astonishment. He could not help looking at her with curiosity as he turned to accompany her. Mrs Morgan was still wearing her wedding things, which were not now in their first freshness--not to say that the redness, of which she was so painfully sensible, was rather out of accordance with the orange blossoms. Then she was rather flurried and disturbed in her mind; and, on the whole, Mr Wentworth ungratefully concluded the Rector's wife to be looking her plainest, as he turned with very languid interest to see her safely home. "A great many things seem to be happening just now," said Mrs Morgan, with a good deal of embarrassment; "I suppose the people in Carlingford are grateful to anybody who gives them something to talk about." "I don't know about the gratitude," said the Perpetual Curate; "it is a sentiment I don't believe in." "You ought to believe in everything as long as you are young," said Mrs Morgan. "I want very much to speak to you, Mr Wentworth; but then I don't know how you will receive what I am going to say." "I can't tell until I know what it is," said the Curate, shutting himself up. He had an expressive face generally, and Mrs Morgan saw the shutters put up, and the jealous blinds drawn over the young man's countenance as clearly as if they had been tangible articles. He did not look at her, but kept swinging his cane in his hand, and regarding the pavement with downcast eyes; and if the Rector's wife had formed any expectations of finding in the Perpetual Curate an ingenuous young heart, open to sympathy and criticism, she now discovered her mistake. "If I run the risk, perhaps you will forgive me," said Mrs Morgan. "I have just been hearing a dreadful story about you; and I don't believe it in the least, Mr Wentworth," she continued, with a little effusion; for though she was very sensible, she was only a woman, and did not realise the possibility of having her sympathy rejected, and her favourable judgment received with indifference. "I am much flattered by your good opinion. What was the dreadful story?" asked Mr Wentworth, looking at her with careless eyes. They were just opposite Elsworthy's shop, and could almost hear what he was saying, as he stood in the midst of his little group of listeners, talking loud and vehemently. The Perpetual Curate looked calmly at him across the road, and turned again to Mrs Morgan, repeating his question, "What was the dreadful story?--one gets used to romances," he said, with a composure too elaborate to be real; but Mrs Morgan did not think of that.