about her?" And he had brought the lord to
her. The Miss Tilneys had seen the introduction,
and moved with indignation in their chairs.
It seemed like the wicked elder sisters, indignant
at Cinderella being sent for to the palace.

It was when the lord had bestowed the attention
which he thought sufficient on such occasions,
that the choir gentlemen began their minstrelsy.
It was part singing, for which these artists were
deservedly famed. "Ah! why, my love, she sighs
for me!" by Wagner, in very close harmonies,
and in which Doctor Fugle's tenor, coming
out of a little hole at the corner of his mouth,
produced a great effect. He sang as if he were
in his stall, and with his eyes fixed on the little
rosette of the gaselier, just as they used to be on
the groining of the cathedral. The voices were
considered to come out finely, especially with
the rough and powerful "street pavement"
voice of Mr. Rogers; especially, too, where they
all came in together with an up and down
languishing, and increasing stress and vigour: "My
—love is—see-eyeing—is see-eyeing—is sighing
all for-r-r-r-r," in a note prolonged before the
final descent, "ME!" That ME rolled away, in
fluttering waves, into silence.

CHAPTER XIX. DARKNESS AGAIN.

MR. TILLOTSON had gone over to Ada Millwood.
She had beckoned to him. "I wanted to
speak to you," she said. "He is gone away. It is
the best thing for him, and for us all. But forgive
me if I ask you—but that night I saw him—at
least I am sure it was he—go up to you on the
green. How much you have suffered from him,
and so kindly borne with for him, I can guess.
And I do fear that night——"

"No, no," said he; "I understand him
perfectly. I did make some allowance for him
hitherto, but I begin to see that he has some
incurable dislike to me. I have not the art of
pleasing people. But he is gone, and, I
suppose, will not come back."

"I suppose will not come back!" she
repeated, a little absently."He talked of changing
into some other regiment. I suppose it will
be all for the best."

"If he had even the tact to know those who
are inclined to befriend him," said Mr. Tillotson,
warmly.

"And so you are going away too," she said,
suddenly. "Going in the morning?"

"Yes," he said, "going back to the solitude—
of the world. I am very glad of this opportunity,
for I wished to speak to you before I went.
Indeed, I should hardly have come here but for
such a hope. There! They are beginning
another of their glees. I have seen a great deal
of your family life," he went on, hastily. "I
know you will forgive me what I am going to
say, but you will give me credit for wishing to
show that I would like to serve you. You have
all been so kind to me, and I begin now to feel
very desolate when left to myself. I could not
help seeing many things in your house which I
must have shut my eyes not to have seen."

Her eyes dropped upon the ground, and she
did not answer.

"Again I ask you to forgive what I am going
to say. The way of life in which I live quickens
our observation. I have guessed a great deal
more than I have seen—guessed that you—
forgive me, I say again—were not so happy in that
house as you deserve to be, Miss Millwood—
and that though the family, I suppose, is
affectionate, their hopes, and wishes, and aims of life
are so different, that——"

"But why should you think this?" she
answered, gently, and as if wishing him to go on;
"no one has surely told you?"

"Told me," he said, "no. But I have an
instinct that we—that you and I—have suffered
much the same. I fancy I have no one to
understand me; that even in a crowd I am alone.
That everything in life for me is cold, cheerless.
From the moment I entered your house, from
the moment, too, that you entered the room, on
that first night, something seemed to tell me
that your life was like mine. Forgive me this
absurdity, I say again."

"Mr. Tillotson," she said, softly, "I do, indeed,
know you, and believe you. Perhaps I have
had some little sorrows of my own. Not,
however, to compare with yours."

"Little sorrows," said he; "no, no. Then
they are for the world. They do not
understand you. They never will, and I do not
blame them. They cannot be what they have
not power to be. But," said he, more earnestly,
"it is different for you. It will grow worse, as
time goes on. Every day it will become worse;
the isolation and desolation will become
unendurable. You feel it—you must feel it every day."

"Yes," she said quietly, without lifting her
eyes.

"I know," he went on. "I have had dismal
experience myself. For years I have scarcely
known life properly. Within this week or so
I have begun to feel life, the air, the warmth of
the sun." He said this with no melodramatic
stress or attitude; but calmly, as he said
everything else. She could not suspect that there
was any secret meaning in it.

(The labouring men were now drawing a heavy
vocal roller over a rude macadamised road, and
by desire of Lord Rooksby were repeating the
song. They were hard at "My love is see-eye-
ing;" then, on a story higher, "my love is see-
eye-ing—is sighing for-r-r—ME!" Neither Mr.
Tillotson nor his companion heard these vocal
labouring men.)

He went on: "What would I propose, what
would I advise? you will ask. Recollect, I am
going away, and have the privilege of a man on
the scaffold. I seem to see one chance before
me. It may prove to be a delusion—a will-o'-the-
wisp—like everything else in life; but if I dared
to speak plainly?"

She looked up hurriedly. "What can you