matchless Rembrandt etchings. The moment
I tried to speak of the business that had brought
me to his house, he shut his eyes and said I
"upset" him. I persisted in upsetting him by
returning again and again to the subject. All I
could ascertain was that he looked on his niece's
marriage as a settled thing, that her father had
sanctioned it, that he sanctioned it himself, that
it was a desirable marriage, and that he should
be personally rejoiced when the worry of it was
over. As to the settlement, if I would consult
his niece, and afterwards dive as deeply as I
pleased into my own knowledge of the family
affairs, and get everything ready, and limit his
share in the business, as guardian, to saying,
Yes, at the right moment—why of course he
would meet my views, and everybody else's views,
with infinite pleasure. In the mean time, there
I saw him, a helpless sufferer, confined to his
room. Did I think he looked as if he wanted
teasing? No. Then why tease him?

I might, perhaps, have been a little astonished
at this extraordinary absence of all self-assertion
on Mr. Fairlie' s part, in the character of guardian,
if my knowledge of the family affairs had not
been sufficient to remind me that he was a single
man, and that he had nothing more than a life-
interest in the Limmeridge property. As
matters stood, therefore, I was neither surprised nor
disappointed at the result of the interview. Mr.
Fairlie had simply justified my expectations—
and there was an end of it.

Sunday was a dull day, out of doors and in.
A letter arrived for me from Sir Percival Glyde's
solicitor, acknowledging the receipt of my copy
of the anonymous letter, and my accompanying
statement of the case. Miss Fairlie joined us
in the afternoon, looking pale and depressed,
and altogether unlike herself. I had some talk
with her, and ventured on a delicate allusion to
Sir Percival. She listened, and said nothing.
All other subjects she pursued willingly; but
this subject she allowed to drop. I began to
doubt whether she might not be repenting of her
engagement—just as young ladies often do, when
repentance comes too late.

On Monday Sir Percival Glyde arrived.

I found him to be a most prepossessing man,
so far as manners and appearance were concerned.
He looked rather older than I had expected;
his head being bald over the forehead, and his
face somewhat marked and worn. But his
movements were as active and his spirits as high as a
young man's. His meeting with Miss Halcombe
was delightfully hearty and unaffected; and his
reception of me, upon my being presented to
him, was so easy and pleasant that we got on
together like old friends. Miss Fairlie was not
with us when he arrived, but she entered the
room about ten minutes afterwards. Sir
Percival rose and paid his compliments with perfect
grace. His evident concern on seeing the change
for the worse in the young lady's looks was
expressed with a mixture of tenderness and respect,
with an unassuming delicacy of tone, voice, and
manner, which did equal credit to his good
breeding and his good sense. I was rather
surprised, under these circumstances, to see that
Miss Fairlie continued to be constrained and
uneasy in his presence, and that she took the
first opportunity of leaving the room again. Sir
Percival neither noticed the restraint in her
reception of him, nor her sudden withdrawal
from our society. He had not obtruded his
attentions on her while she was present, and he
did not embarrass Miss Halcombe by any
allusion to her departure when she was gone. His
tact and taste were never at fault on this or on
any other occasion while I was in his company
at Limmeridge House.

As soon as Miss Fairlie had left the room,
he spared us all embarrassment on the subject
of the anonymous letter, by adverting to it of
his own accord. He had stopped in London
on his way from Hampshire; had seen his
solicitor; had read the documents forwarded
by me; and had travelled on to Cumberland,
anxious to satisfy our minds by the speediest
and the fullest explanation that words could
convey. On hearing him express himself to
this effect, I offered him the original letter
which I had kept for his inspection. He thanked
me, and declined to look at it; saying that he
had seen the copy, and that he was quite willing
to leave the original in our hands.

The statement itself, on which he immediately
entered, was as simple and satisfactory as I had
all along anticipated it would be.

Mrs. Catherick, he informed us, had, in past
years, laid him under some obligations for
faithful services rendered to his family
connexions and to himself. She had been doubly
unfortunate in being married to a husband who
had deserted her, and in having an only child
whose mental faculties had been in a disturbed
condition from a very early age. Although her
marriage had removed her to a part of
Hampshire far distant from the neighbourhood in
which Sir Percival's property was situated, he
had taken care not to lose sight of her; his
friendly feeling towards the poor woman, in
consideration of her past services, having been
greatly strengthened by his admiration of the
patience and courage with which she supported
her calamities. In course of time, the symptoms
of mental affliction in her unhappy daughter
increased to such a serious extent, as to
make it a matter of necessity to place her under
proper medical care. Mrs Catherick herself
recognised this necessity; but she also felt
the prejudice common to persons occupying
her respectable station, against allowing her
child to be admitted, as a pauper, into a
public Asylum. Sir Percival had respected this
prejudice, as he respected honest independence
of feeling in any rank of life; and had resolved
to mark his grateful sense of Mrs. Catherick's
early attachment to the interests of himself and
his family, by defraying the expense of her
daughter's maintenance in a trustworthy private
Asylum. To her mother's regret, and to his own
regret, the unfortunate creature had discovered
the share which circumstances had induced him
to take in placing her under restraint, and had