"But," she went on more eagerly still, "you
must let it profit you. You will try, I am sure.
A little will do it. It is only a sacrifice, and we
must all make sacrifices."

"Well," he said, a little roughly, "and I was
willing to make sacrifices. I went through it
all, and suffered, God knows how much. No
matter! the thing was done, and here is the
whole thing to begin again. But I forget, you
don't know what I am talking of."

"But I do," said Mrs. Fermor, with a naïve
toss of her head. "I have heard, and, indeed, I
sympathise."

"Well, so far, at least, I have done well for
to-night I mean—come!" said Mr. Romaine.

"Yes," said she, "but you must go on; we
must encourage you."

"It is very hard," he said with a sigh. "Look
over there and say if it is not very hard."

Mrs. Fermor looked over, with great curiosity,
and saw a fair snowy girl—a little insipid,
perhaps—"cream laid"—but tall and fair, sitting
and smiling, and receiving polite adoration from
two gentlemen.

"There!" said Mr. Romaine, bitterly; "that
was once my Marguerite. She has married
Valentine after all, and become homely. Look
at him over there—Fatuity incorporate! Yet
Valentine is restless and troubled in his mind.
He doesn't relish Marguerite's doings. I almost
wish he may be more troubled yet."

"Hush, hush," said Mrs. Fermor, with
coquettish reproof. "You have promised to
struggle, recollect."

"And how am I to do it? I am alone. I
have no one to help me—to encourage me."

Mrs. Fermor smiled.

"We will all do our best. That is not much,
but we will try."

"If," said Mr. Romaine looking at her fixedly,
"there was any one who would bear with me,
and talk with me, and whisper good things now
and again, and say kind words of encouragement
when I felt my strength giving way——" He
stopped and waited a moment.

With great eagerness, and longing to make
a neophyte of him, and have the glory of
converting one of these rude rough splendidly
savage men, Mrs. Fermor said, with a smile, that
she would be glad to have this Samaritan office
now and again.

Alas! This was but a fatal species of missionary
labour. And Miss Manuel, sweeping by on
Lord Putnenham's arm to her chair, saw the
two faces close together, and the little innocent
delight in Mrs. Fermor's, and a sort of flash of
triumph in the other's. Behind Miss Manuel
was walking Nemesis, like a page.

CHAPTER XIII. A DISCOVERY AND A MISSION.

YOUNG BRETT did not come that night until
late. Miss Manuel had been looking for him,
and beckoned to him from the door, where he
had made one of the herd. He flew to her. "Sit
down beside me," she said. "Get that chair."
A lady, with the true selfishness which is roused
by chairs, and chairs only, was adroitly spreading
herself over two chairs, which she seemed
to occupy debabtably—not wholly on or wholly
off. Another claimant she would have frozen off
with look, manner, and answer. But there was
a good-humoured graciousness about Young
Brett which saved him, and a sort of homage
which she took as payment for the chair. He
was allowed to take it.

"My dear child," said Miss Manuel, "you
have been always so true, and so kind, and so
faithful to me, and to us all, that I would ask
of you things that I would not ask of others.
Would you do something for me now—
something very troublesome, and very important?"

"O," said Young Brett, in a tumult of gratitude
—it was as though she had accepted the
gun at last—" how kind, how good of you! Now
you are making me happy. What is it?"

She was indeed making him happy. For
months he had been panting to get an
opportunity to do something for her. He thought it
was money, and he had plunged his hand eagerly
into his pocket.

Miss Manuel smiled. "No, no," she said,
"not that. Then I may tell you? Would you
go on a journey for me?"

Young Brett half jumped up. "Is that it?
To be sure. When—now? Though—O my
goodness!" and his face fell. "I have to join
the day after to-morrow. What shall I do!"

"Join, of course," said she, good humouredly.
"I must go myself—I shall not get any one
else."

"But I must go," said he, in real distress. "I
shall manage it—leave it to me. I know some
one that will get it—and if they don't, why—I am
beginning to get very tired of the whole business
—and——"

"Not for the world!" said she, in real alarm.
"You must not think of it."

"But I see how it can be done," he said,
joyfully, "and without that. Leave it to me.
Where do you want me to go to?"

"First, then," said she, "it is to be secret.
The place is Beaumaris, in Wales, and the house
is called Bangor House, looking on the green.
Now, I want you to go down, lodge there for a
week or ten days, and find out all about the people
who lodged there before—that is, seven or eight
months ago. It will be useful for me to know.
Mind, everything. Everything will be welcome,
and everything useful. Will you think it cruelly
unreasonable to do this?"

She saw delight in his face, and gratitude too,
for being chosen for such a mission.

"This is really kind," he said; "I was getting
so bored with London. I was really thinking of
a week at Bangor, or some of those places. It
just falls in nicely—that is, I mean," he added,
growing grave as he thought of his first
statement, "if I had got leave."

"Hu-sh!" came from Lord Putnenham; "no
talking, please!"