Mary did not wonder at Marston’s silence. She imagined that perhaps he had been sobered by being cast on shore so unceremoniously, and thought but little more of it. Then she dressed for dinner, and went and stood in one of the deep windows of the hall, looking out.

The great fire which leapt and blazed in the hall chimney was fast superseding the waning daylight outside. It was very pleasant to look at the fire, and the firelight on wall and ceiling, on antler and armour, and then to get behind the curtain and look out into the howling winters evening, over the darkening raging sea, and the tossing trees, and think how all the boats were safe in, and the men sitting round the pleasant fires with their wives and children, and that the dogs were warm in the kennels, and the horses in the stable; and to pity the poor birds, and hope they had good warm nooks and corners to get to; and then to think of the ships coming up the channel, and hope they might keep a good offing.

This brought her to thinking, for the first time, of her own little self — how, so many years ago, she had been cast up like a little piece of seaweed out of that awful cean. She thought of the Warren Hastings, and how she and Charles, on summer-days, when out gathering hells on the rocks, used to look over to where the ship lay beneath the sea, and wonder whereabout it was. Then she had a kindly smile on her face as she thought of Mr. Archer, the brave and good (now I am happy to say Captain Archer), and looked over the hall to a hideous and diabolical graven image, which he had sent the year before, among some very valuable presents, and had begged her to be particularly careful of, as he had risked his life in getting it; and which she and Charles had triumphantly placed in the hall, and maintained there, too, in spite of the sarcasms of Father Mackworth, and the pious horror of the servants and villagers. And so she went on thinking — thinking of her dead parents, of the silence maintained by her relations, of old Densil’s protection, and then of the future. That protection must cease soon, and then —

A governess! There were many stories about governesses not being well treated. Perhaps it was their own fault, or they were exceptional cases. She would like the nursery best, and to keep away from the drawingroom altogether! “ Yes,” she said, “I will make them love me; I will be so gentle, patient, and obliging. I am not afraid of the children — I know I can win them — or of my mistress much; I believe I can win her. I am most afraid of the superior servants; but, surely, kindness P“d submission will win them in time.

“My sheet-anchor is old Lady Ascot. She got very fond of me during that six months I staid with her; and she is very kind. Surely she will get me a place where I shall be well treated; and, if not, why then — I shall only be in the position of thousands of other girls. I must fight through it. There is another life after this.

“It will be terribly hard parting from all the old friends though! After that, I think I shall have no heart left to suffer with. Yes; I suppose the last details of the break-up will be harder to bear than anything which will follow. That will tear one’s heart terribly. That over, I suppose my salary will keep me in drawing materials, and give rue the power, at every moment of leisure, of taking myself into fairyland.

“I suppose actual destitution is impossible. I should think so. Yes, yes; Lady Ascot would take care of that. If that were to come though? They say a girl can always make fourpence a day by her needle. How I would fight, and strive, and toil! And then how sweet death would be!”

She paused, and looked out on the darkened ocean. “And yet,” she thought again, “I would follow — follow him to the world’s end:—

“’ Across the hills, and far away,

Beyond their utmost purple rim; Beyond the night, across the day, The happy princess followed him.’ ”

A door opened into the hall, and a man’s step was on he stone-floor: she raised the curtain to see who it was. It was Marston; and he came straight towards her, and stood beside her, looking out over the wild stormy landscape.

“Miss Corby,” he said, “I was coming to try and find you.”

“You were very lucky in your search,” she said, smiling on him. “I was alone here with the storm; and, if I had not raised the curtain, you would never have seen me. How it blows! I am glad you are not out in this. This is one of your lucky days.”

“I should be glad to think so. Will you listen to me for a very few minutes, while I tell you something?”

“Surely,” she said. “Who is there that I would sooner listen to?”

“I fear I shall tire your patience now, though. I am a comparatively poor man.”

“And what of that, my dear Mr. Marston? You are rich in honour, in future prospects. You have a noble future before you.”

“Will you share it, Mary?”

“Oh! what do you mean?”

“Will you be my wife? I love you beyond all the riches and honours of the world — I love you as you will never be loved again. It is due to you and to myself to say that, although I call myself poor, I have enough to keep you like a lady, and all my future prospects beside. Don’t give me a hasty answer, but tell me is it possible you can become my wife?”

“Oh, I am so sorry for this!” said poor Mary. “I never dreamt of this. Oh, no! it is utterly and entirely impossible, Mr. Marston — utterly and hopelessly impossible! You must forgive me, if you can; but you must never, never think about me more.”

“Is there no hope?” said Marston.

“No hope, no hope!” said Mary. “Please never think about me any more, till you have forgiven me; and then, with your children on your knee, think of me as a friend who loves you dearly.”

“I shall think of you till I die. I was afraid of this: it is just as I thought.”

“What did you think?”

“Nothing — nothing! Will you let me kiss your hand?”

“Surely; and God bless you!”

“Are we to say goodbye for ever, then?” said poor Marston.

“I hope not. I should be sorry to think that,” said poor Mary, crying. “But you must never speak to me like this again, dear Mr. Marston. God bless you, once more!”

Charles was dressing while this scene was going on, and was thinking, while brushing his hair, what there was for dinner, and whether there would be a turbot or not, and whether the cook would send in the breast of the venison. The doe, Charles sagely reflected, had been killed five days before, and the weather had been warm: surely That Woman would let them have the breast. He was a fool not to have told her of it in the morning before he went out; but she was such an irate old catamaran that she very likely wouldn’t have done it. “There was no greater mistake,” this young Heliogabalna proceeded to remark, than “hanging your breasts too long. Now, your haunch, on the other hand — ” but we cannot follow him into such a vast and important field of speculation. “There would be a couple of cocks, though — pretty high, near about the mark ”

The door opened, and in walked Father Mackworth.

“Hallo, Father!” said Charles, “how are you? Did you hear of our spill today? We were deuced near done for, I assure you.”

“Charles,” said the priest, “your nature is frank and noble. I was in terror today lest you should go to your account bearing me malice.”

“A Ravenshoe never bears malice, Father,” said Charles.

“A Ravenshoe never does, I am aware,” said Father Mackworth, with such a dead equality of emphasis, that Charles could not have sworn that he laid any on tin-word “Ravenshoe.”

“But I have got an apology to make to you, Father,” said Charles: “I have to apologize to you for losing my temper with you the other day, and breaking out into I can’t say what tirade of unjust anger. I pray you t<> forgive me. We don’t love one another, you know. How can we? But I behaved like a blackguard, as I always do when I am in a passion. “Will you forgive me?&............