and not give you ten days more. This is
retribution indeed!"

He was so overwhelmed by this torrent of
words, that he stood looking at the excited
woman unable to murmur a word. At last, as
she was turning to go, he said, faintly, " You
could not be so base—-"

"What, it is true, then?" she said, quickly.

He stamped his foot impatiently. "Leave
me. I defy you—both you and him. Do your
worst. Only take care what a load of sin will be
on your head if you drive me to extremities."

Margaret made no reply, but went down
smiling to herself. When she was in the street,
it was then that Lucy, watching anxiously at
the window, though unseen herself, saw the
unmistakable look of defiance and triumph. Her
heart sank; she knew not why, but she had an
instinct that it was associated with that darling
casket where she had garnered up her treasure.

For the whole of the day that followed she
did not see Vivian, and in the evening, when
she did—he had come over—he seemed quite
changed, moody and dejected. But he never
mentioned the visit that had been paid to him
that morning. Harco had gone out to the play
—" he wanted a fillip"— so they were alone.

"You have heard some bad news?" said this
Dear Girl, not a little disquieted.

"What will you think of me," he said,
"when I tell you that I am very wretched?"

"Why?" said Lucy, her eyes swimming with
sympathy. " Ah! if you will only tell me!"

"Ah, there, there is the worst," he said,
passionately; " I dare not. My dear sweet Lucy, up
to this time we have been both in a dream, a
dreadful dream. We do not know what we
have been doing. I have been infatuated. We
have been hurried on in a course which may
bring ruin and misery on us all."

The alarm and grief in Lucy's face at this
strange, unexpected declaration, may be
conceived. " Oh! what does this mean?" she
murmured; " what have I done? I know! They
have been turning you against me. Don't
listen to her. She hates me; they hate me,
and would destroy me. Why did you listen to
her? I knew she would set you against me."

The handsome face was softened at once.
"If it be a dream, then it is a most delightful
one. I could wish I might never awake. Oh, if I
could only tell you all. But no one can
understand— if I had only breathing-time—"

"For what?" said Lucy.

"You cannot understand," he said, sadly.
"If I should go away without our being
married, you know what would be said. The
creatures here would fall on your dear name and
tear it to pieces. And your father? Yet, if
you only loved me as I love you, you could trust
me— you could believe in me. And as I stand
here, the sole motive is one for your sake, and
for our happiness; no other in the world."

Lucy's face brightened in a moment. "And
is that the difficulty? Then why not do so? It
will be a dreadful thing for me to lose you; but
I trust in you, and I love you, and I ask no
confidence. I know it is for our common sakes.
I shall wait—wait for years, if you wish it; for
your life is mine, and your interest mine. The
only thing is," and her face fell—"is papa. He
does mind so much what people say. And," she
added, naively, " he is so suspicious. But I
shall try and bring him over, and I know I shall
succeed."

This Dear Girl was so full of confidence, and
hope, and trust, that she quite inspired her
lover with the same feelings. The air cleared
again, the sun came out. The brightest and
softest of landscapes lay before them both.

"You are a dear, dear one, indeed," he said.
"And, besides, all this difficulty may vanish in
a week, a day, an hour; nay, even now I know
not what news this day's post may bring us.
It is all on the turn of a card."

"And whatever way the card turns," said
Lucy, smiling, "I am content. Only tell me
this much of the secret: has not she, Margaret
West, something to do with this?"

His face turned a little pale. "She is a
dangerous and a dreadful woman, and, I fear,
has found out a way to harass us. But I shall
baffle her yet."

CHAPTER XXIX. A CURIOUS DISCOVERY.

OUR Lucy, thus wrapped up in the exciting
little drama of which she was the heroine,
little dreamed how tongues outside were still
busy with her fair name. The matrons and
virgins who disliked her had grown more than
usually virulent—first, because she took the air
of propriety; and, secondly, because she had an
admirer of substance, and had a chance of being
established comfortably in the world, unless
Providence interfered to show that the admirer
was of the common material of the place—
dust, ashes, and decay. They flung themselves
on her slight figure; they tore her with their
talons. It was agreed, in many a council, that
the late proceeding was the most shocking and
indelicate and disgraceful that could be
conceived. Need it be added that in their keeping
the story, whatever it was, had lost nothing;
nay, had been distorted, daubed over with
colours— the reds made to flame, the yellows to
blaze, the whites to stare again? It was so
serious, indeed, that Mr. Blacker was shocked,
and, as public officer of moral health, felt bound
to take official notice of it. In this he was
all but encouraged by Mrs. Dalrymple, who had
grown quite warm in the matter. "A cold,
heartless little thing! The effrontery she looks
at me, Mr. Blacker, as she passes us, leaning
on that man's arm! She has no heart, I tell
you, and she's killing that poor foolish West.
He has death in his face."

Lucy, unhappily for herself, contributed to
this view; for she really had begun to count
Mrs. Dalrymple among her enemies, and could
not restrain that look of defiance and
resentment.

On the very day, then, of Margaret's visit
to Vivian, Mr. Blacker put on a white tie of