added Violet, forcing the muscles of her lips
into a smile, "that—that——"

Hanbury was looking at her, wondering and
terrified, when she broke out suddenly, covering
up her face:

"Oh, I can't, I can't any longer; I can't
indeed. Go away, leave me—do—let every one
leave me. Oh!" and she was tossing on the
sofa, gasping and sobbing in a sort of frantic
tempest of grief. Hanbury rushed to the bell,
rushed to the door. Thev were all in the room
in a moment, round the unhappy child. Hanbury
fled to the open street, beating his forehead as
he went. More of the old clumsiness! He could
go and drown himself.

Posting along, and not caring where he went,
he suddenly saw Colonel Bolstock, Fermor's
colonel, riding by; rather, he saw a horse of his
own which the colonel had bought. The colonel
pulled up: for a little talk about a horse, in the
presence of a horse, was like having a cigar.
An idea suddenly flashed upon Hanbury: not
often had he such inspirations.

"Doing well," said the colonel, looking down
the flanks of his horse; "turning out very fairly
indeed."

"Tell me," said Hanbury, hastily; "Fermor's
gone, I know, but what time did he say he
would be back?"

"I gave him ten days' leave," said the colonel;
"by the way, there's a horse of his——"

"There, that will do," said Hanbury, turning
back; "I must go—-" And he was gone,
leaving the colonel looking sourly after him.
Here was news indeed; stupid of them all not
to have thought of that. After all, Fermor
was true—called suddenly away. Above all, that
he should be the bearer! This would redeem
months of clumsiness.

He rushed up-stairs and plunged into the
room again. Violet was still working in hysterical
sobbing. The anxious faces were about
her.

"I have got some news," said Hanbury, his
great eyes twinkling with honest delight. They
all started. "Yes, some news," he said, "at
least. He's only gone for ten days."

Violet flew to ner mother with a cry. "I
knew it! I knew it! I knew it!" she almost
shrieked. "O, mamma! mamma!" and she
fell on her mother's shoulder weeping and
sobbing, and laughing again.

Pauline looked at Hanbury doubtfully, almost
angrily. "What is this story?" she said, in a
half whisper; "you should not have done it.
Tell me about it."

"No, no," said he, scarcely listening, but
looking anxiously at Violet, "it is all certain—
the colonel himself told me. And I tell you
what," he added, with excitement, "this night I
am going up to London, will find him out there,
tell him of our poor darling child, and return with
joyful news. Perhaps bring him back! There!"

Pauline shook her head sorrowfully.

He saw opposition, and said, piteously, "Let
me go. Do! I must, indeed. It will be doing
something."

It did strike Pauline that it would, after all,
be doing something. Anything—and the bare
expectancy of anything—was better than the
fatal waste of hopeless despondency into which
they were now plunged.

She said no more, and Hanbury went his way.
Alas! if he had only waited to hear that mounted
colonel finish his sentence leisurely, he would
have been told of a letter which had arrived at
the barracks the day before. He had not waited.

Hanbury came back when he was ready. Violet
was in a nervous flutter, saying over and over
again, with a frantic delight, "I knew it! I
knew it! What did I tell you all?"

"Don't reckon too much, darling, on these
things. How it goes to my heart to damp your
spirits—but don't."

"Nor do I reckon on too much, mamma.
But now I have a conviction, a certain conviction.
I knew it—I said it." (Poor child, she
never had said it, indeed.) "Dear Mr. Hanbury,
my own true friend, you know me, you
understand me. I always believed it. Go, now.
Don't lose a second. You will be too late, indeed
you will. He will come back with you if he
can; if not, make him write. Be sure you do."

Violet's face was earnest and wild, as she
impressed these instructions on him.

"I must go up now," she said, the tired look
spreading like a film upon her face, "for I have
gone through a good deal lately, thinking over
all this. And I have been very foolish; but you
must own that his going away so suddenly on
that night—it looked—"

Her eyes began to swim, and in a moment she
was weeping silently and bitterly, but without
her old agitation. And her mother had put her
arms round her, and said, straining her close, as if
some one were about to take her away from her:

"My own dear, darling, darling child!"

And thus Hanbury started after this fatal
will-o'-the-wisp. He got to London, and was
told the truth.

Fermor at that moment was seeing the sun
rise on the blue waters of the Mediterranean with
fine effect. The packet was listlessly gliding over
the sea. It was charming dolce far niente.

The little romance he had just passed through
came back on him with a gentle pain, not wholly
unpleasant. "Poor, poor Violet!" he said, "I
feel some reproaches of conscience. I do,
indeed. She was so gentle. Only for that set
about her—they were turning her into a perfect
little Machiavelli. Ah! Mrs. Rose, you out so
early on deck?   Is not this a picture?"

     CHAPTER XXXVIII.   SICUT FLOS.

ON the day that Hanbury returned to Eastport
by the mail train, there came with him, in
the railway post-office, a letter in Lady Laura's
writing—a letter that she had put off writing,
partly from its being a disagreeable duty, and
partly from her having other more important
affairs to claim her attention. Her hearing of
Hanbury's inquiries brought the matter again
to her mind. "That girl" had been sending