you beginning to be like the rest?" she said.
"Very well, it is only being deceived in one
more."

"I know l am very stupid," said he, still in this
tone of despair, "and very useless. I only mean
well, and do my best. But, in this sort of thing,
I should be miserable all my life, I know I  should.
It is awful to think of. A young wife, Miss
Manuel, to be ruined in this way. O, you must
think again, do, do think again, dearest Miss
Manuel, and say—you are joking."

Miss Manuel did feel a sort of self-reproach
then. She was silent for a few moments. "Ah,
you have not lost a sister, and cannot feel. No
matter. I was only mistaken. I thought I was
secure of you, at least. You were faithful to
me. Now I must only go on by myself."
Suddenly her voice changed; there came a
touching sweetness and affection into her tone.
"Ah! I understand, and do not mean what
I say. It is natural in you. You are too noble,
and too good for this vile pursuit. It is horrible.
But it is my life. I have lived for nothing else. I
may as well go on now. I must go on, even if I
sacrifice everything that loves me, or cares for
me."

He shook his head sadly. He seemed to stagger
under some dreadful blow. "I would do
anything for you, Miss Manuel," he said, sadly,
"anything. I think at this moment, if you wanted
it, I would go into a house on fire, or anything
of that sort. But this young girl—to destroy her,
or stand by and see it—O! it would be before me
day and night." And Young Brett mournfully
took his hat. "And that man Romaine—O, I
am afraid, Miss Manuel, I see it all now."

"Don't leave me," said she; "don't give me
up. That is only wanting to finish it. Though,
perhaps, it is better to have done with
everybody that is good."

"I know I am not," said Young Brett, in growing
excitement, "as good as I ought to be. And I
don't set up as being anything of a saint, like
some of our fellows; but—but—if this is to
go on—I must—I must. O, Miss Manuel, if
you will only promise me to give up this dreadful
scheme—"

"Very well," said she, proudly, "you won't
understand me, then. Well, I am grieved; but
no matter. As for giving up—no, no. You would
have me give up my life. Give up my prayers.
Give up the only atonement I can make to our
lost darling. Ah! no, no!"

"Atonement to her" said Young Brett, more
excitedly, "why, it is enough to bring her sweet
soul back again to earth. Why you know, Miss
Manuel, it is in defiance of her last sweet prayers
and wishes, on the very morning that she left us."

Miss Manuel stopped suddenly in her walk,
and came up close to him.

"Her last wishes," she said. "What do you
mean?"

"You know," he said; "of course you do!
What she sent to Hanbury."

"Sent to Hanbury?" she said, turning pale,
and her large eyes straining at Young Brett.
"What did she send to Hanbury?"

"Ah, Miss Manuel," he said, "you would not
go in the face of her last dear piteous words,
written that very Sunday morning. He showed
them to me before he sealed them up and sent
them to you."

"What is all this?" said Miss Manuel. "I
know nothing of it. There is some dreadful thing
that has been concealed from me. Tell it to me
all—tell it to me all—at once, and quickly!"

She was so frantic and agitated, that he became
alarmed and agitated too. He told her how,
about a week after that Sunday, Hanbury had
come to him with a letter of Violet's, written on
the morning of her death, begging forgiveness
for the suffering she had caused him, and hoping
that Fermor and his wife, should he ever choose
one, would live happily; and conjuring him, as a
last favour, never to think of doing anything in
the way of avenging her trials or her death. And
further, to see that no one else did. This was
the substance of Violet's last letter.

"Good God!" said Miss Manuel, sinking into
a chair. "This was never sent to me, never told
to me. Where is it? Who has it?"

"Hanbury. He gave it to me to send to you
the very morning I saw him off at the docks.
And indeed I am sure I posted it: indeed I am.
Though I am so stupid and clumsy
sometimes—" And he stopped and looked round
ruefully as this suspicion crossed him.

"Run to him! fly to him!" said she, starting
up. "Bring him here. Don't lose a moment.
Bring him here at once."

He rushed away. By a cruel perverseness,
he could not find Hanbury, though he
sought him all day long. He left a note for him
at a club; and there, late in the afternoon, when
Hanbury was glancing at a paper with a
dull interest, a servant came, and said a lady
was at the door in her carriage, and wished to
see him.

By an instinct, he knew that it was Miss
Manuel, and came out quickly.

"Will you get in?" she said; "I want to talk
to you."

He was struck with the sudden look of anxious
inquiry that had taken up its place in her face,
and got in without a word. They drove away.
"You are doing too much," he said; "you will
make yourself ill again."

"The letter!" she said, suddenly. "What
about this letter? I never heard of it. You
never spoke of it. Why didn't you? Show it
to me."

He knew at once what she meant. For him, as
there had been but one Violet, so there was but
one letter, and that associated with her.

"Why I sent it to you the morning I sailed,"
he said, hurriedly.

"Never reached me, never," she said, wringing
her hands despairingly. "O, where is it? Drive
to your house."

"I have it here," said Hanbury, sadly, taking