THE SECOND MRS. TILLOTSON.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "NEVER FORGOTTEN."
                       BOOK II.
CHAPTER IV.   "THE CAPTAIN'S"  NEW MÉNAGE.

WHEN he had thus got them home he was
delighted.  But they had by that time discovered
what a soft and gentle nature his was.  The
elder girl, or woman, was of a calm business-like
temper, and fell into the "ways" of the house
within an hour.

Alice went about at first in a sort of little
enthusiasm.  She hurried from this room into
that, and praised everything eagerly.  But
presently the enthusiasm abated, and she was
sitting on a chair silent, and with her eyes
roaming absently.

The captain was restless himself.  He limped
about the room, settling this thing and that,
stopping before them every now and then to
say:

"Now I hope, dears, you will make yourselves
comfortable, and do what you like.  And as for
the rhino"—this was a familiar word of his,
and he held up the crimson purse — "we won't
spare him.  When this is run out, we know
where to look for more."

"You are so good and kind, uncle," said Anne,
quietly.  The other went over and kissed him,
then sat down again.

"You know," said he, wistfully,  "I am so
ignorant of all this.  An old bachelor, living by
himself so long, gets rusty.  It will be a real
kindness, dears, if you will take all this off my
shoulders."  And he held up the crimson purse.
"I don't know prices, and they will impose on
me.  Will you promise me, dears, and help an
old fellow?"

For one who was so dull and helpless in house-
keeping matters, he had ordered a surprising
little dinner.  Uncle Tom had been in Paris
shortly after the peace time, and had often supped
at houses of great repute with his friend (then)
Colonel Cameron.  Some of his best stories were
founded on his adventures in that country, where,
indeed, though blundering sadly, he had won the
respect of the natives.  They said he was bon
enfant after all.

At this little inauguration dinner, too, we may
be sure there was the most inspiring wine to
give a sparkle to their meeting.  The elder girl
told him about their Dieppe life; and when the
dinner was gone, and they were at the fire again,
told him, to his deep sympathy, about the later
and more distressful passage in that Dieppe life,
which he accompanied with many an "Indeed I
know!  Oh yes!  Poor children!"  using his
amber Indian handkerchief very often.  The
younger girl sat with her knee held within her
clasped hands, listening mournfully, but she
added no details to the narrative.

"Ah! you poor things, all alone there," said
uncle Tom, poking the fire violently.  "Why
didn't you write to me?  I had only to get into
the train, and then the packet.  I'm the best
sailor in the world.  But those doctors kept
me.  I'd like to have seen old Dieppe again.
What a gay place it used to be.  We stayed
a night there, I and Colonel Cameron, and
bought some of their ivory-work to bring
home.  The colonel and I were walking along
the pier, when an old fisherman, or fisherwoman,
we couldn't tell which, they dressed so alike——
But I always will get into my old stories.  But,
my dear girls, you must keep up.  Every one,
they tell us, gets their little peck of trouble.
Look at poor Tillotson, that got you your bag
to-day."

Now a little colour came into Alice's face.
The hands were unclasped, and the knee fell.
"And what dreadful thing has he suffered,
uncle?" she asked.

"Oh, a long business, dear — as long as one of
my old stories.  I know all about it.  And I
believe it is a sort of secret—a secret that everybody
knows—but I suppose I may tell you, dears;
they won't hang me for it."

"He has it in his face," said the young girl,
eagerly.  "I was sure there was a mystery
there."

"Poor fellow!" said the captain, reflectively;
"I know the whole thing.  His uncle, Colonel
Tillotson, was in a regiment with me at the time,
and was dreadfully distressed about it.  And he
changed for foreign service soon after, and I
don't think ever quite got over it.  Dear
me!"

"And what was it, uncle?" pressed the young
girl.  "Won't you tell us?"

"Well, it was this: Henry Tillotson was a
wild, foolish young fellow.  We were all that,
I'm afraid, in our day; it used to be the fashion,