to be learned. That night a letter was written
to George Dallas, by Mrs. Brookes, which was
a harder task to the poor old woman than she
had ever been called upon to fulfil. With
infinite labour, she wrote as follows:

"My dear Master George. Your letter has
come, so I know you are not in England, and
I am not sure but that some one else may see
this. Your mother is very ill, in consequence
of what she has seen in the papers. I do not
believe it is as bad as it seems, though how bad
that is, thank God, no one but your mother and
I know, or can ever know, I hope and trust.
Think of all the strongest and most imploring
things I could say to you, my own dear boy, if
it was safe to say anything, and if you can put
us out of suspense, by writing, not to her, not
on any account to her, but to me, do so. But
if you can't, George—and think what I feel in
saying that if—keep away, don't let her hear
of you, don't let her think of you in danger.
Anyhow, God save, and help, and forgive you.
"Your affectionate old Nurse,
"ELLEN."

The days went on, as time travels in sickness
and in health, and there was little change in
Mrs. Carruthers, and little hope at Poynings.
The fever had been pronounced not infectious,
and Clare had not been banished to the
Sycamores. No fresh alarm had arisen to agitate
her, no news of the suspected man had been
obtained. The matter had apparently been
consigned to oblivion. With the subsidence of
her first terror and agitation, a deeper horror
and dread had grown upon Clare. Supposing,
as it seemed, that he was safe now, Paul Ward
was still a guilty wretch, a creature to be
shunned by the pure, even in thought. And
the more she felt this, and thought of it, the
more frankly Clare confessed to her own heart
that she had loved him, that she had set him up,
with so little knowledge of him after their
chance meeting, as an idol in the shrine of her
girlish fancy—an idol defaced and overthrown
now, a shrine for ever defiled and desecrated.
She was glad to think she had warned him; she
wondered how much that warning had
contributed to his security. She strove hard to
banish the remembrance of him in all but its
true aspect of abhorrence, but she did not
always succeed; and, in the innocent girl's
dreams, the smile, the voice, the frank kindly
words would often come again, and make her
waking to the jarring gladness of the morning
terrible. A shadow fell upon her beauty, the
gleeful tone died out of her voice; the change of
an indelible sorrow passed upon the girl, but
passed unnoticed by herself or any other.

The days went on, as time travels, in sorrow
and in joy; and at length change came in Mrs.
Carruthers, and there was hope at Poynings.
Not hope, indeed, that she could ever be again
as she had been, beautiful and stately in her
serene and honoured matronhood, in her bright
intelligence and dignity. That was not to be.
She recovered; that is, she did not die, but she
died to much of the past. She was an old
woman from thenceforth, and all her beauty,
save the immortal beauty of form, had left her
very quiet, very patient and gentle, but of feeble
nerves, and with little memory for the past, and
little attention or interest in the present, she
was the merest wreck of what she had been. Her
faithful old servant was not so much distressed
by the change as were her husband and Clare.
She had her own reasons for thinking it better
that it should be so. For many days after
convalescence had been declared, she had watched
and waited, sick with apprehension for some
sign of recollection on the part of the patient,
but none came, and the old woman, while she
grieved with exceeding bitterness over the wreck
of all she so dearly loved, thanked God in her
heart that even thus relief had come. None had
come otherwise. George Dallas had made no
sign.

So the time went on, and summer was in its
full pomp and pride when preparations were
being made on a scale suitable to the travelling
arrangements of magnates of the importance of
Mr. Carruthers of Poynings for a continental
tour, recommended by the physicians in attendance
as a means for the complete restoration of
Mrs. Carruthers. The time named for the
departure of Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers had
nearly arrived, and it had just been arranged
that Clare should remain at the Sycamores
during their absence, when Mr. Carruthers
startled Mrs. Brookes considerably by asking
her if she could inform him where a communication
might be expected to find Mr. George
Dallas? It would have been impossible for
human ingenuity to have devised a question
more unexpected by its recipient, and Mrs.
Brookes was genuinely incapable of answering
it for a moment, and showed her fear and
surprise so plainly, that Mr. Carruthers, much
softened by recent events, condescended to
explain why he had asked it.

"I do not consider it proper that the young
man should be left in ignorance of his mother's
state of health, and her absence from England,"
he said, with less stateliness than usual; "and
though I do not inquire into the manner and
frequency of his communications with Mrs.
Carruthers, I believe I am correct in supposing
he has not written to her lately."

"Not lately, sir," replied Mrs. Brookes.

The result of this colloquy was that Mrs.
Brookes gave Mr. Carruthers Routh's address
at South Molton-street, and that Mr.
Carruthers addressed a short epistle to George
Dallas, in which he curtly informed his step-son
that his mother, haying just recovered from a
dangerous illness which had enfeebled her mind
considerably, was about to travel on the
Continent for an indefinite period, during which, if
he (Mr. Carruthers) should see any cause for
so doing, he would communicate further with
Mr. George Dallas. This letter was posted on
the day which witnessed the departure of Mr.
and Mrs. Carruthers "and suite" (as the County