CHAPTER XI.

THE fine district workhouse which had cost the ratepayers so much was burnt to the ground in this fire, and there was nothing to put to the credit side of the account whatever. Not a single one of the children had been disposed of,-thanks to Robert, and the question now arose of where were they to be put. There was a large tumble-down farm belonging to a certain nobleman in the neighbourhood, which the Board of Guardians were glad enough to rent for the present, until a new house, with a detached laundry, should be completed. This farm, therefore, became for a time famous, and one of its inmates, a poor pupil-teacher, with a fever and a broken limb, an object of considerable interest. The pretty girl, too, whom he had saved at the risk of his own life, found her charms to be now universally admitted. She was described in one of the county newspapers as a brunette of exquisite beauty, with a classical tournure and elegant tout ensemble; it was hinted in another, that her birth was not altogether

obscure, and that the aristocratic cast of her features would be one day satisfactorily accounted for. A correspondent of a London pictorial paper came down express in order to commit that "loveliness beyond cavil" to canvas. She had to relate her adventure to so many people so continually (remembering always to blush at the proper places in the Paul and Virginia manner), that she had positively, she confessed to Robert, scarcely any time at all to bestow upon her preserver; and that he was up and about (although with his arm in a sling) so soon as he was, was owing, after the doctor, to the matron and not to her.

Upon a certain day, when some visitors of quality were at the farm, requiring, as usual, Sarah Jones's attendance, Robert Birt ventured out of doors by himself for the first time. He took his way along a sort of terrace-walk, looking southward over an undulating landscape inexpressibly fair and grateful to a sick man's eyes. As he paced slowly to and fro in the sun, his head and heart together built up many a castle in the air, but yet never absorbed his attention so much as to prevent him casting ceaseless glances towards an old postern gate which led across the orchard from the farm; because it was through that that his love must needs appear when she had told her story.

How surprised and pleased would she be to see him there whom she had left in the sick ward! The pleasure with which he looked forward to this meeting was, however, damped by the knowledge that there were other folks close by. At the end of the terrace was a thick shrubbery of small extent, which led to an old-fashioned summerhouse, and from thence he had heard more than once, as he reached the southern termination of his walk, bursts of suppressed merriment, and voices. Quality folks had, of course, a right to go where they pleased, but the pupil-teacher had certainly the temerity in his heart of hearts to wish they had kept further from his particular neighbourhood. Nevertheless, when the sounds ceased, and a graceful-looking young man of seventeen or so, put aside the thick laurel foliage and stepped out into the orchard, as if to make an observation of the premises, Robert could not help regarding him with considerable interest. He was very tall for his age, it seemed, for though nearly six feet high, there was no trace upon his cheek or lip of the rich brown hair that curled in profusion about his temples. His attire seemed to Robert to be, as indeed it was, in the most perfect taste, and the sick boy, who at once (as was natural with him) began to make comparisons with the stranger,could not but admit that the combined efforts of

art and nature were more powerful than any which the latter could make, in his own favour, alone. He happened to be just at this time in that portion of the terrace where two lime-trees grew, and he had stopped mechanically at a spot where they concealed him from the other's gaze.

The stranger, therefore, apparently satisfied by his scrutiny that there was no one near, turned back into the shrubbery with a ringing hearty laugh, and an "All right, my love!" intended for some private ear in the summer-house, but which was distinct enough to any other within fifty yards. A much lower voice replied; but, low as it was, as it did so, the knees of Robert Birt were loosened as though by paralysis, and the faint colour which the air and sun had called up into his cheeks paled into deadly white. The next moment, purple with passion, he strode down, as firmly as he had trodden before his accident, into the laurel walk. He met them face to face. The young stranger's right hand was thrown around her waist, his left was clasping hers. "Good bye: at the same time as usual, love, to-morrow," he was saying; and as he looked up from kissing her, his eyes met those of Robert Birt.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" quoth the gentleman; "I see that your arm is hurt, or I would give you a thrashing."

"I am a pupil-teacher here; my arm was broken in saving that girl from death: she was this morning my affianced wife."

The young man disengaged his hand from the

grasp

that strove to retain it even then. "Is this true, girl?" said he.

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No," answered the girl, boldly; "he wants to marry me, but I don't care for him. He saved my life, that is true, and I am sorry for it. I love you, you only, Adolphus."

Adolphus, at this, burst out a-laughing suddenly, and seemed about to speak; but looked at Robert Birt and stopped himself.

"Don't you think you had better go in, Miss Jones?" said he.

The young lady bowed stiffly and walked leisurely across the orchard and through the postern gate. "You are a coward and a villain!" cried Robert Birt.

Nay," answered the other, slightly reddening, "not so. I have done you, if I mistake not, a very great service in undeceiving you about that young person."

"You have ruined a simple girl, you vile dog!"

exclaimed the other.

"I?" cried the stranger, laughing in spite of himself, "certainly not; my young Lord Courtwell told me of her first, and she was just as fond, after