George had built the castle. Mary had sat by twittering and clapping her hands for glee as higher and higher it rose. He knew for a fact, he told her, that his uncle had not expended upon his education much more than half the money left him for the purpose. He was convinced that by hook or by crook he could obtain the 400 pounds that would buy him the practice at Runnygate of which the Dean had told him. They would have a little house there--the town would thrive--the practice would nourish--in a year--why, in a year they would likely enough have to be thinking of getting a partner! And it would begin almost immediately! In three weeks the examination would be held. He could not fail to pass--then for the 400 pounds and Runnygate! And then, unhappily, George leaned against this castle wall; provoked the crash. “Till then, dear,” he said, “you will stay with these Chater people. I know you hate it; but it will be only a short time, a few weeks at most.” Instantly her gay twittering ceased. Trouble drove glee from her eyes. Memory chased dreams from her brain. Distress tore down the gay colours from her cheeks. She clasped her hands; from her seat half rose. “Oh!” she cried; and again, “Oh! I had forgotten!” “Forgotten? Forgotten what?” “Dearest, I should have told you at the beginning, but I could not. I wanted to wait until I knew. I have not seen her yet this morning.” My startled George was becoming pale. “Knew what? Seen whom? What do you mean?” She said, “No, I won't tell you. I won't spoil all this beautiful morning we have spent. I will wait till next week.” “Mary, what do you mean? Wait till next week? No. You must tell me now. How could I leave you like this, knowing you are in some trouble? What has happened? You must tell. You must. I insist.” “Ah, I will.” Her agitation, as her mind cast back over the events of the previous night, was enhanced by the suddenness of the change from the sunshine in which she had been disporting to the darkness that now swept upon her. She was as a girl who, singing along a country lane, is suddenly confronted from the hedgeside by some ugly tramp. She said, “You know that young Mr. Chater?” Dark imaginings clouded upon George's brow. “Yes,” he said. “Yes; well--?” “Last night--” And then she gave him the history of events. This simple George of mine writhed beneath it. It was a poison torturing his system, twisting his brow, knotting his hands. Her presence, when she finished, did not stay his cry beneath his rackings: he was upon his feet. “By Gad,” he cried, “I'll thrash the life out of him! The swine! By Gad, I'll kill him!” She laid a hand upon his arm. “Georgie, dear,” she pleaded. “Don't, don't take it like that. I haven't finished.” Roughly he turned upon her. “Well, what else? What else?”