The journey home that night, as Mr. Whiffle had suggested, was travelled in the company of the divinity student, who, as soon as he had succeeded in vanquishing to some degree his awkward bashfulness, entertained the young ladies with descriptions of sundry adventures which he had at various times experienced in the company of congenial spirits, always denominated as “fellows.” Maud listened with a well-affected interest, partly because she was in reality amused by the character being displayed before her, partly because Maud always paid deference to the convenances, and would not even have appeared rude to a chimney-sweep. Helen sat with her veil lowered, in absolute silence. She was unwilling to betray the disgust which she felt, but at the same time quite incapable of affecting an interest which she did not feel.

“I say, Miss Norman,” exclaimed Augustus, at one point in the conversation, or rather monologue, “it seems an awful time since we used to know each other so well, don’t it?”

“It does indeed seem a long time since I left Bloomford,” replied Helen.

The quiet, ladylike tone of her voice, having nothing in the least childish about it, somewhat repressed the young man’s conversational ardour. He gnawed the top of his cane for a moment, then renewed the attack.

“I say, Miss Norman, you remember the old parrot and the cat we used to laugh at?”

“Very well,” replied Helen. “The parrot still lives. I have brought her back to London with me.”

“I say, now! Think of that! It ‘ud puzzle a fellow’s brains now to calculate that old beast’s age; wouldn’t it, Miss Norman?”

“The bird must be very old.”

“I say, Miss Norman,” pursued the undaunted Augustus, after a little more gnawing of his cane, “do you remember that rummy little fellow that lived at the Rectory with you once — a rummy-looking cove, that bolted one morning, you know?”

“I remember him, quite well.”

“I say, did you ever hear any more of him, Miss Norman? He used to have lessons from the governor, I remember.”

“He was never heard of, I think,” replied Helen.

“What a rummy go! Drowned, I always said.”

Helen made no reply, and Augustus, after in vain endeavouring to renew the conversation, again turned to Maud, whose attention he continued to engage to the end of the journey. At the station he assisted his companions into a cab, and lingered about the door with some wild notion that he might be invited to accompany them home. Being deceived in his hope he walked away somewhat disconsolate; but rapidly recovering his spirits, as he reflected on the brilliant conversational powers he had exhibited, he forthwith made for the lodgings of a certain “fellow,” in whose company he spent the greater part of his time, and proceeded to detail in confidence the circumstances of his tête-à-tête which he professed to have held that afternoon with the charming daughter of “an awfully rich old cuss, the termination of which had been the acceptance of an offer of his heart and hand. On the strength of this, the pleasant “fellow” in question, who did not believe a word of the story, made bold to borrow a sovereign, which Augustus was ashamed to refuse, but the sure and certain loss of which he bitterly regretted.

“Well, Helen,” said Mr. Gresham, as the three sat together the same evening, “how did you find Bloomford?”

“Very much changed I thought, Mr. Gresham,” replied the girl.

“Or was the change in yourself, do you think?” pursued the artist.

“Possibly a little, but certainly not altogether.”

“How was it changed?”

“Bloomford itself was as beautiful as ever,” replied Helen, with some appearance of reluctance, “but the Rectory I scarcely recognised as my old home.”

“Ha! Has Mr. Whiffle been making alterations?” asked Mr. Gresham, who perfectly understood Helen’s meaning, but had a perverse delight in drawing her into more definite expressions.

“Oh, no; at least none that I noticed. I — I can scarcely say how it was changed. I think it is hardly as quiet and homelike as it used to be. There — there are many children about.”

“You went into the church, of course?”

“No,” replied Helen, sinking her head.

“Not! Now that was a pity. According to all accounts, Mr. Whiffle has made some charming alterations. I believe it is almost as pretty as a theatre,” he added, carefully watching Helen from beneath his heavy eyebrows.

“I feared it,” she replied, in a low voice, adding almost immediately, “I feel rather tired after the journey. Will you permit me to leave you to-night?”

“Certainly, Helen. You must not overtire yourself. Goodnight.”

Helen rose in her wonted graceful manner, shook hands with her guardian, kissed Maud, and left the room with a firm step, yet so light that it could not be heard.

Mr. Gresham was silent for a moment after her departure, apparently engaged in reading a periodical. Maud continued to work at a pencil-drawing which had held her attention from the foregoing conversation.

“Pallas seems a trifle out of sorts to-night,” said the former at length, throwing down his paper and speaking in the tone he usually adopted with his daughter, a half serious, half trifling tone very well adopted to the sceptical character of his remarks.

“Why do you call her Pallas?” asked Maud, quickly.

“Is she not in eye, in gait, in mien a young Pallas Athene? Let me tell you, Maud, if you practised before your glass a couple of hours a day you could never acquire the graceful dignity which Helen has from nature.”

“It is very unlikely that I should ever make the attempt,” replied Maud saucily. “But if I lack dignity I suppose I have something to make up for it. If Helen is Pallas Athene, what am I?”

“Neither Here nor Aphrodite, child, but just plain Maud Gresham; a girl not too pretty to be useful, not too witty to be talked to by a plain man of the world, and far from possessing too much reverence for the good-natured father who spoils her, like a fool as he is. You are not much like your mother, Maud.”

“So you often say, papa.”

“She was an angel, which you — I hope — are far from being; and the only mistake she ever made was in visiting earth to marry a man who had always been sceptical with regard to the existence of supernatural beings! You, I am glad to say, Maud, are decidedly of the earth earthy.”

“You are not flattering, papa.”

“I never am, my dear. But to return to our muttons. Why is Pallas out of sorts?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Possibly I can, but I wish for your opinion.”

“I will give it you then, papa. She went to Bloomford with a mind full of images of her past life, images which a reflection from the happiness of childhood made to glow with an unnatural splendour. I think the appearance of the country disappointed her a little, after the scenes she has been accustomed to, but still more the people she saw there. She expected, I fancy, to behold her ideal of a country clergyman, an exalted combination of Chaucer’s and Goldsmith’s good parsons. Instead of that she found a — but you know Mr. Whiffle, papa.”

“Never mind, Maud. What did she find?” asked her father, regarding her with a malicious slyness.

“I say, you know Mr. Whiffle, papa, or, at all events, once knew him.”

“And I say never mind, Miss Gresham. What did she find?”

“Well, if you will have me say it, a ridiculous old busy-body, possessed of about as much common-sense and good-feeling as the hassock he kneels upon, and as much entitled to the epithet of reverend as — as I am.”

“You progress in the art of epigram, Maud,” said her father, looking rather pleased. “Did old Whiffle discuss the Rubric at large?”

“He favoured us with not a few remarks thereon.”

“And Pallas appeared disgusted?”

“Supremely so.”

“Pained, too, no doubt, poor child. However, I hoped it would happen so. A few more visits to a few more such parsons and she would be almost cured of her mania, I fancy.”

“You speak too disrespectfully of Helen, papa. Her convictions are independent of such influences as those.”

“You think so? Why, you are becoming an idealist all at once, Maudie.”

“I have much more of the idealist in my temperament than you dream of, papa,” returned the young lady, rising with a smile. “Pray don’t think I am so sunk in the mud of scepticism as you are.”

“Ho, ho! What are your ideals, Maudie?” cried Mr. Gresham, with jocose mockery.

“A calm domestic life, in which the passion of love interferes as little as that of hate; and at the end of it a sudden, unanticipated and painless death.”

Mr. Gresham looked up at his daughter with something of natural surprise, not being quite sure whether she were in earnest or not. She seemed to be so.

“I tell you what it is, Miss Gresham,” he returned, as he rose from his chair, “I shall begin to fear presently that I have been nurturing a species of female Mephistopheles. Do you entertain any opinions on the subject of patricide?”

“The subject has not yet come within my thoughts,” returned the girl, with a slight shrug.

“Indeed! When you begin your speculations thereon perhaps you will be so good as to favour me with notice of the fact. The prospect of being kept rather too long out of her inheritance might excite curious designs in the mind of such a very idealistic young lady.”

“Oh, don’t fear, papa,” called out Maud, as they parted at the door. “When the time comes, your death shall be as painless as that I hope for myself.”

During the next few weeks Helen lived an extremely retired life. Mr. Gresham had assigned to her use an elegant little parlour, and from this she so............