hich he would
not repeat again.

"Good-bye, Mr Gordon," said Mary. She had thought of the moment
much, but had determined at last that she would trust herself to
nothing further. He took her hand, but did not say a word. He took it
and pressed it for a moment, and then turned his face away, and went
in from the hall back to the door leading to the drawing-room. Mr
Whittlestaff was at the moment putting on his great-coat, and Mary
stood with her bonnet and cloak on at the open front door, listening
to a word or two from Kattie Forrester and Evelina Hall. "Oh, I wish,
I wish it might have been!" said Kattie Forrester.

"And so do I," said Evelina. "Can't it be?"

"Good-night," said Mary, boldly, stepping out rapidly into the
moonlight, and mounting without assistance to her place in the open
carriage.

"I beg your pardon," said Mr Hall, following her; but there came not
a word from her.

Mr Whittlestaff had gone back after John Gordon. "By-the-by," he
said, "what will be your address in London?"

"The 'Oxford and Cambridge' in Pall Mall," said he.

"Oh, yes; the club there. It might be that I should have a word to
send to you. But I don't suppose I shall," he added, as he turned
round to go away. Then he shook hands with the party in the hall, and
mounting up into the carriage, drove Mary and himself away homewards
towards Croker's Hall.

Not a word was spoken between them for the first mile, nor did a
sound of a sob or an audible suspicion of a tear come from Mary. Why
did those girls know the secret of her heart in that way? Why had
they dared to express a hope as to an event, or an idea as to a
disappointment, all knowledge of which ought to be buried in her own
bosom? Had she spoken of her love for John Gordon? She was sure that
no word had escaped her. And were it surmised, was it not customary
that such surmises should be kept in the dark? But here these young
ladies had dared to pity her for her vain love, as though, like some
village maiden, she had gone about in tears bewailing herself that
some groom or gardener had been faithless. But sitting thus for the
first mile, she choked herself to keep down her sobs.

"Mary," at last he whispered to her.

"Well, Mr Whittlestaff?"

"Mary, we are both of us unhappy."

"I am not unhappy," she said, plucking up herself suddenly. "Why do
you say that I am unhappy?"

"You seem so. I at any rate am unhappy."

"What makes you so?"

"I did wrong to take you