surprise, and saw that her niece's eyes were full of tears.

"Edith, what is it? What do you mean?"

"That we have been engaged a long time."

"And you did not tell me?"

"He did not want it known, and even now it is a secret. You must promise to tell no one."

"But why? There is nothing to be ashamed of."

"It is his wish," said the girl, gently.

Then kissing her aunt again, and leaving her much relieved in mind, she went away, strolling quietly in the direction of the Vicarage. As she walked, her tears continued to fall, and her face was very sorrowful; for there lay upon her spirit a heavy shadow of terror and distrust. With how different an emotion had she, only a year before, flown to meet the man she loved! How eagerly and gladly, then, he had awaited her coming! And now? Alas, she did not even know if she would find him at all. Sometimes he seemed to avoid her, to be weary of her company. All was so changed, she reflected, since the Haldanes came-home to the Manor. He was no longer the same, and she herself was different. Would it ever end? Would she ever be happy again?

The shadows of night were falling as she walked through the lanes, with her eyes sadly fixed on the dim spire of the village church. Close to a plantation on the roadside, she encountered a woman and a man in conversation. She recognized the woman at a glance, as Sal Bexley, the black sheep of the parish, who got her living by singing-from one public-house to another; and she had passed by without a word, when a voice called her.

"Here, mistress!"

She turned, and encountered a pair of bold black eyes. Sal, the pariah, stood facing her, swinging her old guitar and grinning mischievously.

"I'm afraid you're growing proud, mistress. You didn't seem to know me."

There was something sinister in the girl's manner. Edith drew aside, and would have passed on without any reply, but the other ran before her and blocked the way.

"No, you don't go like that. I want a word with thee, my fine lady. Ah, you may toss your bead, but you'd best bide a bit, and listen."

"What do you want? I cannot stay."

"No call to hurry," cried Sal, with a coarse laugh. "Thy man's out, and don't expect thee. Belike he's gone courting some one else. Ah, he's a rum chap, the minister, though he do set up for a saint."

Edith shuddered and shrank back.

"Go away," she said. "How dare you speak to me like that?"

"Dare? That's a good one! No, you shan't pass till I've done wi' thee." Edith was getting positively frightened, for the girl's manner was so rude and threatening, when she saw a tall figure approaching, and in a moment recognized the clergyman. He was close to them, and paused in astonishment at seeing the two together.

"Miss Dove! Is anything the matter? Why are you here, so late, and in such company?"

He paused, looking suspiciously at Sal, who laughed impudently.

"I was passing by, and she stopped me. Do send her away!"

"Send me away?" cried the pariah. "I'll come when I please, and I'll go when I please. I'm as good as she." Mr. Santley stepped forward, and placed his hand on her arm.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were far away."

"So I were; but I've come back. Well?"

"Remember what I told you. I will not have my parish disgraced any longer by your conduct. I have warned you repeatedly before. Where are you staying?"

"Down by the river-side, master. I've joined the gipsies, d'ye see."

"Always an outcast," said Santley, with, a certain gloomy pity. "Will nothing reform you?"

"No, master," answered the girl, grinning. "I'm a bad lot."

"I'm afraid you are."

"But mind this," she continued, with some vehemence, "there's others, fine ladies too, as bad as me. Though I like a chap, and ain't afraid to own it, and though I gets my living anyhow, I'm no worse than my betters, master. You've no cause to bully me, so don't try it on, master. I can speak when I