warmly, merely from
surprise. "You are like Sir Boyle Roche's bird: you can be in two
places at the same moment. But it is wrong to give him money when he
is bad. It is out of all keeping; and how shall I manage the children
if you come here, anxious to reward vice and foster rebellion?"

She is laughing gayly now, and is looking almost her own bright little
self again, when, lifting her eyes, she sees Dorian watching her.
Instantly her smile fades; and she returns his gaze fixedly, as though
compelled to do it by some hidden instinct.

He has entered silently, not expecting to find any one before him but
the vicar: yet the very first object his eyes meet is his wife,
smiling, radiant, with Kennedy beside her. A strange pang contracts
his heart, and a terrible amount of reproach passes from his eyes to
hers.

He is sad and dispirited, and full of melancholy. His whole life has
proved a failure; yet in what way has he fallen short?

Kennedy, seeing Mrs. Branscombe's expression change, raises his head,
and so becomes aware of her husband's presence. Being a wise young man
in his own generation, he smiles genially upon Dorian, and, going
forward, shakes his hand as though years of devotion have served to
forge a link likely to bind them each to each forever.

"Charming day, isn't it?" he says, with a beatific smile. "Quite like
summer."

"Rather more like January, I think," says Dorian, calmly, who is in
his very worst mood. "First touch of winter, I should say." He laughs
as he says this; but his laugh is as wintry as the day, and chills the
hearer. Then he turns aside from his wife and her companion, and lays
his hand upon the vicar's shoulder, who has just risen from his class,
having carried it successfully through the best part of Isaiah.

"My dear boy,--you?" says the vicar, quite pleased to see him. "But in
bad time: the lesson is over, so you can learn nothing. I don't like
to give them too much Scripture on a week-day. It has a disheartening
effect, and----"

"I wish they could hear you," says Branscombe, with a slight shrug.

"It is as well they cannot," says the vicar; "though I doubt if free
speaking does much harm; and, really, perpetual grinding does destroy
the genuine love for our grand old Bible that we should all feel deep
down in our souls."

"Feeling has gone out of fashion," says Dorian, so distinctly that
Georgie in the distance hears him, and winces a little.

"Well, it has," says the