had he laid it down on the seat, and flung
it back to him. It is easy to preach, and
tell the galled jade not to wince. I made
no such reply as that to him—for in truth
I had some sense as of being released.
Indeed, I thanked him for his kindness.
It is only now that I see what he was at.
Then he said, wringing my hand, "I
think so much of you for this. You are a
fine character, Mr. Austen!" There was a
letter of hers—Dora's, which I had not yet
read, nor had I time to read. A harassed,
persecuted man has enough to occupy his
baited soul, without being brought to an
account for having lost a second—a breach
of affectionate duty, and all that. I suppose
the characters are not written in invisible
ink and will not fly away. If I loved
a friend to distraction I would say to them
all the same, "For God's sake, don't
whine!"

"I had such a dream about you last night,
darling—such a frightful real dream!
With all that money in your keeping,
and belonging to another, and with the
temptations of that frightful place! Oh,
come back—come back to us at once!
And, oh! if you feel the least temptation
and, dearest, it is no harm if you do—at
that moment fly—leave everything behind
rather than incur the danger. Then, too,
you may be thinking of us, and of what is
to meet you at home. That is dismal
enough, I feel; but an honest stainless
heart will bear us through all. Mr. Bernard,
besides, has the same idea; and he
really frightened me yesterday, for you
know what an inflexible man he is, and he
prides himself on it. Here were his words,
which I thought I ought to repeat for you:
'I am sorry I put such a temptation in
his way now. Had I thought he would
have taken to lecturing, he should never
have had it. But I warn you, Mrs.
Austen, if there is anything wrong, I
shan't spare him. I shall make no
distinction between him and a poor man;
and he would be ten times as guilty.' I
told him. with scorn, that he did not know
you, nor know me, and that his suspicion
dishonoured us both. He said that any
tampering with money would be a greater
dishonour, and went away a little displeased."

Anything wrong! A fine way of pleasing
the man—instead of soothing him,
when, Glod knows, I want all indulgence
and mercy, to go inflaming him against me
with detiant speeches. Always the way—
no help even at home; enemies there! And
such folly! Suppose I did want the money?

"I thought I would even rush to the
telegraph office, and let you know at once.
The whole so frightened me, and seemed
—forgive me, dearest—so natural and
probable. No crime indeed for you—what so
many good people have done and repented
of."

Run to the telegraph office! They seem
to have money enough to think of such
freaks and extravagances, while I am
hunted and harried down to the very wall
here, and the only relief I get is to be
lectured; lectured by every fool that walks
the right way.

O why did I not go with them? Who
is now the greatest fool that walks the
highway—the greatest malefactor in this
den of malefactors? No; but these girls
would go on with their foolish chatting
and curiosity on the platform, instead of
taking their seats. Or did they do it on
purpose? All had been well! But the
demons must pursue me here: or were
they his agents? That father, with his
platitudes, must go walking up and down,
until that captain comes up eagerly.

"All but late," he cried out joyfully;
"but it had been no harm if I was."

"Well, I warned you, my dear boy."

"So you did, but luckily I did not mind.
Feel that coat-pocket, and that— literally
bursting. I crammed them all in, notes,
silver, gold, everything, anyhow."

My heart began to beat. The old
infernal music was striking up, the black
imps clanging their cymbals. The girls
came to him. I saw the light in their eyes.

"Why you had lost everything, Captain
Conway?"

"Five hundred pounds, as I have a
commission, which should have been sold next
month to meet expenses. In fact, the letter
has gone to the agents. But I'll stop 'em by
telegraph at Frankfort. Just passing that
infernal Cure house —or, I beg its pardon,
what was that infernal place?—in my cab.
Portmanteau on the seat opposite. Something
—I don't know what it was—prompted
me to stop. I rushed in. Something—
I don't know what, but I never did it
before—made me ask the croupier, 'Zero
been up lately?' 'Not for a half-hour,' he
said. Something else—God knows what—
made me give him a couple of double
fredericks. 'Put that on,' I said. 'Look
sharp, too.' On it went. Click, flop;
and, by Jove, you should hare seen the