of them. She was a quietly indefatigable woman, always active, yet never fussy; the milk of humankindness flowed down her withered cheeks; but there was a certain something about her which the generality of people considered taking, and this something was her "ladylikeism." Mrs. Peachum had once had a baker's half-dozen of single daughters; now, thanks to her unflagging energy and exertions on their behalfs, only two were still unsettled. Of these two, one was a very pretty girl, therefore in all probability would give her mother but little trouble. Mrs. Peachum's anxieties were for the present concentrated on her youngest and plainest daughter. Arthur had been for some time past on terms of intimacy at Hatton House. He greatly admired the ladylike Mrs. Peachum; her coldly courteous manners and studied conduct were his delight. Besides this, Stephen Peachum, the plain Maggie's twin brother, was his amicus, while it was rumoured that the pretty Florence and the Newstead darling were not unseldom together.

Matters were in this state, Arthur (as we know) an engaged man, inclined to show Maria Campbell more attention than the Squire altogether relished, when Mrs. Peachum overheard a report which connected in one clause Arthur's and her charming daughter's names. It was a terrible surprise for the worldly-minded widow. Florence was far too pretty to be wasted upon one of the inferior clergy. Could there be any truth in such a calumny, Mrs.

Peachum was almost going to call it. Her motherly vigilance aroused, she determined to watch. When cold, calculating eyes mount guard, childish concealments are vain. It was not many days before poor Florence felt that her secret was read, and the inmost recesses of her heart pierced. Poor child, she had not wilfully acted with deceit ; several reasons had combined to keep her tongue tied, two of which need only be mentioned here.

Mrs. Peachum was a reserved and distant person; she never troubled any one with her feelings; it is doubtful if the dear departed Mr. Peachum had ever entered the sanctorum of his wife's frigid soul. In return, she never solicited confidence; her motto was, that what was worth knowing was worth finding out. Her children learned to fancy that she had put away for ever the little vexations and worries which from time to time annoyed them; no wonder, then, that they forbore to carry their griefs where they did not expect sympathy. Yet, according to Mrs. Peachum's own standard of character, she had been a model wife, and was still a model mother and churchwoman. She had never spent a farthing more of her late husband's money than he could reasonably spare; she had been a frugal housekeeper, an attentive, careful nurse during his many long and trying illnesses. What more could a man expect? Mrs. Peachum had devoted herself to the care of her children from their earliest infancies; she had superintended their educations; seen four out of her six

daughters well settled in life, and was now on the continual look-out for suitable matches for the remaining two. Could we desire more from any mother? Surely not; and added to these conjugal and maternal duties, Mrs. Peachum had not allowed the world to deaden her heart to the claims of religion. She had knelt twice every Sunday, and oftentimes twice in every week, in the house of her God. For eight-and-twenty years she had officiated morning and evening at family prayers. She had given of her substance to feed the poor and needy; with the work of her own and her daughters' hands had the ill-clad of her native village been clothed. Could we reasonably expect a more exemplary fulfilment of duties, parochial and family, from any churchwoman?

Still, with all these virtues, Mrs. Peachum often received a far smaller meed of admiration than many less worthy people. In acting up to the very letter of the law she had, during her whole lifetime, forgotten the spirit. But there was some other reason, as we have before said, that determined Florence to keep her secret as long as possible from her mother.

Mrs. Peachum liked facts, and Florence had nothing decisive to tell. "Facts are stubborn things," was one of the trite sayings of the mistress of Hatton House. Thoughts and fancies she abominated. Florence loved with all the warmth of one who had never before felt the passion, the fascinating guest who so often sat at

her mother's table. She said to herself over and over again, until she firmly believed it, that he was as perfect as a mortal man could be. She had never seen anything which could lead her to think otherwise. She merely acted on the broad principle of believing a man honest until he is proved a thief.

The Newstead service had never been read with greater devotion; a more brilliant preacher had not for very long entered the village church pulpit. It was true the poor had been better tended, but Florence Peachum was not a district visitor; she only called here and there on families recommended to her notice by Mr. Newnham. From those, of course, she was unlikely to hear anything but his praises.

Not to deal in generalities, Florence could remember a severe frost last winter, when Mr. Newnham had given away many hundredweights of coal, nor did she forget a little savoury dish he had once brought a sick child from his own table.

Florence was not in the least conscious of his faults; had she known them all, had she been told the daily selfishness of his life, the thousand little sacrifices of the feelings of others which he offered up on his heart's altar, we much doubt if the cloak of his charity and her own love would not have been sufficiently ample to cover all failings. She could not speak of these things to her mother, she could not bear that she should know the romantic admiration and attachment she felt for the young

curate, for he had never, might never, make her what is called a declaration of love. He had never spoken a connected phrase which could have been brought against him in a court of justice. From time to time he had said little nothings which had caused the warm blood to ebb and flow from Florence's cheeks. Evening after evening he had devoted many an hour to her. Regardless of the presence of others, he had displayed for her gratification the musical and conversational talents of which he was justly proud.

Arthur would have acknowledged as much as this himself. He saw nothing dishonourable in it. He was only amusing himself. A girl must be a fool if she thought him in earnest. Besides, he could not help it; it was his way.

Mrs. Peachum, once on the qui vive, was not slow to perceive that Florence became daily more attached to the young curate. It was not an alliance such as she had hoped for her pretty child, therefore the sooner the thing was stopped the better. Mrs. Peachum determined that Florence should leave home, but how to get her away was the question. "Where there's a will, there's a way," Mrs. Peachum murmured. She sat down to her writing-desk, and scribbled off a dozen lines to a married sister then

living at St. Leonards. Three days elapsed; on the morning of the fourth a letter for Florence arrived from her Aunt Stringer.

"Who is your note from, my dear?" Mrs. Peachum asked.