alone. I'm a little too old a boy to be lectured
or brought to book by any of the professors."

Mr. West made no reply, but, with his sister,
took his leave. There was a scornful half-
defiant look in Miss Lulu's eyes as she gave
him her hand. Brother and sister went away
home, leaving the family to their tough bit of
"leather;" " the best company in the world"
being now about to vent his ill humour
and troubles on his wife and daughter. These
"delightful" creatures require the lamps lit, and
the scenery, and full boxes and pit, to inspire
them even with ordinary good humour.

Mr. Gilbert West and his sister walked
silently home to their rooms in the Place. When
they had sat down, and found the lamps lighted,
the sister spoke:

"I hope to-night has at last begun to open
your eyes. You, witii your penetration, are
beginning to see what that girl is."

He did not answer, but lay back in his chair,
his fingers together, his eyes on the ceiling.

"She gave you as good a hint to-night as
you, with all your cleverness, would give. There
was no misunderstanding it. ' I must have my
liberty. I will not be lectured.' I declare,"
added Miss Margaret West, warming up, " I
felt my blood boil as she spoke. Such a rude,
ill-regulated, ill brought-up creature! She has
no respect for you."

"She never meant that, at least, Margaret.
You are mistaken there."

"I tell you what she meant, though. She
meant to tell you she was tired of your following
her, and paying and giving her good advice.
Have you no comprehension? She said it as
plain as English words could put it. But is it
any use talking to you? You, a man of your
years, forty-two—double that school-girl's age.
No wonder she laughs at you."

"It's a folly, an infatuation," he said, in a
low voice. " I admit it. Call it anything you
like."

"And then," went on the sister, in a soft
voice, " the air and manner of that man. He
has no respect for you. I wonder you allow
him to treat you in that way."

"Could you not see, Margaret, he had been
taking his cherry brandy?"

"Oh yes," went on the sister; " but it is
time the whole folly should stop. I feel ashamed
people here should be talking of your infatuation.
They laugh at your excuse about me. Now
I am well, have been well this year, and I am
sick of the place, dying to get home."

"It will come back again," he said. " You
know it will."

"Folly! A man turning grey, of ripe age,
that ought to be minding his law-books
instead of running after school-girls. Gilbert, I had
always a high opinion of your sense and wisdom;
but latterly really you are getting childish."

"You are right, Margaret," said he, in a low
voice. " I begin to think you may be right."

"Oh, she is wise enough in her kind. She
knows well what she is about. And that about
the English officer. She saw that it annoyed
you, and she went on. I could have set her
down if I could have trusted my temper."

These were hard sayings and cruel home-
thrusts, and West felt every one of them. She
saw his wounded look, and then went over to
him.

"I only say this for your good, dear Gilbert,
and I know well your affection for me, and
what brought you here, and what keeps you
here in this dreadful place. You think it is for
my health, though indeed I am quite well now.
But still I know that this—this liking of yours
will grow into an infatuation, and mar all your
life. She is only a child, and will treat you like
a child. You will one day, when it is too late,
deplore this miserable liking."

He looked up, and took her hand. " Margaret,
I begin to be a little ashamed. You always say
what is sensible. You are quite right. I do
begin to see it is folly. But it is very hard.
The worst is, she is no child; there you are
wrong. Still I do begin to see the folly of it
all. I have been a fool; but," he added, with
a rueful smile, " not a very great one, so far."

"Indeed no," she said, kindly. " And the next
best thing would be to let us get away from this
terrible place. I am well now; I am, indeed.
I shall have no relapse. The sights and doings
of the set here make me miserable. Let us try
some other place, and if it does not suit I will
promise you to come back here."

"Yes," he said, eagerly, " it is a loathsome
spot. Why should we be bound to it, if, as you
say, you are quite well? I am as sick of it as
you, and you know, though I have my weakness,
why it is I have stayed here so long.
Indeed, there was but that one reason."

"This is Thursday," she said, her cold face
lighting up. " It is years since we were in Paris.
Why not say Monday?"

"With all my heart," he said.

"Good, kind brother," she said, and went
away with a light heart.

CHAPTER V.   "COZ CONSTANCE."

HE remained walking up and down. In a few
minutes he said, suddenly, " Yes, we must do
it; it is the best course!"

The maid entered and put a note into his
hand. He started as he saw the writing, and
went hastily to the lamp to read it. It ran:

"Dearest Mr. West. I have been miserable
since you left, about the way I spoke to you
to-night—the light, cruel, and unkind way—and
papa too. But he has returned disappointed,
and you know it was not he that was speaking,
it was the fatal cherry B. But, for myself, I could
cry with repentance and grief. The truth is—
shall I tell you? When you are by, I feel an
influence that I know may be too strong for me
one day, and, perhaps, I think that this sort of
manner may be my best defence. For oh! you
are so clever and wise, and I cannot bear to
think of my own wretched inferiority when you
are by. Now, I tell you this, though against
myself; and if I give way again, you have leave