Then George seated his old friend close
beside him, aud told her the whole story of his
intercourse with Stewart Routh, of his
knowledge of Deane, his last meeting with him,
their dinner together, the adjournment to the
billiard-rooms, the money won by Dallas from
Deane, and his leaving town early the next
morning for Amherst.

"That was the day they found the body, was
it not?" asked Mrs. Brookes.

"Let me see," said George; and he again
referred to the newspapers.

"Yes, it was on Friday, the eighteenth— in
the evening. I was down at Amherst then,
nurse; that was the day I saw my mother last."

He sighed, but a smile stole over his face also.
A cherished memory of that day abode in his
heart.

Then Mrs. Brookes questioned George
concerning Routh and his wife, and told him of
Harriet's visit, and all the emotion and fear
which it had caused her. George was touched
and grateful.

"That was like her," he said; "she is the
truest of friends, a treasure among women. I
wonder she did not write to me, though, when
she sent on Mr. Carruthers's letter."

The observation passed unnoticed by Mrs.
Brookes. Had she asked when the letter had
reached George, a discovery, dangerous to the
interests of Harriet and Routh, might have
been made; but she had very dim notions of
continental places and distances, and the time
consumed in postal transmission.

"They knew this poor man; did they not
know that he was the murdered person?"

"No," said George, "they had no notion
of it. How shocked they will be when I tell
them of it! Routh will be the best person in
the world to tell me how to go about
communicating with the police authorities. But
now, Ellen, tell me about my mother."

Time went over, and the night fell, and
the old woman and the young man still
talked together, and she tried to comfort him,
and make him believe that all would be well.
But George was slow to take such comfort—
full of remorse and self-condemnation, of gloom
and foreboding. The mercurial temperament of
young man made him a bad subject for
such suspense and self-reproach, and though
he had no shadow of fear of any trouble to
come to him from the evidence on the inquest,
there was a dull brooding sense of apprehension
over him, against which he had no power, no
heart, to strive. So he listened to the story of
his mother's illness and departure, the
physicians' opinions, and Mr. Carruthers's plans for
her benefit and comfort, and darker and darker
fell the shadow upon his heart.

"We have had no news since they left Paris,"
said Mrs. Brookes, in conclusion, "but I expect
to see Miss Carruthers to-morrow. She will
have a letter from her uncle."

"Miss Carruthers!" said George, lifting up
his head with renewed animation. "Has she
not gone abroad with them?"

"No," said Mrs. Brookes; "she is staying
at the Sycamores, Sir Thomas Boldero's place.
Sir Thomas is her uncle on the mother's side.
She rides over very often to see me, and I
expect her to-morrow."

"At what hour does she generally come?"
asked George.

"In the afternoon; after lunch."

"Well, I shall be in London by that time,
nurse; so there is no danger of my incurring
my step-father's wrath this time by an encounter
with the heiress."

There was a momentary touch of bitterness
in George's voice, but his slow sad smile
contradicted it.

"Ah, George!" said the old woman. "Take
heart. All will be well, and the time will come
when you will be welcome here."

"Perhaps so, nurse. In the mean time, you
will let me know what news Miss Carruthers
brings, and especially where my mother is, and
their next move."

That night George Dallas slept for the first
time under the roof of the old house at Poynings;
but an early hour in the morning found
him on his way back to town.

When Clare Carruthers, mounted on Sir
Lancelot and escorted by Caesar, arrived at
Poynings, on the following afternoon, she was
surprised to find Mrs. Brookes looking well
and cheerful. The girl had brought good news.
Mrs. Carruthers had borne the journey well, and
it was proposed that she should leave Paris and
proceed to the south of France after the interval
of a week. Clare roamed over the house
and gardens as usual. She was beautiful as
ever, but with a new and graver beauty than of
old. There was no observant eye to mark the
change, no kindred spirit to note and share
the girl's trouble. She was quite alone. When
she returned from her ramble, and while her
horse was being brought round, she went to Mrs.
Brookes's room to bid her good-bye. The old
woman took two letters out of her desk, and said:

"Do you remember these letters, Miss
Carruthers? You brought them to me when Mrs.
Carruthers was first taken ill."

"Yes, I remember. What of them?" Clare
answered, carelessly.

"Will you have the kindness to enclose them
in a large envelope, and direct them to Mr.
George Dallas for me?"

"Certainly," said Clare; but she looked a
little surprised, for Mrs. Brookes wrote
remarkably well for a person of her class.

"I wrote to him lately," said Mrs. Brookes,
"and the letter did not reach him; so I suppose
I directed it indistinctly."

Clare sat down at the table, and in a large
bold hand wrote the address which Harriet had
given upon the envelope.

"You are sending Mr. Dallas these letters
that he may read them, as his mother is
unable?" asked Clare, to whom the forbidden
subject of Mrs. Carruthers's son always offered
more or less temptation.

"Yes, ma'am," replied the old woman; "I
am pretty sure they come from Mr. Felton, and
oucht to be seen to."