tell you what the end will be—you'll marry
him."

He had touched the right string at last. It
rung back in answer, before he could add another
word.

"You don't know me," she said, firmly.
"You don't know what I can suffer for Frank's
sake. He shall never marry me, till I can
be what my father said I should be—the making
of his fortune. He shall take no burden,
when he takes me; I promise you that! I'll
be the good angel of Frank's life; I'll not go a
penniless girl to him, and drag him down."
She abruptly left her seat, advanced a few steps
towards Mr. Clare, and stopped in the middle of
the room. Her arms fell helpless on either
side of her; and she burst into tears. "He
shall go," she said—"if my heart breaks in
doing it, I'll tell him to-morrow that we must
say Good-by!"

Mr. Clare at once advanced to meet her, and
held out his hand.

"I'll help you," he said. "Frank shall hear
every word that has passed between us. When
he comes to-morrow, he shall know, beforehand,
that he comes to say good-by."

She took his hand in both her own—hesitated
—looked at him—and pressed it to her bosom.
"May I ask a favour of you, before you go?"
she said, timidly. He tried to take his hand
from her; but she knew her advantage, and held
it fast. "Suppose there should be some change
for the better?" she went on. "Suppose I
could come to Frank, as my father said I should
come to him——?"

Before she could complete the question, Mr.
Clare made a second effort, and withdrew his
hand. "As your father said you should come
to him?" he repeated, looking at her
attentively.

"Yes," she replied. "Strange things happen
sometimes. If strange things happen to me,
will you let Frank come back before the five
years are out?"

What did she mean? Was she clinging
desperately to the hope of melting Michael
Vanstone's heart? Mr. Clare could draw no
other conclusion from what she had just said to
him. At the beginning of the interview, he
would have roughly dispelled her delusion. At
the end of the interview, he left her
compassionately in possession of it.

"You are hoping against all hope," he said;
"but if it gives you courage, hope on. If this
impossible good fortune of yours ever happens,
tell me; and Frank shall come back. In the
meantime——"

"In the meantime," she interposed sadly,
"you have my promise."

Once more, Mr. Clare's sharp eyes searched her
face attentively.

"I will trust your promise," he said. "You
shall see Frank to-morrow."

She went back thoughtfully to her chair, and
sat down again in silence. Mr. Clare made for
the door, before any formal leave-taking could
pass between them. "Deep!" he thought to
himself, as he looked back at her before he went
out; "only eighteen; and too deep for my
sounding!"

In the hall, he found Norah, waiting anxiously
to hear what had happened.

"Is it all over?" she asked. "Does Frank
go to China?"

"Be careful how you manage that sister of
yours," said Mr. Clare, without noticing the
question. "She has one great misfortune to
contend with: she's not made for the ordinary
jog-trot of a woman's life. I don't say I can
see straight to the end of the good or the evil
in her—I only warn you, her future will be no
common one."

An hour later, Mr. Pendril left the house;
and, by that night's post, Miss Garth despatched
a letter to her sister in London.

THE END OF THE FIRST SCENE.

THE DIARY OF A CONFEDERATE BOY.

WHEN General McClellan, compelled into
activity, crossed the Potomac after the council
of war held on Friday, the seventh of March, I
also went to Manassas. At one o'clock on
Friday the council overruled McClellan's wish
for more delay. In an hour the result was
known to the enemy, and those positions which
had been held only until seriously menaced were
retired from in the interval between the time of
the decision and the Federal movement on the
Monday following. Since I am nobody's own
reporter, and my purpose is not to tell of my
own adventures, but to show a picture of a poor
boy's life in days of civil war—a picture that I
found in the wreck of the deserted camp at
Manassas, I shall only say so much of my ride
thither as may help to suggest something of the
gulf of war into which that young life, with
many, many others, has been thrown.

My own journey was to the head-quarters of
the German division in the Federal army. It
had been raining all night, and the tough clay
of the roads through which Uncle Sam's horses
dragged the government waggons reached up to
the horses' knees. In pulling out their feet they
often left their shoes behind. Having slept at
Mr. Hunter's farm-house, the old head-quarters
of the commanders of the German division, I
pushed on next day with a comrade. The road
was covered with teams. We hurried on to pass
them, in vain, for they had no end. We reached
Hunter's Mills. Over the brook is a bridge,
such as you find, out of America, only in operas
and melodramas. One hesitates to cross on horseback,
yet over it passed the whole army, with
its horses and its heavy guns. We had to stop;
for the holes before it were of serious depth.
We crossed the stream, one of us reaching the
other side covered with mud to the eyes, and
advanced to Centreville through desolate—
alas! most desolate—Virginia. Forests are
cleared, and the trees not yet removed. Farm-
houses are forsaken and lie empty, or with
soldiers for their occupants. For miles we rode