And so went off the warden’s party, and men and women arranging shawls and shoes declared how pleasant it had been; and Mrs. Good-enough, the red-faced rector’s wife, pressing the warden’s hand, declared she had never enjoyed herself better; which showed how little pleasure she allowed herself in this world, as she had sat the whole evening through in the same chair without occupation, not speaking, and unspoken to. And Matilda Johnson, when she allowed young Dickson of the bank to fasten her cloak round her neck, thought that two hundred pounds a year and a little cottage would really do for happiness; besides, he was sure to be manager some day. And Apollo, folding his flute into his pocket, felt that he had acquitted himself with honour; and the archdeacon pleasantly jingled his gains; but the meagre doctor went off without much audible speech, muttering ever and anon as he went, “three and thirty points!” “three and thirty points!”

And so they all were gone, and Mr. Harding was left alone with his daughter.

What had passed between Eleanor Harding and Mary Bold need not be told. It is indeed a matter of thankfulness that neither the historian nor the novelist hears all that is said by their heroes or heroines, or how would three volumes or twenty suffice! In the present case so little of this sort have I overheard, that I live in hopes of finishing my work within 300 pages, and of completing that pleasant task—a novel in one volume; but something had passed between them, and as the warden blew out the wax candles, and put his instrument into its case, his daughter stood sad and thoughtful by the empty fireplace, determined to speak to her father, but irresolute as to what she would say.

“Well, Eleanor,” said he, “are you for bed?”

“Yes,” said she, moving, “I suppose so; but papa——Mr. Bold was not here to-night: do you know why not?”

“He was asked; I wrote to him myself,” said the warden.

“But do you know why he did not come, papa?”

“Well, Eleanor, I could guess; but it’s no use guessing at such things, my dear. What makes you look so earnest about it?”

“Oh, papa, do tell me,” she exclaimed, throwing her arms round him, and looking into his face; “what is it he is going to do? What is it all about? Is there any—any—any—” she didn’t well know what word to use—“any danger?”

“Danger, my dear, what sort of danger?”

“Danger to you, danger of trouble, and of loss, and of——Oh, papa, why hav’n’t you told me of all this before?”

Mr. Harding was not the man to judge harshly of any one, much less of the daughter whom he now loved better than any living creature; but still he did judge her wrongly at this moment. He knew that she loved John Bold; he fully sympathised in her affection; day after day he thought more of the matter, and, with the tender care of a loving father, tried to arrange in his own mind how matters might be so managed that his daughter’s heart should not be made the sacrifice to the dispute which was likely to exist between him and Bold. Now, when she spoke to him for the first time on the subject, it was natural that he should think more of her than of himself, and that he should imagine that her own cares, and not his, were troubling her.

He stood silent before her awhile, as she gazed up into his face, and then kissing her forehead he placed her on the sofa.