My soul is sick, with every day's report

Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled."

COWPER.

MR. WHINFIELD was not in a very amiable mood, and evidently the Squire's last visit had occasioned some differences of opinion between them.

"My girl's mother," he said, "left me the use of her money till my death. She was a dear good soul, and things would have been different had she lived. Your father seemed to think I was going to make use of the money at Cicely's marriage. It isn't that at all. I'll give her five hundred pounds down, but she will have to wait till I am dead before she gets the bulk of the fortune. Now that's the state of the case; and I suppose if you live at the Manor, and share and share alike with your father, you'll do pretty well."

"Yes," Cuthbert said; "and, sir, I wish you to know money had no part in my seeking the hand of your daughter in marriage."

"Ah! well, well," said Mr. Whinfield incredulously, "you have got a prize, sir, and there's no mistake about it. The estate of Coltswood is entailed, I find, on the eldest son, and you are safe there. We'll manage to meet at the lawyer's in Bedford, say, next Saturday; and you must set your hand with your father's to this settlement. I consider I have acted handsomely, for I am not bound to give my girl a penny under her mother's settlement. She loved me, dear soul, a hundred times better than I deserved, I know that; and I've done my duty by her child. She has had a boarding-school education, and I'll match her against any young woman of her age for looks, and manners too. Although I don't see much use in religion, I've let her go to church once a week; and I go myself chiefly for her sake who is dead. I am no Methodist, sir, nor can I abide hypocrisy. I hate to see folks turning up the whites of their eyes, and praying in barns, and on cottage floors. They'd better be threshing the wheat in the barn-and scrubbing the floor of the cottages-that's my opinion. But I keep up a decent appearance here, no one can say the contrary; and my wife is just as particular as she ought to be, to go to her parish church once a week, like a Christian. I hate your strait-laced folk who like to see everyone going about like a mute at a funeral. Well, sir, tea will be ready, and we had better join the ladies. I don't object to a dish of tea when I am tired. The grog comes later."

Cuthbert lingered.

"Perhaps I ought to say, sir, that I am resolved, by God's help, to lead a very different life in future to the life which I have led in the past. I mean," he added bravely, "I hope to take my stand as a Christian, who sees in that word something above and beyond the mere name, and would fain be what it implies, a follower of Christ."

"Ah, I dare say you've been bitten by those prayer-meeting folk. It will soon wear off; you are too fine a fellow to cast in your lot with them. I am not afraid. Come, there's my girl calling us."

"Father, the urn is boiling, and the tea is in the pot; pray come !"

So they sat down to the social meal, which was then very different from the five o'clock teas of to-day. Hot cakes, jam, toast, and fresh butter, all tempted the appetite, and no one enjoyed the comfortable and well-appointed tea-table more than Cuthbert.

He was beginning to loath the smell of spirits, and turn away with disgust from the bottles of crusted port and dusty sherry which he had so continually to unearth from the Manor cellars.

Cicely went with Cuthbert to the gate when he had taken leave of Mr. and Mrs. Whinfield, and with the reins over his arm he led Kitty gently down the lane, Cicely walking quietly by his side, her hands clasped on his arm.

"What did father want to say to you?" she asked.

"It was a question of money, dear, at first.”

"Money! I shall have my mother's fortune." "Not at present; but what your father gives you is more than enough. Do not let this disturb you for a moment."

But Cicely was not satisfied.

"I shall speak to father about it. I do believe it is her doing. Oh! she would do anything to spite me."

"I hope it is not quite so bad as that, Cicely. Your father has given me a great gift in you; let

that suffice."

They were at the turning into the highroad now, where several crossways met. An old elm-tree stood there, its leaves all glistening with a glow-worm light in the western sunshine. Bright yellow patches on the lowest boughs told the tale of coming autumn, for the summer prime was over.

66

Farewell, sweetheart," Cuthbert said, bending over Cicely, and taking a last kiss. "Nothing can part us now?" he asked, half-questioning, halfassured what her answer would be.

"No," she said. "I am yours, whatever happens. But nothing disagreeable will happen. I like everything to be bright and pleasant; and so, good-bye." She disengaged herself from the clasp of his arm, and tripped away, turning back once to wave her hand, as he mounted Kitty, and rode slowly down

the far-stretching road, where the evening shadows were lying, and the call of the herdsmen driving the cows back to the rich pasture-land alone broke the stillness.

Mr. Crampton made himself at home at the Manor, and took everything as a matter of course. The Squire liked his company, for he never interfered with his second or third bottle. He played a good game of cards, and he was utterly indifferent to bad or good words. The servants, who had at first resented his presence, also came round to agree that he was a pleasant gentleman. Only old Giles held to the belief that he was an "artful one," and that folks with eyes close together always were hypocrites. Old Giles met a great deal of obloquy when this opinion of his was expressed, and Sam put it down to jealousy, for Giles was not the recipient of certain "douceurs" or "tips," as we should now say-which Sam often received for any little service rendered. There was something mysterious about Mr. Crampton. He received no letters and wrote none. He kept very much to the grounds of the Manor, very rarely going beyond the gates.

Indeed, he did not seem to like fresh air, and his town-made boots were ill-suited to the lanes and field-paths of the neighbourhood.

The Squire came back with Cuthbert from Bedford, where the lawyer had drawn up the deeds of settlement, in a very savage mood. He declared