excuse my frankness on the subject of matrimony! Mrs. Goodenough there can tell you I’m a very out- spoken person.”

“It’s not the out-speaking, it’s what you say that goes against me, Miss Browning,” said Mrs. Goodenough, affronted, yet ready to play her card as soon as needed. And as for Mrs. Dawes, she was too anxious to get into the genteelest of all (Hollingford) society to object to whatever Miss Browning (who, in right of being a deceased rector’s daughter, rather represented the selectest circle of the little town) advocated, whether celibacy, marriage, bigamy, or polygamy.

So the remainder of the evening passed over without any further reference to the secret Mrs. Goodenough was burning to disclose, unless a remark made àpropos de rien by Miss Browning, during the silence of a deal, could be supposed to have connection with the previous conversation. She said, suddenly and abruptly—

“I don’t know what I have done that any man should make me his slave.” If she was referring to any prospect of matrimonial danger she saw opening before her fancy, she might have been comforted. But it was a remark of which no one took any notice, all being far too much engaged in the rubber. Only when Miss Browning took her early leave (for Miss Phœbe had a cold, and was an invalid at home), Mrs. Goodenough burst out with—

“Well! now I may speak out my mind, and say as how, if there was a slave between us two, when Goodenough was alive, it wasn’t me; and I don’t think as it was pretty in Miss Browning to give herself such airs on her virginity when there was four widows in the room,—who’ve had six honest men among ’em for husbands. No offence, Miss Airy!” addressing an unfortunate little spinster, who found herself the sole representative of celibacy, now that Miss Browning was gone. “I could tell her of a girl as she’s very fond on, who’s on the high road to matrimony; and in as cunning a way as ever I heard on: going out at dusk to meet her sweetheart, just as if she was my Betty, or your Jenny. And her name is Molly too—which, as I have often thought, shows a low taste in them as first called her so;—she might as well be a scullery-maid at oncest. Not that she’s picked up anybody common; she’s looked about her for a handsome fellow, and a smart young man enough!”

Every one around the table looked curious and intent on the disclosures being made, except the hostess, Mrs. Dawes, who smiled intelligence with her eyes, and knowingly pursed up her mouth until Mrs. Goodenough had finished her tale. Then she said demurely—

“I suppose you mean Mr. Preston and Miss Gibson?”

“Why, who told you?” said Mrs. Goodenough, turning round upon her in surprise. “You can’t say as I did. There’s many a Molly in Hollingford, beside her—though none, perhaps, in such a genteel station of life. I never named her, I’m sure.”

“No. But I know. I could tell my tale too,” continued Mrs. Dawes.

“No! could you, really?” said Mrs. Goodenough, very curious and a little jealous.

“Yes. My uncle Sheepshanks came upon them in the Park Avenue—he startled ’em a good deal, he said; and, when he taxed Mr. Preston with being with his sweetheart, he didn’t deny it.”

“Well! Now so much has come out, I’ll tell you what I know. Only, ladies, I wouldn’t wish to do the girl an unkind turn,—so you must keep what I’ve got to tell you a secret.” Of course they promised; that was easy.

“My Hannah, as married Tom Oakes, and lives in Pearson’s Lane, was a-gathering of damsons only a week ago, and Molly Gibson was a-walking fast down the lane—quite in a hurry like to meet some