surely had been
doing ever since her feet touched the soil of the New World, and truth
to tell, Fanny had borne it very well, until young Dr. Bellamy showed
signs of desertion. Then the spirit of resistance was roused, and she
watched her lover narrowly, gnashing her teeth sometimes when she saw
his ill-concealed admiration for her sprightly little cousin, who
could say and do with perfect impunity so many things which in another
would have been improper to the last degree. She was a tolerably
correct reader of human nature, and, from the moment she witnessed the
meeting between Lucy and the rector of St. Marks, she took courage,
for she readily guessed the channel in which her cousin's preference
ran. The rector, however, she could not read so well; but few men she
knew could withstand the fascinations of her cousin, backed as they
were, by the glamour of half a million; and, though her mother, and,
possibly, her father, too, would be shocked at the _mesalliance_ and
throw obstacles in the way, she was capable of removing them all, and
she would do it, too, sooner than lose the only man she had ever cared
for. These were Fanny's thoughts as she rode home from church that
Sunday afternoon, and, by the time Prospect Hill was reached, Lucy
Harcourt could not have desired a more powerful ally than she
possessed in the person of her resolute, strong-willed cousin.

CHAPTER IV.

BLUE MONDAY.

It was to all intents and purposes "blue Monday" with the rector of
St. Mark's, for, aside from the weariness and exhaustion which always
followed his two services on Sunday, and his care of the Sunday
school, there was a feeling of disquiet and depression, occasioned
partly by that _rencontre_ with pretty Lucy Harcourt, and partly by
the uncertainty as to what Anna's answer might be. He had seen the
look of displeasure on her face as she stood watching him and Lucy,
and though to many this would have given hope, it only added to his
nervous fears lest his suit should be denied. He was sorry that Lucy
Harcourt was in the neighborhood, and sorrier still for her tenacious
memory, which had evidently treasured up every incident which he could
wish forgotten. With Anna Ruthven absorbing every thought and feeling
of his heart, it was not pleasant to remember what had been a genuine
flirtation between himself and the sparkling belle he had met among
the Alps.

It was nothing but a flirtation, he knew, for in his inmost soul he