"I will," replied John. And he walked
away from the lawyer's office like one in a
dream.

"That fellow's of the stuff that heroes
are made of, in spite of his face," said the
lawyer, as the door closed behind his visitor.
"Who ever heard of a man going to plead
his rival's cause with that rival's own
mother?"

The estrangement from her son had
begun to tell upon Mrs. Cartaret's health.
She passed most of her time in bed. It
bored her to get up and receive the
neighbours, who of course inquired for Lowndes.
She could not sit to read much; she wrote
voluminous letters, and answers arrived,
containing awful pictures of the state of
France. Her thoughts had no other diversion
from the one topic which engrossed
them. And, at last, towards the middle of
August, she really fell ill, not as ill as she
herself fancied—not ill enough, perhaps, to
justify her writing to Lowndes, "Are you
going to let me die without seeing you
again?"

That evening's train brought him to
Beckworth. She revived at the very sight
of him, like a drooping flower put into
water; her black eyes sparkled, and she
sat up, talking so briskly, that Lowndes's
anxiety was at once relieved. He had been
called from town under false pretences;
but he did not regret it, for now that he
was here, he made up his mind that he
would not go back without seeing Maud.
He came to this determination while he sat
there by his mother's bed, answering her
questions as to his changed life and
pursuits in a manner so different from the cui
bono raillery to which she was accustomed,
that she asked herself with amazement if
this was her indolent, sarcastic son.

Before he left her for the night, he said:

"I shall go to Salisbury for a few hours
to-morrow, and the following day I must
return to town."

"Why go back so soon?" cried the old
lady, in a whining voice. "It is six months
since you were here. Come, sois gentil,
mon enfant, stay a few days with me—
hein?"

"I should only be unhappy, mother.
When two people don't agree upon the
subject which is nearest to the heart of one of
them, they are better apart."

"Comment! Est-il possible? You have
not yet forgotten that miserable girl?"

''Have not forgotten, and never shall
forget her. My life may be made wretched
by your separating us, of course; for without
your consent she never will marry me,
but——"

"That she never shall have!" burst in
Mrs. Cartaret, punching the pillow violently
with her little fist.

"So you have already told me. And,
therefore, I am better away from
Beckworth."

"Are you not ashamed to tell me, sir,
that a creature like this is to separate
mother and son?"

"That is not her fault. She has refused
to let me write to her. I shall see her to-
morrow for the first time in six months."

"You shall see her? Mon Dieu! You
shall see her?"

"I wish to tell her that though we are
separated for a while, nothing will ever
change me. And I wish to let her know
that I have been trying, by my life, during
the last six months, to make myself a little
less unworthy of her."

"Unworthy of her! Mon Dieu! Listen
to him! Unworthy of her!"

"Yes," said Lowndes, who was by this
time roused, in spite of his determination
to be calm. "The fact is she is so different
to those miserable samples of humanity
you regard as correct young ladies, that
you can't understand her. She has nothing
in common with the cut-and-dried bread-
and-butter that comes out of schools and
convents (and turns rancid in one's mouth
after marriage, ten to one). She is a real,
honest girl—nothing sham about her——"

"She came here under a sham name!"
cries Mrs. Cartaret.

"—and noble, as uncommonly few
aristocrats are, or ever were, in the days of
your favourite 'grand monarque,'"
persists Lowndes, regardless of his mother's
interruption. "However, it is no use talking
about it, mother. It only makes us
both angry. During the short time I am
to be here, let there be peace. Only don't
deceive yourself. No power on earth shall
ever make me give the girl up, and I shall
never come back to Beckworth, to remain,
until you will receive her. And now—
good-night."

But it was far from a good night for poor
Mrs. Cartaret. Restless, and dissatisfied
with herself, with her son, and with all the
world, she passed the sleepless hours, tossing
feverishly among her pillows, and
muttering, like the prince so pitilessly
immortalised by Carlyle, "Est-il possible? Mon
Dieu! est-il possible?"

Maud was crossing the quaint little