Early on the next morning after Ralph Webster had left May at St. Phillip’s Hospital, he called there to inquire after her, and saw his friend the house surgeon, Doctor Brentwood.

“You have come to ask after the poor little woman you brought here last night,” said the doctor, as he shook Webster’s hand. “Well, I’m sorry to say I can’t give a very good account of her. She has had a bad, restless night, and is very feverish this morning.”

“I am very sorry,” answered Webster, gravely, and a slight quiver passed over his lips.

“She seems extremely low, almost in a hopeless state,” went on the doctor. “She’s had some tremendous heart-break or other, poor soul; I suppose it’s not possible to give her any mental relief?”

“I fear not,” said Webster, in a low, pained tone. “She has lost at one blow all that made the happiness of her life.”

Doctor Brentwood looked somewhat curiously at his friend.

“She is decidedly pretty, at least she must be even remarkably so when she is well. I don’t want to seem curious, Webster, but suppose the poor young woman gets worse—and it is possible—what other friends has she besides yourself?”

“I promised her faithfully not to mention anything of her past.”

“Then I presume her name—Mrs. Church—is an assumed one?”

“I can not even answer that question. But let her have everything she can possibly require; I shall be answerable for all the expenses connected with her case.”

“And yet—you can do nothing to relieve her mind?”

“Nothing; I only wish I could.”

“Well, I must try to pull her through; poor young thing, it seems a sad case.”

“It is a terribly sad case.”

After this Ralph Webster went away, but each morning before he began his work he went to inquire at the hospital about “Mrs. Church.” And May was very ill. The shock had affected her physically as well as mentally and she lay prostrate, hopeless, wishing the life was ended that Webster had done his best to save. There were times when her mind wandered, and the fever ran high. But as a rule her great weakness was what the doctor feared most. It was as though the spring of youth were broken—the flower blighted in its bloom.

Meanwhile as days and weeks went on naturally the friends of the absent girl began to grow again uneasy concerning her fate. Mr. Churchill had returned to Woodside after his visit to London and the Misses Webster, an elated, almost overjoyed man. He had examined the register which recorded the marriage of John Temple and May Churchill, and he had seen the clergyman who had performed the ceremony. Therefore, his mind was set at rest regarding May. He did not write his news to his wife. He wished personally to carry it to her, and felt a sort of secret triumph when he remembered the remarks Mrs. Churchill had made regarding May’s disappearance.

He accordingly telegraphed to her the hour that he hoped to arrive at home, and desired the dog-cart might be waiting for him at the station to meet the train which he intended to travel by. It was waiting for him, and he was driven home, and standing at the open hall door when he reached Woodside was his wife ready to receive him.

She went quickly forward to meet him, and looked eagerly in his face.

“Well, William?” she said.

William kissed her, but there was triumph in his heart as he pressed his mustache against her firm lips. He was thinking of his girl, and thinking of her with pride.

“Have you heard anything?” half-whispered Mrs. Churchill, as she tried to lead him into the hall. But Mr. Churchill seemed in no hurry to impart his news. He gave directions to the groom who had driven him from the station regarding the horse in the dog-cart, and inquired about another animal that was ill. Then, at last, he turned and entered the house, and Mrs. Churchill having closed the door behind him, followed him into the dining-room.

“Have you heard anything of May?” she again inquired quickly.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Churchill, nodding his head, while a pleased smile spread over his face; “it is all right; May is now Mrs. John Temple, and I saw the register of the marriage and the clergyman who married them myself.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Churchill, genuinely astonished.

And for a moment or two—so strange is the human heart—she felt a pang of disappointment at the good news. She had always prophesied evil things of May, and to hear that she was suddenly raised in social position so far above herself, gave her an unpleasant sensation.

“Yes,” continued Mr. Churchill, somewhat boastfully, “my girl has done well for herself, hasn’t she, Sarah? I went first to the ladies where she lived after she left here, until she married Mr. John Temple. They were two real ladies, clergyman’s daughters, and elderly, and had known Mr. John Temple for years, and he asked them to take charge of her until he could make her his wife. And you should have heard how they spoke of her, in the highest terms, and they went to the church when she was married, and so it’s all on the square.”

“Then why was there all this secrecy?” asked Mrs. Churchill, for she had not yet got over her chagrin.

“It seems he thought the old squire and madam wouldn’t like it,” answered Mr. Churchill. “But that’s all right now, for the squire himself told me he would welcome May as his nephew’s wife. And as for madam, well, madam will just have to take it as best as she can. My girl will step into her shoes when the old gentleman dies, for the Hall goes to the heir I’m told, and I’ll have my son-in-law for my landlord—but I was always proud and fond of May.”

Mrs. Churchill composed her lips and tried to swallow her mortification. But after all she was a sensible, though a hard woman, and she saw it was no use trying to throw cold water on her husband’s elation at the good fortune of his daughter. She therefore went up to him and kissed him.

“Well, my dear,” she said, “I am glad it has ended well, and that you are pleased. But you have forgotten to let me know one thing; did you see her?”

“No; as ill-luck would have it, Mr. John Temple had taken her away to the seaside for a few days, and she was out of London when I was there. But I expect we shall be hearing from her shortly; and to-morrow morning I’ll go over to the Hall and see the squire, and tell him the news. Ay, and in spite of madam, I expect we’ll be having her staying at the Hall in no time, and what will you think of that, Sarah?” And Mr. Churchill laughed aloud, and patted his wife’s comely chin.

This was, however, a little more than Mrs. Churchill’s temper could bear.

“Well, I hope it will end well,” she said, tartly; “unequal marriages rarely do.”

“I don’t see that it’s so unequal,” retorted Mr. Churchill. “What was madam herself, who holds her head so high? Only a poor parson’s daughter, with a skin-flint mother, who begs for milk and eggs of everyone who is fool enough to give her them. My girl is as good as madam any day, and as for looks there’s no doubt May has the best of them.”

“You are too uplifted, William,” answered Mrs. Churchill, reproachfully; “remember pride may have a fall.” And having administered this rebuke, Mrs. Churchill left the room, leaving her husband seriously offended.

He was indeed so offended that he would not speak again on the subject during the whole evening. But early the next morning he ordered his best horse to be saddled, as he thought it behooved him to make a good appearance on such an important occasion as carrying the news of his nephew’s marriage to the squire.

“I am going to ride over to the Hall, Sarah,” he said, as he rose from the breakfast table, and he felt as he spoke that he was master of the situation. And Sarah felt this too. It was disagreeable that this little “chit” should be raised above her, but Mrs. Churchill knew very well it was true. Her property consisted of one good farm, besides some savings of her first husband. But what was this to the large estates of the squire’s of Woodlea? And Mr. John Temple was heir to these estates, and May was his wife. So Mrs. Churchill had made up her mind to make the best of it. She had also offended her good-looking husband, and Mrs. Churchill did not like being on bad terms with him.

“Very well, my dear,” she therefore answered meekly, to her spouse’s announcement that he was going to the Hall, “and I am glad you have such good news to tell the squire.”

“It is good news,” replied Mr. Churchill, still stiffly; but he felt mollified, and deigned to kiss his hand to his wife, as she stood at the hall door and watched him mount his good horse and ride away.

And it was no doubt with an uplifted heart that Mr. Churchill rode on his errand to the Hall. He knew, indeed, that Mr. Temple’s approval, or disapproval, would ultimately make no difference to John Temple’s position. The estates were strictly entailed on the next heir, in the event of the squire dying without children. The one child of the house was dead, and John Temple was the next heir, therefore the Woodlea property must some day be his, and his children’s after him. Mr. Churchill looked proudly around, as he went on, at the wide grass-lands and wooded slopes of the familiar landscape. He seemed to see them in a new light. His grandson might become their possessor, and he, the grandsire, would no doubt reap the benefit. He was a man who loved money and success in life, but to give him his due he was also not thinking only of worldly advantages. He was thinking that no one could now throw a stone at his “little girl, and that she would be able to hold up her head with the best of them.”

And his heart was still full of pride when he drew rein at the Hall. He could scarcely ask if he could see the squire in the same tone as was his wont. But he tried to do this, and not to show any undue elation, when the squire received him in the library.

“Well, Mr. Churchill, have you any news?” asked Mr. Temple, gravely, as he held out his hand to his tenant.

“Yes, squire, I have,” answered Mr. Churchill, cordially grasping his landlord’s hand in his own.

“And what is it?” asked Mr. Temple, somewhat nervously.

“Well, sir, I went up to London, as you know, the day before yesterday, and yesterday morning I went to the house in Pembridge Terrace, Bayswater, where the ladies live whose address Mrs. Temple kindly gave me, and where my daughter May has been staying since she left her home. And, squire, I found two real ladies, elderly, and clergyman’s daughters, and they seemed very fond of my girl, and had known your nephew, Mr. John Temple, for many years. And to make a long story short, squire, Mr. John Temple and May were married from their house; the ladies going to the church to witness the ceremony, and then the young people went abroad.”

Mr. Temple’s delicate, rather pallid complexion slightly flushed at this announcement, and for a moment he was silent. The pride of birth and station were not absent from his nature, but, on the other hand, he was a good and just man, and he knew that John Temple had only acted rightly.

“Well, Mr. Churchill,” he said, rather slowly, “I am glad to hear this is so. If my nephew induced your daughter to leave her home, he has only done what a gentleman ought to do in making her his wife.”

“She left her home to become his wife, sir,” answered Mr. Churchill, rather quickly. “That was the arrangement between them, and in the meanwhile my girl went to these ladies, who are friends of his, and remained with them until her marriage. And that there might be no doubt about it, squire, I went to the church where they were married, and I saw the clergyman who married them, and examined the register; and this—” and he drew a sheet of paper from his pocket-book as he spoke—“this is the copy of the register of their marriage, and if you’ll kindly look at it you will see it’s all on the square.”

The squire settled his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose, and took the paper in his hand. In it were duly set forth the date and other particulars of the marriage of John Temple and May Churchill, or rather of Margaret Alice Churchill, for May had given her full baptismal name on the occasion of her marriage.

Mr. Temple read the copy through and then returned it to Mr. Churchill.

“Well, then, there is no mistake, Mr. Churchill,” he said, “and we must earnestly hope that the young people may be happy together. Your daughter, from what I have seen of her, is, I am sure, a charming and very pretty girl—and I will write to my nephew to congratulate him. But where are they now?”

“Well, sir, I am sorry to say I missed them. Mr. John Temple had taken May away to the seaside for a few days when I arrived in town. But no doubt we will be hearing from them soon.”

The squire looked rather puzzled.

“It was strange,” he said, “that my nephew would say nothing before he left here. However, there is no doubt about their marriage, and when you hear from your daughter, Mr. Churchill, will you let me know, and then I will write to my nephew?”

“That I will, sir,” answered Mr. Churchill; “and thank you kindly for the way in which you have spoken of my girl. You might have looked higher, naturally, for your nephew, but this I will say for my daughter May—that a sweeter or bonnier lass does not live! There’s no vice about her, sir, and she’s been a blessing and a comfort to me always, and I’m sure she will be one to her husband. Her mother was a lady—a clergyman’s daughter—and May has taken after her in all her ways.”

“She is no doubt a very sweet-looking girl,” said the squire, “and I shall be glad to welcome her here. But now I am afraid I must say good-morning, Mr. Churchill, as I have an engagement I must keep.” And the squire looked at his watch.

Upon this hint Mr. Churchill took his departure, and scarcely was he gone when Mr. Temple proceeded at once to the breakfast-room, where he had left his handsome wife.

Mrs. Temple was listlessly reading the newspaper, and she looked up somewhat surprised when he entered the room, as she did not know of Mr. Churchill’s visit.

“I have got some news for you, Rachel,” said Mr. Temple.

“News?” asked Mrs. Temple, quickly.

“Yes; John Temple is married to Miss Churchill; must have married her two days after he left here in the autumn, when he said he went to Paris—that must have been his wedding trip.”

Mrs. Temple started to her feet, and her face flushed and then grew pale.

“Is this possible?” she said. “Are you sure?”

“Mr. Churchill has just been here, and he brought with him a copy of the register of their marriage. There can be no mistake, and yet I do not understand John’s conduct, or why he was so reticent about it, when I distinctly told him that if he had induced her to leave her home that it was his duty to make her his wife.”

“There is something to hide, something he is keeping back!” cried Mrs. Temple, excitedly. “But you say they are actually married?”

“They are certainly married, and Rachel, now that the thing is done, we must try to make the best of it. Naturally it is not what I wished for John—still—”

“I should think not!” interrupted Mrs. Temple, scornfully. “A tenant farmer’s daughter—truly her pretty face has made her fortune!”

“Well, it is done, and when I hear from John I mean to write to him; after all the girl is good and pretty, and he might have done worse.”

“Not well, I think,” answered Mrs. Temple, bitterly, and then she left the room, full of excitement and anger.

The news of John Temple’s marriage was indeed very bitter to her. Unconsciously she had learnt to like him too well for one thing, and for another she disliked, nay hated, the whole Churchill family. The boys had played in the fatal game when her little son was killed, and she had always felt a strange jealousy of May’s beauty. And now she was Mrs. John Temple, the wife of the heir of Woodlea! reflected Mrs. Temple, with curling lips.

But she was too much excited to keep the news to herself. She therefore hastily put on her hat and cloak, and started for the vicarage to tell her mother. She felt a sort of grim pleasure in thinking what a rage Mrs. Layton would be in when she heard it. And she certainly was not disappointed in this. Her arrival was most unexpected and inconvenient, for she rarely went to her father’s house, and on this unfortunate morning Mrs. Layton was engaged in what she called “dressing her feathers,” that is, all the feathers that she could collect from the fowls eaten at the Hall or at the vicarage were eagerly saved and stored away by Mrs. Layton until she had acquired a sufficient quantity to have a grand assortment of them. She was therefore sitting covered with feathers in her store-room, when she was told that her daughter, Mrs. Temple, was waiting below to see her.

She tried to shake herself free of the feathers, but with many still clinging to her hair and dress she finally descended, by no means in a good humor. Mrs. Temple was standing looking out of the window as she entered the room, and she gave rather a hard laugh when she saw her mother’s extraordinary appearance.

“Whatever have you been doing?” she said.

“I’ve been dressing my feathers, my dear,” replied Mrs. Layton, “my half-yearly dressing, you know, and I don’t believe, Rachel, that your cook or your scullery-maid have sent me half what they should.”

Mrs. Temple slightly shrugged her handsome shoulders.

“We’ve had a wedding in the family,” she said, scornfully, “and I’ve come to tell you the news.”

“A wedding!” repeated Mrs. Layton, blankly.

“Yes, my nephew John Temple has entered the distinguished family of Churchill,” continued Mrs. Temple, yet more scornfully. “Nice for us all, isn’t it?”

“It can’t be true?” gasped Mrs. Layton.

“Perfectly true, I assure you! The respected head of the family has just been to the Hall to tell Phillip, and he brought a copy of the register of the marriage, and everything is all correct. My beloved nephew, it seems, was secretly married when he went away in the autumn, he said, to Paris. No doubt he did go to Paris, but it was with his highly-born bride!”

“Well, whatever is the world coming to!” cried Mrs. Layton with uplifted hands. “It will be destroyed—no doubt the end is coming—such monstrous things occur! To think that this girl, a girl I’ve bought eggs of, a girl whose character I consider to be far from what it ought to be, should make such a match! But I warned you, Rachel, against John Temple; a snake in the grass, I considered him; but I never thought he would be such a fool as this.”

“I think he must be more a fool than a snake,” answered Mrs. Temple, contemptuously. “Fancy marrying a girl like this! And Phillip says we must make the best of it, which I suppose means inviting the bride and bridegroom to stay at the Hall! However, we shall see. But, good-morning now, mother; I’ll leave you to digest my news.” And with a little nod Mrs. Temple turned away and left the house, while Mrs. Layton stood absolutely speechless with disgust.

But both Mr. Churchill’s elation and Mrs. Temple’s indignation cooled down during the next few weeks. For, to the great surprise and disappointment of Mr. Churchill, nothing was heard at Woodside either from John Temple or his supposed bride. Each morning Mr. Churchill said he could not understand it when the letters came in and there was none from May; and Mrs. Churchill—though with caution—began again to insinuate that she feared it was not all right. And the squire himself, just a week after Mr. Churchill’s visit to the Hall to announce the marriage, walked one morning over to Woodside, to ask Mr. Churchill the whereabouts of the bride and bridegroom.

“Well, squire, it’s the strangest thing, but we have not had a word from them,” answered Mr. Churchill, somewhat disconcerted.

“It is certainly very strange,” said the squire, slowly.

“Can’t understand it, because I told the ladies—the Miss Websters that she had been staying with, and who saw her married to Mr. John Temple—that you had been kind enough to say you would receive her as his wife.”

“Which I certainly shall do. Well, Mr. Churchill, why not write to these ladies and ask if they know their address? They probably do.”

“I never thought of that, sir; but I’ll write to them this very day. Thank you very much for thinking of it, squire.”

And Mr. Churchill accordingly did write to Miss Webster, and after apologizing for troubling her, told her that he was getting anxious at not hearing from his daughter, and asked her to be good enough to give him Mrs. John Temple’s address, if she knew it. And he added, “Mr. Temple, the squire of Woodlea, was here this morning, and will be glad also to hear from his nephew.”

An answer to this letter was most anxiously expected at Woodside, and after two days one came, which was as follows:

“Dear Sir: I am sorry I can not give you the information you require regarding the address of Mr. and Mrs. John Temple, as we have heard nothing from them since the day Mr. John Temple arrived here and took your daughter away for a proposed short visit to the seaside. But the same day that you called and told us Mr. Temple of Woodlea Hall would be glad to receive the young people, I felt it was my pleasing duty to write a few lines to Mr. John Temple to tell him of your visit, and also of his uncle’s sanction to his marriage. I sent this letter to the Grosvenor Hotel, where he sometimes stays while in town, but I have received no reply. And therefore we—my sister and myself—can only conclude that Mr. and Mrs. John Temple must have gone abroad, and have not received my letter.

“Trusting, however, that you will soon hear from them, I remain,

“Yours sincerely,

”Margaret Webster.”

“Yes, that’s it; no doubt they are abroad,” said Mr. Churchill, after he had read Miss Webster’s letter, handing it to his wife.

“Of course, they may be,” replied his wife.

But Mr. Churchill was quite sure that they were, and took over Miss Webster’s letter to show it to the squire. But the squire still thought it very strange, and so did Mrs. Temple when her husband told her of it.

“There is something to hide. John Temple is keeping something back,” she said. And she thought again and again, “What can it be?”