the sensible old servant's prophecy. Yes, it
might be finished now, as it had been begun;
and they would both go over there, fly from
this horrid place after a time, for he must stay
and see the end.

In those days a horrible restlessness came on
him, and he could not sit quiet at home. He
felt that periodical sinking at the heart which
occurs when some great matter is in the
transition stage; and he would start up and go
out, and walk by the sea on the bleak and bare
edge of the coast that faced England. On this
very morning, as he was going along, one friend
he met asked had he been ill in England? Then
he saw Lucy tripping along with a face bright, full
of hope, looking forward as to the brightest
future, now fast drawing on. She was coming
from the post, her favourite errand, and had her
hand full of letters. She looked charming, he
thought;—this being possessed with one thought
or one image, lighting up eyes, face, and all.

"Oh, I am so glad I met you. We were
going to see you to-day. I am very glad you
have come back. Do you know, you were away
a whole age?"

"Was I?" he said, in a cold and indifferent
way that he could assume when he pleased.
"It seemed to me hardly a week."

"And such events have taken place during
your absence. You heard of the storm and
the shipwreck, and of Colonel Vivian's gallant
behaviour. Oh, it was noble, was it not? It
was in all the papers!"

This dear girl was so genuine, and so
possessed with that one thought, that she thought
it only natural to speak of what was uppermost
in her mind. She did not see even how he
winced.

"I was down there," she went on. "I saw it all.
It was a thing I shall remember to my dying day."

"I know," he said, bitterly; "we had it all
in our London papers."

She looked at him with some surprise. Town
life had spoiled him.

"By the way," he said, abruptly, "you
remember I said something, going away, about
looking after your father's debts and difficulties."
He leant on the words with a sort of
satisfaction. "Well, the fact is, I have had so
much to do with my own private affairs—
getting Westown restored for my sister and I to
live there——"

"Are you going to live there?" she said, with
some astonishment.

"Why not, pray?" he said, with the same
bitter smile. "No harm, I hope, in the owner
of a place going back to it? There is more
reason, surely, for our going there than for our
staying in this place?"

Again was Lucy distressed—surprised.

"But as for your father's affairs—as I say,
I was so busy going about, really I had not
time to——"

Her face fell.

"It was unreasonable to expect it," she said.
"And yet you have always been so kind and
generous, and your saying so——"

"Do you bind me down by a careless
expression, as if by a bond, Miss Dacres?"

Lucy's eyes flashed.

"I bind you down to nothing," she said,
drawing herself up. "You were good enough
to say you would do something while you
were in town. We would have scorned any
pecuniary obligation, as we did before; and
thank Heaven we are under none now. I think
it was unkind of you, and it will be a sore
disappointment to my poor father, to whom I
dropped a hint of what you said. He was
reckoning on it."

"I cannot help that," he said, growing
excited. "What obligation, what tie, is there,
that I should be expected to come forward and
make these sacrifices? I do not mean to be a
fool all my life."

The look of pity she gave him was indescribable.
"I see," she said, after a pause; "I
understand. And this helps me to tell you
what I should have had to tell you later. You
remember," and she looked down, "a bargain
we once made—that after a time I was to try and
see if I could learn to like and love you, so as
hereafter to see if I could with perfect happiness
cast my lot with yours——"

"Perfectly," he said, with the same attempt
at being sardonic. "Only, I think, there was
no agreement exactly——"

"So much the better," she said; "for I can
tell you now that I see it would be hopeless
to look for happiness in such an arrangement."

"And do you tell me," he said, passionately
—"do you venture to tell me that what has
passed to-day has led you to that? Do you
suppose I can accept such a story? Oh! for
shame! for shame! I am not so steeped in folly
as that, now."

"I did not say anything like that," said
Lucy, with her voice trembling. "And it is
unworthy to insinuate such an idea. I do not
say it is unkind, for I expect no kindness from
you. Heaven knows what has changed you!"

''Changed! That is not so bad a way to
turn it. I see your father's lessons have not
been thrown away. Have I not eyes, pray?
What have I seen myself within these few
hours that I have been here? What is the
idle talk of the place busy with? And you
have the courage to think I can accept an excuse
of this sort. With such an obvious reason,
why resort to such deception?"

She was too genuine a girl to think of denying
what he said. Its truth had never struck
her before. But, strange to say, it never
occurred to her that Mr. West had cause of
complaint, or that he was suffering from jealousy.

"You cannot deny it, I see. I congratulate
you. But take care. It may not turn out so
smoothly as you think. But come, let us not
amuse the gossips here with a history of our
disagreement."

This was too late a caution; for here
was Captain Filby coming round the corner,
with an amused look in his eyes. He told of