it was a warm and sunny day in dallory. mrs. gass threw open her window and sat behind the geraniums enjoying the sunshine, exchanging salutations and gossip with as many of her acquaintances as happened to pass her windows.

"how d'ye do, doctor? isn't this a lovely day?"

it was dr. rane who was hurrying past now. he turned for an instant to the window, his brow clearing. for some time now a curious look of care and perplexity had sat upon it.

"indeed it is," he answered. "i hope it will last. are you pretty well, mrs. gass?"

"i'm first-rate," said that lady. "a fine day, with the wind in the north, always sets me up. doctor, have they paid you the tontine money yet?"

"no," said dr. rane, somewhat angrily. "there are all sorts of forms to be gone through, apparently; and the brothers ticknell do not hurry for any one. the two old men are past business, in my opinion. they were always slow and tiresome; it is something more than that now."

"do you stir 'em well up?" questioned mrs. gass.

"when i have the chance of doing it; but that's very rarely. go when i will, i can scarcely ever see any one except the confidential clerk, old latham; and he is as slow and methodical as his master. i suppose the money will come sometime, but i am tired of waiting for it."

"and what about your plans when you get it, doctor? are they all cut and dried?"

"time enough to decide on them when i do get the money," replied the doctor, shortly.

"but you still intend to leave dallory ham?"

"oh yes, i shall do that."

"you won't be going to america?"

"i think i shall. it is more than likely."

"well, i wouldn't banish myself from my native country for the best practice that ever shoes dropped into. you might be getting nothing but red indians for patients."

dr. rane laughed a little; and there was an eager sort of light in his eyes that seemed to speak of anticipation and hope. only he knew how thankful he would be to get to another country and find himself clear of this.

"i wonder," soliloquized mrs. gass, as he walked on his way, "whether it is all straight-for'ard about that tontine money? have the ticknells heard any of these ugly rumours that's flying about; and are they keeping it back in consequence? if not, why it ought to have been paid over to him before this. the delay is odd--say the least of it. how d'ye do, sir? a nice day."

a gentleman, passing, had raised his hat to mrs. gass. she resumed her reflections.

"the rumours be spreading wider and getting uglier. they'll go up presently, like a bomb-shell. i'm heartily sorry for him; for i don't believe--no, i don't--that he'd do such a frightful thing. if it should turn out that he did--why, then i shall blame myself ever after for having procrastinated my intentions."

mrs. gass paused, and began to go over those intentions, with a view, possibly, to seeing whether she was very much to blame.

"finding oliver and his wife couldn't get the tontine money paid to them--and a hard case it was!--i had it in my mind to say, 'i'll advance it to you. you'll both be the better for something in my will when i'm gone--the doctor being my late husband's own nephew, and the nearest relation left of him--and if two thousand pounds of it will be of real good to you now, you shall have it. but i didn't say it at once--who was to suppose there was such need for hurry--and then she died. if the man's innocent--and i believe he is--that jelly ought to have her mouth sewn up for good. she---- why, there you are! talk of the dickens and he's sure to appear."

"were you talking of me?" asked jelly: for mrs. gass had raised her voice with surprise and brought it within jelly's hearing. she carried a small basket on her arm, under her black shawl, and turned to the window.

"i was thinking of you," responded mrs. gass. "be you come out marketing?"

"i'm taking a few scraps to ketler's," replied jelly, just showing the basket. "my mistress has given me general leave to give them any trifles not likely to be wanted at home. the cook's good-natured too. this is a jar of dripping, and some bones and bread."

"and how do you like the beverages, jelly?"

"oh, very well. they are good ladies; but so serious and particular."

mrs. gass rose from her seat, pushed the geraniums aside, and leaning her arms upon the window-sill, brought her good-natured red face very near to jelly's bonnet.

"i'll tell you what i was thinking of, girl: it was about these awful whispers that's flying round. go where you will, you may hear 'em. within dwelling-houses or at street corners, people's tongues are cackling secretly about dr. rane's wife, and asking what she died of. i knew it would be so, jelly."

jelly turned a little paler. "they'll die away again, perhaps," she said.

"perhaps," repeated mrs. gass, sarcastically. "it's to be hoped they will, for your sake. jelly, i wouldn't stand in your shoes to be made a queen tomorrow."

"i wouldn't stand in somebody else's," returned jelly, irritated into the avowal. "i shall have pretty good proof at hand, if i'm forced to bring it out."

"what proof?"

"well, i'd rather not say. you'd only ridicule it, mrs. gass, and blow me up into the bargain. i must be going."

"i guess it's moonshine, jelly--like the ghost you saw. good-morning."

jelly went away with a hard and anything but a happy look, and mrs. gass resumed her seat again. very shortly there came creeping by, following the same direction as jelly, a poor shivering woman, with a ragged shawl on her thin shoulders, and a white, pinched, hopeless face.

"is that you, susan ketler?"

susan ketler turned and dropped a curtsy. some of the women of north inlet were even worse off than she was. she did have help now and then from jelly.

"yes, ma'am, it's me."

"how long do you think you north inlet people will be able to keep going--as things be at present?" demanded mrs. gass.

"the lord above only knows," said the woman, looking upwards with a pitiful shiver. "here's the winter a-coming on."

"what does ketler think of affairs now?"

ketler's wife shook her head. the men were not fond of disclosing what they might think, unless it was to one another. ketler had never told her what he thought.

"is he still in love with the trades' unions, and what they've done for him? my opinion is this, susan ketler," continued mrs. gass, after a pause: "that in every place where distress reigns, as it does here, and where it can be proved that the men have lost their work through the dictates of the society, the parish ought to go upon the society and make it keep the men and the families. if a law was passed to that effect, we should hear less of the doings of the trades' union people than we do now. they'd draw in a bit, susan; they'd not give the gaping public quite so many of their procession-shows, and their flags, and their speeches. it would be a downright good law to make, mind you. a just one, too. if the society forbids men to work, and so takes the bread necessary for life out of their mouths, it is only fair they should find them bread to replace it."

an almost hopeful look came into the woman's eyes. "ma'am, i said as good as this to ketler only yesterday. seeing that it was the society that had took the bread from us, and that the consequences had been bad instead of good, for we were starving, the society ought to put us into work again. it might bestir itself to do that: or else support us while we got into something."

mrs. gass smiled pityingly. "you must be credulous, susan ketler, to fancy the society can put 'em into work again. where's the work to come from? well, it's not your fault, my poor woman, and there's more people than me sorry for you all. and now, tell me," mrs. gass lowered her voice, "be any of the men talking treason still? you know what i mean."

mrs. ketler glanced over both her shoulders to see that no one was within hearing, before she whispered in answer.

"they be always a-talking it. i can see it in their faces as they stand together. not ketler, ma'am; he'd stop it if he could: he don't wish harm to none."

"ah. i wish to goodness they'd all betake themselves off from the place. though it's hard to say so, for there's no other open to them that i see. well, you go on home, susan. jelly has just gone there with a basket of scraps for you. stay a minute, though."

mrs. gass quitted the room, calling to one of her servants. when she returned she produced a half-pint physic bottle corked up.

"it's a drop of beer," she said. "for yourself, mind, not for ketler. you want it, i know. put it under your shawl. it will help down jelly's scraps."

the woman went away with grateful tears in her eyes. and mrs. gass sat on and enjoyed the sunshine. just then mary dallory came by in her little low pony-carriage. she often drove about in it alone. seeing mrs. gass, she drew up. that lady, without any ceremony, went out in her cap and stood talking.

"i hear you have left the hall, my dear," she said, when the gossip was coming to an end.

"ages ago," replied miss dallory. "frank is at home again, and wanted me."

"how did you enjoy your visit on the whole?"

"pretty well. it was not very lively, especially after sir nash was taken ill."

"he is better, mr. richard tells me," said the elder lady.

"yes; he sits up now. i went to see him yesterday."

"captain bohun looks but poorly still."

"his illness was a bad one. fancy his having jaundice. i thought it was only old people who had that."

"my dear, it attacks young and old. once the liver gets out of order, there's no telling. captain bohun was born in india; and they are more liable to liver complaint, it's said, than others. you are driving alone to-day, as usual," continued mrs. gass.

"i like to be independent. frank won't show himself in this little chaise; he says it is no better than a respectable wheelbarrow; and i'm sure i am not going to be troubled with a groom at my side."

"if all tales told are true, you'll soon run a chance of losing your independence," rejoined mrs. gass. "people say a certain young lady, not a hundred miles at this moment from, my elbow, is likely to give her heart away."

instead of replying, mary dallory blushed violently. observant mrs. gass saw and noticed it.

"then it is true!" she exclaimed.

"what's true?" asked mary.

"that you are likely to be married."

"no, it is not."

"my dear, you may as well tell me. you know me well; i'll keep good counsel."

"but i have nothing to tell you. how can i imagine what you mean?"

"'twasn't more than a hint i had: that captain bohun--sir arthur as he will be--was making up his mind to have miss dallory, and she to have him. miss mary, is it so?"

"did madam tell you that?"

"madam wouldn't be likely to tell me--all of us in dallory are so much dust under her feet; quite beneath being spoken to. no: 'twas her maid, parrit, dropped it to me. she had heard it through madam, though."

mary dallory laughed a little and flicked the ear of the rough welsh pony. "i fancy madam would like it," she said.

"who wouldn't?" rejoined mrs. gass. "i put the question to richard north--whether there was anything in it? he answered there might be; he knew it was wished for."

"richard north said that, did he? of course, so it might be--and may be--for anything he can tell."

"but, my dear miss mary, is it so?"

"well--to tell you the truth, the offer has not yet been made. when it comes, why then--i dare say it will be all right."

"meaning that you'll accept him."

"meaning that--oh, but it is not right to tell tales beforehand, even to you, mrs. gass," she broke off, with a laugh. "let the offer come. i wish it would."

"you would like it to come, child?"

"yes, i think i should."

"then be sure it will come. and god bless you, my dear, and bring you happiness whatever turns out. though it is not just the marriage i had carved out in my own mind for one of the two of you."

she meant arthur bohun. mary dallory thought she meant herself; and laughed again as the pony trotted away.

the next friend to pass the window after mrs. gass had again resumed her seat, was richard north. he did not stop at the window, but went in. certain matters connected with the winding-up of the old firm of north and gass, had arisen, rendering it necessary that he should see mrs. gass.

"do as you think best, mr. richard," she said, after they had talked together for a few minutes. "please yourself, sir, and you'll please me. we'll leave it at that: i know it's all safe in your hands."

"then i will do as i propose," said richard.

"i've had miss dallory here--that is, in her pony-chay before the door," observed mrs. gass. "i taxed her with what i'd heard about her and captain bohun; she didn't say it was, and she didn't say it wasn't: but mr. richard, i think there's truth in it. she as good as said she'd like him to make her an offer: and she did say madam wished it. so i suppose we shall have wedding cards before a year's gone over our heads. in their case--he next step to a baronet, and she rolling in money--there's nothing, to wait for."

"nothing," mechanically-answered richard north.

"but i did think, as to him, that it would have been ellen adair. talking of that, mr. richard, what is it that's amiss with her?"

"with her?--with whom?" cried richard, starting out of a reverie.

"with that sweet young lady, ellen adair?"

"there's nothing amiss with her that i know of."

"isn't there! there is, mr. richard, if my judgment and eyes are to be trusted. each time i see her, she strikes me as looking worse and worse. you notice her, sir. perhaps now the clue has been given you'll see it too. i once knew a young girl, mr. richard, that was dying quietly under her friends' very eyes, and they never saw it. never saw it at all, till an aunt came over from another country. she started back when she saw the child, and says: 'why, what have yon been doing with her? she's dying.' they were took aback at that, and called in the first doctor: but it was too late. i don't say ellen adair is dying, mr. richard; 'tisn't likely; but i'm sure she is not all right. whether it's the mind, or whether it's the body, or whether it's the nerves, i'm not prepared to say; but it's something."

"i will find out," said richard.

"anything fresh about the men, mr. richard?"

"nothing. except that my workmen are getting afraid to stir out at night, and the disaffection increases amongst the others. i cannot see what is to be the end of it," he continued. "i do not mean of this rivalry, but of the sad state to which the men and their families are reduced. i often wish i did not think of it so much: it is like a chain about me from which i cannot escape. i wish i could help them to find work elsewhere."

"ah!" said mrs. gass, "work elsewhere is very nice to think about in dreamland; but i'm afraid it'll never be seen for them in reality. it's not as if work was going a-begging: it has broken up everywhere, mr. richard; and shoals and shoals of men, destitute as our own, are tramping about at this minute, like so many old ravens with their mouths open, ready to pick up anything that may fall."

richard north went home, his mind full of what mrs. gass had said about ellen adair. was she indeed looking so ill? he found her sitting in the open seat near what would be in spring the tulip bed. mr. north had just left her and gone in. yes: richard saw that she looked very ill; the face was wan, the eyes were sad and weary. she was coughing as he went up to her: a short, hacking cough. some time ago she had caught cold, and it seemed to hang about her still.

"are you well, ellen?" he asked, as he sat down beside her.

"yes, i believe so," was her reply. "why?"

"because i don't think you look well."

a soft colour, like the pink on a sea-shell, stole over her face as richard said this. but she kept silence.

"you know, ellen, we agreed to be as brother and sister. i wish to take care of you as such: to shield you from all ill as far as i possibly can. are you happy here?"

a moment's pause, and then ellen took courage to say that she was not happy.

"i should like to go elsewhere," she said. "oh, richard, if it could only be managed!"

"but it cannot," he answered.

"i have sufficient money, richard."

"my dear, it is not that. of course you have sufficient. i fancy, by sundry signs, that you will be a very rich young lady," he added, slightly laughing. "but you have no near friends in england, and we could not entrust you to strangers."

"if i could go for a time into some clergyman's family, or something of that sort."

"ellen!"

she raised her hand from beneath the grey shawl--her favourite outdoor covering, for the shawl was warm--and passed it across her brow. in every movement there was a languor that spoke weariness of body or of spirit.

"when mr. adair comes home, if he found you had gone into 'some clergyman's family,' what would he think and say of us, ellen?"

"i would tell him i went of my own accord."

"but, my dear, you cannot be allowed to do things of your own accord, if they are not wise. i and my father are appointed to take charge of you, and you must remain with us, ellen, until mr. adair returns to england."

it was even so. ellen's better judgment acknowledged it, in the midst of her great wish to be away. a wish: and not a wish. to be where arthur bohun was, still brought her the most intense happiness; and this, in spite of the pain surrounding it, she would not willingly have relinquished: but the cruelty of his conduct--of their estrangement--was more than she knew how to bear. it was making her ill, and she felt that it was. there was, however, no help for it. as richard said, she had no friends to whom they could entrust her. the lady in whose house she was educated had recently died, and the establishment was being broken up.

ten times a-day she longed to say to arthur bohun, "you are ungenerous to remain here. i cannot help myself, but you might." but pride withheld her.

"it may be months before papa arrives, richard."

"and if it should be! we must try to make you happier with us."

"i think i must go in," she said, after a pause. "the day has been very fine, but it is growing cold now."

folding the shawl closer to her throat, as if she felt chilly, and coughing a little as she walked, ellen went round to the hall-door and entered. richard, occupied in watching her and busy with his own thoughts, did not perceive the almost silent approach of arthur bohun, who came slowly up from behind.

"well, dick, old fellow!"

"why, where did you spring from?" asked richard, as arthur flung himself down in the place vacated by ellen.

"i have been under yonder tree, smoking a cigar. it has a good broad trunk to lean against."

"i thought the doctors had forbidden you to smoke."

"so they have. until i grew stronger. one can't strictly obey orders. i don't suppose it matters much one way or the other. you have been enjoying a confidential chat, dick."

"yes," replied richard. he had not felt very friendly in his heart towards arthur for some time past. what was the meaning of his changed behaviour to ellen adair?--what of the new friendship with mary dallory? richard north could not forgive dishonour; and he believed arthur bohun was steeping himself in it to the backbone.

"were you making love, dick?"

richard turned his eyes in silence on the questioner.

"she and i have had to part, dick. i always thought you admired and esteemed her almost more, perhaps quite more, than you do any other woman. so if you are thinking of her----"

"be silent," sternly interrupted richard, rising in anger. "are you a man?--are you a gentleman? or are you what i have been thinking you lately--a false-hearted, despicable knave?"

whatever arthur bohun might be, he was just then in desperate agitation. rising too, he seized richard's hands.

"don't you see that it was but sorry jesting, richard? pretending to a bit of pleasantry, to wile away for a moment my weight of torment. i am all that you say of me; and i cannot help myself."

"not help yourself?"

"as heaven is my witness, no! if i could take you into my confidence--and perhaps i may do so one of these days, for i long to do it--you would see that i tell you the truth."

"why have you parted from ellen adair?--she and you have parted? you have just said so."

"we have parted for life. for ever."

"you were on the point of marriage with her only a short time ago?"

"no two people could have been nearer marriage than she and i were. we were within half-an-hour of it, dick; and yet we have parted."

"by your doing, or hers?"

"by mine."

"i thought so."

"dick, i have been compelled to do it. when you shall know all, you will acknowledge that i could not do otherwise. and yet, in spite of this, i feel that to her i have been but a false-hearted knave, as you aptly style me: a despicable, dishonourable man. my father fell into dishonour--or rather had it forced upon him by another--and he could not survive it; he shot himself. did you know it, dick?"

"shot himself!" repeated richard, in his surprise. "no, i never knew that. i thought he died of sunstroke."

"my father shot himself," cried arthur. "he could not live dishonoured. dick, old fellow, there are moments when i feel tempted to do as he did."

"what--because you have parted from ellen?"

"no. that's bitter enough to bear; but i can battle with it. it is the other thing, the dishonour. that is always present with me, always haunting me night and day; i know not how to live under it."

"i do not understand at all," said richard. "you are master of your own actions."

"in this case i have not been: my line of conduct was forced upon me. i cannot explain. don't judge me too harshly, my friend. i am bad enough, heaven knows, but not quite as bad, perhaps, as you have been thinking me."

and arthur bohun turned and went limping away, leaving richard lost in wonder.

he limped away to indulge his pain where no mortal eye could see him. parted from ellen adair, the whole world was to him as nothing. a sense of dishonour lay ever upon him, the shame of his conduct towards her was present to him night and day. with all his heart he wished james bohun had not died, that there might have been no question of his succession. he would then have gone somewhere away with her, have changed his name, and been happy in obscurity. but there was no place unfrequented by man; he could not change his wife's face; and she might be recognized as the daughter of adair the convict. besides, would it not be an offence against heaven if he wedded the daughter of the man who had caused the death of his father? no; happiness could never be his. look where he would, there was nothing around him but pain and misery.