"Well, well; after that, I don't know what to
say— but, after all, it is for the best. And may
Providence, in His infinite bounty, look down
on you this night, and direct you in the true
course! Amen. So be it, in secula seculorum,
my dear boy." And having thus solemnly
invoked a blessing on the business, he seemed
to think he had done his part.

Mr. Tillotson walking on air, with a thrill
and a sense of unbounded happiness pervading
him, his friend could not keep up with him.
Mr. Tillotson told him hurriedly his plans. He
framed out his schemes with a fluency and
excitement hitherto unknown.

"I shall begin to live now. Heavens, what
a change! Only yesterday I could have given
up life with indifference, now I cling to it! It is
too much happiness for me; and to you
indirectly I owe much of it. You must let me
help you now. You have indeed claims on
me, now I am of yours. We shall, find the
means, depend on it."

"My goodness!" said Mr. Tilney,
overpowered by this kindness. "No, no; you
must not think of it. Good gracious, to think
that we get up in the morning——"  And quite
in a tumult of gratitude, he left this reflection
unfinished and uncertain in its meaning.

Long they talked over the details. "And
that poor Ross, too; we shall talk of him. You
said he was going to marry out there. I shall
never rest until we are all happy—all, all."

And as Mr. Tilney at last left, having gone
over "that bit of the road," and left in speechless
gratitude, he could only repeat "wonderful
are the ways indeed! Here we get up in the
morning—not even a sparrow on the house-top
but what comes tumbling down! "Well, well!"

Delightful Sunday evening! As he walked
along by the tranquil common, and the little
old-fashioned houses, and the disorderly and
roccoco patches of brick, and saw the alder-trees,
and the charming sweep of park and
plaisaunce not yet ravaged by the spoilers who
come with their sickly jaundiced-looking bricks
and plaster, it became to his eyes a sort of sweet
innocent rural retirement, overflowing with a
pastoral innocence and unsophistication, like some
lovely Swiss valley out of the traveller's beat.
How charming was the sun, the voice of nature,
the beauties of things never noticed before!

CHAPTER III. THE CAPTAIN IN CONFIDENCE.

HE walked upon air. He had begun to
breathe—to feel. The only pang he felt was,
that so many years had passed by fruitlessly.
Still there was yet time to live. Long, long
after, his eyes wandered back to that evening and
to that scene, which seemed to lie under a soft
halo of calm golden light; by far the happiest
evening in Mr. Tillotson's life. He could hardly
realise it; the whole had seemed so distantly
improbable. He had gone down with the idea
that even the bare possibility of the sight of that
almost divine image would soothe his dismal
temper.

He got home by seven. As he drove up to
his door, he saw a familiar figure crossing the
street slowly—the captain, in his high-collared
coat, and Roman nose put forward, limping
along with a steady and military irregularity,
towards him. He was coming to the Sunday
dinner, a custom which was kept up. And
indeed it was pleasant for Mr. Tillotson to have
what might be called the "honest prattle" of
the captain, his simple commentary on what was
going on in the world, and, more welcome than
all, his most natural account of the adventures
that had befallen him during the week.

"My dear boy," he said, "here's Tom, always,
true to his post, coming 'foostering up' on his
three legs. And, do you know, I've as much
regard for this old malacca leg of mine as I have
for the two flesh and blood ones. I'm glad you
went to the country. It's freshened you up
here, you know," added the captain, pinching
his own cheek; "very glad. We don't take
enough of the fresh air God gives us."

When they were seated at dinner, Mr. Tillotson
told him all. "It seems like a dream," he
said. "I do not know whether I am living or
breathing."

"My God!" began the captain, "something
has happened this evening."

"My dear captain," went on Mr. Tillotson,
laying his hand on the captain's arm, "so
surprising, so astounding, that it has changed the
whole course of my life. Something that I dare,
not hope or look for— something too good for
such a hopeless, unhappy creature as I have
been."

"I am very glad indeed," said the captain,
his eyes glistening with warmth and joy, "very
glad." He had not an idea what was being
alluded to, but had a faint notion that it might
be an estate, or a "hundred thousand pound"
that had " fallen in." "I declare to you it gives
me comfort to hear you talk in that way."

"You did not know her," went on Mr. Tillotson;
"at least, I think you could only have met
her once or so. I tell you everything, my dear
captain, and there is no one in this world who
deserves confidence more."

The captain deprecated this compliment.
"You're making old Tom blush," he said. "But
I am getting stupid and old. You must tell me
what it is."

"But you remember that night, my
captain—that miserable night when I had to go
down to St. Alans? I never told you the discovery
that was made on that night— the fatal
mistake it had near been turning out. But,
thank Heaven, I found strength to go on with
and carry me through as though there had been
no discovery. I did my duty."

The captain's grey eyes were fixed on him.
"That was Miss—er—the girl that's with Mr.
Tilney?"

"Exactly," said Mr. Tillotson, eagerly.
"Thank God, I have nothing to charge myself
with on that score. I do not conceal what it
cost me; but I went through all without faltering,
even in thought. I mean, about that poor
child's little follies out there."