himself, while you are languishing “out in the cold,” in the expressive vernacular, are frightful to contemplate. As for curate Hobplush, he may drop in whenever he pleases, being treated like one of the family circle; while you, miserable creature, can only call at stated intervals, always dreading the horrid possibility of out-staying your welcome, and receiving the metaphorical “cold shoulder”—though love may prompt you to the sacrifice.

Such was my position now.

There was Mr Mawley visiting at Mrs Clyde’s house some half-a-dozen times a week, for all I knew to the contrary—and of course I imagined the worst—and having endless chances and opportunities of conversing with my darling, in the morning, at noontide, and at night; while poor, wretched I had to content myself with a passing bow and smile when we chanced to meet abroad, or I should happen to see her dainty figure at the window as I promenaded past her house.

You say I ought to have considered myself lucky to get even that slight modicum of notice?

But I did not so consider myself. I was not by any means contented. Where did you ever find a lover worth his salt who was?

To tell the truth, I was horribly jealous of Mawley. He was not at all a bad-looking fellow; and, with all his dogmatic tone and love of argument, had a wonderfully taking way with ladies. Besides, his connection with the Church gave him a considerable pull over me—girls are so impressionable, as a rule, with regard to nice young curates, that they generally have the pick of the parish! Really, all things considered, I’m very much afraid that I had not that kind Christian feeling and charity in my heart towards Mawley that the vicar had enjoined in his Christmas sermon. I did not regard the curate even with that reverence which his Oxford waistcoat should have inspired. I believe that at that particular time I looked upon him with somewhat of the same feeling with which the homicidal Cain regarded his brother Abel about the sacrificing business.

Then, there was Horner, too, who was generally looked upon as an “eligible” person, having a respectable position of his own in addition to considerable expectations from his rich uncle, as I told you before. I could see that Mrs Clyde encouraged him. He was always going there, and frequently walking out with them also. I saw him, and it made my heart bitter. One evening, I met him in full costume, with an opera-glass slung round his shoulders, just before he reached their door. He told me 

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