two years, from the time of the examination for the classical Tripos?  Nothing was more improbable, he was forced to admit.  And yet, the idea of life if he did not marry Mrs. Goddard was dismal beyond all expression; he would probably not survive it.  He did not know what he should do.  He shrank from the thought of declaring his love to her at once.  He remembered with pain that she had a terrible way of laughing at him when he grew confidential or too complimentary, and he dreaded lest at the supreme moment of his life he should appear ridiculous in her eyes—­he, a mere undergraduate.  If he came out at the head of the Tripos it would be different; and yet that seemed so long to wait, especially while Mr. Juxon lived at the Hall and Mrs. Goddard lived at the park gates.  Suddenly a thought struck him which filled him with delight; it was just possible that Mr. Juxon had no intention of marrying Mrs. Goddard.  If he had any such views he would probably have declared them before now, for he had met her every day during more than half a year.  John longed to ask some one the question.  Perhaps Mr. Ambrose, who might be supposed to know everything connected with Mrs. Goddard, could tell him.  He felt very nervous at the idea of speaking to the vicar on the subject, and yet it seemed to him that no one else could set his mind at rest.  If he were quite certain that Mr. Juxon had no intention of offering himself to the charming tenant of the cottage, he might return to his work with some sense of security in the future.  Otherwise he saw only the desperate alternative of throwing himself at her feet and declaring that he loved her, or of going back to Cambridge with the dreadful anticipation of hearing any day that she had married the squire.  To be laughed at would be bad, but to feel that he had lost her irrevocably, without a struggle, would be awful.  No one but the vicar could and would tell him the truth; it would be bitter to ask such a question, but it must be done.  Having at last come to this formidable resolution, towards the conclusion of dinner, his spirits rose a little.  He took another glass of the vicar’s mild ale and felt that he could face his fate.

“May I speak to you a moment in the study, Mr. Ambrose?” he said as they rose from table.

“Certainly,” replied the vicar; and having conducted his wife to the drawing-room, he returned to find John.  There was a low, smouldering fire in the study grate, and John had lit a solitary candle.  The room looked very dark and dismal and John was seated in one of the black leather chairs, waiting.

“Anything about those verses you were speaking of to-day?” asked the vicar cheerfully, in anticipation of a pleasant classical chat.

“No,” said John, gloomily.  “The fact is—­” he cleared his throat, “the fact is, I want to ask you rather a delicate question, sir.”

The vicar’s heavy eyebrows contracted; the lines of his face all turned downwards, and his long, clean-shaved upper lip closed sharply upon its fellow, like a steel trap.  He turned his grey eyes upon John’s averted face with a searching look.