“I will be at the Academy to-morrow at about four o’clock, as I do not care to remain longer in suspense than is absolutely necessary; but if you are not prepared to meet me then, I shall faithfully help you in any effort I may perceive you make to avoid me.

“I am, dear Miss Lind,
“Yours sincerely,
“EDWARD CONOLLY.”

This letter conveyed to Marian hardly one of the considerations set forth in it.  She thought it a frank, strong, admirable letter, just what she should have hoped from her highest estimate of him.  In the quaint earnestness about religion, and the exaggerated estimate (as she thought) of the advantages which she might forfeit by marrying him, there was just enough of the workman to make them characteristic.  She wished that she could make some real sacrifice for his sake.  She was afraid to realize her situation at first, and, to keep it off, occupied herself during the forenoon with her household duties, with some pianoforte practice, and such other triflings as she could persuade herself were necessary.  At last she quite suddenly became impatient of further delay.  She sat down in a nook behind the window curtain, and re-read the letter resolutely.  It disappointed her a little, so she read it again.  The third time she liked it better than the first; and she would have gone through it yet again but for the arrival of Mrs. Leith Fairfax, with whom they had arranged to go to Burlington House.

“It is really a tax on me, this first day at the Academy,” said Mrs. Fairfax, when they were at luncheon.  “I have been there at the press view, besides seeing all the pictures long ago in the studios.  But, of course, I am expected to be there.”

“If I were in your place,” said Elinor, “I——­”

“Last night,” continued Mrs. Fairfax, deliberately ignoring her, “I was not in bed until half-past two o’clock.  On the night before, I was up until five.  On Tuesday I did not go to bed at all.”

“Why do you do such things?” said Marian.

“My dear, I must.  John Metcalf, the publisher, came to me on Tuesday at three o’clock, and said he must have an article on the mango experiments at Kew ready for the printer before ten next morning.  For his paper, the Fortnightly Naturalist, you know.  ’My dear John Metcalf,’ I said, ‘I dont know what a mango is.’  ’No more do I, Mrs. Leith Fairfax,’ said he:  ’I think it’s something that blooms only once in a hundred years.  No matter what it is, you must let me have the article.  Nobody else can do it.’  I told him it was impossible.  My London letter for the Hari Kari was not even begun; and the last post to catch the mail to Japan was at a quarter-past six in the morning.  I had an article to write for your father, too.  And, as the sun had been shining all day, I was almost distracted with hay fever.  ’If you were to go down on your knees,’ I said, ’I could not find time to read up the flora of