finds it dreadfully hard to forgive that offence.
But it was asserted that a very large sum which
Mr. Lee had received for Sir Robert, and which
he should have deposited in the county bank,
had been appropriated by him to this other
purpose—-no doubt with the full intention of
replacing it—-and was lost with his own property in the
general ruin. I first heard the news from Anna,
who was half distracted about it. " He has
disgraced us—-disgraced Horace. That is the misery.
The loss of his own money would have been a
serious misfortune, of course. But this is shame
and ruin." I cautioned my sister not to speak
in that unguarded way until the truth of the
matter should be positively ascertained. But
she took this in ill part, asking me if I supposed
the good name of her husband's father
were not as dear to her as to me? Briefly, she
was in no mood to be argued with, and I could
only hope that, in her excitement, she had
exaggerated the extent of the evil. But on
venturing to speak to my uncle of the matter, I
learned, to my dismay, that the worst had been
confirmed, and that Mr. Lee would not only be
a ruined man, but one with a slur upon his name
henceforward. " Uncle, what will they do with
Mr. Lee? Can Sir Robert punish him? How
will it be?" In my anxiety, I forgot the tacit
understanding between us that the name of Lee
was never more to be mentioned at the Gable
House. Uncle Gough forgot it too, perhaps;
for he answered with a troubled face, "My
lassie, it is a bad business. I am told his son
is making every effort to repay the money
belonging to Sir Robert; if he can do so,
they say it will be hushed up. As to old Lee's
own savings, they are blown to the four winds of
heaven, like the dust of last summer." This
was the calamity which made Horace finally
resolve to leave England. He sold his share in
Rotherwood's business to young Clinch; and
the sum thus raised, together with his savings
during the past year, sufficed to replace Sir
Robert's money. I believe the baronet behaved
considerately, and forbore to take legal
proceedings, on the assurance from Horace that
his property should be restored. But of course
Mr. Lee lost the situation he had filled so many
years, and in his old age was cast destitute on
the world. When all was done, there remained
but a slender store wherewith to take Horace
and his wife and child to Canada. He resolved
on going first to Quebec, in the hope that De
Beauguet—-now a prosperous man—-might be
able to assist him to find employment. It was
a sad, sad time. I was with them very much,
rendering what assistance I could. Soon after
it was settled that they should go, my uncle
announced to me one day that he would be
absent from Willborough for a week or so.

"I'm. going to bide with Norcliffe, Madge,"
he said. " He has often asked me to go and
see him, but I have never had the heart to do it
yet. You'll be more at liberty when I am out of
the way for a season. I'll be back with you,
my darling, on the twentieth."

Horace and my sister were to leave Willborough
on the nineteenth. Before my uncle
started for Beachington, almost at the last
moment, he gave me a little packet.

"This," said he, nervously, " is for you,
Madge. It is your own, to do as you will with.
I put no restriction whatever on the use you
are to make of it, but don't let me hear of it
any more."

When he was gone, I opened it. It contained
a bank-note for fifty pounds. The few days
preceding my sister's departure were very busy
days, and seemed to fly past us.

On the last evening I was left alone with
Horace. Anna had quitted us to put her infant to
rest, and we sat in the bare dismantled room,
surrounded by the discomfort and desolation which
attend the preparations for a long journey, while
the evening shadows were deepening rapidly
into darkness. Then, for the first time, I learned
that old Mr. Lee was to accompany them. " I
could not leave my father here, to starve,
Margaret," said Horace. "I have no means of
providing for him. He must cast in his lot with
us. Besides, Willborough scenes and
Willborough people are painful to him now. It is
best that we should all go and hide our shame
and misery together."

"I hope," said I, faltering, " I hope and
trust your going may be for the best. There
are some here who think that this—-this——"

"This disgrace," suggested Horace, bitterly.

"—-this misfortune—-need not have driven you
from England. You, at least, are blameless."

"Am I?" he returned, in a tone that sent a
sharp pang to my heart. " Yes, oh yes! I am
blameless. Margaret, do you think I could
have gone on living this life much longer? It
was killing me."

"Horace!"

"Yes, it was killing me, and killing her. We
can never know happiness again."

"O, Horace, do not say so!"

"Never, never again. But at least the daily
and hourly torture we both endure in this place
may be lessened. I am a wretch to distress
you, Margaret," he said, rising and going to the
window: " a selfish wretch. But the truth is,
I am worn out, mind and body, by these last
few weeks. I scarcely know what I am doing
sometimes."

I saw his hand go wearily up to his head
against the dim window-pane.

"I know you are not well," I answered,
struggling to regain composure; " I have seen
it for some time. The voyage and the change
may be of service to you, and to my poor pale
Lily. Horace, I have but one other word to say,
and I say it with my whole heart—-be good to
Anna. She loves you; be patient with her;
remember she will have but you in all the
world now."

"God help her, poor girl!" he answered.
"Yes, Margaret, you may trust me to be
patient with her. Who should be patient with
her, if not I? We must help each other."

When Anna rejoined us, we sat and talked
awhile with some poor assumption of cheerfulness.