foot. This was not, besides, the first time she
had witnessed one of these passionate outbursts
for which his race was celebrated, and it needed
no oath to confirm the menace his speech
shadowed forth.

"This is a pledge, then," said he, grasping her
hand. "And now to talk of something pleasanter.
That old uncle of mine has behaved very
handsomely; has sent me some kind messages, and,
what is as much to the purpose, some money;"
and, as he spoke, he carelessly drew from his
pocket a roll of the bank-notes he had so lately
won at play. "'Before making any attempt to re-
enter the service,' he says, 'you must keep out
of the way for a while.' And he is right there;
the advice is excellent, and I mean to follow it.
In his postscript he adds: 'Thank Grainger'—he
means Miss Grainger, but you know how
blunderingly he writes—'for all her kindness to
you, and say how glad we should all be to see her
at Rocksley, whenever she comes next to England.'"

The old lady's face grew crimson; shame at
first, and pride afterwards, overwhelming her.
To be called Grainger was to bring her back at
once to the old days of servitude—that dreary
life of nursery governess—which had left its dark
shadow on all her later years; while to be the
guest at Rocksley was a triumph she had never
imagined in her vainest moments.

"Oh, will you tell him how proud I am for
his kind remembrance of me, and what an
honour I should feel it to pay my respects to
him?"

"They'll make much of you, I promise you,"
said Calvert, " when they catch you at Rocksley,
and you'll not get away in a hurry. Now let us
go our separate ways, lest the girls suspect we
have been plotting. I'll take the boat and row
down to the steps. Don't forget all I have been
saying," were his last words as the boat moved
away.

"I hope I have bound that old fool in heavy
recognisances to keep her tongue quiet; and now
for the more difficult task of the young ones,"
said he, as he stretched himself full length in
the boat, like one wearied by some effort that
taxed his strength. "I begin to believe it will
be a relief to me to get away from this place!"
he muttered to himself, "though I'd give my
right hand to pass the next week here, and spoil
the happiness of those fond lovers. Could I not
do it?" Here was a problem that occupied him
till he reached the landing at the villa, but
as he stepped on shore, he cried, "No, this
must be the last time I shall ever mount these
steps!"

Calvert passed the day in his room; he had
much to think over, and several letters to write.
Though the next step he was to take in life
in all probability involved his whole future
career, his mind was diverted from it by the
thought that this was to be his last night at the
villa—the last time he should ever see Florence.
"Ay," thought he, "Loyd will be the occupant
of this room in a day or two more. I can fancy
the playful tap at this door, as Milly goes down
to breakfast—I can picture the lazy fool leaning
out of that window, gazing at those tall snow-
peaks, while Florence is waiting for him in the
garden—I know well all the little graceful
attentions that will be prepared for him, vulgar
dog as he is, who will not even recognise the
especial courtesies that have been designed for
him; well, if I be not sorely mistaken, I have
dropped some poison in his cup. I have taught
Florence to feel that courage is the first of
manly attributes, and, what is more to the
purpose, to have a sort of half dread that it is not
amongst her lover's gifts. I have left her as my
last legacy that rankling doubt, and I defy her to
tear it out of her heart! What a sovereign
antidote to all romance it is, to have the conviction,
or, if not the conviction, the impression,
the mere suspicion, that he who spouts the fine
sentiments of the poet with such heartfelt
ardour, is a poltroon, ready to run from danger
and hide himself at the approach of peril. I
have made Milly believe this; she has no doubt
of it; so that if sisterly confidences broach
the theme, Florence will find all her worst fears
confirmed. The thought of this fellow as my
rival maddens me!" cried he, as he started up
and paced the room impatiently. "Is not that
Florence I see in the garden? Alone too! "What
a chance!" In a moment he hastened noiselessly
down the stairs, opened the drawing-room
window, and was beside her.

"I hope the bad news they tell me is not
true," she said, as they walked along side by
side.

"What is the bad news?"

"That you are going to leave us."

"And are you such a hypocrite, Florry, as to
call this bad news, when you and I both know
how little I shall be needed here in a day or two?
We are not to have many more moments together;
these are probably the very last of them; let us
be frank and honest. I'm not surely asking too
much in that! For many a day you have sealed
up my lips by the threat of not speaking to me
on the morrow. Your menace has been, if you
repeat this language, I will not walk with you
again. Now, Florry, this threat has lost its
terror, for to-morrow I shall be gone, gone for
ever, and so to-day, here now, I say once more,
I love you! How useless to tell me that it is
all in vain; that you do not, cannot return my
affection. I tell you I can no more despair
than I can cease to love you! In the force of
that love I bear you is my confidence. I have
the same trust in it that I would have in my
courage."

"If you but knew the pain you gave me by
such words as these—"

"If you knew the pain they cost me to utter
them!" cried he. "It is bringing a proud heart,
very low to sue as humbly as I do. And for
what? Simply for time—only time. All I ask is,
do not utterly reject one who only needs your
love to be worthy of it. When I think of what
I was when I met you first—you!—and feel the
change you have wrought in my whole nature;
how you have planted truthfulness where there