Maria Kettle returned from Leamington in mourning. Mrs. Page was dead, and had left Maria two thousand pounds. "Better than nothing of course," grumbled the Vicar; "but she might just as well have made it three or four thousand while she was about it." He had always thought she would. Maria was truly glad to get back home again, and she told nobody about her little fortune. She and Ella met like sisters who had been long parted. What a number of things they had to say to each other, yet each shrank from speaking of that which lay closest to their hearts. Maria said nothing about her semi-engagement to Philip Cleeve, while Ella did not mention Edward Conroy. It seemed such a little while ago since they were mutually affirming that they would never marry--or at least not for many years to come; and yet, after all their grand resolutions, when put to the test, they had proved no stronger minded than the rest of their sex. Each felt slightly ashamed to think of all this; yet, strange to say, neither of them would have exchanged her present bondage for that past freedom. But a great blow was about to fall on Maria.

The more the Reverend Mr. Kettle puzzled over the loss of his purse, the more inclined he was to connect Philip Cleeve with it in some way. He did not absolutely say to himself that Philip had taken the purse, but it was strange how the young man's image always came into his mind in connection with the loss. It may be that he owed this feeling to Dr. Downes.

He and Dr. Downes, being fellow-sufferers, for the Doctor had never heard more of his gold snuff-box, had got into the habit of talking with one another. Talking begets talking, and perhaps the old Doctor said more than he had meant to say. Anyway, one day the Vicar heard for the first time about Philip's frequent visits to the billiard-room of the Rose and Crown, and about the high play with Lord Camberley and others that went on at The Lilacs.

"What a young idiot he must be!" exclaimed the indignant Vicar: and Dr. Downes nodded assent.

"And if there's anything between Cleeve and your daughter, as I fancy there is," added the old man, "I should put my veto on it--at least for the present. Master Philip has fallen into bad ways, that's quite evident; and even if these ugly suspicions about him should turn out to have no foundation in fact, he ought to alter very much before he is fit to marry so nice a girl as Maria."

The Vicar ruffled his white hair with his fingers, and could not help admitting that the Doctor's view was the right one. There had been a sort of tacit agreement between himself and Lady Cleeve that one day the two young people should marry, provided they cared sufficiently for each other: and--and he believed they did care. It grieved him to see his old friend's son going so far astray; but his duty to his daughter was paramount, and other considerations must give way to it.

After Maria's return from Leamington, the Vicar spoke to her, entering upon the subject abruptly.

"Maria, I hope there is no foolish engagement between you and Philip Cleeve?"

Maria's heart began to beat. "There is no engagement, papa."

"But something has passed between you, has it not? He has said something to you, eh?"

"Philip certainly spoke to me before I went to Leamington; but, papa, there is not an engagement."

"Should he speak to you again you must give him no encouragement; none whatever. Understand that, Maria."

Her poor heart was throbbing fitfully. "But--but why, papa?"

The Vicar told her why. Of the billiards at the Rose and Crown, and the high play at The Lilacs. "There were other things," he added, "which he should not speak of--meaning, of course, the Doctor's gold snuff-box, and his own purse.

"It seems to me that he must be becoming a practised gambler, Maria," wound up Mr. Kettle, "playing as he does with rich men like Camberley and Lennox. They can afford it; Philip can't. Putting all that aside, he is not progressing in his profession; so what likelihood is there of his making a home to take a wife to?"

"Mr. Tiplady has some intention of taking him into partnership; Philip told me so."

"I take it that Tiplady is far too shrewd a man to do anything of the kind."

Maria sighed. "We may be misjudging him, papa."

"We are not misjudging him. Don't I tell you there are other reasons why you should have nothing more to do with Philip?--matters which I do not choose to speak of openly."

"It seems rather hard, papa, that I should be asked to condemn Philip without knowing what he has done."

"Good gracious, Maria! have I not given you reasons enough? Could he become your husband without a radical alteration in his mode of life? As for the other matters I hinted at, the less said about them, at present, the better. I hope with all my heart that things may not turn out so bad as they seem."

"Then all Philip's promises to me before I went away have proved of no avail," mourned Maria to herself. "He still goes to The Lilacs, he still frequents the billiard-room. Why has he not more strength of mind? And what are those mysterious hints which papa threw out of something still worse? Oh, Philip, Philip!"

That there must be some weighty cause, apart from what she knew, to make her easy and tolerant father speak so severely, Maria felt assured of. She never thought to rebel at the mandate; but it seemed to her that Philip grew all the dearer to her heart.

She had a speedy proof that the Vicar was very much in earnest. He gave orders in the household that whenever Mr. Cleeve called he was not to be admitted. Philip did call; again and again; and at last he understood that the door was closed to him. It made Philip very angry, and he set himself to waylay Maria out of doors.

One morning he met her suddenly in a pretty, green lane just outside the town, and had accosted her before Maria well knew he was there.

"Good-morning, Maria," he said, stopping her and holding out his hand. What could she do but put out hers in return?

"Good-morning," she rejoined.

"I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Page's death; it must have been a mournful time for you. You have been back a week, have you not?"

"About that."

"And I have called at the Vicarage nearly every day, only to be denied to you. Mr. Kettle is not to be seen, and Miss Kettle is not to be seen, are the answers I get. Of course I can only conclude that I am no longer welcome. Now, Maria, what is the meaning of it?"

Maria was thoroughly distressed. She knew not what to say. How dear he was to her! How his very voice thrilled her as he spoke! If there was anger in his eyes there was love as well, and her own eyes fell before his ardent gaze.

"Papa thought it best that you should not come to the Vicarage for a little while," she murmured--and the words seemed nearly to choke her.

"But why? What have I done? Why am I to be tabooed in this way?"

"Papa has heard--has heard things," stammered Maria. "He says you are frequently to be seen at the billiard-table; he has heard that you are addicted to high play with men like Lord Camberley and Captain Lennox. And--and he says they may be able to afford it, but you cannot--which, of course, is true. Oh, Philip! have you forgotten the promises you made to me before I went to Leamington?"

Philip changed colour, and bit his lip. He began tracing some hieroglyphic on the gravel with his cane.

"Papa asked me whether there was any engagement between us," continued Maria. "I told him that there was not, but that you had spoken to me before I went away. He then said that everything between us must be broken off, at least for the present; you best know why, yourself, Philip."

"That I have been weak and foolish, Maria, no one knows better than myself," he candidly answered. "But I don't think I have deserved to be treated quite so harshly."

It was on the tip of Maria's tongue to say, "Papa seems to have something against you more than I have mentioned, though he would not tell me what:" but after a moment's thought she stopped herself.

"Papa is not in the habit of treating anyone with undue harshness," she remarked aloud.

"I think he is harsh to me. Why, Maria--but perhaps I had better see your father himself, and have this matter out with him," he broke off in his usual impulsive style.

Maria shook her head: she knew that his seeing her father would bring forth nothing--except unpleasantness.

"It would be of no use, Philip," she answered, sadly. "Papa would only say to you what I have said--putting it perhaps in stronger terms."

Philip went into a passion. "What right has Mr. Kettle to set himself up as a censor of my morals and conduct?" asked he, with a heightened colour.

"No right at all, I suppose, in one sense of the word, nor does he profess to do so," was Maria's grave reply. "But one thing he has a right to do: to think of me and of my welfare. Don't you see that, Philip?"

Philip fumed and frowned, and slashed at an unoffending nettle with his cane. They had been walking slowly onward in this unfrequented lane, where they were free to talk without observation.

"Am I to consider our engagement at an end?" demanded Philip, after a few moments' silence.

"There has been no engagement, as you are well aware," returned Maria in a low voice.

"_You_ know quite well what I mean. Am I to look upon it that all is at an end between us?"

"Papa says so. He thinks it will be best so."

"And you, Maria?"

A moment's pause; then in a very low voice: "I think as papa thinks. You know I _must_, ............