Happy was it for Jane that the only exception to her father’s no-society rule was in favour of the man she loved. The Squire had by no means forgotten Mrs. McDermott’s warning words, nor Tom’s frank confession of his love for Jane; and it had certainly been no part of his intention to encourage Tom’s visits to Pincote after the widow’s abrupt departure. In honour of that departure, there had been, next day, a little dinner of state, at which Mr. Culpepper had made his appearance in a dress coat and white cravat, at which there had been French side dishes, and at which the Squire had drunk Tom’s health in a bumper of the very best port which his cellar contained. But when they parted that night, when the Squire, having hobbled to the front door, shook hands with Tom, and bade him good-night, it was with a sort of half intimation that some considerable time would probably elapse before they should have the pleasure of seeing him at Pincote again. In the first flush of his delight at having got rid of his sister, the Squire thought that he could be content and happy at home of an evening with no company save that of Jane, even as he had been content and happy long before he had known Tom Bristow. But in so thinking he had overlooked one very important point. The Titus Culpepper of six months ago had been a prosperous, well-to-do gentleman, satisfied with himself and all the world, in tolerable health, and excited by the prospect of making a magnificent fortune without trouble or anxiety. The Titus Culpepper of to-day was a broken-down gambler—a gambler who had madly speculated with his daughter’s fortune, and had lost it. Broken-down, too, was he in health, in spirits, and in temper; and, worst sign of all, a man who no longer found any pleasure in the company of his own thoughts, and who began to dislike to sit alone even for half an hour at a time. Of this change in himself the Squire knew and suspected nothing: how few of us do know of such changes! Other people may change—nay, do we not see them changing daily around us, and smile good-naturedly as we note how querulous and hard to please poor Jones has become of late? But that we—we—should so change, becoming a burden to ourselves and a trial to those around us, with our queer, cross-grained ways, our peevish, variable tempers, and our general belief that the sun shines less brightly, and that the world is less beautiful than it was a little while ago—that is altogether impossible. The change is always in others, never in our immaculate selves.