he shallowest of
living creatures--the most selfish, the falsest, the basest. No; I do not
believe she could ever be false or unworthy. There is something noble in
her face--something more than mere beauty. Heaven knows, I have seen
enough of that in my time. I could scarcely be so childish as to be
bewitched by a pair of gray eyes and a rosy mouth; there must be
something more. And, after all, this is most likely a passing fancy, born
out of the utter idleness and dulness of this place. I shall go back to
London in a week or two, and forget Marian Nowell. Marian Nowell!"

He repeated the name with unspeakable tenderness in his tone--a deeper
feeling than would have seemed natural to a passing fancy. It was more
like a symptom of sickening for life's great fever.

It was close upon eleven when he made his appearance in his sister's
drawing-room, where Martin Lister was enjoying a comfortable nap, while
his wife stifled her yawns over a mild theological treatise.

He had to listen to a good deal of wonderment about the length of his
absence, and was fain to confess to an accidental encounter with Captain
Sedgewick, which had necessitated his going into the cottage.

"Why, what could have taken you that way, Gilbert?"

"A truant fancy, I suppose, my dear. It is as good a way as any other."

Mrs. Lister sighed, and shook her head doubtfully. "What fools you men
are," she said, "about a pretty face!" "Including Martin, Belle, when he
fell in love with your fair self?"

"Martin did not stare me out of countenance in church, sir. But you have
almost kept us waiting for prayers."

The servants came filing in. Martin Lister woke with a start, and Gilbert
Fenton knelt down among his sister's household to make his evening
orisons. But his thoughts were not easily to be fixed that night. They
wandered very wide of that simple family prayer, and made themselves into
a vision of the future, in which he saw his life changed and brightened
by the companionship of a fair young wife.

CHAPTER II.

MARIAN'S STORY.

The days passed, and there was no more dulness or emptiness for Gilbert
Fenton in his life at Lidford. He went every day to the white-walled
cottage on the green. It was easy enough to find some fresh excuse for
each visit--a book or a piece of music which he had recommended to Miss
Nowell, and had procured from London for her, or something of an equally
frivolous character. The Captain was always cordial,