All else was cast aside when Miles had to be pleased. She forgot Dora, and every thing, and stood before him with her hair streaming back from her fair, innocent face--that face was Miles's greatest torment in his task. It was the very one he could have desired for his picture; but for worlds he would not have laid it upon canvass for indifferent eyes to look upon; in vain model after model sat to him--some were very lovely; and when he thought his wish accomplished, and but a few finishing touches were required to complete the face--nothing but the working up, when no model was of further use, involuntarily--his pencil, faithful to the memory of his heart, moulded the unfinished face with an imperfect likeness of his beloved wife; and though he sighed whilst obliterating it, yet nothing would have tempted him to expose that to a stranger's gaze; perhaps, a questioning one, which would seek the original of so perfect a creation. No, she was his--only his. Could he have insisted upon such a thing without appearing absurd, she should never have quitted the house, unless closely veiled--his was true, all-absorbing affection. There was no selfish vain-glory in it; that feeling which makes a man parade the object of his idolatry before the multitude, to delight his ears with the hum of praise her beauty might elicit, and from the pedestal of his exclusive right, look down in pitying compassion on the multitude doing homage to her charms--nothing of this could move Tremenhere, except to feel contempt. His was too noble a nature to be gratified by the injury of others--he only asked to be left in peace and seclusion with this fair being he had so hardly won. _He_, for the cold heartless world, to toil for her, and with it--_she_, to solace his hours of peace and most unworldly love. We will leave them awhile, and step back to Gatestone. At the moment her successful flight was no longer a mystery--the only one was, how she had escaped--there were not wanting those to instil into Juvenal's mind an idea, that he had an enemy on his hearth; and poor Dorcas was the suspected person. She had favoured Minnie's escape, and not all her assurances to the contrary, could remove the impression; and, when she expressed her determination to visit Minnie, not the slightest shadow of doubt remained. Little-minded persons must have an imaginary trouble, if they do not possess a real one--they could not exist without something to worry them to death. Dorcas was the living source of sorrow to Juvenal and Sylvia; and, had she not been patience itself, _they_ would assuredly have driven her into her grave by their unceasing fire of innuendoes, when they actually abstained from open accusations. However, she bore all placidly, and finally started, to the deep indignation of both, for town, accompanied by Mr. Skaife. This latter had become perfectly reconciled to Minnie's marriage. His love had not been that of