"Your kindness I shall not forget," he said to
Mr. Tilney. "I must say good-bye to them."
And he passed them and went up the walk.

"Good-bye," he said, hastily. "Depend on my
secresy, as indeed you might suppose. Men do
not publish their own mortifications."

"Forgive me!" she said again, very piteously.
"Oh, forgive me! I have not told you everything.
I dare not."

"Ah! That does not mend it much," he said,
with deep grief and suffering. "It comes to the
same thing. Unless," he added, nervously, "it
means that after some time—years even——"

She shook her head. "No, no," she said,
"I may not even say that. What can I do?"

Mr. Tillotson looked down sadly. "Then so
be it. Promise me this, at least," he said
"if ever you should want aid or assistance of
any kind for yourself or for them, send for me.
Will you promise me that, at least?"

The others had now reached him. "Good-bye
again," they said; and passed into the house.

"I will, I will," she said, eagerly.

"A solemn pledge, I mean," he said, hurriedly,
"not to be lightly spoken. Let me look to some
little relation to you in the future. It will be a
little gleam of light before me. Oh, what infatuation!
For these few weeks I actually thought
the sun was coming and the sunny days, and that
the clouds were all behind. Only one more
delusion," he added, with a smile, "to put to
the rest! Well, you promise?"

(Mrs. Tilney's voice was heard calling shrilly,
"Ada!")

"I do, I do promise," she answered.
"Indeed I do! Don't think ill of me, but be indulgent.
I cannot tell you everything. There, dear
Mr. Tillotson, good-bye, God bless you, and make
you happy."

She seemed to fade out. He saw her pass into
the illuminated doorway, where the light was
shed on her golden hair for the last time. Even
then, and at that distance, he saw a sweet,
grieved, and most wistful look turned to the
darkness where he had been left. Then she was
gone.

Mr. Tilney's loud voice seemed to waken him
up. "Going back to town, going back to town,
Tillotson?" he said, as if meditating. "Very
well. Going back and plunging into the vortex!
What would I take and change with you? I vow
and protest I like our little things—nice people,
you know, better than all your routs, and drums,
and balls, and parties. 'We never can get you
out, Tilney,' H.R.H. said to me over and over
again. 'Why are you always holing at home in
this confounded retirement?' Ah! No quiet for
me, Tillotson, until we get to our old friend over
there," pointing at the old cathedral, now all but
steeped in moonlight. "The one thing, you
know, Tillotson. The only thing, after all!"

Mr. Tillotson, who by this time knew the
course that these reflections would take, did not
reply to them, but told Mr. Tilney a piece of
news that was very gratifying to him. "The
company have agreed to make you a director. I
got the answer to-night. A paid director, too."

He started with delight. "A director! My
dear Tillotson, this is goodness! this is friendship!
to get back to the old place. I shall be
able to draw breath now. I am consumed,
wasting in this hole." (In a second Mr. Tilney
had forgotten the one thing necessary.)

Mr. Tillotson set him right on this point.
"You shall hear more about it," he said. "I
must go now. I have to set out early. Good-bye!
Thanks for all kindness."

"God bless you!" said, the other, fervently.
"God bless you, Tillotson." Then the other
walked back in the moonlight to desolation and
to the White Hart, listening to the clock striking
twelve, and thinking that with that hour ended
a short dream of happiness. He sat long in his
ancient room, which seemed as blank, as desolate,
and even mouldy as his own heart. Sometimes
he paced to and fro, and struck his forehead with
his hand. "One more miserable delusion," he
said. "Stupid, insensible, folly, folly, as well as
guilt!" And so he sat on and walked until the
cold morning light began to steal in through the
ancient red curtain of the White Hart's window.
By the first train, which left at six, he had gone
—not to London, but to another town, where
he was to stay a few hours, and then go up. Now
the white walls and cold penitential passages
of the world were before him.

END OF BOOK THE FIRST.

BLACK IS NOT QUITE WHITE.

THE late melancholy events in Jamaica have
naturally called forth a burst of feeling; on one
side, of sympathy and commiseration for our
"poor oppressed brethren" (whose only crime
is their colour); on the other, of wrath and
indignation against a race for which so much
has been done, and which has so ungratefully
turned on its benefactors and attempted to
destroy them.

Without pretending to prejudge the merits
of the late rebellion, or of the means which
were adopted to suppress it—questions which
will, no doubt, be fully and fairly investigated—
it may be suggested that both these extreme
expressions of feeling are unreasonable and
exaggerated. The first is the result of a total
want of knowledge of the real character of the
negro, and the second arises from the absence
of reflection in a moment of excitement as to
the causes which have produced that character.

Whatever may be the origin of races or their
affinity (matters which must be left to ethnologists
to determine if they can), there is no
doubt that the original African negro is not a
high moral type of human nature. Born and
bred, not only in a state of barbarism, but
under that particular phase of it which calls
into play all the lower instincts of nature,
with the view of surprising and entrapping
his enemies, and at the same time of avoiding