over and over again. There was such
"convulsions," "Oh, mammas!" "For shames!" and a
hundred such protests, as it were, half entreaties,
half commands, that Major Canby would be
merciful, and not go further.

In such a tumult Mr. Tillotson's farewell was
not likely to be noticed. Mr. Tilney, in a
sorrowful way, was engaged with brown sherry.
The golden-haired girl, sad and pensive, was
standing at the fire, her face looking down at the
grate, her foot on the fender, her dress not a
dress, but a robe. She looked like one of Ary
Scheffer's figures.

"Good night," said Mr. Tillotson to her.

She looked up at him with a trustful gratitude.
"I heard you say that you would not go to the
cricket to-morrow, and there was that dreadful
word, business!"

"Business is Life, I begin to believe," he said,
smiling.

She shook her head. "That is what I
thought," she said. "This is the dreadful creed of
those who live up in town. But you will go
to-morrow, will you not? You must at least, while
you are here, divert your mind with the free air,
and the open country, and this amusement, such
as it is. Promise me?"

Mr. Tilney came out with his friend to the
gate. The stars were out, the night was
tranquil, the great cathedral was sleeping in
moonlight.

"After all," Mr. Tilney said, pressing his
friend's hand, "this is the sort of thing. After
all, we come back to this at the end—like the
dove. I'll walk a bit of the way with you. Dear
me, this is the way life goes on, one day after
the other, one night after another, until the
hearse comes, sir, and takes us away. It'll be
the same for you, you know, Tillotson, as for
me."

"Yes, indeed," said the other, absently.
"And the sooner, perhaps the best for us all.
Does Miss Millwood," he added, a little abruptly,
"does she stay with you all the year, or has she
a home of her own?"

"Ada, you mean," said Mr. Tilney, stopping
in the road. "No, sir. There," and he pointed
back with his stick, "that little abode—the
Roost, as I may call it, is hers—always will be
hers, while there is a stick of furniture together,
or a crust, or a scrap of meat, or—or, the cruets
on the sideboard."

"I see," said Mr. Tillotson, "as the child of
a dear friend—— "

"Harry Millwood was, I may say, next door
but one to a relation. Sir, I knew every corner
and cranny of that man as well as I do you—I
mean, as I do my own grandfather, or did—I mean.
Living in the palace in that way—he was equerry,
you know—they never would do anything for
him; and yet, upon my soul, I couldn't blame
'em. He broke down, sir—he had to break down
—give the thing up—with a wife and child on
him. Had to—to cut. Cut, sir, under an assumed
name, the which rather, you know, gave
me a little turn. Come weal, come woe, I like
a fellow to stand by the name he took before
God, in his baptism."

"Well," said Mr. Tillotson, eagerly, "so they
had to go away?"

"Well," said Mr. Tilney, "he died. Died,"
added he, mysteriously looking round, "abroad,
in a very odd way. I am not at liberty to
mention the circumstances, Tillotson; I am not,
indeed. And it seems you're making a thing out
of nothing. But I cannot, indeed. But it was
a sudden, and a violent, and a dreadful end."

Mr. Tillotson stopped this time. They were
at the old grey gateway which is the entrance
to the Close, dappled over with other greys, and
casting a grotesque shadow on the ground about
them. But the moonlight played about their
two faces, and Mr. Tillotson's face seemed the
palest of the two.

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Tilney. "It was as
tragic a business—as heart-breaking a thing as
you'd see—as you'd see at Drury Lane. I went
over to them—I was abroad at the time, but I
went over to 'em. Such a state of things!
My God! That child in a fever—— "

"Miss Ada?"

"In a small lodging. She had been ill for a
long time, and was actually unconscious when
the business happened. But such a mixture—
police, doctors, misery, shrieking, wife mad—my
dear boy, mad as any hatter that ever was born."

Mr. Tillotson shuddered. "What a world it
is," he said, in a low voice, "and what miserable,
guilty creatures we all are."

"We all are," repeated Mr. Tilney, as if he
was in the cathedral, and leading off the
chanting. "Every one of us, Tillotson, prince and
peasant. The only thing is, I believe, to hold
fast by that." And he pointed back over his
shoulder to the cathedral, now a good way out of
sight. "Ah! all I went through in those days!
But the curious thing is, my dear Tillotson,
the girl knows nothing of this. Not a word—
not a breath, mind."

"What?" said Mr. Tillotson, starting, "nothing
about the manner of her father's death?"

"Nothing; she thinks to this hour, at this
very moment, that he was carried off by an ague
of the country. She herself recovered her senses
in about a week after all was happily got over—
funeral and all that—and we never told her.
What was the use, you know? And it stays
that way to this day. Indeed, now that I think
of it, her poor mother bound me upon a Testament,
or something of that kind; so of course,
as one man of honour with another——you will
understand, not a word—not a breath."

"And what a strange story!" said Mr. Tillotson,
more to himself than to his friend. "I
seemed to read something of the kind in her
soft gentle face, a kind of sad, subdued
melancholy."

" 'Pon my word, yes; and I recollect Tom
Harrison—a man of the very best style and
connexions, you know—making precisely the same
remark. 'She's a quiet, nunnish look,' says
Tom, who, between you and me, knew pretty
well about that sort of thing. Well, here we