nst George; much might doubtless be said in his
favour, but--. In fact, Miss Waddington would have been glad to know
what were the intentions of Mr. George Bertram senior.

"I really wish he had stayed away," she said to her aunt as they were
getting ready for dinner.

"Nonsense, Caroline; why should he have stayed away? Why should you
expect him to stay away? Had he stayed away, you would have been the
first to grumble. Don't be missish, my dear."

"Missish! Upon my word, aunt Mary, you are becoming severe. What I
mean is, that I don't think he cares so very much for me; and on
the whole, I am not--not _quite_ sure, whether--well, I won't say
anything more; only it does seem to me that you are much more in love
with him than I am."

Bertram came to dinner; and so also did one of the Littlebath
curates, a very energetic young man, but who had not yet achieved
above one or two pairs of worked slippers and a kettle-holder.
Greater things, however, were no doubt in store for him if he would
remain true to his mission. Aunt Mary had intended to ask no one; but
Caroline had declared that it was out of the question to expect that
Mr. Bertram should drink his wine by himself.

The whole evening was dull enough, and the work of disenchantment on
Caroline's part was nearly accomplished; but Bertram, a few minutes
before he went away, as the curate was expatiating to Miss Baker on
the excellence of his rector's last sermon, found an occasion to say
one word.

"Miss Waddington, if I call to-morrow, early after breakfast, will
you see me?" Miss Waddington looked as though there were nothing
in the proposition to ruffle her serenity, and said that she would.
George's words had been tame enough, but there had been something in
the fire of his eye that at last reminded her of Jerusalem.

On the next morning, punctually at ten, his knock was heard at the
door. Caroline had at first persisted that her aunt should not absent
herself; but even Miss Baker would not obey such an injunction as
this.

"How do you expect that the poor young man is to behave?" she had
said. "I do not much care how he behaves," Caroline had replied. But,
nevertheless, she did care.

She was therefore sitting alone when Bertram entered the room. He
walked up to her and took her hand, and as he did so he seemed to be
altogether a different man from that of yesterday. There was purpose
enough in his countenance now, and a purpose, apparently, which he