were a pet of his. He doesn't care for an old
fellow like me."

"I, uncle?" she said, excitedly. "No, no,
not to be thought of. I dare not ask him."

"Daren't ask him?" repeated he, surprised.
"Ah, coy, I see. I could hardly do it, dear.
In fact, it is not so long since I had a—er—
communication with him. It wouldn't do, you
know."

"O, uncle!" she said, with deep reproach,
"surely you have not——"

"One can't help these things, you know.
No. Go to your little desk, my dear, and write
one of your pretty notes. Tell him, in fact,
how we stand altogether; that we are worried,
and that the whole thing is getting into
confusion. As well tell all, as tell little. Anything
from you he will attend to."

"That is just the reason, uncle," she said,
sadly; then added firmly, "No, it is not to be
thought of. If you have already trespassed on
Mr. Tillotson's kindness, it is enough; and as
for my doing anything in the matter, it is wholly
out of the question.'

"Ah,. I see," said he, bitterly. "Very well.
You only do what all the world is doing. The
Norburys are welcome to what you can do for
them; but where poor old battered Tilney is
concerned—No matter. I am very sick at
heart, and this will do you as well for a beginning
as anything else."

She ran to him in a second, and now got his
hand in both of hers. "Dear, dear uncle, who
have done so much for me, I would do anything
for you but this one thing. You see, yourself, it
is impossible. If I could tell you everything,
you would see how impossible it is. Pity me,
but don't ask me."

The poor old courtier looked into her face
kindly. "I know it, I know it," he said.
"But done so much for you! Dear, dear, don't
say that. It is very, very little, and if you
knew—"

"If you would let me show what I feel to
you, dear uncle," she went on. "Surely there's
that wretched little pittance of mine, to whom
could it be of such use at this time? Where
could it be put to such profit? and if—"

Mr. Tilney gave a sort of groan, and turned
towards the window. "My dear child," he
said, "that little pittance, as you call it—I have
long wanted to tell you—"

With infinite tact and delicacy she saw what
was the confession he was about to make.
The pang she felt was not of grief after what
she had lost, but because she had nothing to
offer now. "Or if," she said, "we have been
obliged to use that little resource already—and
indeed it must have gone a very small way—we
must devise some other scheme. Cheer up, dear
uncle. Only don't—will you?—ask me to do
this about Mr. Tillotson? I will tell you the
reason one day."

Unspeakably relieved at this view of what
had long been wearily laying on his mind, he
could only murmur, "You're an angel of a girl."
But still he did not dismiss the notion for
deliverance that had now suggested itself, and sat
down to write a long note to Mr. Tillotson,
begging his protection against the machinations
of Mr. Smiles. That letter was sent, but it was
never read by Mr. Tillotson, who was then
almost hopelessly ill, and was never answered.

ERMINIA.

I HAD met at Puerto Cabello a young
Englishman whose appearance interested me. He
was only in his twenty-third year, overflowing
with spirits and good nature, and so very
handsome that it did one good to look at him. He
was six feet and one inch high, perfectly well
made, and as for his strength, I have seen him lift
four hundred-weight with the greatest ease.
His hair was dark brown, and curled naturally;
he had a pink and white complexion, a slightly
aquiline nose, and dark-blue eyes with black
eyelashes. The black, brown, and yellow
visages of the Creoles made his face look all the
handsomer from the contrast; and when one
saw him in company with some of the cadaverous
natives, it was impossible to help
exclaiming, "What a superb fellow!" But Mr.
George Hayward—for that was his name—had a
weakness for which personal advantages are a
very insufficient compensation. He was
extremely extravagant, and, consequently, not very
scrupulous in settling his liabilities, and had
already spent so much money that his friends
had been very glad to get him out to South
America as a clerk in a commercial house, with
the prospect of becoming a junior partner—
in time. When I was introduced to him at
Puerto Cabello, finding that he had been at
Oxford, and that he was an agreeable
companion, I inquired no further into his
antecedents, but asked him to pay me a visit at
Valencia, when I had got a little settled there. He
had been some time on the coast, and spoke
Spanish fluently; but he had never visited the
interior, and was very glad to accept my invitation.
After about a fortnight I wrote to
remind him of his promise, and he returned me
answer that he would come immediately, and
begged me to send a fresh horse to meet
him at Nágua, as he should ride the whole
distance on the night of the 26th of August, so as
to be at my house by sunrise.

The day begins early in South America, and
although it wanted a quarter to five when I got
out of bed to look out for my visitor, there were
already signs that Valencia was wakening up.
The bells of the cathedral and of the convents
had been at work for a good hour. A group
of Indian and mulatto women were coming up
the Calle de la Constitucion, in which I was
living. They were going to market, and were
making such a merrychattering and clattering
that you would have fancied a dozen pair of
castanets were in motion besides their jaws.
Further off, several parties of women were
crossing the street into side-lanes which led
down to the river, for this was the time when