had given long and serious thought as to his future. He had taken the trouble to do something which he knew he ought to have done long since, but which he had always resolutely shirked—to look into the actual condition of his school, and more especially of his boarders; and after careful examination, he confessed to himself, as he smoked a costly cigar, pacing slowly up and down the lane which was ablaze with apple-blossom—it would never have done to have been caught in the wildly dissipated act of smoking by any of the boys, or, indeed, by a good many of the villagers—he confessed to himself that he wanted a companion, and his establishment wanted a head, and that Mrs. Covey, excellent in her way, was scarcely a proper representative of the female element in the household of the head-master of Helmingham school. Thus minded, Mr. Benthall rode over to Woolgreaves, was received by a benevolent grin from the stable-helper, to whom he confided his horse (confound those fellows, with what an extraordinary facility they blunder on to the right scent in these matters!), went into the house, paid his suit to the two young ladies, had but a few words with Miss Maud, whose services, in consequence of an unfavourable turn of Mrs. Ashurst's illness, were required upstairs, and a prolonged interview of a very satisfactory kind with Miss Gertrude. With a portion only of this interview have we to do; the remaining portion can be much "more easily imagined than described," at least by those to whom the circumstances of the position have been, or actually are, familiar—perhaps no inconsiderable proportion of the world.
"By the way," said Mr. Benthall, as, after a third ridiculous attempt at pretending he was going, he had again settled himself in his chair, but had not thought it necessary to give up Miss Gertrude's hand, which he had taken in his own when he had last risen to say adieu—"by the way, Miss—well, Gertrude—what was that you were saying last time I was here about Mrs. Creswell?"
"What I was saying about Mrs. Creswell? I don't exactly know, but it wouldn't be very difficult to guess! I hate her!" said Gertrude, roundly.
"Ah, yes!" said Mr. Benthall, "I think I managed to gather that from the general tone of your conversation, but what were you saying specifically?"
"I don't know what specifically means, I think!" said Gertrude, after a moment's reflection; "but I do know why I hate her!"
"And that is because"
"Because she pretends to be so awfully superior, and goes in to be so horribly good and demure, and all that kind of thing," said Miss Gertrude, growing very becomingly red with excitement. "She always reminds me of the publican in the parable, who, 'standing afar off'—you know what I mean! I always thought that the publican went in to draw more attention to himself by his mock humility than all the noise and outcry which the Pharisee made, and which any one would have put down to what it was worth! and that's just like Miss A.—I mean Mrs. Creswell—I'm sure I shall call her Miss A. to my dying day, Maud and I are so accustomed to speak of her like that—you'd think butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and this is so shocking, and that is so dreadful, and she is so prim, and so innocent, and so self-sacrificing—and then she steps in and carries off our uncle, for whom all the unmarried girls in the county were angling years ago, and had given up the attempt in despair!"
"But you must have seen all this in her for months, ever since she has been in the same house with you! And yet it is only since she achieved her conquest of your uncle that you've been so bitter against her!"
"Not at all, George! That's so like a man, always to try and say an unpleasant thing about the want of generosity and all that! Not at all! I don't mind so much about her marrying uncle; if he's such a silly old thing as to like to marry her, that's his look-out, and not ours. And I've no doubt she'll make him what people call a good wife, awfully respectable, and all that kind of thing. And I don't believe she's ever been in love with anybody else, notwithstanding your stories about that Mr. Joyce. I like your talking about women's gossip, sir; a fine story that was you brought us, and all started by some old woman, wasn't it? But what annoyed me worst was the way in which she wrote about making Maud give up her music-room! I call that regularly cruel, because she knew well enough that Maud was awfully fond of that room, and—and that's what makes me hate her!"
"And Maud seemed to think that that was to be but the beginning of a series of unpleasant measures."
"Well, you know Maud's blood is regularly up in this matter, and of course she
