Arrived at Lady Godolphin's Folly, the Miss Godolphins passed indoors; Maria Hastings lingered a moment behind them. She leaned against a white pillar of the terrace, looking forth on the lovely night. Not altogether was that peaceful scene in accordance with her heart, for, in that, warred passionate jealousy. Who was Charlotte Pain, she asked herself, that she should come between them with her beauty; with her---- Some one was hastening towards her; crossing the green lawn, springing up the steps of the terrace: and the jealous feeling died away into love. "Were you waiting for me?" whispered George Godolphin. "We met Verrall, so I resigned mademoiselle to his charge. Maria, how your heart is beating!" "I was startled when you ran up so quickly; I did not think it could be you," was the evasive answer. "Let me go, please." "My darling, don't be angry with me: I could not well help myself. You know with whom I would rather have been." He spoke in the softest whisper; he gazed tenderly into her face, so fair and gentle in the moonlight; he clasped her to him with an impassioned gesture. And Maria, as she yielded to his tenderness in her pure love, and felt his stolen kisses on her lips, forgot the jealous trouble that was being wrought by Charlotte Pain. CHAPTER IV. ALL SOULS' RECTORY. At the eastern end of Prior's Ash was situated the Church and Rectory of All Souls--a valuable living, the Reverend Isaac Hastings its incumbent. The house, enclosed from the high-road by a lofty hedge, was built, like the church, of greystone. It was a commodious residence, but its rooms, excepting one, were small. This one had been added to the house of late years: a long, though somewhat narrow room, its three windows looking on to the flowered lawn. A very pleasant room to sit in on a summer's day; when the grass was green, and the flowers, with their brightness and perfume, gladdened the senses, and the birds were singing, and the bees and butterflies sporting. Less pleasant to-day. For the skies wore a grey hue; the wind sighed round the house with an ominous sound, telling of the coming winter; and the mossy lawn and the paths were dreary with the yellow leaves, decaying as they lay. Mrs. Hastings, a ladylike woman of middle height and fair complexion, stood at one of these windows, watching the bending of the trees as the wind shook them; watching the falling leaves. She was remarkably susceptible to surrounding influences; seasons and weather held much power over her: but that she was a clergyman's wife, and, as such, obliged to take a very practical part in the duties of life, she might have subsided into a valetudinarian. A stronger gust sent the leaves rustling up the path, and Mrs. Hastings slightly shivered. "How I dislike this time of year," she exclaimed. "I wish there were no autumn. I dislike to see the dead leaves." "I like the autumn: although it heralds in the winter."