fear, despise me. Some of these days, perhaps,
you shall know. And yet I shall venture to ask
a favour when I see you again, one that concerns
yourself and your interests."

His head seemed to swim with wild triumph
as he read. "It is true, then," he thought.
"She owns it! It is what I have long suspected.
She loves me! She has been struggling with it.
I am the old Fermor still."

The quietness of home was ungrateful to him—
its fierce rebellion it was misery and pain to
think of. Here was hope, brightness, and a
sort of ghost of the old pride and elation.

"She loves me," he thought, walking fast.
"She esteems and values me. With her I can
feel hope, and joy, and love, and happiness. She
cannot suppress what she feels."Suddenly a
wild impulse seized him. He had thought of
answering the letter at once, in a sort of
rapturous tone; but it would be better to go to
her straight himself. In a moment he was in a
Hansom cab, galloping towards Alfred-place. The
driver did not know that the wild heart of his
fare was travelling faster than the good horse in
the shafts.

Mrs. Fermor, told by her maid of this last blow,
sat on her chair before her glass in her bedroom.
"You may go down, Wallace," she said. "Or
stay, bring me up my papers and pens." She
was almost stupified at this last stroke of poor
impotent spite, but more mortified at the whole
house being made parties to the quarrel. "To
disgrace me in this way," she said, in a frantic
burst of tears. "But I will baffle him yet. Now
he shall find that I can meet him. God help me!
he is driving me to this." And she wrote a hasty
note to Mr. Romaine.

"Come to me quickly. I want to see you
and consult you.                     "M. F."

CHAPTER XLV. MR. ROMAINE'S PROPOSALS.

M. F.! even in these initials there was an
unlawful confidence. As she was folding the
note, her "own maid" appeared at the door, and
said that Mr. Romaine was below in the drawing-
room. Mr. Romaine's cab was waiting at the
door. He had come post from Lady Laura's.

Her hair was down on her shoulders. She
hastily "turned it up" in some fashion—in any
way. She looked beautiful, brilliant with the
sense of suffering outrage, and suppressed grief
and anger. For the moment it seemed to her—
poor little soul!—that Providence had sent her
this man to be her protector and friend. "Heaven
has raised me up this true friend," she thought,
with an odd perversion of devotion. "I shall
cling to him now." She flew down, and ran to
him like a bird fluttering. He started back, she
looked so bright and engaging.

"O," she said, "Mr. Romaine, I am so glad
you have come to me. I was writing to you, to
beg to implore, that you would——"

"Good gracious!" he said, "what has happened?
Tell me everything."

"You are my friend," she went on, hastily; "at
least, I have begun to think you are; and l don't
know what to do. I am miserable, wretched,
unhappy, I have no one to help me, no one to
care for me," and bright tears began to gather in
the bright eyes.

Romaine was looking at the soft helpless
creature with pure sympathy and admiration.
"Do you tell me," said he, with contracting
brows, "that he has been at his work again! It
is insufferable. I thought I had given him a
lesson last night that would have lasted him for
years."

"O," said she, bursting out helplessly, "he
does not know me. He treats me cruelly. He
does not understand me."

"Indeed he does not," said Romaine, moodily;
"not he. No teaching will do him good. Never,
I see. What do you suppose he was doing last
night? Championing Miss Manuel before a
whole club; trying to quarrel with me about her.
I had to give him a lesson. Dearest Mrs.
Fermor, I do feel for you. I wish to Heaven I
could show you how I do feel. What is this business
now? I can guess. This tyrant will not let
you go. I know it! What a mean, pitiful,
unworthy spite! Good Heavens! what a shame!
what a sin!" he went on. "My heart bleeds for
you! But what shall I do, what would you like
me to do?"

"No, no," she said, hurriedly. "I suppose he
does not think or know what he is doing."

"He does. He does," said Romaine, savagely.
"Where is he now? Ah, I could guess. But
look, dearest child, you will not submit to this.
Your life will become a slavery worse than they
have in Siberia. He will encroach every day
more and more. If you yield to him, he will only
require more. My dear, dear Mrs. Fermor, I
know you, I know your heart, and all that you
have suffered. I do indeed. I am a rough, rude,
travelling fellow, but I feel. I shall not let this
go on. I can't see a sweet charming lovable
creature trampled into ruin. We must save you
at every risk."

"Save me?" she said, wondering. "How?
Do you wish me to go to this place? He has it
locked up in his room."

"This place?" he said, impatiently. "I have
forgotten it. I am not thinking of that. What
does that concern us? I am thinking of your life
and happiness. How are you to stay with this
man, who will only live to persecute and harass
you? Listen to me. We are alone here. Now
is the opportunity. Long, long, I have known
you—esteemed, admired, loved you—yes, loved
you—and never so much as to-night. My heart
is bleeding for you. Come, let us leave this
house—this house, this country, this mean,
miserable, degraded man, whom I all but flogged
last night."

She started back from him with a cry—as far
back as the curtains, which she caught at and
clung to. "What dreadful language is this?"
she said, frightened. "What do you mean?"