Under St Paul's: A Romance

CHAPTER IX.
AFTER THE DAWN

'Miss Gordon! Miss Gordon, child, what have you been doing to yourself? What have you been doing?' 'I sat up late last night, O'Connor. What o'clock is it?' 'Sat up late! Why, you haven't been in bed at all. The bed isn't tossed. It's eight o'clock. What made you sit up last night? Why, there's your colour all gone!' 'Yes, the colour is gone out of the sky, O'Connor. I sat and watched all night, and then at dawn the colour came behind the dome, and all at once something burst upon me. It was like the conversion of Paul. I feel as if I had been received back into peace and quietness. But I am tired still-tired still, and I want to rest.' 'Then let me help you to take off your things, child, and lie down for a few hours. I'll bring you some tea and toast. Let me help you to lie down and rest yourself.' 'I am resting; I have been resting ever since dawn.' 'Resting! A nice way you rest yourself, on a straight-backed cane chair! Come, let me help you to take off your things.' 'No, O'Connor, I shall not lie down now. I thought in the night I should not go to breakfast, but I have changed my mind.' 'Maybe you'd like to go down to breakfast as you are, miss?' 'How do you mean?' 'Pale as a ghost, and in that low dress.' 'I don't care about my cheeks. Of course I must change the dress.' 'You don't care about your cheeks, miss! Well, then, I do; and you must not go down as you are. You must go to bed.' 'O'Connor!' 'Miss!' 'Help me to change. I'll wear that russet.' 'I'll have neither hand, act, nor part in it. You must go to bed. If you don't go of your own free will, I'll ask Mrs Barclay to send for a doctor. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!' 'O'Connor, I desire you to do what I tell you at once.' 'Miss Gordon, I'm not joking. I'll have no hand, act, or part in it!' 'O'Connor, I will not have this everlasting stubbornness on your part. It is more than I can bear. Get me that russet morning-gown.' 'You won't have me, Miss Gordon? Very well. You know what you have to do if you won't have me, Miss Gordon. Pay me my wages, and let me go back to Cork. Cork is good enough for me. You're a lady, a real lady, and I never said anything else of you, to your face or behind your back. Cork mightn't be to your liking; but it's good enough for the like of me; so pay me and let me go.' 'How many more of these tiresome scenes are we to have before we part?' 'Pay me my money, and this will be the last. Give me what you owe me, and I'll put the salt sea between you and me. I'm not good enough for the grandeur of London and foreign places; but Cork will be proud to have me, and it's good enough for me; so if it's pleasing to you I'll go.' 'It is not pleasing to me you should go. And it is not pleasing to me you should lose your temper, O'Connor.' 'Lose my temper! There's for you! Lose my temper! Why, was it I offered to go down to breakfast after being up all night and looking like a ghost, instead of going to bed and resting until the roses came back again? Do I ever want to put on dresses that make me look a fright? Do I ever open my window of winter nights, and sit at it for hours? Do I ever give all my good stockings to a lying beggar, and wear my old darned ones a month longer? Do I ever forget to complain about the boots cutting my French thirty-shilling shoes? Temper, indeed! Well, if they can't stand my temper in foreign places they can in Cork.' 'O'Connor, I have not been to bed all night. I do not feel very strong now, and this is too much for me.' 'Eh?' 'I do not feel strong.' 'Then, child, why don't you lie down?' 'I want you, O'Connor, not to cross me to-day. I am not very strong now, and I have had great trouble.' 'Not well, and in great trouble! Child, child, why didn't you say that before? Trouble, trouble! Tell me all about it, child.' 'I don't know that I can. It didn't seem trouble at the time; but now I feel as if I had had a great deal of trouble lately.' 'Through me, child? Is it through my wilful and foolish ways? You ought to be used to them now. Sure you know I wouldn't vex you for all the world, only to do you good.' 'No, no, no! it isn't you, O'Connor, but myself. I have been the cause of a great deal of trouble to myself.' 'In what way, child? I'll pin a collar on the russet before you put it on. I'll be ready with it in a minute. Tell me all.' 'You are a good Roman Catholic, O'Connor!' 'I don't know about the good; but I was brought up a Catholic, and I am a Catholic still.' 'And you never have been anything else?' 'No, never, miss. But what has that to do with your trouble? You don't want me to turn? You don't think I haven't a proper respect for my mistress because she is not the same as myself?' 'No, no. But then, O'Connor, you cannot understand my trouble. I was brought up in the Church-the Church of England-but of late years I have not gone, as you know, to any place of worship. I did not do it out of silliness, or even out of want of faith; but being a good deal in places where no Church of England service was to be found, I began to think going of no great consequence, and in the end I thought it of no consequence at all.' 'And what trouble are you in now?' 'Well, something has happened, and it has all come back to me at once; and I feel greatly distressed when I think of the years I have neglected such a serious matter.' 'And is this sorrow the trouble you speak of? There's the russet gown all right now, child.' 'Thank you, O'Connor. Yes, it is.' 'But if you are sorry for it all now, aren't you taught as well as we that you'll be let off?' 'Yes. But that is not enough. I am not only sorry, but I am horrified also. It is so dreadful, O'Connor, to think of the horrid, wicked life I have led.' 'Horrid, wicked life, indeed! Horrid, wicked life! Why, when you die, they ought, if they knew their manners, to put you in the litany of the saints. They must have very little to do with their time if they can bring up anything against you, child. And even if they did find one little fault, I am sure-and I know you better than anyone, – that all the poisoned impudence you have taken from me, and all the goodness you have done for me, would not only clear you, but that they could make a very good saint out of the leavings.' 'Yes, but I feel so tired.' 'Well then, child, don't go down to breakfast, but let me bring some up to you.' 'I don't mean that kind of tired. I mean tired in my mind. Tired of all that has been, of all my old frivolous ways and my thoughtlessness.' 'Faith, and your ways were very becoming, at least so a great lot of gentlemen thought. Now that you have taken to serious ways, maybe you'll end by marrying a parson.' 'I could not endure a parson.' 'Even if he was like Mr Osborne?' 'Mr Osborne! What made you think of Mr Osborne?' 'Oh, I don't know. You seem to like him well enough; and if he only had a white choker, I daresay you'd like him better.' 'I should not.' 'Well then, you're giving that young man a very good chance of breaking his heart, anyway.' 'O'Connor, what do you mean?' 'Oh, it's all very fine for you to let on you don't know. You have been all over London with him, and the blind would see he worships the ground under your feet. You never carried on like this before.' 'O'Connor, I cannot allow you to say such things. You have no right to say such things. I have a great respect for Mr Osborne, and I have taken a great fancy to his lovely sister. He is a very wise man-' 'And a very good-looking young man too. Now you have taken a serious notion, and are going about so much with Mr Osborne, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you went off to church with him to St Paul's next Sunday. There, you may go down now. That's the bell. You are a regular fright, but you're the best I can make of you.'

CHAPTER X.
AN IDLE DAY

All at the breakfast-table remarked Miss Gordon's pallor. Osborne was shocked by it. Mrs Barclay exclaimed, 'What is the matter with you, Miss Gordon? You look as if you had had no sleep.' 'I have had no sleep,' she said gravely, as she sat down. 'No sleep! What was the matter? Are you not well?' 'I am quite well, thank you. I did not feel sleepy. I couldn't sleep. That is all.' 'Bless my soul!' cried Nevill. 'Miss Gordon, what an extraordinary thing to find a great traveller like you cannot sleep! I can scarcely believe it. I thought travellers were commanders-in-chief of sleep. I have never yet been beaten by sleep. I've slept in every conceivable place, and in every conceivable circumstances you could think of. Attitude is nothing to me. You hear of people composing themselves to sleep. I never do anything of the kind. I think I should like to sleep, and before I have taken the unnecessary precaution of closing my eyes, I've got a nightmare. I have slept in the tops of a ship. I have slept soaking in six inches of brine in a salt-mine. I have slept on the prairie, and in the tender of a railway engine. I have slept in a museum with one of the Pharaohs. I've had a good eight hours on the demonstration-table of a dissecting-room with an intact subject. I've slept in wigwams, and I've slept in the nobbiest beds they make up in 'Frisco. I've slept in the stokehole of a steamboat, and up to my neck in the crevasse of a glacier. I can doze while I'm diving under water, or while I am riding a steeplechase. Bless my soul, to think a great traveller like you could not sleep!' She looked him full in the face as she said, – 'I am not travelling now. Perhaps that may account for my sleeplessness.' 'Not travelling! Well, if you split hairs you may say you are not at the moment travelling. You are not at the moment in motion. But you are to all intents and purposes travelling.' 'But suppose I do not at this moment consider myself a traveller. Suppose, although I have gone about a good deal in the past, I have formed no resolution of continuing to move about, would you, Mr Nevill, still consider me entitled to all the privileges of a traveller to sleep?' 'The case does not apply. You have not given up the road. Have you?' 'That is an indirect answer.' Then for one brief instant she glanced at Osborne, and looked back at Nevill again. 'Ah, who can tell what any of us shall not do some day?' 'What do you intend to do to-day, Miss Gordon?' asked Mrs Barclay from the head of the table. 'I intend staying indoors to-day. I have a lot of tidying and putting away to do, and I want to make a list of a few things I require.' Osborne looked across the table reproachfully at her. She did not raise her eyes to his. What a change had taken place in this girl during the past twelve hours! When he said good-night to her after the concert her eyes were full of soft fire, her cheek glowed, her voice was like a caress. Now her eyes were weary, her colour gone, her voice full of suffering. What could have happened to his darling-his idol? She was perfect still, but something had been lost. How was this? Perfection meant the possession of all the constituent parts. Here was perfection still, and yet something was missing. Then he put the matter poetically to himself. 'Yesterday I saw this perfect landscape by sunlight. I am now looking at it by moonlight. It remains perfect under either light. Which do I prefer it by? I cannot say. I am more familiar with the fuller light. Which is the lovelier I cannot tell. What does she mean by saying she will stay indoors all day? She promised me I should see her and be with her all the month. She is not going to break her word, and rob my life for a whole day of all it now has in the world? I cannot, I will not endure that. What should I do all day long without her? I could rest neither in nor out of doors. Can she not get her maid to do this wretched drudgery for her? I envy any person or place that takes away from me any particle of her time. How is it to be with us? How is it to be with me? If I cannot bear the loss of her now for a few hours, how could I endure to lose her altogether? No, no, no; I cannot, I must not lose her altogether. Nothing shall take her from me. She must be mine, mine, mine! O glorious hope, bold certainty, essential bliss!' Nevill burst in with 'Now, can anything be more provoking than the position in which you have placed us, Miss Gordon? Here is Miss Osborne, the very embodiment of amiability, who has declared she will enter into no scheme until you are consulted; here is Mr Osborne, the very embodiment of amiability, has declared he will enter into no scheme until you are consulted; and here am I, the very embodiment of amiability, who have declared I will wait until you come down, and abide by your decision. And when you do come down, your decision is to convert your room into a kind of nunnery, and hide yourself behind its blinds. For sordid selfishness, I never heard of a meaner programme.' She smiled faintly. 'What am I to do? I have had no sleep. You all tell me I am looking like a ghost. I do not feel lively. I should be a drag on any party. What better can I do than be stupid all to myself?' 'But if you resolve to be stupid all to yourself, you interfere with our arrangements, and impose stupidity upon us. What do you say, Miss Osborne?' 'I really don't know,' said Miss Osborne softly, across the table. Here the conversation paused for awhile. Miss Osborne wished most heartily this talkative man would not address her. Eating in public was new and unpleasant to her. She felt very uncomfortable even when let alone. But when this flippant, empty-headed man drew attention to her, she wished the ground would open and swallow her up. She liked Miss Gordon very much, but she was growing to dislike this sallow-faced, plain-looking, profane man. Although she was homely-minded and quiet, she was not stupid or unobservant, and already she had perceived her brother George was more attentive to Miss Gordon, and more interested in her presence and movements, than she had ever seen him in the presence or movements of any other woman. When undisturbed her mind was sensible and prudent. In the present case she saw no cause for alarm or uneasiness with respect to George. He was quite old enough to marry. He had sufficient means. His family were independent of him. Her mother, she, and her sister were moderately provided for. If the girl were suited to him, and he liked her, and there was no reasonable objection to the girl, why should he not marry her? She had not only taken no objection to Miss Gordon, but had conceived a strong predisposition in her favour. They had had a little chat together the day before, in which Marie had briefly and simply related the chief events of her life, and confessed that, notwithstanding the life of change and excitement she had led, she was fascinated by nothing so much as the uneventful peaceful routine of English country life. Whatever qualities this girl may have lacked, she had such a straightforward spirit in her eyes, and such a straightforward manner in her speech, no one could dream of calling in question the absolute and literal truth of what she said. Her mistakes hitherto had been on the side of excessive candour. She had, as she told Osborne, adopted that form of manner to protect herself. But with Kate she had no need of it. She, the lonely wandering girl, with a deep-buried passionate worship for all noble and great things, had talked freely and simply to the fair-faced simple-minded Kate Osborne. Long roaming through the world had taught Marie many useful things. Among these were a quick discernment of those she should like and those she should not. When first she saw George Osborne she was prepossessed in his favour. He was different from any other man she had met. Indian adventurers and Australian colonists are different classes. But both are active, each is in the midst of struggles and ambitions. What a contrast to these pushing discontented men the calm George Osborne presented! She had been all her life out of quiet England. She had been in the hurry of new lands or the swagger of military rule. Here she was now in the busiest, the most bustling city in the world; and here in this house, at that table, she met an English gentleman of the pastoral type. He was as subdued as night at sea, and as free from self-assertion as dreams. He was chivalric and simple, with a reverential clinging to the faith and traditions which make history beautiful. He had not approached her with confidence or bold admiring glances. He had not put out his best side. He had drawn near her in a timid, bashful, whole-hearted way. He had forgotten himself and thought only of her. She saw through him at a glance, for she examined him closely before she had felt anything more than curiosity. He was the first man of a poetic temperament she had ever met. She had hitherto treated men scornfully, because she could not respect any she had encountered. She knew she was beautiful, but all the men she had hitherto met who strove to make an impression on her had dwelt altogether on her beauty. All the other men had languished and spoken only rhapsody and hyperbole. Her nature was too candid and too clear to be imposed upon by such means. How differently had George Osborne approached her! In fact she had, so to speak, made the first advances. When he first clearly betrayed to her that his admiration transcended the limits of ordinary admiration, and that he took an interest in herself, how different had been his course from the ways of other men! He had spoken gravely, seriously to her. He had expressed disapproval of her opinion on important matters; he had lectured her and shown no fear of injuring her good opinion of him by plain talking. He had come to her altogether, as a whole, as a man, not as a wooer only. The other men had tried to impress her by flattery, or by exhibiting themselves in their most pleasing light. He had told her of herself no more than she knew to be true-that she was handsome. He had not put aside the less serious or grave or unenticing characteristics. He was an honest, simple gentleman, who owned no arts, and had fallen in love with her. He was the unmistakable reply to a life-long yearning for something that was true and noble and honourable and just. He owned all these qualities. There was only one being on earth she had previously cared for, and that was Judith O'Connor. Judith was about her own age, but she always treated her mistress as a child. She had been in her employment for many years. The maid rebelled once a week, if not oftener, against her mistress. She was insolent almost beyond endurance at such times. Yet the mistress did not tell the maid to go; for down under this rage and insolence was a devotion, a loyalty no assault of circumstances could shake; and that devotion and loyalty Marie Gordon prized above all her other possessions. She could trust O'Connor as she could trust herself. O'Connor was more jealous of the welfare of her mistress than the mistress herself. When the maid's temper broke loose, and she petulantly demanded to be released from service, the mistress never heeded the rash words, but looked through them and below them, and saw the faithfulness and loyalty, and was conscious of no emotion in her own mind but that O'Connor was stupid and boring her, and that the maid must leave the room. She had spent all her life among frivolous people. All her life she had secretly worshipped intellect and solid acquirements. She had lead a life of ceaseless motion because she wished to keep her mind occupied by change, not from any natural love of new scenes. The one great hope of her life had been that some day she might settle down quietly where country lanes abounded, and you were awoke of summer mornings by the crack of the early carrier's whip or the crow of the barn-door cock. He had come upon her the embodiment of her dreams. She had fought against the fascination hour after hour, but hour after hour he had gained upon her heart. Here was the placid English gentleman, full of high honour, lofty chivalry, and poetic enthusiasm. Here, too, was this sincere man, the loyal citizen, the firm Christian. Here was a man up to whom a woman might look with pride, upon whom she might lean with confidence. Some of his words spoken in the Abbey had taken root in her soul and were bearing delicious fruit. A few of the lines of Spenser had remained with her intact: – 'For we be come into a quiet road.' Yes, to be with him was to enjoy contact with the great ocean of life, and yet to be free from all the dangers of traffic on the waters. When she touched his hand or his arm ever so slightly, peace and serenity descended upon her like a soothing dew. She never had been in love. Was she in love now? Was this love, or was there a deeper, a sweeter depth of feeling? She did not know. This was very sweet. She had done her best to tantalise him. That was only assaying the gold. Now she had found it unalloyed, she need question it no more. 'Sweet is the love that comes alone with willingness.' What could be sweeter? Nothing. Did other girls feel as she did when they were loved? If so, what happiness there must be in the world! No doubt it looked romantic that she should think she was in love with a man whom she had not seen a fortnight ago. But why need it look romantic? Suppose it did look romantic, what then? Was romance a sin? Who ever laid down a rule that romance was wrong, except sharp-nosed old maids and prosy fathers? What was the difference between falling in love in a week and taking a whole year about it? Romance was delightful. Love was beautiful. What could be better than to combine romance and love? Wasn't it out of a combination of romance and love that most of the noblest actions of men and women had sprung? Besides, after all, the thing was not romantic. There was nothing at all romantic about the circumstances under which they had met. There was nothing very extraordinary in a young man and young woman exchanging looks across the early dinner-table of a London hotel. There was nothing very unusual in a young man fresh from home getting red in the face when he wanted to say something civil to a pretty girl. A visit to St Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, the Criterion, the Albert Hall, and a few other things, were not astonishing adventures for even our very matter-of-fact days. No doubt very few men proposed in hansom cabs. But that was because a hansom cab was essentially a nonromantic place for proposing. Call it romance if you like. What difference did it make whether you called it romance and it was romance, or you called it romance and it wasn't romance, or you didn't call it romance? It was just as desirable whether you called it one thing or another or nothing, so long as it was delightful. She had told him he must wait a month for an answer. Now she was sorry she had not said a fortnight. What was the good of keeping him in suspense a month? It was cruel, barbarous. She should not do anything of the kind. She'd just put him at rest at once. That wasn't the correct thing to do, she knew. But she didn't care a bit about being correct. What was the good of being correct at his expense? She had by this time made up her mind she loved him, and would marry him. She might as well tell him so at once. She wasn't likely to change her mind or heart in another fortnight. Why should she not put things right at once? He would not mistake her, or take her up wrongly. He had a high chivalric nature, and would understand her motive. When she told him, what would he do? Kiss her. Kiss her! He, the man who a fortnight ago she had never seen, kiss her who had never been kissed by a man since she was a child! Kiss her! It wasn't, of course, necessary he should kiss her, but she supposed he would. She shouldn't like it a bit. It would be so strange to allow him to kiss her without shrieking or trying to run away. She supposed there was nothing for it but to submit. But it would seem so strange. How complete should be her happiness and their love! She, who had been such a gadabout, would settle down. They should live in his own town. She would try and be as good as ever she could. She'd learn housekeeping and rear poultry. She'd try and be pious and collected like him. He should write poetry, and she would mind the fowls. Poetry and poultry. Then when the sonnets and the cocks and hens had gone to roost, George would give her his arm, and take her out for a nice quiet walk and nice sensible talk. She'd tell him all about the cocks and the hens, and he'd talk to her about the hunt and the House of Commons and the poor-rates and Shakespeare, which were, she believed, the subjects educated country gentlemen usually spoke to their wives- Wife! When Marie Gordon first came upon this word she arrested her headlong thought, and, with a vivid blush, drew back from the visions she had been contemplating. There was something sudden, awful, in coming all at once upon the most important word in the vocabulary of life. She mentally reproved herself for dealing so lightly with serious matters; and, rousing herself from the long abstraction in which she had lain, she devoted her attention to the ordinary events of the breakfast-table. Nevill was still rattling on, and Miss Osborne looking at him in stupefied wonder. When breakfast was over, Osborne went to Marie and said, – 'Surely you don't intend staying within all this lovely day?' 'Yes, I do,' she answered, with a quiet smile. 'But,' he urged, 'you remember your promise that for the month-' 'Yes, I recollect. I am afraid I shall break that promise in more ways than one.' He started, and looked anxiously, eagerly at her. 'What do you mean?' 'I cannot tell you now.' 'When will you tell me? I shall be most uneasy until I hear.' 'This evening, perhaps.' 'Shall I have to wait so long?' 'There will be no opportunity sooner.' 'But is what I am to hear good or bad? You cannot do less than answer that question.' She looked into his eyes, and, with a half-roguish smile, answered, – 'That will depend on whether you are what I fancy you to be, or not.' 'If I am what you fancy, shall I be pleased with what you have to tell me?' 'I think so. You must not ask me any more now. Your sister and I will stay in all day, and you and Mr Nevill are to go somewhere. Go to some man's place, for we want you to take us to all the places we may go to; and, of course, if you two selfish men go to a place we may see, you will not make a second visit merely to bring us. Mr Nevill,' she called aloud. Nevill was standing at the farther end of the room talking to Miss Osborne. 'Since we are not to be favoured with the society of you or Miss Gordon to-day, I'll answer for Mr Osborne.' Turning to Osborne, he said, – 'I'll tell you what we will do. Go to the meeting of the Prehistoric Society. Have you ever been at one?' 'No.' 'Then you shall come with me. I have never been at one, but I know all about them. Do you take any interest in science?' 'Very little.' 'Nonsense! How extraordinary! An intellectual man like you take no interest in science? I can scarcely believe you! Science is the only thing worth thinking of now. Not take an interest in science! Why, science was invented by the nineteenth century, and it will invent the world of the twentieth.' 'I am greatly afraid,' said Osborne gravely, 'it has already invented more than is good for man or the world.' 'What! Do you mean to say telephones and express trains, fresh American meat and electric lights, and gas and gutta-percha and lucifer-matches and hair-brushing by machinery have been injurious to man? What nonsense! I own we are not to congratulate ourselves on gunpowder and ordnance and paraffin oil.' 'I am not speaking of material improvements, or of what science has done for the arts. I am thinking how it has in many cases unfortunately inflicted more grave injury than would outweigh all the benefits it has conferred.' 'You are speaking wonderfully like a book, Osborne, but I haven't the ghost of an idea what you are alluding to.' 'I am alluding to religion.' 'Oh!' cried Nevill lightly. 'Was it that? I did not think of that. Of course, you know there are people of all ways of thinking on such matters. You are no bigot.' 'No, not in the least. Bigotry is cowardice, and I hope I have the courage of my convictions. I hope I shall always have the courage of my convictions, and that they will always be what they are now.' He spoke earnestly, with a slight flush on his face. When he had finished speaking he turned his head away from Nevill and sought Miss Gordon with his eyes. What a marvellous change! The pallor had left, the eyes were once more bright and full of depth. Her head was bent forward and she was looking at him with all the old charm of her beauty in her face. What could that expression mean? Could it possibly be that she was looking on with interest and approval at the side he was taking? Could she be doing this? She who had a few days before told him she took no interest in such things, and preferred looking at shop windows in St Paul's Churchyard to attending service in the Cathedral? A few moments ago she had said words which led him to hope she had some pleasant communication to make to him. Was it that she had already made up her mind to be less frivolous? That would be splendid news indeed. Oh, if he could only lead this girl to such a goal and win her, the bank of his good fortune would have paid him the least shred of happiness he should ask. 'I am glad to hear you are no bigot, Osborne. I hate a bigot. I am not a religious man, but I am not a bigoted Nothing. I don't want to burn every man who does not agree with me. From the announcement of the business set down for the Prehistoric to-day, I am most anxious to be present. The Prehistoric is not religious. It isn't, you know, Miss Osborne, profane. Now, while I am no bigot, there is one thing I hate, and that is profanity. If a man believes a certain thing, let him respect it, and not try to lower it or make fun of it. If a man doesn't believe a certain thing, he should let it alone.' 'What is this place you are going to?' asked Miss Gordon, with animation. 'Oh, it's scientific.' 'Isn't that a vague description? What goes on there?' 'They read papers and exhibit specimens.' 'Specimens of what?' 'Of prehistoric man, you know.' 'But I don't know. What do you mean by "prehistoric man"?' 'Man who lived so long ago that he doesn't know anything about himself.' 'You will go, Mr Osborne, and bring us back a full account of what this dreadful Prehistoric Society is like?' Miss Gordon smiled brightly, and tossed her head gaily. 'I will go, of course. I am not afraid the Prehistoric or any other society of mere men can very seriously affect my mind on any matter of faith. It is the province of men of science to be scientific. It is the province of theologians to be theological. But you cannot pit one against the other, any more than you can pit a star against an idea.' The men prepared to leave. Having drawn Miss Osborne's arm within her own, Miss Gordon led the other girl after the men into the hall. 'We shall be back in time to take you to the Holborn for dinner,' said Nevill, as he helped Osborne to get on his overcoat. The two girls, still arm-in-arm, followed the two men out to the door. Peter's Row had but one entrance, and was as quiet as a country lane. The two men went out on the doorstep, and stood there to say adieu. Still keeping the arm of Miss Osborne under her own, Miss Gordon led the fair girl out until they too stood on the steps of the hotel. Nevill paused to light a cigar. Marie smiled at Osborne, and said, – ' Take care you don't come back a disciple of this dreadful Mr Nevill.' Osborne smiled back. 'I do not think there is much reason to fear,' he said. 'I promise you I will not attempt to make a convert,' said Nevill, as he shook himself into his overcoat and took Osborne's arm. Arm-in-arm the two young men walked briskly down Peter's Row. Arm-in-arm the two girls watched them as they went. When the men reached the end of the Row, about a hundred yards from where the girls stood, they turned round and lifted their hats. The girls waved farewells. As the four stood thus confronting one another for a moment, a more striking contrast could not easily be found. The face of Nevill was dark and restless and discontented. The fair white face of Osborne was illumined by the light of love and a smile of great affection and delicacy as his eyes fell on the girl of his worship. Miss Gordon had completely shaken off the effects of her vigil, and was radiant with health and beauty and happiness. Miss Osborne was grave and timorous. She looked paler than usual, and waved her hand to her brother in a dull dead way. In a moment the men disappeared. Although the day was cold, the two girls stood a few minutes bareheaded at the door after the men had gone out of sight. 'I don't see why George should go to such places.' 'But there is no harm, dear. It's only all about bones, and stone arrowheads, and things not worth thinking of.' 'But if things of the kind are not worth thinking of, how is it people do think so much about them?' 'Because people are mostly fools. Your brother is no fool. You are not afraid of him? You do not fear he'll take to science, and give up poetry and going to church?' She put the question playfully. 'No. But when people are settled in their minds on important things of this kind, what occasion have they to go to such places? What interest can such places have for them?' 'Men are all the same. If you tell them there is danger anywhere, there they are sure to go. I never can understand this. If anyone tells me there's a wicked bull in a certain field, I try to keep away from it as far as I can. Tell a man the same thing, and, first of all, he won't take your word for it; he must see if there is a bull in that field. If he find a bull, he'll climb upon the fence to see if the bull is really wicked, and end up by getting down in the field to see if the bull is fully as wicked as has been said. Then he generally gets gored.' 'But I don't want those scientific bulls to gore George.' 'Your brother! You really don't fancy for a moment they could create any serious impression on him? He is one of the most sincere men I ever met. I think the most sincere.' 'Ah, yes. But when he left home I thought no man in the world could love his home more. Yet he is only a few days in London, when he seems to think more of London than the place in which he has spent all his life.' She smiled, as she saw the other blush slightly and cast down her eyes. 'Perhaps it was not London alone that fascinated him. You see, his very honesty and sincerity are in his way. Once he makes up his mind to a thing, he never for a moment thinks of consequences.' 'But I am sure he is in religious matters as firm as a rock.' 'I am sure he is; but why should he go to places such as this?' 'Well, I suppose I am to blame in a little way,' said Marie, dropping her head still lower. 'I sat up all night, thinking over matters of this kind, and at dawn I saw something in the sky, and heard something that made me pray. Your brother it was, Kate dear, who turned my eyes to such things one day as we stood under St Paul's. I did not feel equal to-day to the society of men. So I thought, if you would allow me, I would spend a long quiet day with you, and have a quiet talk with you, Kate; for I liked you better than any other girl I met when I saw you first.' 'And I, Marie, too, liked you better than any other girl I ever met. Of course, I can see how things are. You and I are friends, no matter how short a time we have known each other.' The girls turned into the house, and sought Marie's room. When they were there, Kate said, – 'I am dull and stupid. But I have a sister at home who is more lively. You would not think we are related so closely.' She put her arms round the girl, and continued, 'I love George, Marie, with all my heart, and it would break my heart if anything went wrong with him. I think it would kill me if anything went wrong with him now. Tell me, dear-for you see I know how matters are-is anything settled yet?' 'No.' 'But, Marie, I am likely to have another, a second sister?' 'You do not want her?' 'I want anything that is good for George.' 'And you don't think you'd dislike me when you know me better?' 'I am sure I should not.' 'Then I'll tell him when he comes home from that horrid Preraphaelite Club, or whatever you call it, to which I've sent him. I'll tell him.' 'What will you tell him?' 'That-that,' she threw her arms around Kate's neck, and buried her face in Kate's bosom, 'that you want me for a sister, and that I want you for a sister, oh, so badly, so badly!'-she wept passionately for a moment. She sobbed in a few minutes-'and then maybe he'll not go to any of those awful places with that dreadful Mr Nevill again. Kate, I'll try to keep him away, and make him do all your good self would wish. Don't blame me for what happened to-day. I shall feel wretched until I see him again.'