They may live or die, or marry, or mourn, and
all be as nothing to me—as if I had never met
them. And what shall I be to them, I wonder?"
cried he, with a bitter laugh; "a very dreadful
dream, I suppose; something like the memory
of a shipwreck, or a fire from which they escaped
without any consciousness of the means that
rescued them! A horrid nightmare whose terrors
always come back in days of depression and
illness. At all events, I shall not be ' poor Calvert,'
'that much to be pitied creature who
really had some good in him.' No, I shall
certainly be spared all commiseration of that kind,
and they'll no more recur willingly to my
memory than they'll celebrate the anniversary
of some day that brought them shame and
misfortune.

"Now, then, for my positively last appearance
in my present line of character! And yonder
I see the old dame on the look-out for me; she
certainly has some object in meeting me before
her nieces shall know it.—Land me in that nook
there, Onofrio, and wait for me."

"I have been very impatient for your coming,"
said she, as he stepped on shore; "I have so
much to say to you; but, first of all, read this.
It is from the vicar."

The letter was not more than a few lines, and
to this purport: he was about to quit the home
he had lived in for more than thirty years, and
was so overwhelmed with sorrow and distress,
that he really could not address his thoughts to
any case but the sad one before him. "'All these
calamities have fallen upon us together; for
although,' he wrote, 'Joe's departure is the
first step on the road to future fortune, it is still
separation, and at our age who is to say if we
shall ever see him again?'"

"Skip the pathetic bit, and come to this.
What have we here about the P. and O.
steamers?" cried Calvert.

"'Through the great kindness of the Secretary
of State, Joe has obtained a free passage out—a
favour, as I hear, very rarely granted—and he
means to pay you a flying visit; leaving this on
Tuesday, to be with you on Saturday, and, by
repairing to Leghorn on the following Wednesday,
to catch the packet at Malta. This will
give him three entire days with you, which,
though they be stolen from us, neither his
mother nor myself have the heart to refuse him.
Poor fellow, he tries to believe—perhaps he does
believe—that we are all to meet again in happiness
and comfort, and I do my best not to
discourage him; but I am now verging on
seventy—'"

"How tiresome he is about his old age; is
there any more about his son?" asked Calvert,
impatiently.

"Yes, he says here: 'Joe is, as you may
imagine, full of business, and what between his
interviews with official people, and his personal
cares for his long journey, has not a moment to
spare. He will, however, write to-morrow,
detailing all that he has done and means to do.
Of that late suggestion that came from you
about referring us to a third party, neither
Joseph nor myself desire to go back; indeed,
it is not at a moment like the present we would
open a question that could imperil the affections
that unite us. It is enough to know that we
trust each other, and need neither guarantees
nor guidance.'"

"The old knave!" cried Calvert. "A priest
is always a Jesuit, no matter what Church he
belongs to."

"Oh, Mr. Calvert."

"But he's quite right after all. I am far too
worldly-minded in my notions to negotiate with
men of such exalted ideas as he and his son
possess. Besides, I am suddenly called away,
I shall have to leave this immediately. They
are making a fuss about that unfortunate affair
at Basle, and want to catch me as a witness; and,
as my evidence would damage a fellow I really
pity, though I condemn, I must keep out of the
way."

"Well, you are certain to find us here whenever
you feel disposed to have your own room
again. I have taken the villa for another
year."

Not paying the slightest attention to this
speech, he went on: "There is one point on
which I shall be absolute. No one speaks of
me when I leave this. Not alone that you abstain
yourself from any allusion to my having been
here, and what you know of me, but that you
will not suffer any other to make me his topic.
It is enough to say that a question of my life
is involved in this request. Barnard's fate has
involved me in a web of calumny and libel,
which I am resolved to bear too, to cover the poor
fellow's memory. If, however, by any indiscretion
of my friends—and remember, it can only be
of my friends under this roof—I am driven to
defend myself, there is no saying how much
more blood will have to flow in this quarrel.
Do you understand me?"'

"Partly," said she, trembling all over.

"This much you cannot mistake," said he,
sternly; "that my name is not to be uttered, nor
written, mind that. If, in his short visit, Loyd
should speak of me, stop him at once. Say, 'Mr.
Loyd, there are reasons why I will not discuss
that person; and I desire that my wish be
understood as a command.' You will impress your
nieces with the same reserve. I suppose, if they
hear that it is a matter which involves the life
of more than one, that they will not need to be
twice cautioned. Bear in mind, this is no caprice
of mine; it is no piece of that Calvert
eccentricity, to which, fairly enough sometimes, you
ascribe many of my actions. I am in a position
of no common peril; I have incurred it to save
the fair fame of a fellow I have known and liked
for years. I mean, too, to go through with it;
that is, I mean up to a certain point to sacrifice
myself. Up to a certain point, I say, for if I am
pushed beyond that, then I shall declare to the
world: Upon you and your slanderous tongues
be the blame, not mine the fault, for what is to
happen now."

He uttered these words with a rapidity and
vehemence that made her tremble from head to