"Mary," said Mr. Ashley, "I have received an offer of marriage for you."

A somewhat abrupt announcement to make to a young lady, and Mr. Ashley spoke in the gravest tone. They were seated round the breakfast table, Mary by her mother's side, who was pouring out the coffee. Mary looked surprised, rather amused; but that was the only emotion discernible in her countenance.

"It is fine to be you, Miss Mary!" struck in Henry, before anyone could speak. "Pray, sir, who is the venturer?"

"He assures me that his happiness is bound up in his offer being accepted," resumed Mr. Ashley. "I fancy he felt inclined to assure me that Mary's was also. Of course, all I can do, is, to lay the proposal before her."

"What is it that you are talking about, Thomas?" interposed Mrs. Ashley, unable until then to say a word, and speaking with some irritability. "I do not consider Mary old enough to be married. How can you think of saying such things to her?"

"Neither do I, mamma," said Mary, with a laugh. "I like my home too well to leave it."

"And while you are talking sentiment, my curiosity is on the rack," cried Henry. "I have inquired the name of the bridegroom, and I should like to be answered."

"The would-be bridegroom," put in Mary.

"Mary, I am ashamed of you!" went on Henry. "I blush for your manners. Nice credit she does to your bringing up, mamma! When young ladies of condition receive a celestial offer, they behave with due propriety, hang their heads with a blush, and subdue their voice to a whisper. And here's Mary—look at her!—talking quite loudly and making merry over it. Once more, sir, who is the adventurous gentleman? Is it good old General Wells, our gouty neighbour opposite, who is lifted in and out of his chariot for his daily airing? I have told Mary repeatedly that she was setting her cap at him."

"It is not so advantageous a proposal in a financial point of view," observed Mr. Ashley, maintaining his impassibility. "It proceeds from one of my dependents at the manufactory."

Mary had the sugar-basin in her hand at the moment, and a sudden tremor seemed to seize her. She set it down; but so clumsily, that half the lumps fell out. Her face had turned to a glowing crimson. Mr. Ashley noticed it.

Mrs. Ashley only noticed the sugar. "Mary, how came you to do that? Very careless, my dear."

Mary began meekly to pick up the sugar, the flush giving way to pallor. She lifted her handkerchief to her face and held it there, as if she had a cold.

"The honour comes from Cyril Dare," said Mr. Ashley.

"Cyril Dare!"

"Cyril Dare!"

In different tones of scorn, but each expressing it most fully, the repetition broke from Mrs. Ashley and Henry. Mary, on the contrary, recovered her equanimity and her countenance. She laughed out, as if she were glad.

"What did you say to him, papa?"

"I gave him my opinion only. That I thought he had mistaken my daughter, if he entertained hopes that she would listen to his suit. The question rests with you, Mary."

"Oh papa, what nonsense! rests with me! Why you know I would never have Cyril Dare."

A smile crossed Mr. Ashley's face. He probably had known it.

"Cyril Dare!" repeated Mary, as if unable to overcome her astonishment. "He must have turned silly. I would not have Cyril Dare if he were worth his weight in gold."

"And he must be worth a great deal more than his weight in gold, Mary, before I would consent to your having him," quietly rejoined Mr. Ashley.

"Have him!" echoed Henry. "If I feared there was a danger of the daughter of all the Ashleys so degrading herself, I should bribe cook to make an arsenic cake, cut the young lady a portion myself, and stand by while she ate it."

"Don't talk foolishly, Henry," rebuked Mrs. Ashley.

"Mamma, I must say I do not think it would be half so foolish as Cyril Dare was," cried Mary, with spirit.

Mrs. Ashley, relieved from any temporary fear of losing Mary, was comfortably going on with her breakfast. "Did Cyril say how he meant to provide for Mary, if he obtained her?" asked she, with an amused look.

"He did not touch upon ways and means. I conclude that he intended I should have the honour of keeping them both."

Henry Ashley leaned back in his chair, and laughed. "If this is not the richest joke I have heard for a long while! Cyril Dare! the kinsman of Herbert the beautiful! Confound his im-pu-dence!"

"Then you decline the honour of the alliance, Mary?" said Mr. Ashley. "What am I to tell him?"

"What you please, papa. Tell him, if you like, that I would rather marry a chimney-sweep. I would, if it came to a choice between the two. How very senseless of Cyril to think of such a thing!"

"How very shrewd, I think, Mary—if he could only have got you," was the reply of Mr. Ashley.

"If!" saucily put in Mary.

Henry bent over the table to his sister. "I tell you what, Mary. You go this morning and offer yourself to our gouty friend, the general. He will jump at it, and we'll have the banns put up. We cannot, you know, be subjected to such shocks as these, on your account; it is unreasonable to expect it. I assure you it will be the most effectual plan to set Cyril Dare, and those of his tribe, at rest. No, thank you, ma'am," turning to Mrs. Ashley—"no more coffee. This has been enough breakfast for me."

"Who is this?" asked Mr. Ashley, as footsteps were heard on the gravel-walk.

Mrs. Ashley lifted her eyes. "It is William Halliburton."

"William Halliburton!" echoed Henry. "Ah! if you could have put his heart and intellect into Cyril's form, now, it might have done."

He spoke with that freedom of speech which characterized him, and in which, from his infirmity, he had not been checked. No one made any remark in answer, and William entered. He had come to ask some business question of Mr. Ashley.

"I will walk down with you," said Mr. Ashley, "and see to it. Take a seat, William."

"It is getting late, sir."

"Well, I suppose you can afford to be late for once," replied Mr. Ashley. And William smiled as he sat down.

"We have had a letter from Cambridge, this morning. From Gar."

"And how does Mr. Gar get on?" asked Henry.

"First rate. He takes a leaf out of Frank's book; determined to see no difficulties in his way. Frank's letters are always cheering. I really believe he cares no more for being a servitor than he would for wearing a hat at Christchurch. All his wish is to get on: he looks to the future."

"But he does his duty in the present," quietly remarked Mr. Ashley.

William smiled. "It is the only way to insure the future, sir. Frank and Gar have been learning that all their lives."

Mr. Ashley, telling William not to get the fidgets, for he was not ready yet, withdrew to the next room with his wife. They had some weighty domestic matter to settle, touching a dinner party. Henry linked his arm within William's and drew him to the window, throwing it open to the early spring sunshine. Mary remained at the breakfast table.

"What do you think Cyril Dare, the presuming, has had the conscience to ask?" began he.

"I know," replied William. "I heard him say he should ask it yesterday."

"The deuce you did?" uttered Henry. "And you did not knock him down?"

"Knock him down! Was it any business of mine?"

"You might have done it as my friend, I think. A slight correction of his impudence."

"I do not see that it is your business either," returned William. "It is Mr. Ashley's."

"Oh, indeed! Perhaps you would like it carried out?"

"I have no right to say it shall not be."

"Thank you!" chafed Henry. "Mary," he called out to his sister, "here's Halliburton recommending that that business we know of shall be carried out."

William only laughed. He was accustomed to Henry's exaggerations. "It is what Cyril has been expecting for years," said he.

Henry gazed at him. "What is? What are you talking of?"

"Being taken into partnership by Mr. Ashley."

"Is it that you are blundering over? Does he expect it?" continued Henry, after a pause.

"Cyril said, yesterday, the firm would soon be Ashley and Dare."

"Did he indeed! He had better not count upon it so as to disturb his digestion. That's presumption enough, goodness knows; but it is a mere flea-bite compared with the other. He has asked for Mary. It is true as that we are standing here."

William turned his questioning gaze on Henry. He did not understand. "Asked for her for what? What to do?"

"To be his wife."

"Oh!" The strange sound was not a burst of indignation, or a groan of pain: it was a mixture of both. William thrust his head out of the window.

"He actually asked the master for her yesterday!" went on Henry. "He said his heart, or liver, or some such part of him was bound up in her: as she was bound up in him. Fancy the honour of her becoming Mrs. Cyril!"

William did not turn his head: not a glimpse of his face could be caught. "Will she have him?" he asked, at length.

The question exasperated Henry. "Yes, she will. There! Go and congratulate her. You are a fool, William."

The sound of his angry voice, not his words, reached Mary's ears. She came forward. "What is the matter, Henry?"

"So he is a fool," was Henry's answer. "He wants to know if you are going to marry Cyril Dare. I tell him yes. No one but an idiot would have asked it."

William turned, his face full of an emotion that Henry had never seen there: a streak of scarlet on his cheeks, his earnest eyes strangely troubled. And Mary?—her face seemed to have borrowed the same flush, as she stood there, her head and eyelashes bent.

Henry Ashley gazed, first at one, next at the other, and then turned and leaned from the window himself. In contrition for having spoken so openly of his sister's affairs? Not at all. Whistling the bars of a renowned comic song of the day called "The Steam Arm."

Mr. Ashley put in his head. "I am ready, William."

William touched Mary's hand in silence by way of adieu, and halted as he passed Henry. "Shall you come round to the men to-night?"

"No, I shan't," retorted Henry. "I am upset for the day."

He was halfway down the path when he heard himself called by Henry, still leaning from the window. He went back to him.

"She said she'd rather have a chimney-sweep than Cyril Dare. Don't go and make a muff of yourself again."

William turned away without any answer. Mr. Ashley, who had waited, put his arm within his, and they proceeded to the manufactory.

"Have you heard this rumour, respecting Herbert Dare, that has been wafted over from Germany within the last day or two?" inquired Mr. Ashley, as they walked along.

"Yes, sir," replied William.

"I wonder if it is true?"

William did not answer. William's private opinion was, that it was true. It had been tolerably well authenticated. A rumour that need not be very specifically enlarged upon here. Helstonleigh never came to the bottom of it: never knew for certain how much of it was true, and how much false, and we cannot expect to be better favoured than Helstonleigh, in the point of enlightenment. It was not a pleasant rumour, and the late governess's name was unaccountably mixed up in it. For one thing, it said that Herbert Dare, finding commercial pursuits not congenial to his taste, had given them up, and was roaming about Germany. Mademoiselle also. It was a report that did not do credit to Herbert, or tend to reflect respectability on his family; yet Mr. Ashley fully believed that to that report he owed the application of Cyril with regard to Mary, strange as it may appear at a first glance, to say it. The application had astonished Mr. Ashley beyond expression. He could only come to the conclusion that Cyril must have entertained the hope for some time, but had been induced to disclose it prematurely. So prematurely—even allowing that other circumstances favoured it—that Mr. Ashley was tempted to laugh. A man without means, without a home, without any definite prospects, merely a workman, as might be said, in his manufactory, upon a very small salary; it was ridiculous in the extreme for him to offer marriage to Miss Ashley. Mr. Ashley, of upright conduct in the sight of day, was not one to wink at folly; any escapade such as that, now flying about Helstonleigh as attributed to Herbert, would not be an additional recommendation in Cyril's favour. Had he hastened to speak before it should reach Mr. Ashley's ears? Mr. Ashley thought so. An hour after Cyril had spoken, he heard the scandal; and it flashed over his mind that to that he was indebted for the premature honour. Cyril would have liked to secure his consent before anything unpleasant transpired.

As Mr. Ashley came in view of the manufactory, Cyril Dare observed him. Cyril was lounging in an indolent manner at the entrance doors, exchanging greetings with the various passers-by. He ought to have been inside at his business; but oughts went for little with Cyril. Since Samuel Lynn's departure, Cyril had been living in clover; enjoying as much idleness as he liked. William assumed no authority over him, though full authority had been given to William over the manufactory in general; and Cyril, except when he just happened to be under Mr. Ashley's eye, passed his time agreeably. Cyril stared as he caught sight of the master, and then went in, his spirits going down a little. To see the master thus walking confidentially with William, seemed to argue unfavourably for his suit; though why it should seem so, Cyril did not know. Cyril's staring was occasioned by that fact. He had never been promoted to the honour of thus walking familiarly with Mr. Ashley. In fact, for the master, a reserved and proud man with all his good qualities, to link his arm within a dependant's, astonished Cyril considerably.

When they entered, Cyril was at work in his apron, standing at the counter in the master's room, steady and assiduous, as though he had been there for the last half-hour. The master came in, but William remained in Mr. Lynn's room.

"Good morning, sir," said Cyril.

"Good morning," replied the master.

He sat down to his desk, and opened a letter that was lying on it. Presently he looked up.

"Cyril!"

"Yes, sir."

"Step here."

Cyril approached the desk, feeling what a lady might call nervous. The decisive moment had come: should he be provided for, for life; enjoy a good position and the means of living as a gentleman? Or would his unlucky star prevail, and consign him to—he did not quite foresee to what?

"I have spoken to Miss Ashley. She was excessively surprised at your application, and begs to decline it in the most unequivocal manner. Allow me to add a recommendation from myself, that you bury in oblivion the fact of your having made it."

Cyril hesitated for a moment, and looked foolish. "Why?" he asked.

"Why?" repeated Mr. Ashley. "I think you could answer that query for yourself, and save me the trouble. I do not wish to go too closely into facts and causes, past and present, unless you desire it. One thing you must be aware of, Cyril, that such a proposition from you to my daughter was utterly out of place. I should have rejected it point-blank yesterday; in fact, in the surprise of the moment, I almost spoke out more plainly than you would have liked, but that I thought it as well for you to have Miss Ashley's opinion as well as my own."

"Why am I rejected, sir?" continued Cyril.

Mr. Ashley waved his hand with dignity. "Return to your employment, Cyril. It is quite sufficient for you to know that you are rejected, without my going into motives and reasons. They might not, I say, be palatable to you."

Cyril did not venture to press it further. He returned to the counter, and stood there, ostensibly going on with his work, and boiling over with rage. The master sat some little time longer and then left the room. Soon after, William came in. His eye caught Cyril's employment.

"Cyril," cried he, hastily advancing to him, "you must not make up those gloves. I told you yesterday not to touch them."

A dangerous speech. Cyril was not unlike touchwood at that moment, liable to go off at the slightest contact. "You told me!" he burst forth. "Do you think I am going to do what you choose to tell me? Try it on for the future, that's all. You tell me!"

"They are the very best gloves, and must be sorted with nicety," returned William. "Don't you know that the sorting of the last parcel was found fault with in London? It vexed the master; and he desired me to do all the sorting myself, until Mr. Lynn should be at home."

"I choose to sort," returned Cyril.

"But you must not sort in the face of the master's orders; or, if you do, I must go over them again."

"That's right; praise up yourself!" foamed Cyril. "Of course you are an efficient sorter, and I am a bad one."

"You might be as good a sorter as any one, if you chose to give it proper time and attention. What a temper you are in this morning! What's the matter?"

"The matter is, that I have submitted to your rule long enough, but I'll do it no longer," was the reply of Cyril, whose anger was gathering strength, and whose ill feeling towards William, deep down in his heart from long ago, had had envy added to it of late.

William made no reply. He carefully swept the dozens that Cyril had made up, farther down the counter, that they might be in a stronger light.

"What's that for?" cried Cyril. "How dare you meddle with my work? They are done as well as you can do them, any day."

"Now, where's the use of flying into this passion, Cyril? What's it for? Do you suppose I go over your work again for pleasure, or to find fault with it? I do it because the master has ordered me to make up every dozen that goes out; and if you do it first of all, it is sheer waste of time. See here," added William, holding two or three pairs towards him, "these will not do for firsts."

Angry Cyril! He was quite beside himself with anger. It was not this trifling matter in the daily business that would have excited him; but Mr. Ashley's rejection, his words altogether, had turned Cyril's blood into gall; and this was made the outlet. He dashed the gloves out of William's hand to the farthest corner of the room, and struck him a powerful blow on the chest. It caused William to stagger: he was unprepared for it; but whether he would have returned it must remain uncertain. Before there was time or opportunity, Cyril found himself whirled backwards by a hand as powerful as his own; and a voice of stern authority was demanding the meaning of the scene.

The hand, the voice, were those of the master.