country? Yes, certainly. He had never heard
anything against her. Her manners were very
independent, rather too independent for
European ideas. Very likely Mr. Felton was not a
judge. At all events, ladies rarely visited the
brilliant American. Indeed! But that did not
surprise him. Mrs. P. Ireton Bembridge did
not care for ladies' society— disliked it, in fact—
and had no hesitation about saying so. Women
did not amuse her, and she cared only for being
amused. This, with the numerous amplifications
which would naturally attend such a discussion,
had all been heard by George, and was just the
sort of thing calculated to excite the curiosity
and interest of a young man of his disposition
and antecedents. But it all failed to attract him
now. Life had become very serious and real to
George Dallas of late, and the image he carried
about with him, enshrined in his memory, and
sanctified in his heart, had nothing in common
with the prosperous and insolent beauty which
was the American's panoply.

It was rather late in the afternoon of the
day on which Mr. Felton had received Mrs.
Bembridge's note, before George presented
himself at Harriet's lodgings. He had been
detained by his mother, who had kept him talking
to her a much longer time than usual. Mrs.
Carruthers was daily gaining strength, and her
pleasure in her son's society was touching to
witness, especially when her husband was
also present. She would lie on her sofa,
while the two conversed, more and more
freely, as the air of making one another's
acquaintance which had attended their first
few days together wore off, and was replaced
by pleasant companionship. At such times
George would look at his mother with his
heart full of remorse and repentance, and think
mournfully how he had caused her all the suffering
which had indirectly led to the result for
which she had not dared to hope. And when
her son left her, quiet tears of gratitude fell from
his mother's eyes— those eyes no longer bright
indeed, but always beautiful. There was still
a dimness over her mind and memory: she was
easily interested in and occupied with things
and subject which were present; and her son
was by no means anxious for her entire awakening
as to the past. Let the explanation come
when it might, it must be painful, and its
postponement was desirable. There were times,
when they were alone, when George saw a
troubled, anxious, questioning look in his
mother's face, a look which betokened a painful
effort of the memory— a groping look, he
described it to himself— and then he would make
some excuse to leave her, or to procure the
presence of a third person. When they were
no longer alone, the look gradually subsided,
and placid calm took its place.

That calm had been uninterrupted during
their long interview on the morning in question
For the first time, George talked to his
mother of his literary plans and projects, of the
fair measure of success which had already
attended his efforts, of his uncle's generosity
to him —in short, of every pleasing subject to
which he could direct her attention. The time
slipped by unnoticed, and it was with some self-
reproach that George found he had deferred his
visit to Harriet to so late an hour.

This self-reproach was not lessened when he
reached Harriet's lodgings. He found her in
her accustomed seat by the window, but totally
unoccupied, and his first glance at her face filled
him with alarm.

"You are surely very ill, Mrs. Routh," he
said. " There is something wrong with vou.
What is it?"

Harriet looked at him with a strange absent
look, as if she hardly understood him. He took
her hand, and held it for a moment, looking at
her inquiringly. But she withdrew it, and
said:

"No, there is nothing wrong with me. I
was tired last night, that is all."

"I am afraid you thought me very stupid,
Mrs. Routh; and so I was indeed, to have kept
you waiting so long, and not brought you the
lemonade you wished for, after all. I was so
frightened when I returned to the place where
I had left you, and you were not there. The
fact was, I got the lemonade readily enough;
but I had forgotten my purse, and had no money
to pay for it, so I had to go and find Kirkland
in the reading-room, and got some from him."

"Was he alone?"

"Kirkland? Oh yes, alone, and bored as
usual, abusing everybody and everything, and
wondering what could possibly induce people to
come to such a beastly hole. I hate his style
of talk, and I could not help saying it was odd he
should be one of the misguided multitude."

'' Did you see Mr. Hunt?"

"Yes; he was just leaving when I met him, not
in the sweetest of tempers. The way he growled
about Mrs. P. Ireton Bembridge (her mere name
irritates him) amused me exceedingly."

"Indeed. How has she provoked his wrath?"

"I could not wait to hear exactly, but he said
something about some man whom he particularly
wanted as a ' pal' here— delightful way of talking,
his—beats Kirkland's— having fallen into
her clutches. I suppose he is left lamenting;
but I fancy Mrs. P. Ireton Bembridge is the
safer companion of the two, unless the individual
in question is uncommonly sharp."

Harriet looked attentively and searchingly at
George. His unconsciousness was evidently
quite unfeigned, and she refrained from asking
him a question that had been on her lips.

"I came back to look for you as soon as
ever I could get rid of Hunt," continued
George; " but you had disappeared, and then I
came here at once. Routh had not come in, I
think, then?"

"No," said Harriet, curtly.

Then the conversation drifted to other matters,
and George, who felt unusually happy
and hopeful that day, was proportionately self-
engrossed, and tested Harriet's power of listening
considerably. She sat before him pale and
quiet, and there was never a sparkle in her