“No; all inquiries were made, but nothing came of them,” replied the lady, shaking her head. “I suppose Rudolph thought he had killed Austin, and left England to avoid arrest. At all events, not a soul has heard of him since. Where he went, no one knows; but by this time, I have no doubt he is dead.” “Poor Uncle Rudolph, what an unhappy fate!” said Maurice thoughtfully. “Ah, I always did blame Rose for that quarrel!” cried Mrs. Dengelton sourly. “My mother”—began Maurice indignantly, when the Rector stopped him. “Your mother was not to blame, my dear Maurice,” he said, rising to his feet. “I know more about this story than Mrs. Dengelton thinks.” A sniff was the Hon. Mrs. Dengelton’s only reply, which was vulgar, but eloquent of disbelief. Carriston’s face, generally ruddy, looked somewhat pale, and Maurice wondered what could be the reason for such a loss of color. The old man saw his inquiring look, and arose to take his leave. “I must say good-night, my dear Maurice,” he said, giving his hand to Mrs. Dengelton. “I am not so young as I once was, and keep early hours.” At this moment, as if guided by some happy fate, Eunice, in company with Crispin, entered the room at the back of Mrs. Dengelton, and returned to their seats without her having noticed their absence. “Good-night, sir,” said Crispin, coming forward to shake hands with the Rector. “How quiet you have been!” remarked Mrs. Dengelton suspiciously. “Where is my daughter?” “Here, mamma;” and Eunice came forward in the demurest manner. “Were you listening to my story?” asked her mother inquiringly,—“my story about your Uncle Rudolph leaving England?” “No,” interposed Crispin quickly, before Eunice could speak; “we were discussing photographs on yonder sofa.” “Photographs, eh?” said Mrs. Dengelton, with a frown, for she knew what looking over a photograph album meant in this case, but did not see her way to make further remark. The Rector said good-night to every one, and then departed, accompanied by Maurice, who walked with him as far as the park gates. Here they separated, after Maurice had promised faithfully to call at the Rectory the next day, and the old clergyman went home, while his pupil returned to the Grange in a thoughtful manner. “I wonder,” he said to himself, pausing for a moment in the shadowy avenue,—“I wonder if my uncle is still alive. If he is, I am wrongfully in possession of Roylands. Suppose he came back and claimed it, I would once more be penniless. Well,” he sighed, resuming his walk, “perhaps that would be the best thing that could happen, for work means happiness, and earning one’s bread forces a man to take a deep interest in life whether he will or no.” CHAPTER III. THE RECTOR’S ROMANCE. In pity for our painful strife God aids us from above, And every mortal in his life Plucks once the rose of love.