How Everard loathed his poverty! His shabby coat, and Mollie's pitiful little makeshifts and contrivances, were all alike hateful to him. Too well he remembered the flesh-pots of Egypt--the Goshen of his youth, where he had fared sumptuously, when he had money to spend and the world smiled at him; and then, like a fool--the very prince of fools--he had flung it all away. He had made a mess of his life, but he was not without his blessings; and in his better moments, when the children were singing their hymns, perhaps he would tell himself humbly that he was not worthy of them. But as he stood by the river that morning, it seemed to him as though the cup of his humiliation was full to the very dregs. He had so broken with his old life that few ghostly visitants from the dim past troubled him; and now there had started up in his path the two women whom he most dreaded to see. And one of them he had wronged, when, hot with a young man's passion, and tempted by Dorothy's sweet eyes and girlish grace, he had drawn back, suddenly and selfishly, from the woman he had been wooing. Well, he had dearly loved his wife; but the disgrace of that shameful infidelity was never effaced from his memory. It was a blot, a stain upon his manhood, a sore spot, that often made him wince. Would he ever forget that day they were in the old walled garden, gathering peaches, and Althea had just handed him one, hot with the sun, and crimson-tinted, and bursting with sweetness? "You always give me the best of everything, Althea," he had said; but he was thinking of Dorothy as he said it, and of her love for peaches. "I like to give you the best--the very best," Althea had answered sweetly, and her eyes had been so wistful and tender that he had felt vaguely alarmed. How he had made his meaning clear to her he never could remember. He had spoken of Dorothy, and perhaps his voice had trembled, for all at once she had become very silent, and there was no more gathering of peaches. "I must go in now," she had said, suddenly, and he noticed her lips were pale. "Doreen wants me. Yes, I understand, Everard, and you have my best wishes--my best wishes." And then he had stood still and watched her, a tall, slim figure in white, moving between the fruit-trees and carrying her head proudly. "And it is to Althea Harford that my daughter has applied for a situation," thought Everard, sadly. And again he told himself that he was draining the cup of humiliation to the very dregs. CHAPTER IX. ROSALIND AND CELIA. "A hero worshipped and throned high On the heights of a sweet romance, A faithful friend who was 'always the same' Till the clouds grew heavy and troubles came. But this is life, and this is to live, And this is the way of the world." GERTRUDE CAREY.