the lines. But I suppose it will all come
right, my dear friend! Not the smallest sparrow
that tumbles from the twig does so without
some kind of object." And with the old, old
stick, Mr. Tilney pointed devotionally towards
the direction of Providence in one of the upper
warerooms.

The captain was greatly impressed by this
fine moral view of the order of things. "Really,
my dear," he said, "the clergyman in the pulpit
couldn't speak better." And, as they were not
far from the captain's lodgings, he respectfully
asked Mr. Tilney to "step up." That gentleman
had an instinct, even at that distance, of
the captain's garde de vin—"guard-her-veen,"
the old soldier called it. And its contents were,
indeed, produced; and Mr. Tilney sat more
than two hours with the captain and—the
decanter of pale sherry. "Really," said the
captain, "it quite improves one to listen to him!
All the tip-top people he knows, too! Quite
sorry that I am going away!" So, indeed, Mr.
Tilney was, for he would have liked to have
dropped in very often of a morning on the
captain.

At home, Mr. Tilney told his family of this
sudden departure, which he said he could not
follow at all. "As for weak chest, and that
sort of thing," added Mr. Tilney, "you know
that doesn't do at all." However obscure this
explanation might seem, there was one present
who understood it perfectly.

CHAPTER IX.   A JOURNEY.

IT had come now to the very morning of the
departure. Everything was still in indecision.
No news still about the coquettish office. The
captain came up early in the morning to settle
some final arrangements. He found the young
lady of the house going through her task with a
firm purpose. Miss Diamond, equally resolved,
was in the parlour alone. The captain entered
with assumed jauntiness. "Well, we are all
ready, eh? The day has come round at last, and,
d'ye know, my dear, promises rather a blowy night
—so Shandon, an old navy man, says. I
declare I don't see why we should put ourselves
to inconvenience, you know."

"My dear nunkey, she wouldn't wait another
day for the world. Her heart is set on it, and
I think it is better for her—far better—that she
was out of this place without delay."

"Well, health before everything," said the
captain. "To be sure so. And, indeed, I like
a bit of a breeze. Many's the time I've crossed
with Captain Skinner, and landed at Howth,
going to Drogheda."

"My dear nunkey, I don't mean health of
the body, but of the mind. It don't suit; she's
pining away—losing spirits, love, happiness, life
—everything."

"Nonsense!" said the captain—"folly! I
must say it. Now, if it was an old Bolshero
like myself—but with a handsome young
husband, well to do—Ah! the girls will always
be foolish! And now, mark my words—Tom's
words—when we get her to Paris, and the
theatres, and the caffys, if she's not writing
over to our friend here to come and join us by
next mail, say Tom's a lad, that's all. I have a
scheme in my head."

She shook her head. "My dear uncle, you
don't see the state of the case. Health,
indeed! And so you think, dear nunkey, we are
taking you this long journey for that?"

The captain looked mystified. "For what else,
then?" he asked. "My goodness, speak out!"

The little lady came running in herself to ask
for something.

"Ah! there she is herself," he said. "Well,
fellow-traveller! And where is the husband?"

She coloured.

"Ah! you little rogue," said the captain.
"What have I been saying now? That we'll
have him over before a week's out, and he'll be
dining with us at the Roshay Congcale, and
going to all the shows. Mind, I say it."

Some pleasure came into her face. "O, if I
thought so!" she said. "But no; he would
sooner far stay here, and have this house to
himself. Happy days are coming now for him."

"Jealous little rogue!" said the captain,
playfully. "Maybe we wouldn't go beyond
Paris after all; and, 'pon my honour and credit,
I don't see why we should."

At this moment a cab drove up to the door.
Miss Diamond went over to the window with
some curiosity. "It is a lady," she said.

With a strange instinct the young Mrs.
Tillotson went nervously to the window herself.
"A lady!" she repeated. "Who? What can
she want?"

She looked out anxiously, and saw the lady
leaving the cab; then suddenly turned to the
captain with compressed lips. "I shall go, indeed
I shall, and on this very night. If you cannot
come, nunkey, then I shall ask some one else."

"My goodness and credit!" said the captain,
"to be sure I'll go! Isn't the little valise
packed? But, my dear, just attend to me.
There's some little soreness or pique now, isn't
there? I'm for the pleasure-party to Paris and
the little dinners at the Pally Roile. And now,
my own pet, let us have in Tillotson, and settle
it all before we go—eh, now?" And the
captain looked at her wistfully, and almost
imploringly.

"I want no pleasure or pleasure-party," she
said, with icy coldness. "The doctor says that
I shall die if I stay here. You heard him yourself.
Of course that may seem nothing to some
people; but that is all no matter now."

"My dear child," said the captain, "of
course—of course!" And he began to soothe her
"It was all Greek" to him, as he said later.

Just as he was going, the lady who had come,
went out to the cab. Mr. Tillotson put her in,
and it drove away. He looked in—perhaps out
of curiosity—stopped irresolutely when he saw
there were so many, then came in, and closed
the door. "I am glad," he said, "that you are
all here, for one reason. I wish to speak, for
the last time, about this journey. What is the
necessity? There is yet time to change. If
the fault is with me—and grant that it is—I am
ready to do what I can to amend."