he was concerned, have discreetly vanished into the background. Perhaps it was a fortunate thing for the vicar that he had a daughter--at least, such a daughter as Maria. Whatever shortcomings there might be on the father's part were more than compensated for on the daughter's. Maria Kettle was one of those women who cannot be happy unless they are striving and toiling for someone other than themselves. Her own individuality did not suffice for her: she lost herself in the wants and needs of others. No one knew the little weaknesses of her father's character better than herself, and no one could have striven more earnestly than she strove to cover them up from the eyes of the world. If he did not care to visit among the sick and necessitous of his flock, or to have his easy selfishness disturbed by listening to the story of their troubles, she made such amends as lay in her power. She did more, in fact, being a sympathetic and large-hearted woman, than it would have been possible for the vicar to have done, had his inclinations lain ever so much in that direction. In the back streets of Nullington, and among the alleys and courts where the labouring people herded together, no figure was better known than that of the vicar's daughter, with her homely features, her bright, speaking eyes, her dress of dark serge, her thick shoes, and her reticule. Little children who could scarcely talk were taught to lisp her name in their prayers, and the oldest of old people, as they basked outside their doors in the summer sunshine, blessed her as she passed that way. Early in the present year, the state of the vicar's health had caused alarm, and he was ordered to the South of France. Maria could not let him go alone, and for the time being the parish had to be abandoned to its fate, and to the ministrations of a temporary clergyman. Maria felt a prevision that she should find most things turned upside down when she got back to it--which proved to be the case. She and her father, the latter in good health, had now returned, and on the day following their arrival, Miss Winter, all eagerness to see them, set off to walk to the vicarage. She and Maria were close and dear friends. That she should be required to tell all about everything that had happened since their absence, Ella knew; it was only natural. More especially about that one sad, dark, and most unexplainable event which had taken place at the Hall in February last. She already shrank from the task in anticipation; for, in truth, it had shaken her terribly, and a haunting dread lay ever on her mind.