shock of consciousness. She was in the Capitol alone! The hour for the closing of the library had long passed. She would have known that before if she could have thought of it. She uttered no cry. The benumbed condition of her nerves made it impossible that she should be wildly frightened. She looked back. Tier on tier above her and around her, arose the clustering volumes which shut in the philosophy and science, the wisdom and folly of the past and of the present. The mighty dead were with her; but the living, her living-save her children, was it not far better that she was where they were not? The twilight gold fused now the dim alcoves, the lofty aisles, the white colonnades without, the soft traceries within.

"I am not afraid," she murmured, "I am tired. Maybe God will let me sleep here and never wake not in this world—and in the other my children might come to me. I think God would let them come to their mother there. They would not need them here." and with these words exhausted physical nature again gave way, and softly as a child might sink to peaceful sleep upon the velvet turf without, Agnes sank down by the lofty bolted door of the inner Capitol, and with one grateful sigh passed out into the domain of peace which men call unconsciousness.

Far below her stretched the great hall which measures the Capitol from end to end. Without, in the dimness and silence, arose the Egyptian colonnades, the mighty shafts of stone which bear upon their tops the mightier mass of marble, and which seem strong enough to support the world. The gaslights flickered dimly on the walls of the vast Rotunda, on the historic pictures, on the solitary watchman pacing the stone floor in solemn guard. Vast and visionary were the vistas opening on in all directions. The jar and tumult of human life were still. The struggles of the nation had ceased for a night. So also had ceased for a night the struggles of one woman's heart, alone at rest within the Capitol, to her so dear.

Her husband was not thinking of her, not then. His intention when he left the Capitol, was to drive up the avenue with Circe Sutherland and her friend to their hotel, escort them to their parlor, and then return to his own lodgings to dine. How it chagrined him that he was not rich enough to keep a house in Washington! But his intentions were of no account whatever beside the wishes of Circe Sutherland.

"You will dine with us?" she cried. "Oh, do! Help us to forget the barbarism of our dinner. Can't you legislate for a national school of cooks? I assure you there is no institution that your country needs more. If anything could arouse them to civilization on such a subject, it would be such eloquence as yours. Ah! you won't have us forlornities to dine alone. How can you!"

"I can't. I didn't know one could dine alone at Willard's."

"Alone in crowds,' you know. I'd rather dine alone if I cannot dine with the one I want. I want you."

The last sentence, in the thrilling tone which always vibrated along the remotest chord in Cyril's heart, decided his stay.

A few moments later, he with his companions were the observed of all the great throng assembled in the dining-hall of Willard's, as they passed to the table always specially reserved for her, followed by the white

gloved servitor who had so often stood behind Cyril's chair in the luxurious dining-room of Circe's home.

Circe Sutherland was an empress of her class,- § class known in all the capitals of the world, and who nowhere attract more attention, win more admiration, and command more influence, than in the capital of the United States. This type of woman in the lower strata may merge into the adventuress, but at the summit of such a life she is both enchantress and queen. Her history perfectly known in her own home, in her bird of passage existence here is but dimly guessed at; all the mystery and romance born of this lack of knowl edge but deepens the interest felt in the beautiful unknown whenever she appears.

66

At present Circe Sutherland is the personal sensation of the season. Fabulous tales are told of her wealth, and the wildest romances are drifting about concerning her personal history. She does not escape the imputation of being "a lobbyist," the most potential member of the "Third House." She is engaged in pushing" privately immense personal and company claims through Congress. She is the secret ambassa dress of a foreign power. She is a beautiful gambler who is now sporting on the spoils she won at Baden Baden. She is the rich widow of an old planter who adored her, and who disinherited his children to lavish his vast fortune upon his youthful bride. She is not a widow at all. She is a divorced woman, and her poor husband is shut up in a lunatic asylum, a raving maniac because of her and of her heartless misdeeds. These are but a few of the tales concerning Circe Sutherland floating upon the surface of society. Her personal friends know that these stories all shoot wide of the mark of fact. Her own "set" know all about her, and that is quite sufficient for this daring but by no means reckless lady. She delights in free opinions, in "advanced ideas," when they suit her, but her fondness for them does not involve a risk of the surface proprieties of society, nor endanger for an instant her status in "high life." She would disdain personal ex planations to "the mob," but she is perfectly certain to keep right with her own. She would make her per sonal potency a lever any day to lift to a majority vote in Congress any claim or measure which a friend might have at heart, and so far join the lobby; but she would never do it for money, nor for anything but for love or friendship. Only in the same phase could she ever be a politician. It is for persons that she cares, not for principles. She despises republicanism, and is by every antecedent and instinct an aristocrat. She has a passion for freedom, but it is the freedom of the person, the class; not, through justice, of the family of man. No, if she believes through all her blood more in one thing than another, it is in masters and slaves; in her opinion, at least half of the human race was made for the other. She smiles when she hears that she is at the capital for any political design. She knows that she is here because Cyril King is here, and for no other cause whatsoever. Here, because it pleases her to be where she can see him, hear him, influence him, bask in the felicity of her power over him. No matter why she is here, her mere presence attracts attention and creates sensation. She is young, beautiful, and has no masculine escort. Yet she brings her own servants, drives her own horses, and her equipage on the avenue vies with those of the foreign ambassadors. If she does not set up her own private establishment it is because she does not want the

trouble, and because the caravansary and excitements of the great hotel for a few passing weeks pleases her better. Her appearance in the dining-hall, accompanied by her aunt and followed by her liveried lacquey, is always a signal for all eyes to turn and behold the fair sight. She seems ever oblivious to the universal concentrated gaze, and yet she is serenely conscious of it through every fibre.

There is more than the ordinary stir and hum this evening, as Cyril and Circe enter together. "The new member from " "Did you hear his speech this afternoon?” "The abolitionists have not got him after all." "What a couple!" "Is he married?" "Where's his wife?" These are but a few of the exclamations which follow their entrance. They sit long at the table, and at dessert the congratulations begun at the Capitol a few hours before, are continued. Southern member after Southern member comes up to Cyril, offers him his hand with hearty grasp, strikes him on his shoulder, perhaps, and tells him, "You are the right kind of Northern man! Just the kind we want." "Good for you! The best speech made this session." "Go on! Just such men as you are will save the country." After dinner the interest shifts to the parlors. "Honorable" gentlemen lead up their ladies" to introduce them to the eloquent young ally of Southern rights. Group after group gathers, till at last Cyril and Circe stand the central objects of admiration and worship to a gay and brilliant throng. It is one of those spontaneous levees which a popular man or woman can attract, in the public parlor of a Washington hotel, any evening in the gay season. The homage of the throng is fairly divided by the masculine and feminine worshippers. Nevertheless, Cyril, eager to bring fresh tribute to the charmer, asks her to play. In a few moments the wonderful voice floats down the long suite of rooms, accompanying the piano, and as both break into an inspiring waltz a little later, couple after couple swing out into the long area, and go floating down space in an improvised dance. The exhilaration is contagious. At last, looking at his watch, Cyril discovers that it is past eleven. He has not realized that he has been here an hour.

Fami

It was midnight when he drew near his lodgings. Cramped before, they seemed beggarly now. Why was he not born to better fortune, that he might live more in accordance with his tastes? His sensation was by no means an unusual one to a Congressional mind, as it draws near to its Capitolian lodgings. Average domestic life nowhere takes on such a pinched and shabby aspect as at the capital of this nation. lies accustomed to free space in their country homes, come hither to find themselves cramped into dingy little rooms and shabby parlors, decorated with the castoff curtains, carpets, and chairs of defunct administrations, the débris of the Departments, which make the legitimate spoil of boarding and lodging house keepers in Washington. These decorations, doing service through many seasons, serving many administrations, become the legitimate demesne of ancient vermin, which no human power can dislodge, they having climate as well as antiquity on their side. No less they serve the purpose of furniture to the modern Congressman and his unfortunate wife, whose dreams of splendor break into reality upon their shabby and shaky cushions, and disperse forever amid the conglomerate yet conflicting smells which penetrate every nook and cranny of the average Washington boarding-house.

The rooms of Lotusmere were by no means splendid, but they were spacious, airy, and simply elegant. Cyril need not have felt ashamed to have his most fastidious friend enter them; but these, inhabited at thrice the expense, he wanted no one to see. Circe Sutherland had again spoken of calling on Agnes. "It is my place to do so, you know," she said with her sweetest smile. 66 Etiquette demands that the stranger shall call first upon the member's wife. I shall be but too happy to call and make the acquaintance of Mrs. King."

"Not if I can help it," said Cyril to himself, as he let himself into his lodging-house by a pass-key, and was confronted at the door by much more than the smell of day before yesterday's soup. "Not if I can help it, till we keep house, and when can that be here, unless I make more money than my Congressional pay? A man hasn't any business in Congress unless he has a fortune, or can make one. Public virtue may be very fine in the abstract, a private purse full is finer in the concrete of one's pocket. Fifty thousand dollars if that claim wins, in my pocket. I'll do it. I'll tell Leach to-morrow that I'll do it. I'll have my house, and my carriage as well as the rest of them." Musing thus he slowly ascended the stairs.

66

My committee of course my committee-its bill so soon to be reported — it kept me. Couldn't possibly get home a minute sooner." This rapidly elaborated fiction was all ready for Agnes as he opened the door of the room in which he expected to find her. Instead, he saw only Linda there alone, sitting by little Cyril's bed, with Vida asleep upon her lap.

"She

"Where is Agnes?" asked Cyril with quick alarm. "I'm sure I don't know," was the answer. went up to the Capitol at one o'clock, to hear you make your speech. I would have liked to hear it, but as only one could go, of course it must be your wife."

"Of course," said Cyril mechanically, "but where is she, in Heaven's name! I haven't seen her since I saw her in the gallery, and it is midnight now."

"Well, if you haven't seen her, I'm sure I have not. The children cried themselves to sleep for her, though, which was unusual. Usually they are quite as contented with me.'

Cyril made no reply, but turned and went out. Agnes must be found, and that before morning. Was she lost? That was impossible. Had she harmed herself? That could not be. She had not the temperament to push her to the passionate extreme of self-destruction. Whatever burden was laid upon her she was more likely to bear it than to run from it. Even Cyril knew this. "But if evil has befallen her!" he thought with a pang, followed instantly with a throb that held at least one pulse of exultation - "if it has befallen her and could not be helped, I see the way straight to fortune and joy. But nothing has befallen her, and I am glad," he murmured in the same breath. "She is somewhere about the Capitol, I know, dazed, unconscious no doubt haven't I seen her so before? - but I'll find her, I am sure of it, though it will take about the rest of the night. An abolitionist! an abolitionist! What but perversity makes her that! My speech too powerful a pill no doubt. Well, she must get used to it or stay at home," he said, hardening under a sense of personal discomfort. He was tired by this time, and here he had to start out on foot, he knew not whither, to find his wife. There were no street cars then. He did not want to go for a carriage

at that hour of the night. There was but one thing left for him to do-to walk to the Capitol.

Even he, tired, anxious, perturbed, could not help being impressed by its significance as he approached it, the august Capitol rising white above the masses of dark foliage below, rising from its foundation hill till its dome seemed to fade against the stars.

He knocked against the locked door of the Rotunda. "Who is there?" asked the guard from within, unfastening the central door while uttering the question. “Oh," he said, lifting his hat as he recognized a member. "Have you forgotten anything, sir?"

66

No; but I'm afraid that my wife is here, somewhere. When not well she is sometimes subject to fits of unconsciousness. She came up here to-day and I have just discovered that she has not returned. She is very fond of the Congressional Library; she may be there. For Heaven's sake let us go and see." They stepped across the shadowy Rotunda, the watchman preceeding Cyril with a lantern; they passed the outer corridor and stood before the barred door of the Library. The watchman took down the bar. He then set the key in the great lock of the inside door. As he tried to open it, it seemed to strike an object inside, and opened no further; Cyril thrust his hand in and touched soft garments. Agnes!" The instinct which leads an animal across flood and field straight to the object of its search had brought him thither. Agnes!" A rustle, then a soft voice said, “Cyril.” "Agnes!" Somewhere amid its dreams the suspended soul heard the beloved voice, and came back in swift reply.

66

For a moment the day was forgotten. All she thought of was that Cyril, her Cyril had come after her. "How good of you," she murmured, "to come for me," as he slowly opened the door. "I wonder why I fell down here—oh, I know now," lifting up her hands deprecatingly as if to push the knowledge away.

"And I know too," said Cyril: "because you were a foolish little woman." When he began the sentence he did not think of what came up in his mind now - the scene in the alcove, his own visit to it. Was it possible Agnes was near enough to hear or to see him? But what of it, if she was? All that he said or did was perfectly proper. Of the conversation in the alcove, of course he did not dream.

"Never mind, Aggie," he hastened to say, "I have come after you to take you back to little Cyril and Vida. They wanted you so much, Linda said."

"Did she? I am ready, Cyril;" and he helped her to rise.

"Here," said Cyril to the watchman, dropping a silver coin into his hand. "Remember, there is to be nothing of this in the morning papers."

I am ready, Cyril," again, said Agues as she took his arm, and the husband and wife alone went out beneath the morning stars.

"It will be a battle both will fight according to their weapons, and but one can win," said Agnes resolutely to herself as she sat with her children the next day after her midnight sleep at the Capitol. When she awoke in the late morning Cyril had already gone to meet his committee. The Speaker of the House, to show his appreciation of the talented young member, had placed him on a very important committee. It consumed much of his time out of legislative hours, and was an ever ready covert for the unacknowledged ones which it did not consume.

(To be continued.)

It is only fair to Bathsheba to explain here a little fa which did not come to light till a long time afterwards that Troy's presentation of himself so aptly at the roadsid this evening was not by any distinctly preconcerted a rangement. He had hinted-she had forbidden; and was only on the chance of his still coming that she ha dismissed Oak, fearing a meeting between them just then She now sank down into a chair, wild and perturbed by all these new and fevering sequences. Then she jumped up with a manner of decision, and fetched her desk from side table.

In three minutes, without pause or modification, she had written a letter to Boldwood, at his address beyond Cas terbridge, saying mildly but firmly that she had well con sidered the whole subject he had brought before her and kindly given her time to decide upon; that her final decis ion was that she could not marry him. She had expressed to Oak an intention to wait till Bold wood came home be fore communicating to him her conclusive reply. Bu Bathsheba found that she could not wait.

It was impossible to send this letter till the next day yet to quell her uneasiness by getting it out of her hands, and so, as it were, setting the act in motion at once, she arose to take it to any one of the women who might be in the kitchen.

She paused in the passage. A dialogue was going on in the kitchen, and Bathsheba and Troy were the subject

of it.

"If he marry her, she'll gie up farming.”

""Twill be a gallant life, but may bring some trouble between the mirth - so say I."

66

Well, I wish I had half such a husband."

Bathsheba had too much sense to mind seriously what her servitors said about her; but too much womanly redundance of speech to leave alone what was said till it died the natural death of unminded things. She burst in upon them.

"Who are you speaking of?" she asked.

There was a pause before anybody replied. At last Liddy said, frankly, "What was passing was a bit of a word about yourself, miss."

"I thought so! Maryann and Liddy and Temperance - now I forbid you to suppose such things. You know I don't care the least for Mr. Troy not I. Everybody knows how much I hate him. Yes," repeated the froward young person," hate him!"

"We know you do, miss," said Liddy, "and so do we all."

"I hate him too," said Maryann.

"Maryann - oh, you perjured woman! How can you speak that wicked story!" said Bathsheba, excitedly. "You admired him from your heart only this morning in the very world, you did. Yes, Maryann, you know it!" "Yes, miss, but so did you. He is a wild scamp now, and you are right to hate him."

"He's not a wild scamp! How dare you to my face! I have no right to hate him, nor you, nor any body. But I am a silly woman. What is it to me what he is? You know it is nothing. I don't care for him; I don't mean to defend his good name, not I. Mind this, if any of you say a word against him you 'll be dismissed instantly."

She flung down the letter and surged back into the parlor, with a big heart and tearful eyes, Liddy following her. "Oh, miss!" said mild Liddy, looking pitifully into