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different from, the kind of trouble which might spring from such a cause."

He murmured a few words of sympathy; her clear eyes turned to meet his, with how different an expression from that he had first seen in them! There was even a little girlish fun in them, as she asked:—

"What kind of place do you imagine the Priory to be, Mr. Meredith?"

"Well, one naturally attaches a little medieval romance to the idea of a Priory"; adding, after a moment's reflection—there were certainly no signs of prosperity about her—"and it ought to be somewhat dilapidated, I suppose—in the picturesque stage of decay. It must be difficult to keep those old places in thorough repair."

"Very," she replied, her face shadowing. Then, with a side glance at him and again attempting a jesting tone, she went on: "Difficult, too, as it crumbles away, to find room for ancient retainers, old pictures, heirlooms, and the rest of it. Now prepare your mind, Mr. Meredith, when we turn this next bend—There is the Priory!"

He was prepared now to see some dilapidated old place, but hardly for that which met his view. The Priory! That desolate-looking remnant of a building, standing forlornly against the summer sky! Portions of the walls, some high, some low, and all of great thickness, still remained here and there, indicating the plan of the old Priory; but, at this distance, even these seemed to form part of the surrounding brickfields. By no effort of the imagination could the inhabited part of the building be supposed to be the abode of prosperous people. All was desolation and decay, without picturesqueness. Even the aspect of the grounds about it, which might once have lent their aid as a setting to the picture, seemed now only to accentuate the fallen fortunes of the house. Every acre of the ground about it, once of some extent and beautifully wooded, had been sold piecemeal—the greater part for brickfields. On the side they were approaching there seemed no redeeming feature in the dismal scene. No; not likely to be spacious reception-rooms, nor offices for an army of ancient retainers there! Courtesy itself was dumb!

"The Verschoyles have not much left to be proud of, you see, Mr. Meredith. We are not invaded by picnic parties and artists in search of the picturesque; but you see the worst of it from this side."

At that moment the figure of a man was seen emerging from some side entrance, and hurriedly making his way towards the ruins, in an opposite direction from that whence they were approaching.

"Laurence!"—hurriedly calling out, as he seemed to take no heed: "A friend to see you."

"Where have you sprung from?"

He turned; seemed to hesitate a moment; then came slowly towards them. As he drew nearer, and recognised who the visitor was, he hastened his steps, his whole face brightening. "Meredith!" he eiaculated, in a tone of relief. "Where have you sprung from? How are you, old fellow? Quite an age since I saw you last."