under their present circumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and misconstructions of the most mischievous kind.

“Anne,” cried Mary, still at her window, “there is Mrs Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her.

I saw them turn the corner from Bath Street just now. They seemed deep in talk. Who is it? Come, and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect. It is Mr Elliot himself.”

“No,” cried Anne, quickly, “it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you. He was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till to-morrow.”

As she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the consciousness of which vexed and