, too,
would be thoroughly in accord with her tastes and desires. But Alice
cared nothing for Mr. Skelton. Her heart was sad when she saw how pale
he looked at her refusal, but she had no hesitation.

The problem which faced her now, however, was not so easy to settle.
Young Harry Briarfield was not a comparative stranger like Mr. Skelton;
she had known him all her life, they had been brought up together in
the same town, they had gone to Sunday School together, they had sung
duets together at concerts, and although she had never looked at Harry
in the light of a lover she had always been fond of him.

Harry was in a good position too; his father was a manufacturer in a
fairly large way, and he had just been admitted as a partner into the
business. He was twenty-four years of age now, was highly respected
throughout the town, and was looked upon as one who in a few years
would hold his head high among commercial men.

During the last few weeks Harry had come often to Mr. Lister's house,
ostensibly to talk about business, but really to see Alice.

Mr. and Mrs. Lister had nudged each other and smiled at Harry's
frequent visits.

"I knew our Alice would do the right thing," said Mr. Lister to his
wife; "for a time she went silly about that Pollard boy, but she threw
him over of her own accord. Harry's a nice lad, and he's making a tidy
bit of brass, while George Briarfield has about made his pile. In two
or three years Harry will have the business entirely in his own hands,
and then there will not be a better chance in Brunford for her."

Mrs. Lister sighed.

"I don't think our Alice has forgotten Tom Pollard, though," she
replied.

"Nonsense," replied her husband, "what is the good of her thinking
about Tom? I thought he would have done well at one time, and if he
hadn't taken up with that Polly Powell lot he might have got on; but he
did, and then he went for a soldier. What is the good of our Alice
thinking about him? Even if the war were to finish next week and Tom
were to come back, it would take him years, even if he had good luck,
to make five pound a week, while Harry's making a thousand a year if
he's making a penny."

"Ay, I know," replied Mrs. Lister, "but you can never judge a lass's
heart. You know how it was wi' us, George; at the very time you asked
me to be your wife you were only making thirty-three shillings a week,
and William Pott was making hundreds a year. He was a far better
cha