black trees. There was an ineffable stillness
abroad; the little common between, spread
out like a tranquil waste, and every now
and again was seen the noiseless figure of a
canon returning tranquilly to his home. At
this moment the sick Mr. Tillotson raised
himself and looking up into her face, told
her calmly the news he had heard that day.
"I am very sorry to leave you, my dear," he
said. "Had this come a year ago, I should
have hailed it with delight. But it is better
now than, perhaps, a year hence; when I
know I could not have endured the thought
of parting with you at all. For I feel
now, indeed, we were going to be happy;
and though I have often deceived myself," he
added, smiling, "with a hope that I was at last
going to be really happy, still I knew that I was
not to be deceived this time; the clouds were
at last gone, and I should have liked to live on
now! But it is not to be."

He went on, after a moment's pause: "I only
think of you and your generous sacrifice to me
—your sweet precious life thrown away — victim
to my selfishness. But I shall atone for all
now: and I am glad, because this releases you.
Yes: releases you," he went on, in increasing
agitation; for I was not one that should have
approached you. I was not worthy to have
touched the edge of your sleeve."

"Dearest husband, no! "she interrupted; "it
was just the opposite. It was all my wretched
folly."

"Hush!" he said, gently, taking her hand;
"you do not understand me. I was not worthy.
I was not fit. O! I —I — deceived you cruelly.
You know not what you married; you know not
the miserable thing that you, so pure, so innocent,
married.But if repentance and suffering
— sincere repentance and bitter suffering — can
atone, why I have tried; what that will not
do —"

She interrupted him hastily. "Let us not
think of this now," she said; "we have all
enough to account for. As for deceiving me,
I always knew there was a secret — some old
folly — "

"Folly!" said he; " too gentle a term —
guilt — crime!"

"No matter what the name," she went on,
hastily; "it was repented of and atoned for.
But, dearest husband, you recollect that evening,
in this very house, when you rose and left
the room so suddenly. I knew then there was
some mystery. I have known it ever since. Let
me accept it for its worst — and suppose that I
have accepted it for its worst. Do not let it
trouble you. If it was the darkest crime in the
calendar, it has been atoned for and repented
of: and so, dearest husband, dismiss it — put it
far away from you, as I have done, and let it
not trouble us more."

He looked at her with a transport of affection;
caught her hand and kissed it softly
— "O! you have taken from me the weariest
load. For years, and for these last days especially,
all this has been before me. For I felt I
must make open confession and relieve my
weary soul. Now, indeed, I am at rest. From
the beginning to the end, from the first moment
I knew you and saw you, your name is to be
associated with peace."

He was growing weary, and she was just
rising — as she always did on such symptoms —
to leave him to rest a little, when, as she turned,
she saw a shadow pass across the window,
between her and the golden ribbon of orange
that spread across the sky. The shadow was
the figures of two men, who had come up the
little walk. She now heard their steps and
their voices in the hall. An indefinable dread
came over her — she knew not why — perhaps
from her old associations in the Tilney days, of
that visit of "men" on the day of the Tilney
party. She passed out softly to meet them. As
she saw them, she gave a half cry: that fiery
face and wild eyes were known to her in a second.

"This is fine work," he said, in an excited
voice; "nice, to keep me hunting you over the
country up and down, and no account of you!"

"Hush!" she said, in an agony of terror,
pointing to the door; "he is ill, he is dying;
they only told us so to-day; go, go away; go
away at once."

"Fine story," said Eastwood, contemptuously;
"I know — quite understand that sort of
thing. If he is in there," he added, raising his
voice, "so much the better; no fooling with
me. Do you know how you have been treating
me, leaving me up there without a
penny? I might have starved, for all you
cared. But see here, I want no hushing up
or keeping quiet. I want an open, straightforward
settlement. I have done nothing to be
ashamed of, that I am to be working underground
in this way. Here, Mrs. Tillotson, let
me see this sham-sick man of yours. He'll
understand me — never fear."

But she stood between him and the door,
with her hand on the handle. " You must not,"
she said, firmly; "I tell you, he is dying. Mr.
Grainger, Mr. Grainger! you will help me here,
and protect us from this cruel intrusion."

Mr. Grainger only shrugged his shoulders.
"I am powerless, Mrs. Tillotson; you have no
claim on me, either."

"Take care she doesn't pack you out of the
country, as she managed with that poor devil
Ross. That was a nice exploit! No, no; the
days of humbugging are over."

'" What shall I do!" said she, clinging to the
door. "I tell you, you will kill him if you disturb
him now. How ungenerous of you, how
ignoble! O! is there no one to help me!"

There was. Mrs. Tillotson saw our captain
closing the little gate, and he seemed now to
be a true deliverer. "Uncle, uncle dear, help
us; quick! There are these people want to
force themselves in — and you know —"

She had not left the handle of the door, but
called this to him as he came up the little walk.

Shading his eyes with his hand, he recognised
"Eastwood, the lad," at once. "Begad, they
shall not, my dear," he said, cocking the bishop's
hat very fiercely: he had his stout stick too.
"Stand back, you pair of blackguards; is that