"And make it deeper and broader and more unselfish," suggested his visitor. "I never realised that I was selfish—I expect I am! I like my own way, my own pursuits, my own friends. I would be selfish, indeed, if I brought a gay young life to share my fossilised routine. Eliot," he continued, still more forcibly, "speaking as man to man, surely there is some way of escape from this situation? Help me, for my mind is not fruitful in devices. I am thinking of Angel, not of myself. Is she to be compelled to marry a man she has always looked on as a sort of uncle, simply because a wicked woman has started an infernal scandal? What is your opinion?" "You have already had it," now rising. "I have told you what I came here to say. Scandal is hard to stifle, even when it has not a tittle of foundation—evil minds continue to repeat. 'There is no smoke without a fire.' I believe there is no fire, nothing but the cold, wet sticks of early companionship. I say, that I know you to be a good fellow, Gascoigne; Miss Angel is a beautiful, high-spirited, warm-hearted girl. Accept what fate sends you—marry her if you can, and be thankful." "That is your last word?" "Yes; I say no more. Think it over, my dear fellow," and here he laid his hand affectionately on the shoulder of his friend; "you might see Mrs. Gordon. Women are instinctively clever and quick-witted in these affairs. Think it over," and with this injunction Mr. Eliot put his terai hat on his head, and hastily took his departure. * * * * * For some time after the Padre had left him, Major Gascoigne remained sitting in a chair, mentally benumbed. By-and-by he roused himself with an effort, and set all his wits to work upon the subject so brusquely brought to his knowledge. The more he reviewed the question, the less he liked it. He knew how a breath of gossip can tarnish a stainless name, whether at home or abroad; how no amount of rubbing will remove the speck of rust which eats it away. Poor Eliot, he was sorry he had raked up a dead memory. Eliot was too emotional, too sensitive about his flock, very easily frightened—and all parsons were match-makers. There must be _some_ way out of the wood. He would change his clothes at once, swallow some breakfast, and ride over and talk the thing out with Mrs. Gordon. She was generally sewing or writing all the morning in the north verandah. Then he suddenly recalled the fact that his hostess had seemed a little grave and preoccupied the previous evening; that once or twice he had caught her gazing at him with a mysterious expression—that once or twice she had been about to say something to him during the morning ride, and paused; and that she had given him an unusually pressing invitation to "come over soon—and tell her all the news." Major Gascoigne was perfectly correct in his surmise. As he walked up to the north verandah, Mrs. Gordon rose, and held out her hand; in the other were several letters.