"And Lucy? " again interposed
Winnington.

"Ay! and Lucy —when I have raised the
annual income to ten thousand pounds—I
could not occupy the house with less."

Winnington looked upon his friend with
pity. He sat down and was silent for some
time. There was no use in continuing the
conversation. " You seem to forget," he said
at last, " that I go to-morrow to Oxford."

"So soon ? " said Arthur, with a scrutinising
look. " You didn't intend to go till
Saturday."

"I shall have a few days longer with my
family. I want to see Dulcibel, who is
home from school; and besides," he added
with some embarrassment, " I don't find our
residence here so pleasant as it used to be.
There was a time," he said, after a pause,
when it would have broken my heart to leave
you; but now—"

There was a tremble in his voice, and he
stopped.

"And why ?" said Arthur. " Whose fault
is it that there is a change?"

'' Ah! mine, I dare say. I don't blame
any one," replied Winnington, checked in the
flow of feeling by the coldness of Arthur's
voice. " You will have your letter for Lucy
ready. I shall start before you are up; so
you had better let me have it to-night."

"There is plenty of time. I don't go to
bed till late. I will walk ten or twelve miles
with you on your way to the post waggon.
The exercise will do me good."

"I start very early; for the waggon leaves
for Exeter at ten in the morning. I have
sent on my trunk by the shoemaker's cart. I
have taken leave of—of people who have been
kind to me, and shall walk merrily across the
moor. It is only fifteen miles."

"I shall see you as far as the Hawsleigh
Brook," said Arthur; " that is, if you don't
object to the company of a friend. And why
should we quarrel ? "

Winnington took the offered hand. "I
knew your heart could not be really so
changed," he said, " as you tried to make it
appear. You are ill, Arthur, your brain is
too much excited. I will not let you get up
so early, or take such exercise. It will put
you into a fever. Let me feel your pulse, and
you can owe me my first fee."

The pulse was galloping; the cheek
alternately flushed and paled.

"This is beyond my present skill," said
Winnington, shaking his head. " You must
apply to the nearest doctor for advice."

"You are very kind, my dear Winnington,
as you always are; but I don't think
medicine will be of much avail."

"But you will see the doctor?"

"Whatever you like," replied Arthur, now
quite submissive to his friend's directions.

"And you will write to Lucy, quietly,
soberly. She'll be alarmed if you give way
to your dreams of wealth," said Winnington.

"And Aladdin's Palace and the salary?"
replied Arthur, with a smile. " Well, I will
be as subdued as I can, and the note shall
be ready for you in time."

He took the pen as he spoke, and
commenced a letter. Winnington looked at him,
but more in sorrow than in anger. There
was something in the pertinacious offer of
Arthur to accompany him which displeased
him.  "He watches me," he said, "as if afraid
of my whispering a word of what I know to
the Warleighs. I shall reach London in time,
and carry a specimen of the ore with me."
The clock struck one. " You don't seem very
quick in writing, Arthur. Perhaps you will
leave the letter on the table. I am going to
bed."

"No—just five minutes—and tell her,
Winnington—tell her that I am unchanged; that
riches, rank, position—nothing will alter my
affection—"

"And that you will come to see her
soon?"

"Yes; when I have been to London."

Winnington started. "And when do you
go there?"

"In two days. I will come to Warwickshire
on my return—perhaps before you have
gone back to Oxford."

"Ah! that will put all right! That will
be a renewal of the old time."

"Here's the letter; put it carefully away.
I have told her I am unchanged. You must
tell her so too."

Winnington shook his head, but said
nothing. They joined hands.

"And now," said Winnington, " farewell. I
didn't think our parting would be like this.
But remember, if we should never meet again,
that I never changed; no, not for a moment
in my affection to you."

"Why shouldn't we meet again? Do you
think me so very ill?" inquired Arthur.

"I don't know. There are thoughts that
come upon us, we don't know why. It
wasn't of your health I was thinking. But
there are many unexpected chances in life.
Farewell. You shan't get up in the morning."

They parted for the night. Arthur, instead
of going to bed, looked out upon the moor.
A wild and desolate scene it was, which
seemed to have some attraction for him, for
which it was difficult to account. When he
had sat an hour—perhaps two hours, for he
took no note of time—in perfect stillness,
observing the stars, which threw a strange
light upon the heath, he thought he heard a
creaking on the rickety old stairs, as of some
one slipping on tiptoe down. He stood up at
his window, which commanded a view of the
top of the wooden porch. Stealthily looking
round, as if in fear of observation, he saw a
man with a lanthorn cautiously held before
him emerge from the house and walk rapidly
away. He turned off towards the left. Over
his shoulder he carried a pickaxe and a