could be desired in every other respect. Good, virtuous straightforward, and temperate men were engaged to blameless women who were calculated to make admirable wives and mothers, and there was every prospect that Ploverleigh would become celebrated as the only Home of Perfect Happiness. There was but one sad soul in the village. The good old Bishop had drunk freely of the philtre, but there was no one left to love him. It was pitiable to see the poor love-lorn prelate as he wandered disconsolately through the smiling meadows of Ploverleigh, pouring out the accents of his love to an incorporeal abstraction.
“Something must be done for the Bishop,” said Stanley, as he watched him sitting on a stile in the distance. “The poor old gentleman is wasting to a shadow.”
The next morning as Stanley was carefully reading through the manuscript sermon which had been sent to him by a firm in Paternoster Row for delivery on the ensuing Sabbath, little Jessie entered his library (with Zorah) and threw herself on a sofa, sobbing as if her heart would break.
“Why, Jessie—my own little love,” exclaimed Stanley. “What in the world is the matter?”
And he put his arms fondly round her waist, and endeavoured to raise her face to his.
“Oh, no—no—Stanley—don't—you musn't—indeed, indeed, you musn't."
“Why, my pet, what can you mean?”
“Oh, Stanley, Stanley—you will never, never forgive me.”
