“It may be my fancy, dear,” said Euphemia; “but his tie was very like yours. I believe Jane keeps him in ties. She told me a little while ago, in a way that implied volumes about the rest of your costume, ‘The master _do_ wear pretty ties, ma’am.’ And he echoes all your novelties.” The young couple passed our window again on their way to their customary walk. They were arm in arm. Jane looked exquisitely proud, happy, and uncomfortable, with new white cotton gloves, and William, in the silk hat, singularly genteel! That was the culmination of Jane’s happiness. When she returned, “Mr. Maynard has been talking to William, ma’am,” she said, “and he is to serve customers, just like the young shop gentlemen, during the next sale. And if he gets on, he is to be made an assistant, ma’am, at the first opportunity. He has got to be as gentlemanly as he can, ma’am; and if he ain’t, ma’am, he says it won’t be for want of trying. Mr. Maynard has took a great fancy to him.” “He _is_ getting on, Jane,” said my wife. “Yes, ma’am,” said Jane, thoughtfully, “he _is_ getting on.” And she sighed. That next Sunday, as I drank my tea, I interrogated my wife. “How is this Sunday different from all other Sundays, little woman? What has happened? Have you altered the curtains, or rearranged the furniture, or where is the indefinable difference of it? Are you wearing your hair in a new way without warning me? I clearly perceive a change in my environment, and I cannot for the life of me say what it is.” Then my wife answered in her most tragic voice: “George,” she said, “that—that William has not come near the place to-day! And Jane is crying her heart out upstairs.” There followed a period of silence. Jane, as I have said, stopped singing about the house, and began to care for our brittle possessions, which struck my wife as being a very sad sign indeed. The next Sunday, and the next, Jane asked to go out, “to walk with William;” and my wife, who never attempts to extort confidences, gave her permission, and asked no questions. On each occasion Jane came back looking flushed and very determined. At last one day she became communicative. “William is being led away,” she remarked abruptly, with a catching of the breath, apropos of table-cloths. “Yes, m’m. She is a milliner, and she can play on the piano.” “I thought,” said my wife, “that you went out with him on Sunday.” “Not out with him, m’m—after him. I walked along by the side of them, and told her he was engaged to me.” “Dear me, Jane, did you? What did they do?” “Took no more notice of me than if I was dirt. So I told her she should suffer for it.” “It could not have been a very agreeable walk, Jane.” “Not for no parties, ma’am. “I wish,” said Jane, “I could play the piano, ma’am. But anyhow, I don’t mean to let _her_ get him away from me. She’s older than him, and her hair ain’t gold to the roots, ma’am.”