"Indeed; then I can," said Mr. Mackenzie.
"His pairsonal behaviour to the bank was
simply outrageous, and ought never to be
forgotten. I'll come, sir, and give you chaipter
and vairse."

Mr. Tillotson went home in a perfect ferment.
Long he walked up and down his room that
night, and turned over matters until his head
was in a fever. It was surely a matter of duty
with him to caution one he regarded with such
ineffable interest. In the morning, Mr.
Mackenzie came with details, and very fair proofs
in his details, and left Tillotson quite satisfied.
Then began his inward counsel, his walkings,
and his tempestuous reasonings. The
course that was open to him was obvious. "But
what," he thought, "will she—so generous, so
noble, so magnanimous—think of such a secret
denunciation of one who might stand in my
way?" Still the absorbing feeling of all was
love for her, and to this, before post-hour came,
he determined to sacrifice everything.

It was the first letter he had ever written to
her. He wrote it ten times over, and then, at
last, it was sent. Unknown to himself, it
assumed a vein of exquisite and melancholy
tenderness; in every line it betrayed the extraordinary
passion that was nearly consuming him.
He told, however, very plainly what he had
heard. He himself might now speak, he said,
without ambiguity or reticence, for reasons that
she well knew. It might, indeed, appear to
her that what he wrote was dictated by
suspicious motives, but it was a sacred duty with
him to speak. Then he sent it away.

To that letter he never received an answer.
Down at St. Alans, at the old rusted sanctuary
of the Cathedral Close, there were strange
troubles gathering about the Tilney family.
One thing was coming after another. The
young golden-haired girl happened to be out on
some usual mission when the post of that day
came in. Mrs. Tilney alone was at home, in ill
humour with the troubles the world was heaping
on her, and saw this strange letter, in a hand
which she seemed to know, and, above all, directed
to Ada, who rarely received one. Not caring
to be subject to any social restraints in reference
to a person of such unimportant consideration,
and thinking it was rather too much that she
was to be " hoped up " with the pangs of curiosity
in addition to her other trials, she presently
opened it and read Mr. Tillotson's secret
letter. She was a little alarmed when she saw
of what a confidential sort it was; but the
alarm presently gave place to anger. Mr. Ross's
prospects had brightened a good deal of late,
and she hoped that some profit might be got
for the family out of his ultimate success. She
never relished Mr. Tillotson from the first. He
had not paid her that implied homage, even to
past charms, which she expected from every
man, in some degree. She did not love Ada,
and his preference for Ada, now revealed to her
officially for the first time, to the prejudice of her
own daughters, inflamed these feelings. "I'll
have neither art nor part in it," she said to
herself; "let her look out for herself." There was,
besides, the difficulty of re-sealing; for withal she
stood a little in awe of Ada, who would have
calmly denounced such a proceeding; .and, as
the readiest course, destroyed it. But she went
beyond this, for she wrote a little note to Ross,
telling him to be on his guard, for "that fellow
Tillotson was going about ferreting out stories
about him in India, and writing them down
to us here."

Day after day rolled by. But no answer
came to the weary Mr. Tillotson. Weary
night followed weary day. He had looked for
an answer absolutely " by return." She who
was so tender and delicate would not let a
superfluous hour go by without telling him
what she thought. There went away a day and
yet another day. He began to torture himself
in a thousand ways to explain this; and, at
last, after a week, arrived at the certainty that,
shocked at what he had done, she could not
trust herself to write freely, either in approval
or condemnation, and forbore to notice his
caution at all. Then what he had done showed
itself with almost appalling deformity, as it were,
in black shadows upon the wall; and it struck
him almost from the first how ill any one would
receive such a communication as to the past
life of a future husband, and he murmured
to himself in despair, "Always a fool—always
to be a fool!"

Another two days went by; and one night,
passing his blank vigils, a letter was brought in
to him—but not the one he waited for. It was
from Ross, dated from Ireland, where his regiment
was, and where it was shortly to embark
for Gibraltar. It was a strange mixture of rage
and calmness, and seemed to reflect the
character and moods of the man as he spoke. It
began, " Dear Tillotson," and went on: "I
have heard of what you have been at latterly,
and write this to give you fair warning. Don't
busy yourself with my concerns. I suppose you
think because you have done a little
twopenny-halfpenny service to me—and any gentleman, let
me tell you, might be exposed to be taken in that
way—you can go on any way you like. By
Heavens! you shall not. I won't take it from you,
or any other man. You set up to be a virtuous,
pious, preaching fellow, and I suppose you think
it right to go sneaking about picking up stories,
and writing them down to them. I wish you
joy of your trade. I think you have found out
it won't advance you much in that quarter.
You are welcome to go and scrub and grub, and
fish out what you can about me, and you won't
fish much, I can tell you. I won't stand it
longer, though—I tell you that. Do you think
I forget the night you struck me in that mangy
dirty town, and you came to me whining, and.
pretending you didn't know who it was?
I'll be even with you, Tillotson, and pay
you back that cut before I die, mind. And
I suppose now, because you think I am shut
up here in these infernal regions, that you can
go on with your old sneaking tricks? Now,