CHAPTER XXII.

"DEAR OLD FELLOW! GOD BLESS MARGARET

AND YOU!"

THE sun rose next morning upon a sad sight. High Street, Silver Creek,

was nothing but a long line of ruins. More than five hundred stores

had been burnt to the ground. All over the gold-diggings work was

suspended, and the diggers flocked in to see the sight. They did not

stand idly by; they tacked up their sleeves, and every European and

American there gave a day's work for nothing. William Smith sent

orders to the Margaret Range; the William Smith quartz-crushing

machine was stopped, and all the workmen came in to lend a helping

hand. They did wonders under William Smith's directions; he was to

many what sound wine is to enfeebled bodies. He strengthened,

sympathised, encouraged, all in a breath, and set a fine example by

working as zealously as the most zealous. It was not with him "Do as I

say," but "Do as I do." The first duty of the workers was a solemn

one: to find the ashes of those who had been burnt to death in the

fire. Five persons were known to have perished--among them Margaret's

mother. Strangely enough, no one had thought of her while the fire was

raging; in the larger interest that centred around Margaret and Philip

this poor little quiet woman had been forgotten. Very tenderly and

gently were the remains of the dead gathered from the ruins; they were

but blackened cinders, which crumbled almost at the touch; and awe and

grief were on the faces of the rough men as they deposited the sad

heaps on ground made sacred by its burden, and covered them over with

blankets. This duty performed, their thoughts turned to other and more

cheerful matters, and they bustled briskly about.

Before noon twenty canvas tents were up, at a little distance from the

street--the ground there was as yet too hot to build upon--and twenty

burnt-out storekeepers had recommenced business. So great were the

bustle and animation, that the sufferers really had no time to be

faint-hearted. Every man's example was an encouragement to his

neighbour; emulation was excited, and all strove to outvie each other.

But we must away from the scene--nearer ties claim our attention. In a

week Silver Creek township will seem scarcely the worse for its

terrible conflagration. Business will be carried on as usual and the

building of new stores will be going on from one end of High Street to

the other. None will be put up of canvas. Most of them will be built

of wood, and a few of stone. Thus cities are made. Experience teaches.

In a large tent, on the Camp Ground where the Government buildings are

erected, are three persons. Mr. Hart, with his left arm in a sling, is

standing by the side of a low bed, gazing mournfully down. So rapidly

was his noble task accomplished, when he rushed into the flames to

save his friend, that he escaped with very little injury. He was

scorched and burnt, but not seriously, his left arm being the part of

him which had suffered the most. The physical part of him, I should

say; for all that was mental in him was quivering with anguish.

At his feet, on the ground, sits Margaret.

Our Margaret? Yes; although you would not have believed, had you

only your own eyes to trust for confirmation. Her flesh is so

colourless that every drop of blood seems to have left her body;

but your imagination will supply a better picture of this hapless

broken-hearted young creature than my pen can draw. On the low bed by

which she is sitting, with misery and despair in her heart and face,

lies a blackened mass which once was Philip, which is Philip still for

a few brief hours.

For he was not dead when Mr. Hart dragged him from the flaming walls;

the life had not been quite burnt out of him; but he was dying fast

now. "Before the sun rises," said the doctors, with sad meaning in

their voices. It was most merciful that it should be so; for had he

lived the full span of man's life he would never again have seen the

light, nor could any person have looked upon his face without a

shudder of pain.

They could do nothing for him except to shed upon him the light of

their pitiful love; and blackened and burnt as he was, this sweet and

divine compassion, in some strange way, reached his senses, and if his

lips could be said to smile, they smiled in grateful acknowledgment.

"Poor Philip! Poor soul! Dear, dearest love!" they murmured, and their

words were not lost. They were to him as water, cold and sweet and

clear, is to a parched mouth. Even in the darkness through which he

was struggling blind, impotent, helpless, glimpses of delicious light

broke upon his suffering soul.

A hundred times Margaret was on the point of giving way, but Mr. Hart

whispered to her:

"Be strong, my dear child, be strong! Your voice is to him as the dew

to a flower."

"As the dew to a flower!" she murmured. "My flower! The only one! God

pity him! God pity me! He was my life, and he is going."

"To another world, dear child," he said to her, in a beautiful soft

voice, "where we shall join him in God's good time."

And as though he had a thing to do which was necessary for Philip's

comfort, the old man went swiftly out of the tent, and groaned and

wept there, where Margaret could not see him. Then raised his eyes

from the earth, and mutely prayed that peace might come to Margaret's

troubled soul.

She, moistening Philip's lips with pure spring water, never moved from

her husband's side, and prayed that she might die with him. "If God is

merciful," she thought, "He will take me also."

William Smith came to the tent, but when Margaret saw him she

shivered, and held her hands before her eyes to shut him from her

sight. The man needed no other sign; straight from the tent he walked

and sat outside, talking to Mr. Hart. He was not angry with her; his

heart was very tender to her and Philip.

"It is natural that she should not wish to see me," he said to Mr.

Hart; "it was in the house that once was mine that Philip met his

death. If I had not wanted Philip's claim, they might have lived

together happily."

After this touch of sentiment he became practical. "Have you any

money?"

"A few shillings."

William Smith put a hundred pounds into Mr. Hart's hands.

"Let him want nothing," he said.

"He will want nothing presently," sighed Mr. Hart, beneath his breath.

You who know what beautiful tenderness lies in human nature can

imagine in what ways it was shown to Margaret and Philip. Women came

with sweet offerings during all the day. Had fifty men been dying

instead of one, there would have been supplies for them all. Milk,

honey, flowers, jellies, broths, were sent from all quarters; they

were laid aside, for there was no use for them, but they were good

tokens to give and to receive.

In the night, about eleven o'clock, Mr. Hart observed Margaret's head

move closer to Philip's lips; he knelt on the ground on the other side

of Philip's bed, and heard the dying man whisper:

"Margaret, my beloved--my darling--Margaret, my heart! Margaret, I

love you--love you--love you!"

For an hour these were the only words he murmured, at intervals, in

many different ways.

"Do you know me, dearest?" she asked: "do you hear me? It is Margaret

who is speaking. Your Margaret."

"My Margaret!" he whispered. "My soul! My beloved!"

His voice was like the murmurs of the softest breeze. Margaret, with

open lips, received his dying words in her mouth. With what pangs of

love and anguish did she receive them!

Mr. Hart, during an interval of silence, motioned to Margaret. Might

_he_ speak to Philip? Margaret's hand crept across the bed to the old

man's. Lover and friend were joined above Philip's breast.

"Philip, my dear boy," said Mr. Hart, "do you know my voice?"

"Dear old fellow!" came presently from Philip. "Noble old fellow! I

saw you. God bless Margaret and you! Dear friend, were you hurt much?"

"Not at all, my dear lad."

"It delights me to hear that. God is very good!"

All their strength was required for composure; they checked their

sobs, so that the sound of them might not disturb him; he could not

see the tears that ran down their faces.

Later in the night, as death approached nearer and nearer, Philip's

voice grew stronger, and the broken words he sighed denoted that he

knew they were by his side, and that he was dying. In a few sobbing

words uttered at long intervals, he thanked Mr. Hart for attempting to

save him.

"Take care of Margaret," he whispered; "be a father to her." The

utterance of the word brought other memories. "Dear old dad! I hoped

to see you, and show you my darling. But John Hart will bring her to

you. Dear old dad! love Margaret!"

Then his thoughts wandered, and he murmured expressions of affection

towards the Silver Flagon--the dear old Silver Flagon--and always in

connection with Margaret. All his thoughts clustered about the one

supreme image that dwelt in his mind, the image of Margaret.

Mr. Hart whispered to Margaret to ask him the address of his father in

the old country, for strange to say he had never told them; but all

that they could get from him now were fitful words, in which his

darling Margaret, the Silver Flagon, his dear old dad, and his

faithful friend, were mentioned without connection.

An hour later, his whispered words denoted that his memory was

wandering to the happy hours he had spent behind the scenes with

Margaret; then he was riding for flowers for Margaret.

"O, if it's for that!" he murmured, repeating the words of the woman

who had sold him the flowers; and then, "An echo stole it, and I heard

it singing Margaret as I rode on. I listened to her heart, and she

said it beat for me. She loves me! she loves me!"

He murmured these last words, as though in happier days he had been in

the habit of whispering them as a charm. Then his memory travelled on

to the evening of his wedding-day, when he and his darling were

sitting by the banks of the river, talking of the future. "We saw a

cloud above us," he whispered, "and it was shaped like an angel. I see

it now--I see it now! Shelter Margaret! Daddy! Margaret!" Presently

his feeble fingers seemed to be seeking for something, and Mr. Hart,

divining that he was seeking for the flowers he had bought for

Margaret, placed near to his face a bunch that had been brought to the

tent as a love-offering. A sigh escaped from the poor burnt bosom, and

after that Philip did not speak again.

So the night crept on, and silence reigned within and without the

tent. They could scarcely hear Philip's breathing; and when the

morning's light was trembling below the horizon, and the quivering in

the skies denoted that day was awaking, he lay an inanimate mass

before them. They did not know it for a long time. William Hart was

the first to discover it. With a solemn look, he drew up the white

sheet, and softly, tenderly covered the face of his friend. With white

lips and bursting pupils, Margaret watched the action, and when the

form of what once was Philip was only indicated by the outlines of the

white sheet which covered him, her strength gave way, and with a groan

of anguish she sank upon the ground. Then it was that Mr. Hart felt

the need of woman's help. He went out of the tent to obtain it, and

found William Smith sitting on the ground a few yards away. He had sat

there throughout the whole of that sad night.

"It is all over," said Mr. Hart, with sighs and sobs.

"Poor Philip! Poor dear lad!" said William Smith, and made no effort

to keep back the tears.

They went together to the camp, and brought back a woman with them,

who raised Margaret from the ground, and otherwise attended to her.

Her state was truly pitiable; and the worst aspect of it was that her

grief seemed to have dried up the fountain of her tears.

"If she would only cry!" thought Mr. Hart, as she gazed at him with

her despairing, tearless eyes.

He was her sole comfort. She turned from all others with shuddering

aversion, and had she been able, she would have refused, and not with

gentleness, their kind offices. Truth was, she hated the place in

which her love had died, and hated the people who lived in it. It was

unreasonable in her, but it was so.

She asked for her mother, and they were compelled to tell her the sad

truth. She grasped Mr. Hart's hand convulsively.

"You are my only friend now," she said; "you tried to save my Philip.

You were always good to him--ah, yes! he told me all, and was never

tired of speaking of you. Do not you desert me, or I shall go mad!"

"I will take care of you, child. I promised Philip."

She kissed his hand with her dry lips.

On the day of Philip's funeral, all the stores in Silver Creek closed

their doors, and the storekeepers and the diggers and their wives, to

the number or three thousand and more, followed to the grave the body

of a man whom all had loved and respected.

In the evening, Mr. Hart sat, sad and alone, outside his tent, and for

the first time since the death of his friend, thought of himself.

Again he was a beggar, and the image of his daughter seemed to recede

in the clouds as he gazed at them mournfully, and a plaintive whisper

of Farewell seemed to come to him from over the hills. "I shall never

have the heart to commence again," he said to himself, "never, never!

My life is over; my hopes, my dreams, have come to an end."

"What are you thinking of?" asked a kind voice.

It was William Smith who spoke. To this man Mr. Hart told his grief.

"Didn't I tell you to come to me if you wanted anything?" cried

William Smith in reproachful tones. "And here you are, throwing me

over, and saying you haven't a friend in the world! You want to go

home and see your little girl--well, it's natural, and I wish I could

accompany you and see my old mother. But you shall go and see her

instead, and you shall tell her that you came straight from her Billy,

and you shall paint before her old eyes a picture of the Margaret Reef

and the William Smith quartz-crushing machine, bang-banging away,

pounding out the gold for W. S. Here are ten twenty-pound notes; get

gold for them, and start for the port to-morrow. O, don't fret! I

never give away nothing for nothing. I want a picture of my old

mother's face, just as you see it, a day or two after you land in the

old country. You're a painter, and can paint it, and here's payment in

advance. There aren't many men in the world that William Smith would

trust, but you're one of them. No wonder Philip loved you. I love you!

As I hope to be saved, I love you! And--there!--I don't intend to say

another word. Good-bye, dear old fellow, and God Almighty bless you!"

And William Smith pressed the old man in his arms, and ran down the

hill in a stumbling fashion, for he was almost blinded by his tears;

while Mr. Hart, like one in a dream, gazed after his retreating figure

until it was lost to his sight. Another besides himself watched this

man running away:

Margaret, who had heard every word that had passed.

"You're going home," she said, with her hand pressed to her bosom.

"Yes, ah! yes," he replied. "I have waited too many times. Home, dear

home!"

"And me?" she asked, in a low supplicating tone. "What is to become of

me?"

"You, Margaret You, my dear child! You go with me, of course! What did

I promise Philip? I will be a father to you until I place you in his

father's arms. Ah, Margaret, let us kneel down and thank God for all

His goodness! for He is good, dear child, in the midst of our greatest

afflictions. Ah, that's good--that's good!" For her tears were flowing

now for the first time since Philip's death, and she lay in his arms,

sobbing.

The next day they bade good-bye to Silver Creek; and shortly

afterwards they were on board the _Good Harvest_, and the white sails

of the ship were spread for England.

END OF THE FIRST PART.

Part the Second.

HOME.

CHAPTER I.

THE CURTAIN FALLS FOR A BRIEF SPACE.

For a brief space, let the curtain fall.

The _Good Harvest_ made a fine passage home. It was one of those

famous clipper ships, at once the glory and the pride of commerce,

which occasionally made a run of four hundred knots in the twenty-four

hours. On those occasions after the heaving of the log, the skipper

rubs his hands joyously, and walks the deck in a state of beaming

satisfaction. Then is the time to ask a favour of him.

For a little while after Mr. Hart stepped on board this good ship his

spirits were weighed down by melancholy. The tragic death of Philip

had affected him powerfully. During their brief acquaintance he had

grown to love the young man most deeply and sincerely, and he felt

like a father who had lost a darling son. I have already said that Mr.

Hart, although he was over sixty years of age, was a young-looking

man. He had lines and furrows in his face, but they did not bring a

careworn or despondent expression there, as is generally the case. His

gait, his voice, his manner, the brightness of his eyes, were those

which naturally belong to three decades of years instead of six. What

more pleasant sight is there in human nature than to see old age thus

borne? For the first few days, however, after the sailing of the _Good

Harvest_, Mr. Hart looked his years.

But to stand upon the deck, holding on by spar or rope, while the

noble ship rushed bravely onwards through the grand sea, now riding on

the white crests of great water ranges, now gliding through the

wondrous valleys on the wings of the wind, was enough to make an old

man young again. It made Mr. Hart young. The salt spray and the fresh

exhilarating breezes drove youth into his pores, and his heart danced

within him as day after day passed, and he was drawn nearer and nearer

to the shores of old England. They brought back to him also his

natural hopefulness and cheerfulness of heart. The great secret of

this change for the better lay in himself. He had faith; he believed

in the goodness of God and in a hereafter. He did not love Philip less

because he grieved for him less. "I shall see Philip again," he

thought; and his heart glowed as he looked at the sea and the heavens,

and saw around him the wondrous evidences of a beneficent Creator.

Every soul on board the _Good Harvest_--with the exception of two or

three passengers who had made their fortunes in the gold country, and

whose natures had been soured in the process--had a smile and a good

word for the cheerful and genial old man, who seemed to be always on

the look-out to do his neighbours a kindness; he was an

exemplification of Macaulay's saying, with reference to a voyage in a

passenger ship, "It is every day in the power of an amiable person to

confer little services." He was unremitting in his attention to

Margaret, whom, however, he could not win to cheerfulness. It was well

for her, during this darkened period of her life, that she had by her

side such a faithful friend as Mr. Hart; for as the constant dropping

of water makes an impression even on a stone, so the unwearied care

and constant sympathy of this good friend had a beneficial effect upon

Margaret's spirits. At present the effect was shown only in a negative

way; while Mr. Hart's efforts failed to brighten her outwardly during

the voyage, they prevented her from sinking into the depths of

despair. At first she was loth to speak of Philip, and when Mr. Hart

mentioned his name, she looked at him reproachfully; but, knowing that

it would be best for her, he wooed her gently to speak of her lost

love. These efforts were made always at seasonable times: in the

evening when all was quiet around them, and they two were sitting

alone, looking over the bulwarks at the beautiful water; when the

evening star came out; later on in the night, when the heavens were

filled with stars; when the moon rose; when the clouds were more than

usually lovely. The memory of Philip became, as it were, harmonised

with these peaceful influences, and his name, gently uttered, brought

no disquiet to her soul. She grew to associate Philip with all that

was most beautiful and peaceful in nature; and although she would

occasionally in the dead of night awake from her sleep in terror with

the sight and sound of furious flames in her mind, and with Philip's

form struggling in their midst, these disturbing fancies became less

frequent as time wore on. One night she awoke, smiling, for she had

dreamt of Philip in association with more soothing influences; she and

he had been walking together on a still night, with bright stars about

them.

She began to be aware of the selfishness of her grief, and to reproach

herself for her ingratitude to Mr. Hart. She expressed her penitence

to him.

"Well," he said, kindly and seriously, "that is good in one way. It

shows that you are becoming a little more cheerful."

She shook her head.

"I shall never again be cheerful; happiness is gone out of my life for

ever."

"Philip does not like to hear you say so, Margaret."

Mr. Hart purposely used the present tense. Margaret pondered over the

words. "Philip does not like!" That would imply that Philip heard her.

"He does hear you, my dear," said Mr. Hart. "If I believed that you

would never see Philip again I should bid you despair; but you and

Philip will meet in a better world than this, and that is why I want

you to be cheerful, as he would ask you to be, if you could hear his

voice."

In this way Mr. Hart aroused to consciousness the religious principle

within her, and it may with truth be said that, although Margaret had

lived a pure and sinless life, she had never been a better woman than

she was now, notwithstanding the deep sorrow which had fallen upon

her.

When the _Good Harvest_ had been seventy days out, the skipper said to

Mr. Hart that he smelt England. "If all goes well," he said, "we shall

be in Victoria Dock in seven days from this."

Mr. Hart immediately went below into his cabin. He mapped out his

programme of proceedings. His first task--one of duty--was to see

William Smith's old mother. She lived in London, and if he got ashore

before midday, he would be able to put Margaret in lodgings, and see

the old woman the same day. Then he would draw before her eyes the

sketch of the picture which William Smith had paid him to paint, of

the Margaret Reef and the William Smith quartz-crushing machine

"banging away," and he would delight the old woman's heart by telling

her of the grand doings of her son. Mr. Hart calculated that he could

accomplish this by the evening, when he would take his sketch away

with him and paint the picture from it in the course of the next three

or four weeks. His second task was one of love; he would go to see his

daughter. Curiously enough, she was in Devonshire, whither he should

have to direct his steps in Margaret's interests. Philip's father

lived in "dear old Devon," to use Philip's own words; but that and the

allusions to the Silver Flagon which had been adopted as the sign of

their hotel in Silver Creek, were the only clues which Mr. Hart

possessed towards finding old Mr. Rowe. Faint as these clues were (and

he had discovered that Margaret could not supply him with any more

definite), it was clearly his duty to do his best with them. Margaret,

of course, would accompany him to Devonshire, and become acquainted

with his daughter Lucy, whose name is now for the first time

mentioned. Seated in his cabin, Mr. Hart took out his pocket-book, and

wrote in it the order of his proceedings. This being done, he looked

over the contents of the book, and came across a blank envelope with a

bulky enclosure in it. At first he did not remember how this envelope

came into his possession, but he was only in doubt for a moment or

two. It was the packet which Philip had given into his charge on his

return from his honeymoon. Mr. Hart recalled the conversation that had

taken place between them on the occasion, and the promise Philip had

exacted from him that he would not give up the envelope until they met

in the old country. He sighed as he thought that that meeting could

never take place, and he went into the saloon where Margaret was

sitting. He asked her if Philip had spoken to her about this trust;

she answered, "No," and that she was in complete ignorance of it.

"Now that poor Philip's wish cannot be fulfilled," said Mr. Hart, "you

had better take possession of the packet."

He held it out to her; she refused to accept it.

"It was given into your charge," she said, "by my poor lost darling.

Every word he spoke is sacred to me." Her tears began to flow.

"At all events," said Mr. Hart, "we will see what is inside."

He opened the envelope, and found that it enclosed another, well

sealed, on the cover of which was written:

"_The Property of Gerald, and to be opened only by him_."

This complicated matters.

"Gerald," thought Mr. Hart; "my name!" and said aloud, "Do you know

who Gerald is?"

"My poor darling," replied Margaret, "has spoken to me of a friend he

had named Gerald."

"Then this must be he." Mr. Hart replaced the envelope in his

pocket-book. "We may have the good fortune to find him. Gerald may

have been a college friend."

So that now there was another task, with the slightest of clues, to be

fulfilled.

Mr. Hart had noticed, with great inward satisfaction, that during the

past two or three weeks Margaret was looking brighter; she had not, it

is true, recovered her old animation of speech and manner, but comfort

and consolation had come to her in some way. More than once she had

seemed to be on the point of confiding something to this dear friend,

who was now all in the world she had to cling to, but the words she

wished to speak would not come to her tongue. On this night, however,

as they stood upon the deck, talking of Philip, of home, of the

future, in subdued tones, Mr. Hart learned Margaret's secret. She

hoped to become a mother.

"Heaven pray that it may be so," thought Mr. Hart; "it will be a joy

and a solace to her bruised heart."

Another day went by, and another. The _Good Harvest_ sailed smartly on

to England's shores. The sailors sang blithely at their work; the

skipper paced the deck in a joyous frame of mind, thinking of his wife

and children at home; and almost at the very hour named by him, the

long voyage was at an end, and London smoke was curling over the

masts.

CHAPTER II.

"THE WORLD IS FULL OF SWEET AND BEAUTIFUL PLACES."

On a day in June, when the roses were blooming, there sauntered

through one of the sweetest of all the sweet country lanes in England

an elderly man, whose hair was white, and whose dress and bearing

denoted that he was a gentleman. The lane was a long one, with many

windings, and the few persons whom the gentleman met touched their

hats and bowed to him as they passed, with varying degrees of

deference, according to their station; he, on his part, receiving all

these greetings with uniform courtesy, and with the accustomed air of

one to whom homage of this kind was familiar. Walking toward him, at a

distance of three or four hundred yards, at the moment his figure

first appears upon the scene, was a man of about the same age, whose

inquiring looks this way and that proclaimed either that the locality

was strange to him, or that he was renewing acquaintance with it after

a lapse of years. His dress was composed of much commoner materials

than was that of the gentleman he was approaching, and there were a

careless freedom and an assertion of independence in his manner which

only those exhibit who have travelled about the world.

In the minds of these two men, one holding a high, the other a humble,

station in life, there was no thought of each other; but the threads

of their lives, which had been so wide apart, and for so long a time

as to make it appear almost an impossibility that they should ever

again be connected, were approaching closer and closer with each

passing moment, and would soon be joined, never more to be unlinked.

They knew not of it, thought not of it; but it was most sure. What is

it that shapes our lives--chance, or a wise ordination? Say that,

invited by a faint smell of lilac or by the fluttering of a

butterfly's wings with a rare colour in them which we would behold

again, we turn aside but for one moment from our contemplated

course--can it be possible that we are such slaves of circumstance

that this simple deviation (if it may be so called) may change the

current of our lives from good to ill, from bad fortune to prosperity?

How often does a breath of air change a comedy into a tragedy! Blindly

we walk along, and presently may be struggling in the dark with grim

terrors, or may be walking among flowers, surrounded by everything

that can make life sweet.

In a very narrow part of the country lane, where the hedgerows were

most fragrant, was a stile, upon the top bar of which the stranger

rested his foot, and turning, gazed with pleased and grateful eyes

over the fair vista of field and wood which the hedgerows shut out

from the view of those who walked on the level path. Although he was

between sixty and seventy years of age, his eyes were bright, and his

face was the face of one who was prone to look upon the best side of

things.

"How fair and beautiful it is!" he murmured gratefully. "What is there

in the world half so sweet as these dear old English lanes and

fields?" He paused to reflect upon his question; and then, with the

whimsically-serious air of one who was accustomed to commune with

himself, exclaimed, "Nonsense, Gerald, nonsense! The world is full of

sweet and beautiful places."

Gentle undulations of land, beautified by various colour, were before

him; shadows of light passed over the landscape like waves, and stole

from it the sadness which is ever an attribute of still life. There

were farmyards in the distance, and sheep, with bells hung to their

necks, trudging with patient gait to where the most tempting herbage

lay. The sheep were at a great distance from the stranger, and by a

curious trick of the fancy he listened to the tinkling of the bells,

although it was impossible that the sound could reach him. Other

sounds he could hear plainly: the cry of the woodpecker, and the more

melodious note of the cuckoo, beautifully clear, notwithstanding its

slightly plaintive ring.

"And full of sweet sounds, too," mused the stranger, pursuing the

current of his thoughts; and added immediately, with the same

whimsically-serious air, and as if in comical defence of a prejudice,

"Certainly no birds sing like English birds."

"I beg your pardon."

The threads of their lives had met, never more to be unwoven, and the

threads of other lives were presently to be joined to theirs, for weal

or woe, as fate might determine. From this chance meeting rare

combinations were to spring.

"I was remarking," said the stranger, turning to the gentleman who was

standing by the stile, waiting to cross, "and not with justice, that

no birds sing like English birds." The gentleman did not answer him,

and then he comprehended that the words uttered by the gentleman had

been used not in contradiction of his statement, but as a request that

he would move aside. He descended from the stile with a courteous

smile, and said, "I beg _your_ pardon, I am sure, both for blocking up

the road-way and for misunderstanding you; but I was so rapt in the

beauty of the scene and in my own thoughts, that I misinterpreted the

intention of your words. Notwithstanding which, I should like to have

your opinion as to whether I am right or not."

The gentleman had bent his head in acknowledgment of the half apology,

and when the stranger ceased speaking, was standing on the other side

of the stile. The gentleman gazed at the stranger, and recognised at a

glance that although he was commonly dressed his manners and speech

were not those of a common person. To have proceeded on his way

without a word would have been churlish; therefore he said, in a

courteous tone:

"Right as to the birds?"

"Yes, as to the birds," replied the stranger, with vivacity.

"I cannot say; I have not travelled. Some of our best woodland singers

are migratory. But I should say--although I am not in the least way an

authority--that it would be no easy matter to find more melodious

woods than our English woods."

"That is true; then I _was_ right. Though whether I meant that English

birds were or were not better singers than birds of other countries,

it would puzzle me to say. But as to the English woods--they are the

sweetest and fairest. There again! I have lain in the Australian

woods, and my soul has been thrilled by their beauty. Yes, I was

right. The world is full of sweet and beautiful places."

The gentleman smiled at these contradictory utterances, but the

stranger's words could not have been more at variance with one another

than were his speech and his attire. His words were scholarly, and his

clothes were patched.

"You look and speak like an Englishman," said the gentleman.

"I am one."

"From your words I should judge that this part of England is strange

to you."

"It is more than thirty years since I was last in Devonshire."

"That is a long time--you must find it changed somewhat."

"Somewhat."

While these words were being exchanged, their observance of each

other, which had been slight at first, grew closer and more searching,

and into their eyes stole a pondering look so curiously alike that one

seemed to be a reflection of the other. But for the influence which

this close observance exercised upon him, the gentleman would not have

stopped to converse with an unknown man, and with one so far beneath

him, from a worldly point of view. The stranger repeated thoughtfully:

"Yes, I find it somewhat changed."

"It is in the nature of things," said the gentleman, "to change as we

grow older."

"Not so. I find it changed because _I_ have changed. Old eyes and

young eyes see the same things differently. Are the clouds less bright

than they were when we were young? Are the flowers less beautiful?

When Jacob courted Laban's daughters o' nights (how they must have

laughed in their sleeves, if they wore them, at the old man's craft!)

were the nights less lovely than the nights are now?"

The gentleman passed his hand lightly before his eyes, as if to clear

away a vapour.

"I am corrected," he said, with the air of a man whose thoughts were

travelling one road, while his words travelled another; "we sometimes

say things without consideration."

"Either because they sound well, or because they seem to savour of

wisdom. That comes from our vanity. When men grow as old as we are,

they often ape the philosopher. The lark changes into an owl. They try

to shape their words so that they may sound like proverbs."

"They utter one occasionally, perhaps."

"Perhaps," said the stranger in a tone of dubious assent; "but the

odds are heavy against it. Even if they do, what then?"

"Proverbs are good and useful utterances," observed the gentleman,

adding, in unconscious illustration of the stranger's words, "nuts of

wisdom."

The stranger laughed scornfully. "A proverb on proverbs! Nuts of

wisdom indeed!"

"Are they not?"

"No; the proverb holds a false position in language. It is used

invariably in a general sense, whereas it has only a special

application for the time being; then, having served its purpose, loses

its value, and should be laid aside until another special circumstance

calls for it."

"It would be difficult to establish that."

"Most easy. I will prove it in a practical way. Repeat a proverb--any

one that occurs to you; the more familiar the better--and I will mate

it with another, equally familiar, which gives it the lie."

The gentleman might have accepted the challenge, but that a labourer,

approaching them from his side of the stile, seemed to remind him that

he was losing dignity in conversing with one who wore patched clothes,

and who was unknown to him. Bidding the stranger "Good day," and

slightly bending his head in acknowledgment of the labourer's

deferential bow, he walked slowly away.

CHAPTER III.

CUSTOS ROTULORUM.

As the labourer crossed the stile, the stranger accosted him.

"Hodge!"

"Who be Hodge?" quoth the labourer uncivilly, but disposed for

conversation and argument. "You--in a collective sense."

"Then ye've gotten the sow by the wrong ear."

"Supposing I have gotten a sow at all," said the stranger

complacently. "Will you present to me the right ear?"

Not understanding the nature of the request, the man continued playing

on the same string.

"Hodge bain't my name!"

And grinned with the triumph of a philosopher. "What may be your name,

then, my most veracious hair-splitter?"

"I be no splitter. Who be ye a-callin' names? As for my name, that

I'll keep to myself." Saying which, the labourer fastened a loose

button with an air of determination.

With a chuckle, the stranger replied, "Like yourself, O tiller of the

soil!--for such you are, I opine, and, as such, the noblest work of

God--like yourself, I am but a poor player, who struts and frets his

hour upon the stage."

"Eh! a player I was thinking ye didn't look like a worker! I know en

when I see en;" and the labourer grinned again at his own wit.

"But 'tis not of ourselves I wish to speak," said the stranger in a

tone which he purposely made grandiloquent; "tis of another--of the

gentleman to whom you doffed your cap, and who has just left us."

"What do you want of en!" demanded the labourer, in a sharp tone,

cocking his ears like a terrier.

"His name."

"Eh! More names! D'ye come down here to rob us of en? But there be no

harm a-tellin' of ye. It may be a warnin' to ye. 'A's name be Mister

Weston."

All the stranger's light manner was gone.

"Weston!" he cried, seizing the man's arm.

The labourer shook himself free, and in a severe tone corrected the

stranger.

"Mister Weston, I told ye."

"I ask your and Mr. Weston's pardon. A well-to-do man this Mr.

Weston?"

The labourer scanned the stranger's clothes; the mental result was not

favourable.

"That be his business, 'a b'lieve," he said suspiciously.

Apparently in an absent mood, the stranger drew from his pocket a

handful of articles, among which were a short pipe, a tobacco-pouch,

and some money. Somewhat ostentatiously he picked out a few silver and

copper pieces, and held them loosely in his left hand. The labourer,

who was about to slouch away, altered his mind, and lingered

patiently.

"Good cider about here, my man?" asked the stranger.

"That there be," replied the labourer, drawing the back of his hand

across his mouth. "The best in the county."

"I passed an old-fashioned hostelry--more like a gentleman's house

than an hotel--about half a mile from this spot----" the stranger

paused.

"Up along there," said the labourer, pointing with his finger.

"Yes; in that direction."

"With a bit o' garden round en?" volunteered the labourer.

"Ay, with a garden round it."

"And a swing gate before en----"

"'Tis so. And a swing gate opening into the garden. Apple-trees before

the house----"

"Standing back from the road the house be?" said the labourer, moving

his lips as one might do preparatory to the imbibing of a deep draught

of the best cider in the county.

"It _is_ warmish," said the stranger, with a look of sly enjoyment.

"Yes, standing back from the road the house is."

"That be the Silver Flagon."

The stranger leaped off the stile with a sudden cry.

"A day of wonders!" he exclaimed. "Providence must have led me in this

direction." A sad and tender reminiscence brought the tears to his

eyes. "The Silver Flagon! The dear, old Silver Flagon. And the

proprietor's name is Rowe, an old man and a gentleman!"

"That 'a be--as wold a man as ye, 'a should say. A rare fine place

'tis."

"It looks it." The stranger's eyes glittered with joy.

"Too fine for the likes of----" ("we," he was about to say, but the

sight of the stranger's money caused a correction)--"me. 'A can get

rare fine cider in another place."

"Doubtless." The stranger could scarcely restrain his excitement. "But

to come back to what we were speaking of just now"--(rattling the

money in his hand)--"this Mr. Weston---- By the way, though, let us

give him his full name; Mr. Richard Weston, of course."

"Ay, that be his name."

The labourer would have used the word "full," but that it stood in his

mind for "foolish."

"I was asking--a well-to-do man, Mr. Weston?"

"Well-to-do!" exclaimed the labourer, thirstily. "They say he have

no end o' money."

"Highly respected, no doubt?"

"That 'a be," replied the labourer, becoming very parched indeed. "If

ye'll stand atop the stile, ye'll see the chimneys of his house. 'Tis

a rare fine house."

The stranger stood upon the top bar of the stile, and gazed in the

indicated direction. "I see them, and I make my obeisance to them."

Saying which he doffed his hat, and bowed with a curiously-fantastic

tenderness. He quite forgot the labourer, who was standing by his

side, greedily and humbly expectant, but a cough and a kick at the

stile recalled him to himself. He turned, and, with a negligent nod

and a half smile at the labourer, dropped the money carelessly into

his pocket, and proceeded to charge his pipe.

A minute or two passed in silence; then the labourer coughed again,

and scraped his foot, and shifted his body restlessly; but the

stranger puffed at his pipe calmly, and did not appear to notice him,

although really he was enjoying the man's discomfiture. The labourer

went through a certain mental process. First, he was mystified, and

his mind was clouded; then a glimmer of light broke into the clouds,

and a dim suspicion stole upon him that he had been beaten into

civility by a trick. With a sense of helplessness, and of submission

to the superior cunning by which he had been conquered, he was about

to move away, when the passing of his tongue over his lips made him

ireful and vindicative. A thought struck him, and he proceeded to give

it expression.

"'A say!" he cried, in his uncivillist tone.

The stranger removed his pipe from his lips, and raised his eyes

towards the man.

"Ah! you have an idea, evidently. Stand, then, and deliver!"

The man started back, having some notion of the meaning of the words;

he clapped his hand on his trousers-pocket, to protect three

half-pence and--his idea.

"Don't be alarmed," said the stranger; "nothing of that sort was in my

mind. Proceed, my friend."

"No friend o' yours, that 'a know of," retorted the labourer. "You'd

best take care!"

"I will endeavour to do so."

The labourer searched his mind for a colloquial stone with which to

smite his foe. He found one.

"Ye don't look too respectable."

"You deserve a reward for your perspicacity," said the stranger, much

amused--and the labourer, at the unfamiliar word, started again--"if

not for your civility. You have a keener scent than our friend--I beg

your pardon once more--than Mr. Weston."

"Well, take care, then. He be a justice."

"A little one or a big one, my man? A frog or an ox? For there are

justices and justices."

"A big un. Take care!" This iteration appeared to assuage his thirst.

"Custos rotulorum, eh?"

"'A thought you was no good--cussin' and swearin'. 'A've a good

mind----"

"I hope so, I'm sure. May it long remain uncontaminated!"

"'A've a good mind to go and tell en."

"You've a good mind to go and tell him you've a good mind?" queried

the stranger, in a quiet bantering tone.

"To tell en ye're up to no good; seeking to know all about en--whether

he be rich and where he lives. Danged if I don't b'lieve ye're one o'

them London chaps come down along here wi' designs!"

"A peripatetic architect," said the stranger, laughing heartily.

"Thank you for the compliment, my rustic sage. I am nothing so

dignified as that, believe me. But allow me to correct you. You

yourself volunteered the information as to the whereabouts of Mr.

Weston's house; the information may be useful to me."

"May en! Danged if I _don't_ go and tell en!"

The stranger stood aside to allow the labourer to cross the stile.

"Come after me if ye dare!" cried the labourer.

"I dare do all that may become a man," replied the stranger; and also

crossing the stile, he leisurely followed the labourer, who took care

to keep at a fair distance.

They had not to walk far. Round another bend in the lane, where it

broadened unexpectedly, and where great tufts of feather-grass were

swinging their fairy bells over a brook, they came upon Mr. Weston

resting himself. He turned towards them at their approach. The

labourer took off his cap, and pawed the ground servilely with his

left foot; and then found himself in a difficulty. He had not the wit

to lead up to the attack gently, and with the consciousness upon him

of the stranger's superior flow of speech, he felt himself at a

disadvantage. If the stranger would speak first, he could take up his

words; but the stranger stood provokingly calm and silent.

"Well," said Mr. Weston.

The sense of injury under which the man laboured gave him courage.

"This chap here," he blurted out, with a back scrape of his right

foot, "be up to no good, your honour."

Mr. Weston looked at the stranger, and waited for farther explanation.

"'A be a London chap come down along here wi' designs. 'A don't deny

en. 'A be cravin' all sorts of questions about your honour. 'A wanted

to know whether your honour was rich, where your honour's house be,

and how much money your honour keeps in it. I conceived it my duty to

come along and tell your honour."

"O most mendacious Hodge!" exclaimed the stranger, shaking his head in

sad and smiling reproof.

"That be the way 'a's been talkin' all the time; and swearin' and

cussin' as well, and callin' your honour a frog. When 'a'd drawed out

o' me that your honour was a justice, 'a cussed and rotted your

honour."

"Custos rotulorum," said the stranger.

"They be the words--cussin' and rottin', your honour!"

CHAPTER IV.

IT WAS JUST SUCH A DAY AS THIS; AND THE AIR

WAS SWEET, AND LIFE WAS SWEET.

Mr. Weston smiled, and the stranger smiled also. These smiles were

like question and answer, and appeared to be given and accepted as a

satisfactory defence to the labourer's accusations. At the same time

there stole into Mr. Weston's eyes the same curiously pondering look

which had dwelt in them when he and the stranger were first

conversing.

"It cannot be," he answered.

"Why not?" asked the stranger. "More wonderful things have happened."

Suddenly he cast aside his nonchalant air, and said earnestly:

"Look into the brook."

As though compelled by an influence he had no power to withstand, Mr.

Weston gazed into the brook, and saw reflected there his own face and

the face of the stranger who was bending over the water by his side.

Their backs were turned towards the labourer, who, not doubting the

stranger's sinister designs, prepared himself for any emergency by

spitting on his hands and smoothing his side-locks. He was aware of

the responsible position he occupied, and he settled with himself that

in the event of the stranger pushing Mr. Weston into the water, the

first thing for him to do would be to run away and cry, "Fire!"

"Take my hand," the stranger said, in a sad sweet tone. They joined

hands, and the hand-clasp was reflected in the brook. "Why cannot it

be? It is not always that the words which make a friendship are as

intangible as the shadowy semblance of it which we see before us.

Words are not all air--spoken, forgotten, lost for ever. Why cannot it

be? Here we two old men stand, looking into the past; it might really

be so. How many years ago was it--forty?--that two young men stood

beside a brook as we stand now, looking into the future?" Mr. Weston's

hand tightened upon that of his companion. "They loved each other

then--do they love each other now! I can answer for one. They were

friends in the best meaning of the word--are they friends now? Thirty

odd years have past. It was just such a day as this; and the air was

sweet and life was sweet. Do you remember?"

They raised their faces to each other; their lips quivered; their eyes

were suffused with tears.

"Gerald!"

"Richard!"

"It is like a dream," said Mr. Weston, with his hand to his eyes.

In the meanwhile the labourer stood dumbfoundered at the strange turn

the scene had taken; the word "Fire" hung upon his tongue, and he

swallowed it disgustedly. He had wit enough to perceive that he had

made a deplorable mistake, and he was about to slink away, hoping not

to be noticed, when the stranger's voice arrested his steps.

"Well, my friend!" he said, with sly twinkles.

The labourer scratched his head penitentially; the expression in his

face conveyed an unmistakable appeal to the stranger not to hit a man

when he was down.

"Dense is no word to express the condition of the rustic mind," said

the stranger, with a full enjoyment of his victory. "There is but one

way of imparting intelligence to it." He took a small piece of silver

from his pocket, and the labourer's eyes followed the motion of his

hand, and the labourer's lips grew parched again. "There, my friend;

drink Mr. Weston's health in the best cider in the county."

The labourer took to his heels, and slouched off, rarely mystified.

"Custos rotulorum!" cried the stranger after him; and at those dread

words the labourer took to his heels, and was soon out of sight.

Left to themselves, the two old men, who had been friends when they

were young, gazed at each other in silent wonder at this strange and

unexpected reunion. They said but little at first; words were slow

a-coming.

"Did you know I was here?" asked Mr. Weston.

"I had no suspicion of it."

"It will be a long time before I get over the surprise of this

meeting, Gerald," said Mr. Weston; "I scarcely thought we should ever

meet again in this world."

"We speculated on the after-life when we were boys," answered Gerald;

"but whenever I thought of you, you were not dead to me. I believed,

as I hoped, that you lived and were prosperous."

"You thought of me, then? I am glad to know that. Gerald, I am truly

pleased to see you."

"Not more than I am to see you."

"And you have really thought of me often; but you were always

faithful."

"You have obtruded yourself upon me in the midst of the strangest

scenes. There have been times, of course, when the affairs of life

were most pressing, that you have not been present to my mind; but you

have come back to me invariably, and sometimes in strangely-familiar

connection with circumstances of which you could not possibly have had

any knowledge, not knowing where I was, or what path of life I was

pursuing."

"The same old Gerald," said Mr. Weston, pressing his friend's hand

with affection; "and the same old way of talking."

"Not quite clear, eh? You used to say, 'Say that again, Gerald;' but

you understand me now?"

"Perfectly."

Gerald laughed, and Mr. Weston laughed with him, without apparent

cause, as he had often done in the time gone by. But there was

something contagious in Gerald's laugh, and, indeed, in his whole

manner; especially when he was serious, as he was now, he seemed to

possess the power of compelling his friend to be of his humour.

"Perfectly, you say! Well, but I scarcely understand myself. That is

so always with me when I generalise."

"It used to be so with you in the old days--or you used to say it

was."

"When I specialise, I can make the thing clearer, so I will specialise

now. Once being in Australia----"

"Ah, you have much to tell me!"

"I am working with two mates on the goldfields--working from sunrise

to sunset, in the hope of catching a golden reef, following a

will-o'-the-wisp deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth, and

never catching it, mind you. Being down a hundred and forty feet,

we--my mates and I--are misled by a thin vein of quartz that takes a

horizontal direction, and we resolve to drive a tunnel in its

direction. There is a theory among the miners that these thin veins

must lead to the reef itself, bearing the same relation to the prize

they work for as the veins in the human body bear to the heart. One

day I am alone in this tunnel, where no glimpse of daylight can be

seen. Two candles throw a dim light around. I am a hundred and forty

feet below the surface of the earth, and but for the human aid at the

top of the claim, I am completely cut off from the world, for we are

the only workers on this hill. In my eager hunt after gold I have not

thought of you for many months. Suddenly, as I am working with my

short pick, sitting on the floor of the tunnel--for there is not room

to stand upright--a stone drops from above into a little pool of water

which has gathered at the bottom of the shaft, and as the sound of the

plash falls upon my ear, your image comes to my mind in connection

with a time when we stood side by side dropping stones into a stream.

Now I have made my meaning clear to myself."

"You have made it very clear to me."

"Tell me: when I have been in your mind, in what way have I presented

myself? As I was?"

"Always as you were, Gerald--with your bright eyes and brown curly

hair----"

"That is it. Not with white hair, as ours is now. I have thought of

you in the same way. Memory does not reason. So that it really is

something of a shock to come upon each other after so long an

interval, and after so great a change."

They fell into silence. Tender memories were stirred to life, and

visions of scenes in which they had played prominent parts rose before

them. Old as they were, romance was not dead in their hearts. But

suddenly, as they traced the current of their early lives, they gazed

at each other with sad meaning. Each knew instinctively that the

thoughts of the other had halted at a certain momentous epoch in their

careers.

CHAPTER V.

A STRANGE STORY.

"Gerald," said Mr. Weston, "you went away very suddenly and strangely;

I often wondered as to the cause."

"And never suspected?"

"I think not the right cause. I imagined a hundred things in my

endeavours to fathom the mystery, but without success. It is a mystery

still to me."

"You imagine such things as----" He paused for Mr. Weston to take up

his words.

"As whether you were in any money difficulties, for one."

Mr. Hart shook his head. If my readers have failed to guess that the

stranger and he are one and the same person, I have been unskilful in

my narration.

"No," he said, "when I left I owed no man a shilling, and I had money

in my purse."

"I cannot recall now the various constructions I put upon your

disappearance. It must have been a powerful reason that caused you to

desert your friend without a word of explanation."

"It was a powerful reason. Would you like to hear it, Richard?"

"Yes, indeed."

"We are old men now," said Mr. Hart, in a musing tone, in which there

was a touch of solemnity, "and I can speak of it, and you can hear it,

without pain. But tell me first about Clara."

His voice faltered as he uttered the name.

"She is dead," murmured Mr. Weston softly, "many, many years ago."

A cuckoo flew past them, singing as it flew, and seemed to echo

plaintively, "Years ago!"

"You loved her, Richard?"

"With my whole soul, Gerald."

"I knew it, and I read, the announcement of your marriage in the

papers. You were happy in your marriage?"

"Very, very happy. Our only grief during the first two years was that

we had no children. But that blessing, which brought with it also the

keenest sorrow of my life, was bestowed upon us after seven years.

Clara placed a child in my arms, and died a few hours afterwards."

"It must have been a bitter blow, dear friend."

"I had a consolation, Gerald. Her last words to me, as she placed her

arms about my neck, were that she had lived with me in perfect

happiness, and that we should meet each other again."

"Her child lives?"

"You shall see him, Gerald. I named him after you; it was Clara's wish

before our child was born, that if we were blessed with a boy he

should be called Gerald. He is a handsome young fellow--a man

now--good, noble, and high-minded." He spoke with the pride of a fond

father.

"I am sure he would be."

"My most earnest hope with regard to him is that he may make a good

alliance. He may look high, for he will be rich. But to your

confession, Gerald; we have wandered away from it."

"You will not say so when you have heard it." Mr. Hart placed his hand

upon the hand of his friend. "Have you still no suspicion of it?"

"No, Gerald, I hold no clue."

"I kept my secret well, then. Dear friend, I loved Clara."

Mr. Weston turned to Mr. Hart, with a startled look.

"And I knew," continued Mr. Hart, "that you loved her, and that she

looked upon me only as a friend of the man to whom she had given her

heart. Fearful lest my secret should, in an unguarded moment, become

known to you and her, and knowing that the disclosure would bring an

unnecessary grief into your lives, I adopted the only safe course

which was open to me. I did not envy you your happiness, Richard,

but I felt that I could bear my sorrow more bravely away from

you--therefore I deserted you."

"Dear Gerald," said Mr. Weston tenderly, "it was like you. How blind I

must have been! but I can see it now. Noble heart! Dear noble friend!

I think I never fully valued you till now."

"You would have done the same by me, Richard," said Mr. Hart.

"I do not know--I do not know; I doubt if I should have had the

courage to fly. If I had been in your place--you with your higher

gifts were the first in everything, Gerald; I was content always to

walk behind you--I am afraid that I should have stopped and tried my

fortune."

"No, no," said Mr. Hart, in gentle remonstrance; "I know you better

than you know yourself. You would have acted as I did. Your friendship

was as honest as mine. There could be no rivalry in love between us."

"I honour you more than ever, Gerald."

"It was a sacrifice, Richard, you can understand that; but I said to

myself, this sunny spot in life which I laid out for myself, and in

which I hoped to bask and lie in happiness--I had that hope, Richard,

before I discovered that Clara loved you--is not to be mine; it is my

friend's; but I will be revenged upon him; and who knows, dear friend,

but that I may yet be!"

His tone was very sweet as he uttered these words, the deep

significance of which was not comprehended by either of them. The time

was soon to come when they bore strange fruit.

"I bless her memory," Mr. Hart continued. "Her goodness and purity

made many things sweet to me. That I loved her and left her--conscious

that it was imperative upon me to do so for the sake both of love and

friendship--did not make me a despairing man. In course of time my

grief was softened; I formed other ties, one of which remains to me

now, thank God; and through all my wanderings I never lost faith in

woman or woman's purity. If, in a cynical mood, it ever came upon me

to doubt, I thought of her, and the doubt was dissolved. It may be,

Richard, that in the wise ordination of things, her spirit can see us

now!"

In the silence that followed, the thoughts of both these men dwelt in

tenderness on the memory of the gentle girl who had parted them. Mr.

Hart was the first to break the silence.

"Where is she buried, Richard?"

"I will take you to her grave."

They walked hand-in-hand, as boys might have done, beguiling the way

with conversation.

"Clara and I often spoke of you," said Mr. Weston, "and always with

affection you may be sure. And not long after you disappeared, a

singular thing happened. Clara received notice from a lawyer that a

legacy had been left to her--it was not a very large one, some

fourteen hundred pounds."

"There is nothing singular in that," said Mr. Hart, calmly.

"No, but in the manner of it. We never knew the name of the person who

left the money. It was expressly stipulated that the name of the

legator should not be revealed. I went to the lawyer on Clara's

behalf, being curious to ascertain the name of her generous

friend--and mine, I may say--but the lawyer was steadfast. His

instructions were definite, he said, and he could not go beyond them.

The only information he was empowered to make--if any inquiry was

made--was that the legacy was a legacy of love. It puzzled us a great

deal."

A peculiar smile passed over the face of Mr. Hart, which his friend

did not perceive.

"You must have been fortunate in other ways, Richard, to have

prospered as you have prospered: For you are a prosperous man."

"Thank God, yes. I am a rich man, Gerald."

"Rich! Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Hart, wistfully and almost hungrily.

"I owe much of my good fortune to luck, and not to my deservings. A

legacy was also left to me, in a very wonderful way; but in this case

I knew the name of the person, who died in a foreign country, and who

made me his executor. It is a strange story."

He looked over his shoulder with an air of fear. Mr. Hart noticed the

motion with surprise.

"You used not to be nervous," observed Mr. Hart. "Why do you say

that?" asked Mr. Weston.

"You looked over your shoulder just now so strangely and nervously.

Almost as though you expected to see a ghost."

Mr. Weston shuddered. "I can tell you the story as we walk on. It will

take but a short time, although it commences more than twenty years

ago. A relative whom I had seen but once in my childhood died in a

distant land, and made me his executor. He was a very wealthy man, and

his will was a singular one. I was the only relative to whom he left a

legacy, and indeed I believe the only relative who was living. He

divided his money between me and twelve other persons. All these

others were strangers to him, and he became acquainted with their

names in the following manner. It seems that he loved his mother with

a very deep affection; when she died, he discovered that she had left

a diary, and in its pages he learnt that she had suffered much in her

early days, before her son was born. She had led a wandering life in

her youth, every particular of which was set down in her diary, and in

it she mentioned the names of persons who had been kind to her in her

wanderings; in one page of her diary occurred the words: 'It would

render me very happy to be able to repay them for their great goodness

to me. What did the son do when he grew rich but place himself in

communication with a London lawyer, who was instructed to trace all

these persons, and to ascertain the fullest particulars of themselves

and their circumstances? Some had died and left no issue; some had

died and left children; he kept himself acquainted with all their

careers, and shortly before his death he made a will, devising the

whole of his wealth to these persons, and naming me as his executor.

You must remember, Gerald, that he had never seen one of these

persons, and that he was totally unacquainted with their characters;

when, by-and-by, you hear the full particulars, you will know why I

mention this; I will only say here that two young persons, a young

lady and a young gentleman, were left in the guardianship of a man

whom I cannot think of without a shudder. They fell in love with each

other; but their guardian, to whom their share of the money left would

revert in case of their death, set himself resolutely against their

union; he held absolute control over them, and the result of his

conduct was that they met with a tragic end; they drowned themselves,

and were found dead, clasped in each other's arms. But I am wandering

from the thread of the story. This will came home to me, and all the

persons interested in it were summoned together. The place of meeting

was a principal room in the Silver Flagon; and at the appointed time

we met. It was a strange gathering; we were all strangers to one

another; yet you can understand that the circumstance of our being

brought together made us friends at once. When the will was read every

person present found that he had become rich, in a strange and

wonderful manner. There were in all thirteen of us. Exhilarated by the

pleasantness of the occasion, and excited by its novelty, we ordered

dinner at the Silver Flagon, and sat down to dinner--thirteen in

number. Upon this number being ascertained, the usual theme was

started: one of the thirteen was sure to die before twelve months had

passed. Said one, a Merry fellow, Reuben Thorne by name, 'Let us prove

the falseness of this old-time absurdity. Here we are made rich and

comfortable for all our lives; here we are brought together by an

extraordinary circumstance, and forced into friendship by the

gratitude of a man whose money we are going to spend in the enjoyment

of the good things of this life. One of the best things in life is a

good dinner; another of the best things in life is good companionship.

Let us enter into a compact to dine here all together in this very

room in the jolly Silver Flagon, every year, on the anniversary of

this happy day.' Now, in the will there was a sentence to the effect

that the legator would be glad if those to whom he bequeathed his

money would become friends; and this proposal of Reuben Thorne's

seemed to open a way to this consummation. Elated and excited, we

there and then entered into a solemn compact, drawn up and signed by

every one of us, to meet regularly every year, and dine together as we

were doing on that day. And furthermore we solemnly pledged ourselves

to have no more than thirteen at the table, and that, as one and

another died, his chair and place at the table should be kept for him,

and that the vacant chair should receive all the attention which would

be given to it if a living person occupied the seat. This compact,

solemnly made, was solemnly kept. Year after year we met; one died,

another died; the young lovers I have mentioned were found dead in the

river; chair after chair became vacant; and still every year the

dinner for thirteen was served in the old room in the Silver Flagon.

Gerald, I have outlived them all; for two years I have dined alone. Of

all those thirteen I am the only one left."

"A strange story indeed," remarked Mr. Hart; and respecting his

companion's evident desire not to speak further on the subject, he

preserved silence--a silence broken presently by Mr. Weston saying:

"A little while ago, Gerald, you made a remark which surprised me. You

spoke of your eager hunt after gold. If I have grown somewhat nervous,

you also are changed in this respect, supposing you meant what you

said."

"I did mean it. All my body and soul, all my pulses were wrapt up in

the hunt. Ah! you little know what the gold fever is."

"But that _you_ should have it, Gerald! You of all men in the

world--you who once despised money, and set it at naught!"

"As I despise it and set it at naught now, in comparison with other

and better things. Truly, I believe that there was a fair excuse for

my giving way to the fever. I wanted money, Richard--not for myself,

for another. Yes, no purely selfish motive influenced me. But you

shall hear all by-and-by--that is, if----"

"Speak, Gerald."

"If you are not changed--if you are the same Weston as of old. If you

are changed, but nod your head at me, and I will shake you by the hand

once more, and go my way."

"Gerald! Gerald!" expostulated Mr. Weston.

"Nay, I mean what I say. It would be human nature. I should be sorry

that I had met you again, but I should fling the memory of this

meeting from me with all the force of my will, and would strive my

hardest to reinstate you, unsullied, in my heart."

He spoke with earnest vehemence, and if an uneasy impression was in

Mr. Weston's mind as to the manifest difference in their stations in

life--judging from outward appearances--it vanished for the time at

Mr. Hart's words.

"Recall for me," he said, "some words I spoke to you once when we were

opening our hearts to one another."

"Special words?"

"Special words, with reference to our friendship," replied Mr. Weston,

in a tone of anxiety lest his friend should fail to remember them.

"So many," pondered Mr. Hart; "but I can speak the words that are in

your mind, I think. 'Once my friend, always my friend; remember that,

Gerald.'"

"Those are the words, and I say to you now, 'Once my friend, always my

friend; remember that, Gerald.'"

They clasped hands again.

"Well said, and well remembered. Yet you are a magistrate, custos

rotulorum"--Mr. Hart laughed at the remembrance of the

labourer--"and I--well, I am something very like a vagabond. Look at

my patched clothes--see my wealth." He pulled out of his pocket all

the money he had in the world, amounting to less than twenty pounds,

and counted it over half merrily and half wistfully. "If you knew how

precious these bits of gold are to me, Richard, you would wonder."

"I wonder as it is, Gerald."

"Well you may. Do you think I care for this dross for my own sake?

Thank God, no! But lately--only within these last few weeks--I have

grown to know the pitiless power of money, and to thirst for it!"

"I will help you, Gerald," said Mr. Weston, strongly moved by his

friend's passion; "I will help you."

"It is for my daughter," murmured Mr. Hart, "not for myself; for my

daughter, dearer to me than my blood, than my life! Let me but see her

happy, and and sheltered from storms, and I can say good-bye to the

world with a smile on my lips."

They were standing now by the side of the grave with fresh flowers

about it. A plain tombstone was raised above it, with the simple

inscription:

To the Memory of

CLARA.

Love sweetens all,

Love levels all.

"A good creed," said Mr. Hart, gazing with moistened eyes upon the

inscription; "truly, love sweetens life, and love, like death, makes

all men equal."

And over the grave of the woman whom they both had loved the friends

again joined hands.

CHAPTER VI.

MR. LEWIS NATHAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF.

A few words are necessary to fill up the gap in our story. Directly

Mr. Hart arrived home, he sought out William Smith's mother, and

executed his friend's commission. This done, to the extravagant

delight of the old woman (you may be sure that Mr. Hart was not

sparing in his praises of William Smith), Mr. Hart and Margaret set

off for Devonshire. Years ago, when his darling Lucy was a little

child, he had confided her to the care of friends, so called, who had

promised to look after her as a daughter. How they had fulfilled their

trust may be judged by the circumstance that when, after his long

absence, her father was announced, the gentle girl ran into his arms,

sobbing, and begged him never again to leave her. He then discovered

that she had for the last two years led an unhappy life in the house,

and that she was nothing less than a dependent there. He chid her

gently for allowing him to remain in ignorance of the true state of

affairs, and he released her at once from her bondage.

"We will never be parted again, my darling," he said, with fond

caresses; "your father will protect you now."

She clung to him affectionately. The old man was proud of his

daughter, and already she was proud of him.

"I will make you happy, child," he said.

"Will you, papa?" she asked, with a little sob; but seeing that this

made him look sorrowful, she dried her tears, and gazed into his face

with a smile on her lips.

"That's right, my darling," he said; "be brave, be brave."

She shook her head seriously.

"Ah! but I am not brave," she replied; "not a bit--not a little tiny

bit! That is why I am so glad you have come home to take care of me."

He took her at once to Margaret, and told her that Lucy was his pride,

his heart, the flower of his life. Before they were in each other's

company an hour, these two girls--for Margaret, although a woman in

sorrow, was but a girl in years--were like sisters. Mr. Hart's face

was radiant as he saw them sitting together, and observed their

affectionate demeanour. Their natures, however, were different.

Margaret, as you have seen in her happier days, was sparkling,

vivacious, restless; Lucy was timid, yielding, more passive. The

passions that agitated Margaret's breast were at once seen on the

surface, in all their strength; those by which Lucy was moved were

unrevealed except to the eyes of love in their quieter aspect, whether

of joy or sorrow. These two girls fell immediately into their natural

positions. Margaret assumed the office of protector, and Lucy, to whom

dependence was a pleasure, accepted with gratefulness the shield which

her new friend threw before her. Each, in her way, thanked Mr. Hart

for giving her such a friend.

They had lodgings in the heart of Plymouth. Margaret and Mr. Hart,

setting out in quest of them, saw in a shop-window the announcement

that rooms were to be let in that house. The shop was a clothes-shop

of not the best kind, and at the door stood a man of Jewish aspect,

who was evidently attracted by Margaret's face.

"Did you notice how that man stared at you, Margaret?" asked Mr. Hart.

"No," was the reply, in an indifferent tone.

She turned, and saw the man still staring at her. He was loosely and

somewhat slovenly dressed, but his eyes were so wonderfully sparkling,

and his handsome face (although he was at least fifty years of age)

wore such a cheerful and almost philanthropic expression, that the

chances were if your eyes rested once upon him you would turn again to

look.

The man came forward.

"I beg your pardon," he said, in a slightly guttural tone, "but you

are strangers in Plymouth?"

He did not look at Mr. Hart.

"We are strangers," replied Mr. Hart.

"I thought so--I thought so. Can I do anything for you?

"No, thank you," said Mr. Hart, "we don't want any clothes."

"That's a pity; I could have served you cheap. But I didn't mean in

that way, though I'm always ready for business--always ready. I know a

customer when I see one. I'm an old resident here, and there is

something you might want to know."

"We are looking for lodgings."

The shopkeeper replied eagerly, "I have the very thing you want, the

very thing. Two rooms or four--made for you, made for you."

"You sell all your things ready-made," observed Mr. Hart, with a

humorous look.

"Yes, yes," said the shopkeeper, with a good-humoured smile, rubbing

his hands slowly over one another, as though he were washing them with

invisible soap; "all ready-made, all ready-made."

What most attracted you towards this man were his eyes. They fairly

sparkled with humour. But for their remarkable brightness Mr. Hart

would have passed on, had he been allowed to do so; for the matter of

that, however, the shopkeeper might have barred his way, being, as are

all of his race, singularly tenacious in the negotiation of a bargain.

And here there was a bargain in question; the strangers wanted

lodgings; he had lodgings to let. To hesitate with such a man is to be

lost. Mr. Hart hesitated.

"Come and see them," said the shopkeeper, and did not wait for

acquiescence in words, but led the way.

They followed him, like sheep. There was magnetism in the man. He

would make you buy a thing if you did not want it. That you did not

want it did not matter to him; he had it to sell. To sell it was his

business; and in his business he, as a representative man, beat the

world.

Mr. Hart and Margaret walked through the shop, the shelves of which

bent beneath the weight of ready-made clothes, up a flight of stairs

to the first floor. There were four rooms on the floor comfortably

furnished.

The shopkeeper revelled in his description of the rooms; to have heard

him you would have believed the house was a palace. "Look at the

view," said he, pointing to the dingy other side of the way, and

making it bright by a magic wave of his hands; "look at the furniture;

look at the couch--sit on it, it won't hurt you; real horsehair. Now

just oblige me, and sit in this arm-chair--just to oblige me! What do

you think of it? Is it easy, is it comfortable? Look at the pictures;

look at the piano--run your fingers over it; look at the carpet. Here!

sound the walls" (as though there was music in them); "look at the

loftiness" (as though there was magic in the ceiling); "look at the

ornaments; look at the fireplace."

And all the while he dilated upon the excellences of the apartments he

washed his hands with invisible soap, and his face beamed with

geniality. Such capital fellows at a bargain as he never betray

anxiety.

"They are really very comfortable," said Mr. Hart, apart, to Margaret;

"what do you say to them?"

"If you are satisfied, I am," she replied listlessly.

She could not be roused to take interest in anything.

"I am afraid he is a Jew," said Mr. Hart in a confidential whisper.

The shopkeeper heard the remark, and he smiled--a superior smile.

"Don't be afraid," he said good-humouredly, showing a fine set of

white teeth. "I _am_ a Jew, but I shan't bite you."

Mr. Hart was remorseful; he had no wish to hurt the man's feelings.

"I beg your pardon," he said, flushing up.

"For what?" asked the shopkeeper. "For saying you were afraid I was a

Jew? My dear sir, I'm proud of it, proud of it." And then he made this

singular statement: "If I hadn't been a Jew, I shouldn't have spoken

to this young lady."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Hart, in a tone which invited an explanation.

"You wouldn't take me for a Jew from my appearance," continued the

shopkeeper, thus giving utterance to a strange hallucination indulged

in by many of the race, for the speaker's Jewish cast of features was

unmistakable; "but perhaps my name over the shop-door was enough for

you?"

"No," said Mr. Hart; "I did not observe your name."

"The letters are big enough any way; every man and woman in Plymouth

knows Lewis Nathan."

Margaret looked up with a sudden exclamation of surprise, and advanced

a step towards Mr. Nathan.

"What name did you say?" she asked, with a strange fluttering at her

breast.

"Lewis Nathan, my dear," he replied, in an earnest fatherly tone; and

then, more earnestly still, "Have you heard it before, my dear?"

She did not reply to him, but drew Mr. Hart aside, and whispered a few

words to him in an agitated manner. His countenance expressed

surprise.

"We will take the rooms," he said to Mr. Nathan, "if the terms are

suitable; we are bound to consider our circumstances, for we are not

rich. We have only been in England a few days, and we don't know how

long we may stop; so we cannot take them for any definite time."

"The terms will suit you; I'll make them suit you," said Mr. Nathan,

with a strange obliviousness of self-interest. "You can take

possession at once--you and your daughter."

"This lady is not my daughter. I have a daughter who will live with

us; I will bring her here to-day."

"And is that all--only three?"

"Only three of us. You seem disappointed that there are no more."

"I thought--I thought," said Mr. Nathan, hesitating, "that this young

lady had a mother."

"She he is dead, poor soul!" murmured Margaret, with tears.

Mr. Nathan turned aside, trembling somewhat, and when he addressed

them again, his voice was softer and his eyes were dim.

"Don't think me impertinent, my dear," he said drawing closer to

Margaret, "but was your mother--God rest her soul!--ever in Plymouth?"

"She lived here for a long time."

"I have lived here all my life; I thought I recognised your face,

though you are taller, but not prettier. No, my dear, not prettier.

Did she--forgive me if I am wrong--did she have anything to do with

the stage?"

"She was an actress, sir, and I have often heard her mention your

name."

"Kindly, my dear?"

"Always kindly, always."

Mr. Nathan sat down, and hid his face. Margaret approached him, and

placed her hand on his shoulder; he looked up with tears in his eyes.

"And you're her daughter," he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

"She was a good creature, rest her soul! What is your name?"

"You must call me Margaret."

"So I will, my dear, so I will. Why, it's like old times come again

What a piece of luck it is that you passed my shop! I'm as pleased as

if I'd done a fine day's business."

* * * * * *

It was in this way that Margaret came to the house of her mother's

Jewish lover; and there they lived together, she and Lucy and Lucy's

father, for many weeks before the day on which Mr. Hart discovered

where the sign of the Silver Flagon was hung, and on which he met with

the old friend of his youth. Those few weeks were full of anxieties.

Margaret was still very despondent; his daughter Lucy was growing thin

and pale, and his own funds were running short. The prospect was not a

cheerful one, and he scarcely knew which way to turn. Fortunately for

all of them, at this juncture an unexpected friend presented himself

in the person of Mr. Lewis Nathan. When he had possessed himself of

the true state of affairs, he offered to lend Mr. Hart money to go on

with, and offered it without interest, be it stated.

"Suppose I am not able to pay you?" asked the old man.

"It wouldn't break my heart," was the reply.

"No," said Mr. Hart, without any expression of surprise at the offer,

for he had already learned to estimate Mr. Nathan at his proper worth,

"I'll not borrow money from you yet awhile. I am able to earn it--or

should be."

"In what way?"

"I am an actor," replied Mr. Hart; and thereupon, to Mr. Nathan's

great delight, related to him the history of Hart's Star Dramatic

Company.

"I know the proprietor of the theatre here," then said Mr. Nathan; "I

often lend him costumes. Margaret's mother played on his stage. I'll

get an engagement for you."

He was as good as his word, and once more Mr. Hart was on the boards,

playing old men this time; while Mr. Nathan sat in front and led the

applause. He played under the assumed name of Hunter, and kept it as

long as he could from Lucy and Margaret. One night he found them both

waiting outside the theatre. Mr. Nathan was with him.

"I've a good mind never to forgive you," said Margaret to Mr. Nathan.

Mr. Nathan would have meekly borne the blame, but that Mr. Hart told

Margaret the real state of affairs. "My purse was almost empty,

Margaret, and Mr. Nathan wanted to fill it. But I couldn't accept his

money while I was able to work. And really the engagement is not a bad

one, and I am already a great favourite with the audience and the

company."

"I should think you were," she cried; "who could help loving you?"

"Nay, nay, my dear child----"

She interrupted him impetuously. "I mean it! I mean it! You are always

doing noble things--always! Do you think I shall ever forget how you

risked your own life to save that of my darling Philip? In vain, alas!

in vain. And before that too! Did you not save him from being stung to

death? But if you are strong enough to work, how much stronger am I? I

will go on the stage again, and earn money for us. I will! I will!"

He would scarcely listen to the proposition; but she was so determined

that he could only pacify her by promising her that if they could not

find Philip's father before the end of three months, she should be

allowed to have her own way. When the contest was over, she went to

Mr. Nathan, and took his face between her pretty hands and kissed him.

"I don't wonder my poor dear mother was fond of you," she said. "And

now tell me why you have never married."

"I never saw any one but your mother that I cared for, my dear,"

replied Mr. Nathan; "she would have married me if I had turned

Christian."

"And you would have married her if she had turned Jewess?"

"Yes, it is so."

"You are as good a man as any Christian," cried Margaret.

"I hope so, my dear," said Lewis Nathan, with outward meekness;

believing in his heart, I have no doubt, that he was much better. But

that's none of our business.

And here I must say some special words. Very few, if any one, of my

readers would have supposed that Mr. Nathan was a Jew, if the fact had

not been disclosed to them in the preceding lines. They would not have

supposed so, simply because he speaks in fairly good English, and

because it has hitherto been the invariable rule in English fiction to

represent a Jew as speaking a kind of jargon, which has its source

only in the imagination of the writers, who are either prejudiced or

not well informed upon the matter. It is time the fallacy was

exploded. The "S'help me's!" the "Ma tear's!" and the "Vell! vell!

vell's!" which in English fiction and on the English stage are set

down as indispensable in the portrayal of an English Jew are

ridiculous perversions of fact. They do not belong even to the lowest

class of English Jews, who, as a rule, speak their language pretty

correctly. The English complain, with justice, that they are never

properly represented upon the French stage; the English Jews may, with

equal justice, and equal truth, assert that their position in English

fiction is as much a caricature as is the representation of the

typical Englishman in a French theatre.

Now, our Mr. Lewis Nathan spoke exceedingly good English, and small as

is the part he plays in this fiction, it is quite worth while that he

should be faithfully represented.

CHAPTER VII.

MARGARET TAKES THE HELM.

We now come to the day when Mr. Hart discovered the Silver Flagon, and

met once more his old friend, Mr. Weston.

Mr. Hart rushed into the room where Lucy and Margaret were sitting,

and blurted out the news most interesting to Margaret. He had found

the Silver Flagon; he had been to the house, and had seen Philip's

father, without, however, saying a word of Philip or Margaret.

"That can be done to-morrow or the next day," he said; "it is a matter

that requires delicate handling."

"I think," said Margaret slowly, "that we will wait a little while

before we go to him."

"No, no," exclaimed Mr. Hart, "we will go to-morrow. My child, it is

for your good. Delays are dangerous. Ah, I know well how dangerous

they are!"

This with a tender look at his daughter.

"We don't know how he will receive us," persisted Margaret.

"In what other way can he receive you, my dear child, than with open

arms?"

"Still," said 'Margaret firmly, "I think we will wait for a little

while. You will not turn me away, will you?"

"Child! child! I love you. Have I not two daughters?"

"And I love you," she said softly, "and I cannot bear the idea of

separation."

She opened her arms to Lucy, who threw hers around her friend's neck,

and rested her head on Margaret's shoulder.

"I'll not allow it! I'll not allow it!" cried Mr. Hart, pacing the

room with agitated steps. "Duty--duty, before all!"

"No," responded Margaret; "love--love, before all! Lucy, go away; I

must speak to this obstinate hard-hearted father alone."

"Ah! no," murmured Lucy, taking shelter now in her father's arms, who

folded her to his heart, and held her there, and kissed her sad face

many times "I have no hard-hearted father."

"Go out--go out!" exclaimed Margaret impetuously. "I'll not have two

to one against me."

She pushed Lucy out of the room with affectionate force, kissing her

first very, very tenderly. Then she began to cry, not quietly, but

stormily; Mr. Hart was no less agitated than she, but he suppressed

his emotion and observed her in silence.

"Now," she said, when she was sufficiently calm, "I am better, and can

talk to you."

"What is the meaning of this?" questioned Mr. Hart, in a tone so low

that he might have been speaking to himself.

"Dear friend," she said, drawing him to a seat by her side, and

holding his hands in hers, "let me have my wilful way; I have a reason

for it, a strong reason."

"Yes, yes," he muttered somewhat impatiently, "a woman's reason."

"A woman's reason, if you like," she said, humouring him; at another

time she would have fired up, and have given him a Roland for his

Oliver. "But apart from that, I love Lucy--and cannot you see that

Lucy loves me?"

"I know, I know," he replied; "but I must not lose sight of your

welfare. I am poor; I can place you at once in comfort; a plain duty

is before me."

"Do you remember how my darling Philip, with his dying breath, asked

you to be a father to me? And do you want now to drive me from you?"

"I do remember. I do not want to drive you from me. But our dear

Philip, with his dying breath, bade me take you to his father. That

was his charge to me, and I shall obey it."

"And you _shall_ obey it--by-and-by; not now; not now!"

"At once--without delay! I paltered with my own happiness by delaying;

I will not palter with yours in the same way."

He spoke in a tone so firm and decided that she was driven almost to

despair.

"Obstinate, obstinate!" she murmured: "hard and unkind!"

"Margaret--Margaret!" he cried, "do you want to break my heart?"

"No," she replied, with sudden vehemence; the words seemed to come

from her without any will of her own; "I want to save it from

breaking!"

Terror and doubt were expressed in his face.

"Speak plainly," he said, breathing quickly; "it is about Lucy?"

"It is about her. What is your dearest wish?"

"Her happiness."

"Drive me from her, and I'll not answer for the consequences. O, this

is no piece of cunning on my part, so that I may have my own way! It

is the truth. Do you not see that she is growing paler and thinner

every day?"

"I have seen it--I have tried to believe it was a trick played upon me

by my fears; but I see it now that it is as you say. It must be the

confinement in this narrow street, in this close town----"

"It is not the confinement," interrupted Margaret; "Lucy would thrive

in a cage if her heart were not disturbed. A secret sorrow is wearing

her away--a sorrow that she keeps to herself, and which only one

person in the world has the power to wean from her. No, that person is

not you--it is I, Margaret! She has not told me yet, but she will! I

want but to know the name of the man!"

"The name of the man!" echoed Mr. Hart in a bewildered tone. "In

Heaven's name, what man?"

"The man she loves, and who has led her to believe that he loves her."

"You know all this?"

"By instinct only--a fine teacher; better than reason." (He had not

the heart to play with her words, or he would have said, "None but a

woman can utter them;" but this new grief was too deep for light

thought.) "She is a woman, and wants a woman's heart to rest upon in

this crisis. She has no mother or sister. Dear friend, that I love

with all my strength! that I honour with all my soul! let me be sister

and mother to your Lucy! You cannot deny me this! It may be in my

power to repay you, in some small way, for your fatherly care of me,

for your love and devotion to my darling Philip, and you will not rob

me of the opportunity. If I can bring back the smile to your Lucy's

lips, the roses to her cheek--if I can bring joy to her heart, I shall

again taste happiness which I thought I had lost for ever."

If his stake had been smaller in her matter, he could not have

resisted her pleading; as it was, he yielded without another word of

remonstrance. He was so broken down by this disclosure that Margaret

was compelled to entreat him to hide his sorrow from Lucy's eyes.

"She must not know or suspect that we have been speaking of her," said

Margaret; "this sensitive flower that we both love so dearly must be

dealt with very tenderly--and wisely too, and cunningly, if needs be."

His words in the conversation that followed showed that he had lost

faith in himself, and that he placed his hope solely in this

affectionate woman, to whom sorrow had come so early. Up to this point

he had not told her of the strange meeting with his boyfriend, Richard

Weston, and presently, when he was more composed, he related the

incident to her.

"We are to go to his house to-morrow," he said, "Lucy and I."

"And I go with you of course," said Margaret. "I shall contrive to

make myself welcome. Tell me. When you took Lucy away from the house

of the person with whom she lived for so many years, did you let them

know your present address?"

"No; I was anxious to sever all possible connection in the future with

such false friends."

"Then," said Margaret, with a wise look, "how could _he_ (Lucy's _he_,

I mean) come to see her, when you as good as hid her from him? There

is hope--there is hope--I see hope already!" She kissed him blithely.

"Another thing--about myself this time. Mr. Weston's son is named

Gerald! Does not that strike you as strange?"

"It was a mark of affectionate remembrance of an old friend, my dear."

"I know that; but strange in another way. Have you forgotten the

packet which my darling Philip confided to your care? The property of

Gerald, and to be opened only by him. What if your Mr. Weston's Gerald

should be Philip's Gerald? It isn't so very unlikely. Mr. Weston's

house is not very far from the Silver Flagon, and my Philip was the

equal of any man. This Gerald must be nearly Philip's age--a little

younger perhaps. And my poor darling went to college. Do you not see?"

She spoke very excitedly, and Mr. Hart gazed at her in admiration.

"There is reason in what you say, Margaret. These broken links may

form a chain."

"So now all is settled," she said, "and I am to have my own way in

everything."

"Yes, my dear," he replied; "you are more fit to take the helm than I.

I am breaking down fast--I feel it."

"Lucy, Lucy," cried Margaret, going to the door. "Here is our father

threatening to become melancholy. Come and help me to cheer him up.

Ah! I know what we'll do. First we'll have a kiss all round, and then

I'll ask Mr. Nathan to take us out for a drive. He'll do it." She held

up her little finger. "I can twist him round this, my dear."

CHAPTER VIII.

"SHE NEVER TOLD HER LOVE."

Old Mr. Weston, a great magnate in his neighbourhood, a wealthy man,

the owner of a fine estate, a justice of the peace, and what not, had

been surprised out of himself by the sudden meeting of his friend,

Gerald Hart, from whom he had been separated when they were almost

boys, or at all events before either of them had experienced those

trials and temptations, the reception and handling of which give the

true stamp to a man's character. Our dear friend, Mr. Hart, had passed

through the fire unscathed. His fine, honest nature shone steadily in

the midst of every temptation; it never flickered or wavered when

brought into contact with opportunity which by dishonesty or trickery

could be turned to his advantage at another person's expense. His

conscience was a touchstone, and he was guided by it; rogue could

never be written on the sleeve of his jacket. That he was occasionally

worsted by knaves distressed him, but did not embitter him; nor did it

cause him to swerve. He was--to use a phrase I once heard from an

American, who was speaking of a person he admired--emphatically a

straight man.

To all outward appearance, Mr. Weston, when he was a young man, bade

fair to rival his friend in genuineness and honesty of character; but

the result falsified the promise. Money had spoiled him, as it spoils

many a thousand men and women every year of our lives, and it is

strictly true to state that he would have been a better man had he

been less prosperous. I sometimes think what a dreadful world this

would be if every person in it had more money than was needed for his

requirements. Great prosperity is a heavy burden, and one can keep

one's moral balance much better amid the storms of misfortune than

when all his worldly desires are satisfied. More men are wrecked upon

golden sands than upon sterile rocks of stone. So, in course of time,

the young man who had won the love and esteem of Gerald Hart became

over-weighted by prosperity, and over all the finest qualities of his

nature crept a crust of worldliness which hardened and grew firmer

with his years. These changes in character are common enough. I have

in my eye now a young man whom I have known for a few years; a meek,

quiet lad he was, with a mild and gentle face, advancing his opinions,

when he could muster sufficient confidence, with a timid and

unassuming air, which seemed to be the natural outcome of a kind and

modest soul. This young man, having had a start in life, is fast

developing beneath my observation into a solemn humbug, and he is

already, with a seriousness which would be laughable if it were not

lamentable, dealing very largely in a certain kind of stereotyped

milk-and-water religious sentiment, which he parades (having the

opportunity) with a long, sedate, and melancholy face, with all the

authority of a Solon, before men and women who have grown grey in the

service of the years. If I have the good fortune to live a dozen

years, and then to meet this wretched prig (for I know exactly what he

will grow into) dealing out his milk-and-water platitudes, I dare say

I shall wonder what has become of the meek, modest lad whose gentle

face first attracted my notice and won my favour.

As, in the same way, shall Mr. Hart presently wonder what has become

of the frank and generous friend he knew in his youth, and whom he had

cherished in his heart for so many, many years.

How, then, to account for the part Mr. Weston played in the interview

which took place in the sweet Devonshire lane, where the fairy bells

of the feather-grass were swinging to and fro in the clear waters of

the brook? As I have said at the commencement of this chapter, he was

surprised out of himself by the strange and sudden meeting; old

memories had penetrated the crust of worldliness which now overlaid

the better part of his nature, and for a little while the present was

forgotten, and unconsciously set aside. He found it, indeed, a

pleasant sensation to yield to the sweet waves of youthful remembrance

which the appearance of Gerald Hart had conjured up, and worldly as he

was, he honestly resolved to help his friend a little. Still when, in

the latter part of the day, he thought over the interview, he

confessed to himself that it would have been much more agreeable to

him if his friend had been well-dressed and well-to-do.

Nevertheless, he gave Mr. Hart a cordial welcome to his house, a great

part of his cordiality arising from a sense of satisfaction at being

able to show his friend how well he had got on in the world.

"And this is your daughter?" he said, taking Lucy's hand; "I may use

an old man's privilege."

When he took her hand, Lucy gave a little start of surprise, which

only one person noticed.

Then he turned to Margaret, and shook hands with her. At her own

request, she was introduced to him by her maiden name. "I don't want

to be known yet as Mrs. Rowe," she had said.

It did not occur to Mr. Hart that there was any change in the nature

of his old friend, as they stood gazing into each other's face, where

lines and wrinkles were. It was one of his tricks to judge others by

himself.

"You look ten years younger than I," observed Mr. Weston.

"I have not been harassed by the cares of property," replied Mr. Hart,

with a smile, in which there was no envy.

Mr. Weston sighed--an eloquent sigh, which expressed, "Ah, you little

know how harassing those cares are!" and at the same time a proud sigh

at the possession of them.

Then said Margaret, the tactician, after a few minutes chat, during

which she had been acting a part towards the old gentleman:

"You old friends must have a great deal to say to each other, and the

presence of two foolish women will not help you."

"I would not hear your enemy say so," said Mr. Hart.

"Say what?"

"That you are a foolish woman."

"Well quoted, Gerald, well quoted," acquiesced Mr. Weston gaily.

Margaret made a demure curtsey, and continued, addressing Mr. Weston:

"As we are to spend the day in your beautiful house----"

"Nay," he interrupted, "you are to spend a week or two at least with

me."

"Ah!" rejoined the wily Margaret, to make her ground sure, "but you

did not count upon an additional incumbrance in the shape of Me."

"An incumbrance, my dear young lady!" exclaimed Mr. Weston, completely

won over, as she intended he should be--she hadn't been an actress for

nothing. "Have at her with another quotation, Gerald!"

"Thou shalt have five thousand welcomes," said Mr. Hart, readily

"without the fivepence, Margaret."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried Mr. Weston. "My friend's friends are mine. I

shall be delighted with your society."

Indeed, he was unexpectedly pleased with the two girls; they were well

dressed, and bore themselves like ladies--as they were--and this

gratified the old worldling.

"Very well, then," said Margaret, with a bewitching smile; "I could

not say No on less persuasion. So I propose that you two gentlemen run

way and chat, and leave Lucy and me to amuse ourselves, if you are not

afraid to trust us."

Mr. Weston, thinking to himself, "Really a very charming creature!"

made a gallant reply, and taking his friend's arm, walked with him

into the garden.

Margaret and Lucy sat or strolled in the balcony which fringed the

windows of the first floor of the house. Margaret, in her tender

watchfulness of Lucy, had observed the little start of surprise which

Lucy had given on seeing Mr. Weston, and she found a difficulty in

accounting for it.

"Lucy," she said, "have you met Mr. Weston before to-day?"

"No, Margaret," was Lucy's answer. "What makes you ask?"

"Something in your face--that's all."

There was something in Lucy's face while these few words were being

uttered--a blush, which quickly died out, leaving her paler than

before. Margaret instantly began putting two and two together. An easy

task, some of you may think. You are much mistaken. It is a task which

requires, and often defies, abstruse calculation, and where a man will

succeed in it once, a woman will succeed a hundred times. There are

three great discoveries yet to be made in the world--perpetual motion,

how to square the circle, and how many beans make five. Depend upon

it, if they ever are discovered, they will be placed to the credit of

women.

Less difficult, certainly, than any of these, was the task upon which

Margaret was at present engaged. But shrewd as she was, she was far

from seeing her way clearly. The sum was not completely set before

her. There was a figure wanting.

"I don't quite know, Lucy," she said, "whether I like Mr. Weston."

Lucy looked at Margaret reproachfully. Not like her father's old

friend! Why, what could Margaret be thinking about? But Margaret, had

she pleased, could have justified herself. She had, or fancied she

had, observed an expression of uneasiness and dissatisfaction on Mr.

Weston's face when his eyes rested on his friend's clothes. They were

decent, but not new; and if they had been new, they would not have

been fine. This uneasy glance lasted only for an instant, but it had

made an impression on Margaret's mind not easily to be effaced.

"Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmation strong as proofs

of holy writ;" and Margaret was a woman who judged by trifles. It is

strange that this should be rare when the waving of a straw proclaims

how the wind blows.

It was a lovely summer's day, and the beautiful grounds which

surrounded Mr. Weston's house were bright with colour. Every material

comfort that could make life enjoyable was to be found within this

pretty estate. The house was luxuriantly furnished; the gardens were

carefully tended; and evidences of good taste met the eye on every

side. Noticing these substantial signs of comfort and refinement,

Margaret noticed, also, that Mr. Weston was directing the attention of

his friend to the beauty of the place. To her eyes there was

ostentation in his manner. "He is proud of his wealth," she said, and

fell again to the study of her sum of two and two. While thus

employed, her eyes wandered to Lucy's face. It was very sad and

pitiful. Margaret had played the part of Maria in "Twelfth Night," and

Viola's word came to her mind:

She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought.

As Lucy was pining now. Margaret, from her woman's instinct, knew full

well that a secret sorrow born of love was preying on the heart of

this tender girl, and she was striving to find a way into her friend's

confidence, when, at that very moment, chance befriended her, and the

clue for which she was seeking was put into her hands. A sudden flame

in Lucy's face, a sudden glad light in her eyes, a sudden exclamation

of pleasure in which her misery seemed to die, a sudden uprising of

the girl's form towards the framework of the balcony, and the secret

was revealed, and the sum was done.

CHAPTER IX.

LUCY'S PRINCE APPEARS ON THE SCENE.

Following the direction of Lucy's eyes, Margaret saw a young gentleman

walking towards the two old men in the grounds below. He paused, and

Mr. Weston spoke some words; the next moment Mr. Hart and the young

gentleman shook hands warmly.

"Ah!" thought Margaret, with secret satisfaction, "here is our prince.

Now all the rest is easy." She was vainly confident of her powers.

"So, my dear," she said aloud to Lucy, "we have discovered the grand

secret."

The flame in Lucy's cheek grew stronger, and she hid her blushes on

Margaret's shoulder.

"You will not tell?" she whispered.

"Not I," replied Margaret, with tender caresses; "but do you know, my

dear, you have been making me very unhappy? Keeping a secret, and such

a secret, from me!"

"Why, Margaret? You did not suspect me?"

"Oh! no, of course I suspected nothing, being naturally dull-witted,

and not being a woman. Well, but now it is all right. I shall know

everything--I must know everything, from A to Z. If you keep a single

letter of the alphabet from me, I shall run and tell them all about

it."

There was but little to tell. Chance had taken the young gentleman,

Gerald Weston, to the house in which Lucy lived before, her father's

return home, and having seen Lucy, something more than chance had

afterwards directed his steps thither very frequently. I am afraid

there had been secret meetings out of the house; girls and young men

_will_ do these things now-a-days. Ah, nonsense! What do I mean by

now-a-days? Have they not done them from time immemorial? Think of the

delicious secret meetings that must have taken place between Jacob and

Laban's daughters in the old patriarchal times! And you, my dear lady,

whose eyes may haply light upon these lines, cannot you look back upon

such-like stolen minutes? So these two young persons met and met

again, and Cupid led the way with his torch. Gerald Weston's love for

Lucy was an honest love, and it was long before he confessed it, and

received in return a confession of love from her lips. The simplest of

stories.

"But since my dear father has been home," said Lucy, "I have never

seen Gerald." And then her joy at beholding her hero vanished, and

with sad sighs she said, "He has forgotten me, Margaret."

"That is a discovery r must make for myself, Lucy. I'll wait till I

see him closer; then I shall be able to judge. I can tell the signs,

and I can read honesty. As for your not having seen him, you darling!

how was that possible except by some strange accident, when our dear

stupid father never told the persons you were living with where he was

taking you to?"

Lucy's face grew bright again.

"Are you sure of that--sure?"

"Sure, you little simpleton!" exclaimed Margaret affectionately. "Am I

sure that I am speaking to you now? Am I sure that everything will

come right and that my darling Lucy will be a happy wife before

long--as I was once, alas! But never mind me; I've something else to

think of, and I must put my sorrow by for a time. Lucy, Lucy! he's

coming this way, not knowing that you are here, of course! Well, I

declare he is a handsome young fellow! Shall I go away?"

"No, no, Margaret; don't leave me!"

For all that, Margaret contrived to slip out of the room the moment

before Gerald Weston entered it. Her intention was to keep guard

outside, and to prevent either of the fathers entering and disturbing

the lovers. With this design, she stationed herself at the door of the

house which led to the grounds, and presently Lucy's father came

towards her. Mr. Weston was not with him.

"Where is he? where is he?" inquired Margaret eagerly.

"He!" echoed Mr. Hart, smiling at her eagerness. "Which he are you

anxious about? The young he must have passed you on the staircase. Did

you notice him, Margaret? A fine young fellow."

"Yes, yes," cried Margaret impatiently; "but I mean the old he. Is

there a back way by which he can get in?" Margaret really had the idea

of running to the back of the house and taking old Mr. Weston captive.

She was a faithful tiler--a word I use not with reference to building

tiles, but in the Freemason sense. Ladies who do not understand it had

best ask a Freemason friend for an explanation.

"You enigma!" exclaimed Mr. Hart. "My old friend has been carried off

by a man of business. He is overwhelmed, my dear, by the cares of

property. By the way, Margaret, I have accepted an invitation to stay

here a month. It will do Lucy good."

"That it will," said Margaret, with a quiet little laugh to herself.

"Am I included in the invitation?"

"Of course, my dear. Mr. Weston is charmed with you. You've a trick of

winning hearts, Margaret, old and young. But I shall have to run away

every night to the theatre."

"Have you told him that?"

"No, but I shall presently."

"Will you be guided by me? But what a question to ask! You must

be. There cannot be two captains in one ship, and I am captain

here--absolute captain, mind you."

"Very well, my dear."

"Therefore you will not inform Mr. Weston that you are an actor, and

are engaged at the theatre. You will invent some other excuse for your

absence every night; or if you are not equal to it, I will invent one

for you. No remonstrance! I am captain, and I _will_ be obeyed. I have

my reasons, and you will approve of them when you hear them--which you

will not do till I think fit."

"Tyrant!" he cried. "I _must_ obey you, then. Now we will join Lucy."

"We'll do nothing of the sort. Don't bother your head about her; she

is quite safe and comfortable. I accept all responsibility." (Which

sounded very like Greek to Mr. Hart, but he had full confidence in

Margaret, and his anxiety about Lucy was lulled by her gay tone.) "Now

tell me everything you two old fogies have been talking about."

"Chiefly of old times. I have heard some strange things from him. He

has had at least one very strange incident in his life; and he

has--incline your head, my dear--a Bluebeard's room in the house, a

room that no one enters but himself. Now, don't you wish you had the

key?"

"No; Bluebeard's room can wait. I want to hear something more. You

talked of yourselves and your prospects."

"Naturally, my dear; and each dilated upon the subject nearest to his

heart."

"You upon Lucy."

"And he upon Gerald, his son. My old friend has great views for that

young gentleman, who has been giving him deep cause for anxiety

lately. Ah, these children, these children! how they vex and gladden

our old foolish hearts!"

"Deep cause for anxiety! Dear me! In what way, now?"

"Well, it isn't a secret, Margaret. No, I am wrong there. It must be a

secret, for it is almost a family matter; so I'll not mention it."

"But you will! You will!" cried Margaret vehemently. "I'll not

have any secrets kept from me. Now promise me, conceal nothing

from me. I am prudence itself, though I am a woman. I must know

everything--everything! Have you not yet learned to trust me?"

Startled by her earnestness and vehemence, for which he could find no

cause, he replied that he _had_ trusted her with what was most dear to

him. Had he not, in a measure, placed his daughter's happiness in her

hands?

"You have," she replied, "and I hope you will live to bless the day

that you put such trust in me. There, now; you called me an enigma a

moment ago. Think me one, if you like, but you will know better

by-and-by, and you will find there's method in my madness. I tell you

that as you value what you have intrusted me with, you must hide

nothing from me." Seeing still some signs of irresolution in him, she

stamped her foot impatiently, and said, "I should not expect even Mr.

Nathan to treat me as you are treating me, and there would be an

excuse for him, while there's none for you; for he belongs to a

stiff-necked race. You are a thousand times worse than he. I ask you

again--can't you trust a woman who loves you as I do?"

He was overcome by her torrent of words. "You will have your way, I

see. I yield."

"Now you are sensible again. Well, then, as you were saying--the young

gentleman has been giving his father deep cause for anxiety lately. A

love affair, of course!"

"You are a witch, Margaret," said Mr. Hart admiringly.

"You see, I know things without being told. Go on."

"It seems, my dear, that young Gerald has entangled himself in some

way; that is to say, he has entertained some sort of a fancy for a

young girl far below him in station----"

"Stop! Are these your words, or your friend's?"

"My friend's."

"I am glad to hear that. Some sort of a fancy, indeed, for a girl

below him in station! Oh, if I---- But go on, go on!"

"--And in every way unworthy of our Gerald----"

"His words again?"

"His words again."

"Wait a moment--let me get my breath."

Margaret, indeed, required time to cool herself. Had Mr. Weston

witnessed her condition, he would have said, "This young person I

thought so charming has certainly an ungovernable temper." She turned

presently to Mr. Hart, and bade him proceed.

"But, fortunately," continued Mr. Hart, much perplexed by Margaret's

proceedings, "the little affair has come to an end by the sudden

disappearance of the young lady?"

"Indeed! The little affair has come to an end, has it? Pray did your

friend mention the name of the young lady?"

"He doesn't know it, Margaret. In consequence of some warm words used

by his father, the young scapegrace wouldn't disclose her name. They

had a bit of a quarrel over it. 'Let me bring her to you,' said young

Gerald, 'and you will see that she is goodness and modesty itself.'

The father flatly refused to see her. 'In that case,' said Gerald, 'I

will not even I mention her name to you unless you consent to receive

her here as your daughter.'"

"Bravo, young Gerald!" cried Margaret, with nods of approval. "Bravo!

I begin to like you. If you were here, I would throw my arms round

your neck and kiss you."

Mr. Hart stared at her; Margaret laughed at him.

"You think I am going out of my senses, I dare say. But your story

isn't finished yet."

"Yes, it is; the sudden disappearance of the young lady finishes it."

"It isn't finished, I say," said Margaret gaily; "it is only the end

of the first chapter, and is to be continued in our next. Shall I turn

over the page?"

"Well, you are right, Margaret; it isn't finished. There's the other

young lady to be brought into the story."

"The other young lady?" exclaimed Margaret. "Oh, the Don Juan!"

"You don't understand. I mean the young lady the father intends Gerald

to marry. A young lady of fortune, with great family influence, and I

don't know what all. But putting her out of the question----"

"Put her out, by all means. I'll see to that! young lady of fortune,

indeed!"

"There is something still I have not told you. My old friend asked for

my opinion as to whether he had acted rightly."

"Which opinion," interrupted Margaret eagerly and vivaciously, "you

didn't give."

"I did, in one way. He put it to me in this fashion: 'Gerald,' he

said, 'say that it was your daughter'--he was only putting a

supposititious case, Margaret--'say it was your daughter my boy had

fallen in love with or taken a fancy to, I am sure you would not allow

her to receive his attentions against the wishes of his father; I am

sure you would not allow her to marry him unless he obtained his

father's consent.' Well, Margaret, knowing that all my old friend's

hopes and aspirations are bound up in his boy, and knowing that my

Lucy's happiness was not involved in this imaginary case (see how

selfish we old fathers are, my dear!) I said that I certainly would

not allow my daughter to marry his son without his consent."

Margaret threw up her arms in dismay. "You said that!" she cried.

"Yes, my dear. He rather pressed me for an answer, and I gave it in

decided terms, to soothe him, for he was much agitated. What is the

meaning of that expression in your face, Margaret? For Heaven's sake,

don't torture me any longer with mystery!"

He turned from her with quivering lips and moistened eyes as he made

this appeal.

"I don't want to torture you," exclaimed Margaret; "but I can't help

my face telling what is in my heart--that is, when I am taken off my

guard, as I am at this moment. Why, oh! why did you give that promise?

Why did I let you out of my sight? No man is fit to be trusted

alone--no man, no man! If I hadn't left my Philip's side on that fatal

night, we should have been together to-day. My darling! my darling!"

Her tears began to flow here, but she checked them sternly, and said,

"I mustn't wander. I have something else to think of--something else

to do. I have to repay you for all your goodness to me and him, and if

a living woman can do it, I will. Courage, Margaret, courage! Set your

wits to work, and prove yourself a match for the wily old worldling."

She paced to and fro in her excitement, and Mr. Hart waited with

gnawing impatience for an explanation. She gave it him presently.

"Listen. This girl for whom your old friend's son entertains some sort

of a fancy----"

"Yes, yes, Margaret."

"And who is far below him in station, and in every way unworthy of

him----"

"Yes, yes; go on."

"Is your daughter Lucy. Is our darling girl Lucy, whose heart has been

very nearly broken because she feared her lover had deserted her."

CHAPTER X.

THE THEORY OF FRIENDSHIP.

Margaret was not prepared for the manner in which her words were

received by Mr. Hart. She thought he would have been dismayed and

staggered at the disclosure, and she was ready to comfort him, and

instil courage into him. But the radiant face that met her eyes

astonished her.

"Why then," cried Mr. Hart, with bright looks and in a blithe tone,

"all is well--all is well! If your news is true----"