the world.  The afternoon passed very pleasantly between the examination of Mr. Juxon’s treasures and the conversation those objects elicited.  For John, who was an accomplished scholar, had next to no knowledge of bibliology and took delight in seeing for the first time many a rare edition which he had heard mentioned or had read of in the course of his studies.  He would not have believed that he could be now talking on such friendly terms with a man for whom he had once felt the strongest antipathy, and Mr. Juxon on his part felt that in their former meetings he had not done full justice to the young man’s undoubted talents.

As they drove down to the vicarage that evening Mrs. Goddard’s name was mentioned for the first time.  John, with a fine affectation of indifference, asked how she was.

“She has not been very well lately,” answered Mr. Juxon.

“What has been the matter?” inquired John, who could not see his companion’s face in the dark shade of the trees.

“Headache, I believe,” returned the squire laconically, and silence ensued for a few moments.  “I should not wonder if it rained again this evening,” he added presently as they passed through the park gate, out into the road.  The sky was black and it was hard to see anything beyond the yellow streak of light which fell from the lamps and ran along the road before the gig.

“If it turns out a fine night, don’t come for us.  We will walk home,” said the squire to the groom as they descended before the vicarage and Stamboul, who had sat on the floor between them, sprang down to the ground.

John was startled when he met Mrs. Goddard.  He was amazed at the change in her appearance for which no one had prepared him.  She met him indeed very cordially but he felt as though she were not the same woman he had known so short a time before.  There was still in her face that delicate pathetic expression which had at first charmed him, there was still the same look in her eyes; but what had formerly seemed so attractive seemed now exaggerated.  Her cheeks looked wan and hollow and there were deep shadows about her eyes and temples; her lips had lost their colour and the lines about her mouth had suddenly become apparent where John had not before suspected them.  She looked ten years older as she put her thin hand in his and smiled pleasantly at his greeting.  Some trite phrase about the “ravages of time” crossed John’s mind and gave him a disagreeable sensation, for which it was hard to account.  He felt as though his dream were suddenly dead and a strange reality had taken life in its place.  Could this be she to whom he had written verses by the score, at whose smile he had swelled with pride, at whose careless laugh he had trembled with shame?  She was terribly changed, she looked positively old—­what John called old.  As he sat by her side talking and wondering whether he would fall back into those same grooves of conversation he had associated with