saw them approaching. Presently, they
entered the room together; but, not perceiving
that Valentine was standing in the curtained
recess ot a window, went on talking as if
they were alone.

"Sir Everard will drive you to it," said
Mr. Percival Long, with a weary yawn, as
if he were tired of some argument that they
had been holding together, and in which he
could not gain the advantage.

"Don't speak of separation. Sir Everard
suffers too: our marriage was a great
mistake, but it cannot be mended now."

"'Tis a pity that you did not acknowledge
that to yourself long ago, and keep your own
counsel," replied Mr. Percival Long, with a
sneer.

"Perhaps I should have done it, but for
you, Percy," said Lady Maxwell, in a low,
sad voice. " I ought to have done so."

She then slowly retired from the room,
and her cousin followed. Valentine felt
annoyed and angry at himself for having been
thus accidentally betrayed into playing the
part of the eavesdropper but what he had
heard unintentionally sent him back thoughtful
to his room, to devise a means of averting
the domestic misery that he saw preparing.
While reflecting on what he had discovered
with pain, such as he was sure to feel in the
contemplation of wrong and treachery, he
took a pencil and began to sketch in a
woman's face and figure. Without design he
gave her Rosamund's features; but into them
he threw such an intensity of despair, of
anguish; into the attitude such a weary,
hopeless prostration as only come of the lost
life, lost honour of a woman who yet cannot
lose her sense of sin and shame—who is
haunted by the ghost of her slain innocence,
day and night remorsefully. Valentine
looked at his cruel sketch, and a strange
thought came into his mind.

The whole party met at dinner, and, when
they separated afterwards, Valentine sought
the picture-gallery, and placed his sketch on
the easel; soon after Lady Maxwell came in
alone; the young artist watched her as she
approached it, with that languid, dispirited
air which now seemed habitual to her; he
saw her pause and take it up. Suddenly a
crimson flush rose upon face and neck, to die
into a deathly pallor; her proud head sank,
and great tears rolled down her cheeks.
Valentine looked away from her with a
painful throbbing at his own heart; his
picture parable had been understood.

"Are you coming, cousin Rosa?" asked
Mr. Percival Long's voice from the garden;
"Sir Everard has fallen asleep after his
dinner." He was standing at the open
window looking in with his cold, insolent
eyes sparkling with wine and excitement.
Valentine Unvvin waited for the issue. "Are
you coming, cousin Rosa?" was repeated
rather impatiently.

"No, Percival," was the answer.

CHAPTER THE TENTH.

VALENTINE UNWIN then went out, directing
his steps down towards the river, along
whose banks he strayed for a mile or two,
until he got out of hearing of all the life-
sounds and echoes that floated around the
busy town of Burnham, and quite amongst
rural scenes. As he followed the course of
the stream, he had perceived a boat upon the
water at some distance in advance, and
conjectured rightly that it was Mr, Percival
Long who was rowing it — he was in the
habit of spending much of his day on the
river, and was a vigorous swimmer and rower
—an adept, indeed, in most manly exercise.
Valentine, deeply buried in his own thoughts,
saw, without taking much heed to his
progress, and presently a little creek, whose
brink was thickly planted with willows, hid
the boat from his view. Having made a
detour to avoid the shrub, and gained the
open bank beyond, he had in front of him a.
quiet little village, and a mill, whose wheel
was still for the time, and at this point he
sat down to rest under the shade of an
ancient elm. It was a great treat to Valentine
to be in the country once more, amidst the
beautiful sights and sounds of nature, and
away from the turmoil of busy London; but
he would have enjoyed it far more if his
faithful Mary had been there to share it with
him. To bring her as close to him as possible
he took out his note-book and wrote her a
letter on two or three of the blank leaves,
full of those little details which are the
charm of a familiar correspondence; but he
said no single word of the subject so painfully
thrust on his own attention in Sir Everard
Maxwell's home.

As the shades of evening began to close
over the landscape, he thought of returning
to the Abbey; but he did not reach it until
dark, and the first inquiry that met him was
if he had seen Mr. Percival Long. It was
Sir Everard who asked.

"I saw him rowing down the river; but as
he did not repass me in coming back, he is
still out," replied Valentine.

"He is very fond of the water. Rosa, let
us have a little music," said the baronet,
cheerfully. Lady Maxwell went to the piano
and sat down to sing. She never glanced
towards the artist once; but her manner was
easier than he had seen it before. There
had been explanation and reconcilement
between the young wife and her grave
husband, and she was all the happier for the
effort and confession she had made. Half an
hour was easily wiled away over the music,
and then Sir Everard again reverted to Mr.
Percival Long's absence. " It is not like him
to stay on the river after dark and there is
no moon. It is foolish of him."

Lady Maxwell said there was nothing to
fear.

"Nothing to fear, of course not," replied