coldness; "and I do thank you for your good
offices, but I do not require them; I should
prefer that this matter went on to the end."

"Went on to the end!" he said, in astonishment.
"What can you mean, dear?"

"That I should wish to see it go on. I don't
want to have it settled. And, as far as I am
concerned, never shall settle. Of course, if you
choose to assert the power the law gives you——"

They both looked at her in astonishment.

"But you know," he said, calmly, "only this
day you said you were longing that it could be
arranged. That was even before it was decided.
How much more, now? Consider it calmly;
especially after Miss Millwood has taken all this
trouble."

"Did I ask her?" said Mrs. Tillotson, with a
trembling; "was it my request? You might
have settled it with her. But, of course, arrange
it as you will. I have merely said what is my
wish. As long as I live, I shall never agree.
There!"

"That is decisive," said he, calmly. "There
has been some misapprehension, evidently. I
am deeply grieved Miss Millwood should have
had all her trouble for nothing, and it only
remains for me to thank her most cordially for
her goodness."

"I am sorry, too," she said, sadly. "I think
it would be the best for all. But no matter now.
You will forgive me, I am sure?" she said to
Mrs. Tillotson.

The other answered her coldly, and turned to
go, as if she could not trust herself to stay.

"You do not want me," she said, in the
same voice, looking from one to the other, "any
more, do you?"

The golden-haired looked at her anxiously and
sorrowfully, Mr. Tillotson with wonder.

"Well," he said, "it can't be helped. It
must take its course, then."

Mrs. Tillotson, flushed and excited, said good-
bye, and went up-stairs again. A few moments
afterwards the cab rolled away.

Then Mr. Tillotson went to his young wife, and
very quietly expostulated with her. "I am sorry
you did not tell me this," he said, "before: it
would have saved a world of inconvenience. Of
course you know what is best for your own
interest, and if you would listen to me, there is
yet time. My dear child, be advised. Besides,
to Miss Millwood, who has been so kind and
generous, it is scarcely fair, and——"

Flaming in her cheeks, flashing in her eyes,
the little lady burst out: "Ah, that is it, it
seems! We have given her trouble! That is the
offence. Ah, I am beginning to know—I am
beginning to see—how I have been deceived."

"Deceived!" repeated he, gravely.

"Yes, deceived; but no matter. I know why
you are so anxious to settle this business, and
the scheme is——I have friends still who will
tell me, and find out everything for me."

"You are angry now," he said, still in the
same grave tone, "and foolish. But I can make
every allowance. I am sure, my poor child, you
cannot mean what you say, and if you will take
my advice, you will not listen to these friends,
as you call them."

"Ah, I dare say," she answered, eagerly, "that
would suit very well. But I shall not give
everything up without a struggle. O, I have
heard, and shall hear more still. And it was
unkind and cruel, and not fair to conceal from
me all that went on down at that place at St.
Alans. I know all that! I do! Now, what
do you say?"

He shook his head sadly. "If you only knew
or could appreciate why it was everything was
not told to you! But no matter now."

"O, they were good reasons, no doubt," she
went on. "But I was kept in the dark
purposely; yes, you know I was" (she was on the
verge of sobbing now); "and about other things,
too, as well, for which, of course, you had your
reasons."

Mr. Tillotson drew a deep sigh, and covered
his face with his hands. "We will never
understand each other, I fear. What is all this
about?"

"Why should you not have told me
everything?" she went on. "I am not a child. It
was unfair. And all these mysteries! I ought
to know; I am entitled to it. What does it
mean?" she added, her excitement increasing.
"There should have been confidence. I ought
to have been told everything—everything. Really,
this gloom and all. Who knows, as they say,
what has been done, or——"

"Stop, stop!" he said, almost imploringly;
"don't speak about that, or in that way." And
a strange expression of physical pain came into
his face. She did not see it, and went on:

"I ought to know, and they tell me that I
ought. I am entitled to it. Why should I have
married into a heap of mysteries? Why should
there be these secrets, unless there is something
wicked concealed, or something one has done
that one is ashamed of, or has on their
conscience?"

"Stop, stop!" he said again, and in the same
suffering voice. "Don't touch on that! Go
away; leave me quickly. This is very cruel, and
should not have come from you."

There was some one standing at the door who
had heard the voices from above, and come down.
Miss Diamond was looking on with amazement.
"Hush!" she said; "come away. This should
not have happened. See, he is ill and suffering."

He did, indeed, seem overwhelmed, and in
a sort of agony. His face was bent down to his
desk. She was a little scared, and ran up to him.
"You are not ill?" she asked, anxiously. "I did
not mean it, indeed—no. But they have worried
me so lately, and this disappointment to-day and
all, and I am a little miserable; I am indeed."

He looked up kindly. "Perhaps you did not
mean it," he said. "I am sure not. But don't
harass me. I tell you solemnly there is nothing
in my sad history that you can be repaid by
knowing. Anything that is right or necessary
that you should know, I have always told you.
You are very young, and have yet to learn how
dangerous it is to touch on things which had