admiration, and which he had an old
campaigner's skill in choosing. " The captain's
haddock " was often seen on the sloping marble
table at the fishmonger's, carefully put aside;
for, though his orders were of a slender and
unfrequent sort, this dear gentleman met with
universal respect and attention as he went
marketing, and his shilling haddock brought
him more deference than the costly turbot did
to the marquis's housekeeper. He came home
in triumph.

After dinner, when the ladies were gone, the
captain came back to his favourite subject.
"Poor little girl! She has a great spirit. And
oh, Tillotson, if you knew what she has been to
me! And such sense! See even in that getting
you to promise! Why, I should have been a
year before I thought of such a thing. Now
look here, Tillotson. What you ought to do is
this. I am an old fogie that ought to be in one
of the hospitals, and don't know how to say
things in a nice roundabout way; I never got
much education at the colleges (I only wish
I had); but there were ten of us, and I was
thought well off with a commission. But if I
was in your place, and so young, I tell you
what I would do. It would be the making of
you."

And the captain, whose voice was trembling
a little from excitement, hoisted himself up in
his chair, to set his stiff leg at ease.

"Marry, Tillotson!" he went on. " I declare
I am in earnest, and speaking for your
interest. I am a fogie, I know, but I mean
for your good. It would make a man of you.
You just want that something with warmth and
life to be near you, Tillotson, and that you may
like and live for, and give your honest affection
to, Tillotson. Look at me, what I am come to.
Our fellows used to laugh at every fellow that
met a nice good girl and married her; and we
thought ourselves very wise. And even when
Colonel — now Sir Thomas—Cameron came back
to the regiment with a Scotch girl, I thought he
had done a foolish thing. But he was on the
right side of the hedge. Look at Sir Thomas
Cameron now, with his fine family, like a prince,
and look at Tom Diamond. I mean, until the
last month or so."

It was long since the captain had made such
a speech. There was a surprising weight in it,
both of matter and of eloquence. It had its
effect on Mr. Tillotson, who said nothing for a
few moments.

"Thank you," he said—" thank you heartily.
It is kind and good advice. But where would
I look? Who would suit such a cold, soulless
being as myself? Why should I ask any one to
sacrifice herself?"

"Who?" said the captain, warmly. " Plenty.
Look around; look about you. You are a man
of business, and have sharp eyes enough. Plenty.
Only try."

"Ah!" said Mr. Tillotson, sadly, " you don't
know my life. Perhaps I might at this moment.
I may have thoughts of trying, but feel that there
would be no hope."

"But I tell you you are wrong," cried the
captain, eagerly. " It only wants courage.
Why, one would think, my dear fellow, that
you were a kind of half monk, from the way
you talk, instead of being a good-looking,
agreeable fellow. Don't tell me. Why, there
are lots of girls at this moment, and good and
nice girls."

Very often afterwards the captain brought on
this subject, and always with the same honest
earnestness. He did, indeed, believe from his
honest soul that this was the only panacea for
the reformation of his friend. He almost wearied
him.

CHAPTER XI. THE CAPTAIN'S SCHEMES.

BUT soon the good captain noticed a great
alteration in his younger niece. Latterly Mr.
Tillotson had become more and more absorbed
in his banking, or at least said he was. And he
scarcely came at all to the house. The
captain at first was mystified, and then was dreadfully
grieved.

"It is all my own stupid meddling," he said
to himself, sorrowfully, " God forgive me! I
am an old Botch. Why couldn't I let him alone?
And that poor child!"

That poor child had, indeed, become first
silent, then very fretful and solitary. The
delicate appreciation of the captain saw the change
almost at first, and he knew not what to do. He
felt that his were clumsy fingers, that any
handling would only irritate the wound. And
so he often sat looking at her with wistful
eyes, and trying in a hundred ways to soothe
her. There was but one way, and he often
took his stick and limped away to the bank,
to try and bring his friend. Which usually
ended in his coming away, saying sadly to
himself, " I am an old Botch. Nothing but an old
Botch."

The other girl, whose natural attitude seemed
to be always that of one working for an eternity,
he took into his confidence. " What is over
her, dear?" he asked, anxiously. " Now, could
you make out? She has told you?"

"No, uncle," she said, " she has not. But
I know, and you know."

"And what are we to do?" said he. " I'd
put my eyes upon sticks to bring it right. But
I don't know how. Tom Diamond has found
out at the end of his life that he's nothing but,
a Botch—more shame for him. I'd better leave
it alone, and leave everything alone."

"Poor child," said she, sewing still,
"nothing can be done for her in that case. She
must cure herself, as her kindred have been
forced to cure themselves before now."

"I don't understand it," said uncle
Diamond, in deep grief. " I wish I did. If I
say anything, it seems to me only to make her
worse."

"Better leave her to herself, dear uncle," said
the girl.

The captain sighed. That night he met an
old brother-officer, one of the good-as-gold set,