John Marston’s first disappointment in life had been his refusal by Mary. He was one of those men, brought up in a hard school, who get, somehow, the opinion that everything which happens to a man is his own fault. He used to say that every man who could play whist could get a second if he chose. I have an idea that he is in some sort right. But he used to carry this sort of thing to a rather absurd extent. He was apt to be hard on men who failed, and to be always the first to say, “If he had done this, or left that alone, it would not have been so,” and he himself, with a calm clear brain and perfect health, had succeeded in everything he had ever tried at, even up to a double first. At one point he was stopped. He had always given himself airs of superiority over Charles, and had given him advice, good as it was, in a way which would have ruined his influence with nine men out of ten; and suddenly he was brought up. At the most important point in life, he found

Charles his superior. Charles had won a woman’s love without knowing it, or caring for it; and he had tried for it, and failed.

John Marston was an eminently noble and high-minded man. His faults were only those of education, and his faults were very few. When he found himself rejected, and found out why it was so — when he found that he was no rival of Charles, and that Charles cared naught for poor Mary — he humbly set his quick brain to work to find out in what way Charles, so greatly his inferior in intellect, was superior to him in the most important of all things. Tor he saw that Charles had not only won Mary’s love, but the love of every one who knew him: whereas he, John Marston, had but very few friends.

And, when he once set to work at this task, he seemed to come rapidly to the conclusion that Charles was superior to him in everything except application. “And how much application should I have had,” he concluded, “if I had not been a needy man?”

So you see that his disappointment cured him of what was almost his only vice — conceit. Everything works together, for good, for those who are really good.

Hitherto, John Marston had led only the life that so many young Englishmen lead — a life of study, combined with violent, objectless, physical exertion, as a counterpoise. He had never known what enthusiasm was as yet. There was a vast deal of it somewhere about him; in his elbows, or his toes, or the calves of his legs, or somewhere, as events prove. If I might hazard an opinion, I should say that it was stowed away somewhere in that immensely high, but somewhat narrow forehead of his. Before he tried love-making, he might have written the calmest and most exasperating article in the Saturday Review. But, shortly after that, the tinder got a-fire; and the man who set it on fire was his uncle Smith, the Moravian missionary.

For this fellow. Smith, had, as we know, come home from Australia with the dying words of his beautiful wife ringing in his ears: “Go home from here, my love, into the great towns, and see what is to be done there.” And he had found his nephew, John Marston, And, while Marston listened to his strange wild conversation, a light broke in upon him. And what had been to him merely words before this, now became glorious, tremendous realities.

And so those two had gone hand in hand down into the dirt and the profligacy of Southwark, to do together a work the reward of which comes after death. There are thousands of men at such work now. We have no more to do with it than to record — the fact, that these two were at it heart and hand.

John Marston’s love for Mary had never waned for one instant. When he had found that, or thought he had found that, she loved Charles, he had in a quiet, dignified way, retired from the contest. He had determined that he would go away and work at ragged schools, and so on, and try to forget all about her. He had begun to fancy that his love was growing cool, when Lord Saltire’s letter reached him, and set it all a-blaze again.

This was unendurable — that a savage, from the southern wilds, should step in like this, without notice. He posted off to Casterton.

Mary was very glad to see him; but he had proposed to her once, and, therefore, how could she be so familiar with him as of yore 1 Notwithstanding this, John was not so very much disappointed at his reception; he had thought that matters were even worse than they were.

After dinner, in the drawingroom, he watched them together. George Corby was evidently in love. He went to Mary, who was sitting alone, the moment they came from the dining-room. Mary looked up, and caught his eyes as she approached; but her eyes wandered from him to the door, until they settled on John himself She seemed to wish that he would come and talk to her. He had a special reason for not doing so; he wanted to watch her and George together. So he stayed behind, and talked to Lord Hainault.

Lord Saltire moved np beside Lady Ascot. Lady Hainault had the three children — Archy in her lap, and Gus and Flora beside her. In her high and mighty way, she was amusing them, or rather trying to do so. Lady Hainault was one of the best and noblest women in the world, as you have seen already; but she was not an amusing person. And no one knew it better than herself. Her intentions were excellent: she wanted to leave Mary free from the children until their bed-time, so that she might talk to her old acquaintance, John Marston; for, at the children’s bed-time, Mary would have to go with them. Even Lady Hainault, determined as she was, never dared to contemplate putting those children to bed without Mary’s assistance. She was trying to tell them a story out of her own head, but was making a dreadful mess of it; and she was quite conscious that Gus and Flora were listening to her with contemptuous pity.

So they were disposed. Lord Saltire and Lady Ascot were comfortably out of hearing. We had better attend to them first, and come round to the others afterwards.

Lady Ascot began. “James,” she said, “it is perfectly evident to me that you sent for John Marston.”

“Well, and suppose I did?” said Lord Saltire.

“Well, then, why did you do so?”

“Maria,” said Lord Saltire, “do you know that sometimes you are intolerably foolish? Cannot you answer that question for yourself?"

“Of course I can,” said Lady Ascot.

“Then why the deuce did you ask me?”

That was a hard question to answer, but Lady Ascot said:

“I doubt if you are wise, James. I believe it would be better that she should go to Australia. It is a very good match for her.”

“It is not a good match for her,” said Lord Saltire, testily. “To begin with, first cousin marriages are an invention of the devil. Third and lastly, she sha’n’t go to that infernal hole. Sixthly, I want her, now our Charles is dead, to marry John Marston; and, in conclusion, I mean to have my own way.”

“Do you know,” said Lady Ascot, “that he proposed to her before, and was rejected?”

“He told me of it the same night,” said Lord Saltire. “Now, don’t talk any more nonsense, but tell me this, Is she bitten with that young fellow 1 ”

“Not deeply, as yet, I think,” said Lady Ascot.

“Which of them has the best chance?” said Lord Saltire.

“James,” said Lady Ascot, repeating his own words.

“do you know that sometimes you are intolerably foolish? How can I tell?”

“Which would you bet on, Miss Headstall?” asked Lord Saltire.

“Well! well!” said Lady Ascot, “I suppose I should bet on John Marston.”

“And how long are you going to give Sebastopol, Lord Hainault?” said John Marston.

“What do you think about the Greek Kalends, my dear Marston?” said Lord Hainault.

“Why, no. I suppose we shall get it at last. It won’t do to have it said that England and France — ”

“Say France and England just now,” said Lord Hainault.

“No, I will not. It must not be said that England and France could not take a Black Sea fortress.”

“We shall have to say it, I fear,” said Lord Hainault. “I am not quite sure that we English don’t want a thrashing.”

“I am sure we do,” said Marston. “But we shall never get one. That is the worst of it.”

“My dear Marston,” said Lord Hainault, “you have a clear head. Will you tell me this? Do you believe that Charles Ravenshoe is dead?”

“God bless me. Lord Hainault, have you any doubts?”

“Yes.”

“So have I,” said Marston, turning eagerly towards him. “I thought you had all made up your minds. If there is any doubt, ought we not to mention it to Lord Saltire?”

” I think that he has doubts himself. I may tell you-that he has secured to him, in case of his return, eighty thousand pounds.”

“He would have made him his heir, I suppose,” said John Marston; “would he not?”

“Yes; I think I am justified in saying yes.”

“And so all the estates go to Lord Ascot in any case?”

“Unless in case of Charles’s reappearance before his death; in which case, I believe he would alter his will.”

“Then, if Charles be alive, he had better keep out of Lord Ascot’s way on dark nights, in narrow lanes,” said John Marston.

“You are mistaken there,” said Lord Hainault, thoughtfully. “Ascot is a bad fellow. I told him so once in public, at the risk of getting an awful thrashing. If it had not been for Mainwaring, I should have had sore bones for a twelvemonth. But — but — well, I was at Eton with Ascot, and Ascot was and is a great blackguard. But, do you know, he is to some a very affectionate fellow. You know he was adored at Eton.”

“He was not liked at Oxford,” said Marston. “I never knew any good of him. He is a great rascal.”

“Yes,” said Lord Hainault, “I suppose he is what you would call a great rascal. Yes; I told him so, you know. And I am not a fighting man, and that proves that I was strongly convinced of the fact, or I should have shirked my duty. A man in my position don’t like to go down to the House of Lords with a black eye. But I doubt if he is capable of any deep villany yet. If you were to say to me that Charles would be unwise to allow Ascot’s wife to make his gruel for him, I should say that I agreed with you.”

“There you are certainly right, my lord,” said John Marston, smiling. “But I never knew Lord Ascot spare either man or woman.”

“That is very true,” said Lord Hainault. “Do you notice that we have been speaking as if Charles Ravenshoe were not dead?”

“I don’t believe he is,” said John Marston.

“Nor I, do you know,” said Lord Hainault; “at least only half. What a pair of ninnies we are. Only ninety men of the 140th came out of that Balaclava charge. If he escaped the cholera, the chances are in favour of his having been killed there.”

“What evidence have we that he enlisted in that regiment at all?”

“Lady Hainault’s and Mary’s description, of his uniform, which they never distinctly saw for one moment,” said Lord Hainault. “Voila tout!”

“And you would not speak to Lord Saltire?”

“Why, no. He sees all that we see. If he comes back, he gets eighty thousand pounds. It would not do either for you or me to press him to alter his will. Do you see?”

“I suppose you are right, Lord Hainault. Things cannot go very wrong either way. I hope Mary will not fall in love with that cousin of hers,” he added, with a laugh.

“Are you wise in persevering, do you think?” said Lord Hainault, kindly.

“I will tell you in a couple of days,” said John Marston. “Is there any chance of seeing that best of fellows, William Ravenshoe, here?”

“He may come tumbling up. He has put off his bedding in consequence of the death of his half-brother. I wonder if he was humbugged at Varna.”

“Nothing more likely,” said Marston. “Where is Lord Welter?”

“In Paris — plucking geese.”

Just about this time all the various groups in the drawingroom seemed to come to the conclusion that a time had arrived for new combinations, to avoid remarks,

So there was a regular puss-in-the-corner business. John Marston went over to Mary; George Corby came to Lord Hainault; Lord Saltire went to Lady Hainault, who had Archy asleep in her lap; and Gus and Flora went to Lady Ascot.

“At last, old friend,” said Mary to John Marston. “And I have been watching for you so long. I was afraid that the time would come for the children to go to bed, and that you would never come and speak to me.”

“Lord Hainault and I were talking politics,” said Marston. “That is why I did not come.”

“Men must talk politics, I suppose,” said Mary. “But I wish you had come while my cousin was here. He is so charming. You will like him.”

“He seems to be a capital fellow,” said Marston.

“Indeed he is,” said Mary. “He is really the most loveable creature I have met for a long time. If you would take him up, and be kind to him, and show hint life, from the side from which you see it, you would be doing a good work. And you would be obliging me. And I know, my dear friend, that you like to oblige me.”

“Miss Corby, you know that I would die for you.”

“I know it. Who better? It puzzles me to know what I have done to earn such kindness from you. But t............