home herself. At breakfast she was irritable and absent-minded, and she did not dress or order the carriage until the last moment. There was evidently a hard struggle in her mind whether she should go to church or not. Ultimately, she decided to go.

Out of this and other unpleasant indications, I have made a discovery. My wife, despite her purity, despite her lofty sense of honour, is jealous of the clergyman.

The day after my fishing expedition, I quietly told her what I had seen in the woodland. It was not without due deliberation that I determined to do so. One portion of the truth, however, I carefully concealed: namely, the references made by the lovers to herself. For the same reason, I showed no sign of personal suspicion, but treated the affair lightly, as a thing of indifference.

I began the conversation in this way, while beating the shell of my second egg at breakfast—

"By the way, my dear Nell, I have made a discovery."

She looked up and smiled unsuspiciously. "Something terrible, I suppose; like Dr. Dupré's elixir?"

"Oh dear no, nothing nearly so scientific; a mere social discovery, my dear. I have found out that I was right; that if your pet parson is not married, he ought to be."

I saw her change colour; but, bending her head over her teacup, she forced a laugh.

"What nonsense you're talking!"

"Don't call it nonsense till you hear my story. It will interest you, being quite piscatorial and idyllic. Conceive to yourself, first, the primaeval woodland; then two figures, a nymph in a frock and a satyr in a clerical coat. The nymph, your friend Miss Dove; the satyr, your other friend, Mr. Santley. She was crying; he consoling. I heard their conversation; I saw them quarrel, make it up, embrace, kiss, and disappear. I think you will agree with me that so pretty a pastoral should have, in a moral country, but one sequel—marriage."

How white and strange she seemed! How nervously she fought with her agitation!

"I don't believe a word of what you say!" she cried. "You saw all this, but how?"

I told her how, and she uttered a cry of virtuous indignation.

"It is shameful!" she exclaimed. "I will never speak to him again—never!"

"On the contrary, I think you should speak to him, and, like a true matchmaker, produce the dénouement. You need not tell him that I played Peeping Tom; but, without doing so, you can act on the information I have given you. After all, if he really loves the girl——"

"But he does not love her!"

She paused, trembling and flushing, conscious of her blunder.

"Then is he a greater scoundrel than even I suspected!"

"There must be some mistake. I am sure Mr. Santley would do nothing dishonourable. As to marrying, his ideas are those of the High Church. He does not think that a priest has any right to marry."

I looked at her in amazement. After what I had told her, could she possibly be attempting to justify him? If so, the case was worse than I had foreseen, and her moral sense had already been effectually poisoned. She continued rapidly and eagerly, as if contending in argument with her own thoughts.

"A clergyman's position is very difficult. If he is unmarried, as a true priest should be, he is persecuted by all the marriageable girls of his parish. His slightest attentions are misconstrued, his most innocent acts exaggerated; and if he shows a friendly interest in any young person, he is sure to be misunderstood. I have no doubt, after all, that what you saw could be easily explained; and that, in any case, Miss Dove is the person really to blame."

I was right, then: justification, and '—jealousy.

"You forget," I answered quickly, "that I heard the whole conversation. Besides, though the language of words may be distorted, that of kisses and embraces is unmistakable."

"He did not kiss her; he did not embrace her! I will never believe it."

"Then, you simply assume that I am stating an