disconcerted him. As for George, where
was all his resentment against his step-father
now? Where was all his exultation that he
and destiny united had outwitted the proud and
pompous old tyrant, as he had called him in his
thoughts, and brought about a meeting, which
his inner consciousness told him had had no
trifling result for either, between him and the
jealously guarded heiress? It augured well for
George's future that he felt deeply sorry at the
moment the girl's name was mentioned that his
step-father had sustained this unintentional and
unknown wrong at his hands. As things were
going now, he and Clare might have met, in all
probability, openly and blamelessly; and George
felt, in his altered mood, that he would willingly
part with the romance and mystery which now
attended their acquaintance, to escape from the
sense that he had been uncandid, that he had
misled the girl by her ardent fancy, and under
the temptation of resentment against his step-
father. It was too late now, as George felt
bitterly, for such regret; the future would enable
him only so far to retrieve the past, as the most
scrupulous abstinence from availing himself of
the opportunity whose occurrence he now
regretted, might retrieve it. Clare would
probably know him, in his true character, soon, for
he saw at once that Mr. Carruthers, having
taken the generous resolution, had taken it
thoroughly—and she would despise him for the
deceit he had practised towards her, forgetting,
in his hot-headed resentment against her uncle,
and infatuation with herself, that such knowledge
must come, and such contempt come with
it. Heavily the punishment of the past was
falling upon George Dallas, even in this hour
of reconciliation, or rehabilitation, of absolute
good fortune. His uncle had been impressed in
his favour beyond his expectations; he had
learned not to expect much from young men
and only sons; and George had been perfectly
candid with him, so that the elder man had
gained an insight into his character, full of
encouragement and hope. Mr. Felton had told
him that he should make his future safe, so far
as pecuniary independence could secure it; and
though George had suffered severely from want
of money, and knew well from how much evil
he might have been preserved by its possession,
he did not over-estimate the extent of that
security; so that the tide of fortune had indeed
turned for the prodigal son. But the husks were
still between his teeth, and bitter in his mouth.
There were two women in the world infinitely
dear to him, and he had injured them both: the
one, probably, mortally; the other, basely, as
he now knew and felt—how severely, time alone
could tell. The fortune with which his uncle
would endow him could not purchase the reversal
of these facts; the respectability with which he
could cover the past could not efface that stain.

"As a man soweth, so shall he reap;" and
harvest-time was heavy for George.

Thus thinking, George's attention had
wandered from the conversation between the
others, and was only recalled by Mr. Felton's
addressing him directly.

"Your mother was always in possession of
your address, George, was she not?"

"Certainly," replied George," until lately—
until her illness. I left London for Amsterdam
just before it commenced, and did not hear from,
or write to her, beyond a few lines, until I got
your letter, sir," turning to Mr. Carruthers.

"That decides it, you see," continued Mr.
Felton, in pursuance of the remarks which
George had not heard. "My sister evidently
never received any letter or message from
Arthur, or, as you suggest, she would have put
George in communication with him. I can only
conclude that he left England again to return to
some of his continental haunts. They were not
too reputable," said Mr. Felton, bitterly; "and
has not yet returned. I must only wait, and
for every reason I had better wait here."

"Certainly," said Mr. Carruthers. "I am
very sorry you should have anything to distress
you, in addition to my wife's illness, in coming to
England, especially in connexion with your son."

A footman, one of the "suite" who had
attended Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers of Poynings
on their departure from that deserted locality,
now entered, and announced that Dr. Merle had
arrived. As it had been previously arranged
that Mr. Carruthers should consult that high
authority in their absence, the uncle and nephew
took their hats, and went out into the prim little
garden, whence they reached the shady road.
There they paced up and down, passing and
passed by the groups of loungers, some of whom
were attracted by the preoccupied and serious
air with which the two gentlemen conversed.

"If I did not know that he had sufficient
money to last for a longer time than I have been
without news of him, and also that he has a
happy knack of making money wherever he may
be, in some way or other, I should at once
communicate with the police," Mr. Felton was
saying.

"Yes," said George, "but the worst of it is,
we don't know what police to communicate
with, whether English or foreign. If he had
not taken his money out of the Liverpool bank,
we might suppose him to be in England, but
that looks conclusive, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does," said Mr. Felton; "the
only clue I have is the fact that he did draw the
money, and wrote me the line I told you of—"
he opened his pocket-book mechanically as he
spoke, glanced at a letter placed within the
leaves, replaced the book in his breast-pocket,
and went on—"promising further particulars.
It is almost incredible that he should be in
England, and not have written again. My
letters to him, addressed to the Liverpool
bank, have not been sent for. He got one when
he drew the money."

"Yes, I know," said George. They had
talked the matter over many times, and never
drew nearer a conclusion. It was evident to
George, on the present occasion, that the
character of his uncle's apprehensions was
undergoing a change. At first, he had treated
his son's silence as only one additional example
of the utter callousness and indifference to