into every one of which she fell; and since we are not supposed, on pain of punishment, to do anything but keep very upright on our feet as we trudge along the dusty road of life, no doubt all those amiable stumblings will be imputed to her in the end for sin.  “This man was handed over to you quite nice and kind,” one can imagine Justice saying in an awful voice; “his intentions to start with were beyond reproach.  Do you not remember, on the eve of your wedding, how he swore with tears he would be good to you?  Look, now, what you have made of him.  You have prevented his being good to you by your own excessive goodness to him.  You have spent your time nourishing his bad qualities.  Though he still swears, he never does it with tears.  Do you not know the enormous, the almost insurmountable difficulty there is in not bullying meekness, in not responding to the cringer with a kick?  Weak and unteachable woman, away with you.”

Certainly it is a great responsibility taking a man into one’s life.  It is also an astonishment to me that I write thus in detail of Mrs. Dawson, for she has nothing whatever to do with the story.

“Who is it?” asked Mr. Dawson; immediately adding, “Say I’m engaged.”

“He gave no name, sir.  He says he wishes to see you on business.”

“Business!  I don’t do business at tea time.  Send him away.”

But Fritzing, for he it was, would not be sent away.  Priscilla had seen the cottage of her dreams, seen it almost at once on entering the village, fallen instantly and very violently in love with it regardless of what its inside might be, and had sent him to buy it.  She was waiting while he bought it in the adjoining churchyard sitting on a tombstone, and he could neither let her sit there indefinitely nor dare, so great was her eagerness to have the thing, go back without at least a hope of it.  Therefore he would not be sent away.  “Your master’s in,” he retorted, when the maid suggested he should depart, “and I must see him.  Tell him my business is pressing.”

“Will you give me your card, sir?” said the maid, wavering before this determination.

Fritzing, of course, had no card, so he wrote his new name in pencil on a leaf of his notebook, adding his temporary address.

“Tell Mr. Dawson,” he said, tearing it out and giving it to her, “that if he is so much engaged as to be unable to see me I shall go direct to Lady Shuttleworth.  My business will not wait.”

“Show him in, then,” growled Mr. Dawson on receiving this message; for he feared Lady Shuttleworth every bit as much as Mrs. Dawson feared him.

Fritzing was accordingly shown into the room used as an office, and was allowed to cool himself there while Mr. Dawson finished his tea.  The thought of his Princess waiting on a tombstone that must be growing colder every moment, for the sun was setting, made him at last so impatient that he rang the bell.

“Tell your master,” he said when the maid appeared, “that I am now going to Lady Shuttleworth.”  And he seized his hat and was making indignantly for the door when Mr. Dawson appeared.