out his pocket-book. "What I sent was a copy.
Here is her own dear writing, soft, sweet, and
delicate, like herself,"

His voice was trembling, and his fingers were
trembling yet more, as he put the writing into
her hand. It was as though her gentle spirit had
risen up between them. Pauline's eyes swam as
she looked on the little pale characters. It may
be given here—her last appeal, written on that
last Sunday morning:

"Dear John Hanbury,—They are gone out
this morning for a few minutes. I feel happier
and a little stronger. I have never been
able to tell you how miserable I felt at all
the suffering I caused your kind and generous
heart; but I was a foolish thoughtless girl, not
so wicked as perhaps I seemed. I saw in your
eyes yesterday that you had forgiven me. Let
me ask something else, too. Charles will marry
and be happy. I so wish, dear John Hanbury,
that he and she whom he shall marry, may
continue happy, and that no wish of punishment or
retribution shall ever interfere with them. I
know you will do this for me, and add to the
proofs of that love you have shown me, and
which I have so unworthily—But I must
stop here; and, dear John Hanbury, God bless
you for ever! as you deserve.
"VIOLET."

Streaming eyes read this letter. The sweet
name Violet was written faintly, and in letters
that tottered. Her spirit seemed to flutter
gently across the paper. Miss Manuel kissed
it frantically, arid the next moment it fell from
her hands

"My God!" she said; "it is all too late."

CHAPTER XXX. CATCHING AT STRAWS.

SHE first flew to Mrs. Fermor, but found that
she was out. They did not know where she had
gone. Never were there such agitated moments.
"Drive quickly, drive quickly!" she cried out to
her coachman. But whither? She knew not
whom to look for, or where to find them.
Romaine, the Destroyer—whom (as she thought
with a sort of stab at her heart) she had turned
loose—he must be found. He was not at his
club, not likely to be at his house, was at Richmond,
perhaps. She drove to his chambers—he
actually was in.

She flew up-stairs into his room.

"Here is a surprise!" he cried out; "I should
rather say an honour, should I not? Though
the other day your young friend, that pretty
little wife, presented herself, and—Why, has
anything happened?"

No wonder he put the question, for she looked
in deep distress. "It is about her," she said, a
little wildly; "and I have come to you to appeal
to you—to your generosity. I have been very
foolish, very wicked, I should say (that is to say,
I did not know then what I know now). And I
want you to do me a favour, the only one I have
ever asked you."

Mr. Romaine shook his head and smiled. "I
never make wild promises. But let us hear. We
shall see."

"But you must; you won't refuse," said
Pauline, desperately, seeing in this answer a hint
of what she was to expect. "It is too serious to
be trifled with. It will be dreadful if something
is not done; and O, Romaine, I conjure you
listen to me; I tell you I want to repair a wicked
folly of mine, and you only can do it. You must
never see this poor child again, or, at least, not
speak to her."

"My dear Miss Manuel," he said, "let me
remind you of the century we live in. Think of
the railways, and the telegraph, and exhibitions.
We can't do these sort of things without being
ridiculous. Think, I beg of you."

"O, but you must not talk in this way,"
said she, half frantically. "You don't know
what is coming, or how it will end. Do promise
me. You must."

"How it will end?" said he, musingly; "no,
I don't. Though I may guess. Why, how
unreasonable this is. Was it not you?—or,
who was it that first pointed me out this little
woman, and spurred me on with some of those
little sharp satirical speeches, for which Miss
Manuel is so deservedly admired? Upon my
word, it almost amounted to a challenge."

"It did indeed," said Pauline, covering her
face. "I own it. It was wicked, horrible, but
I thought I was doing right. I did indeed. I
want to make reparation, and you must let me,
before it is too late."

"Too late?" he said, gloomily; "it is too late.
You should have come before. You should have
thought of this before. These are dangerous
games, Miss Manuel. I say it is too late. I
have no power in the matter; I cannot stop
myself now; a week ago, perhaps—Yes, my life
has been hitherto rough and cold, and perhaps
heartless. Now, I feel a glimpse of sunshine. I
have not a strong will. I can't do these violent
heroic actions, and I don't want to, now—I
confess it."

He spoke sternly and excitedly, and in his
face she read there was no hope for what she
prayed. In great agitation she cried out:

"You cannot mean this—so frightful—so
wicked a thing! O, think what a judgment
will come on you if—"

"I tell you, Miss Manuel, this wickedness is
not mine. I should never have dreamed of it.
On their heads be it who forced it on me. I am
a selfish, common sort of human savage. I can't
do these fine things. I could, perhaps, ten years
ago. What made you defy me? No one ever
did that without danger. Don't be angry if I
tell you I saw your skilful game."

"O," said Pauline, with a half groan, "what
am I to do? What shall I do?"

"It is too late," he went on, gloomily. "And
don't see how she can be saved. He is a low
brutal fellow, and has dared to give me some of
his airs. I see he will be insolent in a few hours,