all your old kindness to me, and never shall,
please God. You were always a true friend,
and therefore I am ashamed to say what I am
going to say, which is in the nature of begging;
but the extremity of the case must be my sole
excuse."

(The captain was greatly pleased with this
turn, which he read over aloud several times.
"The extremity of the case must be my sole
excuse.")

"That will do uncommonly well," he said.
"Now to the point."

"There is a young man, my dear general,
whom we are all anxious to get out of the way
here, for particular reasons; no man's enemy
but his own, and disturbing the peace of
domestic families."

(Again was the captain pleased with this new
turn, and read it aloud—"Domestic families.")
"We want to send him away for fear of dangers
that may ensue. And if you, my dear general,
have any little berth up the country that would
suit a wild young fellow, but a fine soldier-like
looking man, I cannot say how you would
oblige your old friend, Tom Diamond."

After writing several copies of this document,
and after many consultations of a little
Johnson's Dictionary, but carefully and with a
pardonable pride retaining that fortunate phrase,
"the necessity of the case must be my sole
excuse," a fair copy was at last produced,
folded, sealed, and directed, with all formality,
"His Excellency General the Right Hon. Sir
George Cameron, K.C.B., K.H.," and
putting on his best frock, the captain went out to
the military club to find out the proper address.
To his surprise, he found that General Cameron
was actually home on leave from his government,
and would be in town in a few days. All letters
were to be kept for him there.

"Look here, sir," said the gentleman who
was framed in a window, and who was attracted
by the captain's deference and simple manners,
"here's lots of 'em already. The general lives
here, I may say, when he's in town. He'll have
this in his 'and the first thing, you may depend
on it, sir."

With all this the shadows deepened slowly and
surely in the Tillotson house. Every day the
distance seemed to widen between the husband and
wife. At times, he would see her eyes, those
soft eyes, fixed on him with a strange dread
that seemed to him like repugnance, and
which he resented bitterly—with scorn. He
brooded more and more over his wrongs,
and set down this new phase of things as a
defiance, with which she was determined to
carry out her own views. Strange gusts of
grief and passion swept over him, and which
changed as suddenly into a fierce truculent
manner, which she accepted with indifference
or resignation. He was growing more and
more indifferent to his bank and its concerns
every day. He would absent himself for days;
and when he came, would arrive late, and then
start away suddenly, as if to keep an appointment.
To say the truth, no protest was made
against this behaviour. The great Lackson was
taking a stranger interest in the concerns of the
bank every day, and often told him, "My dear
friend, you don't take half care of yourself. I
don't like your looks at all. Don't mind working
us. Spare yourself, and when you are well,
then you'll do duty for us!"

Gradually, therefore, the great Lackson was
becoming an influence in the bank. He had
lost all his taciturnity, and, under his inspiration,
its operations were beginning to show
something like vitality, and getting out of the old
"snaily pace," or financial jog-trot.

One thing, and one thing alone, had
possession of Mr.Tillotson's mind—a jealous, a
mortally jealous watch on the proceedings of
his wife. "If love is gone," he thought, "then
I shall have respect, at least. That old dream
is gone for ever. But he shall not profit by it."

And in these gloomy meditations he would
sit for hours shut up in his study watching
every step up-stairs. When the carriage came
round, he would go up and ask to know where
she was going; and she, with that look of shrinking
from him and half averted, would tell him
without concealment.

CHAPTER XXVI. AT THE MATINÉE.

IN these days, about a week later, Mr. Tillotson
was sitting in his room, when a ring came
to the door. Presently he heard a voice in the
hall, which his quick ear knew at once.

"Not in," it said—"Mrs. Tillotson not in!
Don't tell me that at this hour of the day. Go
up and tell her at once, and I'll sit in the drawing-room."

The servant repeated firmly that she was not
in, and that he was sorry that he could not
allow any one up-stairs.

"O, you have received instructions, have
you?" said Ross. "You have got your orders.
What if I wait in the hall here? I can do
that if I choose. Supposing your mistress sent
for me here this morning on business, eh?
Come, I know as well as I am alive that she's
up in her room. Don't tell me. And your
master, pray? Gone to his bank, I hope. Is it he
that has given these orders? It does not make
so much difference. One place is as good as
another to see a person. One house is as good
as another. Well, tell your mistress, when she
comes in, that she should make no appointments.
I am not to be sent about from post to pillar in
this way."

Thus this strange being rambled on in the
hall. Mr. Tillotson listened in his study, and
heard every word, biting his nails to the quick.

That day Mrs. Tillotson's carriage was at the
door. As she was going out, the pale face of
her husband appeared at the study door.

"Would you come in here a moment?" he
said.

She obeyed, with the old shrinking and
averted eyes.

"I shall not detain you," he said; "don't
be afraid. I wish to speak about what I have