“No, I don’t. Prima donnas are not in the habit of screeching at the top of their voices, and then stopping suddenly to make an effect and attract attention.” “Certainly she has attracted my attention, and I only wish I could hear such screeching every day; it would be a great change.” It may be explained that the Layards were musical, and that each detested the music of the other. “Really, Stephen,” rejoined Eliza, with sarcasm as awkward as it was meant to be crushing, “I shall have to tell Jane Rose that she is dethroned, poor dear—beaten out of the field by a hymn-tune, a pair of brown eyes, and—a black silk fichu.” This was a venomous stab, since for a distance of ten miles round everyone with ears to hear knew that Stephen’s admiration of Miss Rose had not ended prosperously for Stephen. The poisoned knife sank deep, and its smart drove the little pale-eyed man to fury. “You can tell her what you like, Eliza,” he replied, for his self-control was utterly gone; “but it won’t be much use, for she’ll know what you mean. She’ll know that you are jealous of Miss Fregelius because she’s so good looking; just as you are jealous of her, and of Mary Porson, and of anybody else who dares to be pretty and,” with crushing meaning, “to look at Morris Monk.” Eliza gasped, then said in a tragic whisper, “Stephen, you insult me. Oh! if only we were at home, I would tell you——” “I have no doubt you would—you often do; but I’m not going home at present. I am going to the Northwold hotel.” “Really,” broke in their hostess, almost wringing her hands, “this is Sunday, Mr. Layard; remember this is Sunday.” “I am not likely to forget it,” replied the maddened Stephen; but over the rest of this edifying scene we will drop a veil. Thus did the advent of Stella bring with it surprises, rumours, and family dissensions. What else it brought remains to be told. CHAPTER XII. MR. LAYARD’S WOOING The days went by with an uneventful swiftness at the Abbey, and after he had once accustomed himself to the strangeness of what was, in effect, solitude in the house with an unmarried guest of the other sex, it may be admitted, very pleasantly to Morris. At first that rather remarkable young lady, Stella, had alarmed him somewhat, so that he convinced himself that the duties of this novel hospitality would prove irksome. As a matter of fact, however, in forty-eight hours the irksomeness was all gone, to be replaced within twice that period by an atmosphere of complete understanding, which was comforting to his fearful soul.