Not one present but looked up with surprise. "The impression in Prior's Ash is, that they are in Wales," observed Thomas Godolphin. "It is the answer given by the servants to all callers at Lady Godolphin's Folly." "They are certainly at Homburg; whatever the servants may say," persisted George. "The servants are labouring under a mistake." "It is a curious mistake for the servants to make, though," observed the Rector, in a dry, caustic tone. "I think the Verralls are curious people altogether," said Bessy Godolphin. "I don't know but they are," assented George. "But Verrall is a thoroughly good-hearted man, and I shall always speak up for him." That evening George and his wife dined alone. George was standing over the fire after dinner, when Maria came and stood near him. He put out his arm and drew her to his side. "It seems so strange, George--being in this house with you, all alone," she whispered. "Stranger than being my wife, Maria?" "Oh, but I have got used to that." And George Godolphin laughed: she spoke so simply and naturally. "You will get used in time to this being your home, my darling." * * * * * PART THE SECOND. * * * * * CHAPTER I. SIXTY POUNDS TO OLD JEKYL. Standing on the covered terrace outside the dining-room at the Bank, in all the warm beauty of the late and lovely spring morning, surrounded by the perfume of flowers, the green lawn stretching out before her, the pleasant sitting-room behind her, its large window open and its paintings on the walls conspicuous, was Maria Godolphin. She wore a morning dress, simple and pretty as of yore, and her fair face had lost none of its beauty, scarcely any of its youth. Looking at her you would not think that a month had elapsed since she came there, to her home, after her marriage; and yet the time, since then, would not be counted by months, but by years. Six years and a half, it is, since her marriage took place, and the little girl, whom Maria is holding by the hand, is five years old. Just now Maria's face is all animation. She is talking to the child, and talking also to Jonathan and David Jekyl: but if you saw her at an unoccupied moment, her face in repose, you might detect an expression of settled sadness in it. It arose from the loss of her children. Three had died in succession, one after another; and this one, the eldest, was the only child remaining to her. A wondrously pretty little girl, her bare legs peeping between her frilled drawers and her white socks; with the soft brown eyes of her mother, and the golden Saxon curls of her father. With her mother's eyes the child had inherited her mother's gentle temperament: and Margery--who had found in her heart to leave Ashlydyat and become nurse to George's children--was wont to say that she never had to do with so sweet-tempered a child. She had been named Maria; but the name, for home use, had been corrupted