“Who knows?” said the Rector, with a smile of indulgent affection. “There may be great literary capacity lying dormant in Jem. The worst of a diary is that one may come to look at it in after years, when one finds a very different story has been written from what one intended to write.” “Oh,” said Dora, lightly skipping over the chasm of gravity, “that is Providence. We must blame Providence for these little _contretemps_. Some one must be blamed, and Providence obviously does not mind.” Jem laughed--somewhat lamely; but still it was a laugh. Supper was despatched somehow--as last meals are. Some of us never forget the flavour of those cups of tea gulped down in the gorgeous steamer-saloon while the stewards get the hand luggage on board. It was a late meal on Sunday evening at the Rectory, and the servants soon followed their betters into the drawing-room for prayers. Then the Rector lighted his last cigarette, and Mrs. Glynde began to show symptoms of a patch of pink in either cheek. At last Jem rose--awkwardly--in the midst of a sally from Dora, who seemed afraid to stop speaking. “Must be going,” he said; and he shook hands with the Rector. Mrs. Glynde, with nervous deliberation, kissed him and squeezed his hand jerkily. “Dora--will open the door for you,” she said, with an apprehensive glance towards her husband, who, however, showed no inclination to move from his chair. Dora not only opened the door, but left it open, and walked with him across the lawn towards the stile. When they reached it there was a little pause. He vaulted over and she quietly followed--without his proffered assistance. Then at last Jem spoke. “You don't seem to care!” he said gruffly--with his new voice. “Oh, _don't!”_ she whispered imploringly. And they walked on beneath the murmuring trees where the yellow moonlight stole in and out between the trunks. It was not cheerful. For when Nature joins her sadness to the sad libretto of life she usually breaks a heart or two. Fortunately for us we mostly act our tragedies in the wrong scenery--the scenery that was painted for a comedy. “I don't understand it,” said the girl at length. “I suppose it is in order to save money for Arthur.” “If I don't, go,” replied Jem, “it will be a question of letting Stagholme.” Dora knew of the ancient horror of such a necessity, handed down from one Agar to another, like a family tradition. Moreover, women seem to respect men who have some simple creed and hold to it simply. Are they not one of our creeds themselves, though by seeking for rights instead of contenting themselves with privileges, some of them try to make atheists of us? “So,” she said nevertheless, “you are being sacrificed to Arthur!” He answered nothing, but he had forgotten for ever Miss Evelina Louisa Barmond. “When do you go?” asked Dora suddenly, with something in her voice which no one had ever heard before. She was startled at it herself.