"No," said he, carelessly. "The post
brought me nothing of any interest. A few
reproaches from my friends about not writing, and
relieving their anxieties about this unhappy business.
They had it that I was killed—beyond
that, nothing.

"But we ought to have heard from old Mr.
Loyd before this. Strange, too, Joseph has not
written."

"Stranger if he had! The very mention of
my name as a referee in his affairs will make
him very cautious with his pen."

"She is so fretted," sighed the old lady.

"I see she is, and I see she suspects, also,
that you have taken me in your counsels. We
are not as good friends as we were some time
back."

"She really likes you, though—I assure you
she does, Mr. Calvert. It was but t'other day
she said, 'What would have become of us all
this time back if Mad Harry—you know your
nickname—if Mad Harry had not been here?'"

"That's not liking! That is merely the
expression of a weak gratitude towards the person
who helps to tide over a dreary interval. You
might feel it for the old priest who played
piquet with you, or the Spitz terrier that
accompanied you in your walks."

"Oh, it's far more than that. She is
constantly talking of your great abilities how you
might be this, that, and t'other. That, with
scarcely an effort, you can master any subject,
and without any effort at all always make
yourself more agreeable than any one else."

"Joseph excepted?"

"No, she didn't even except him; on the
contrary, she said, 'It was unfortunate for him
to be exposed to such a dazzling rivalry that
your animal spirits alone would always beat him
out of the field.'"

"Stuff and nonsense! If I wasn't as much
his superior in talent as in temperament, I'd
fling myself over that rock yonder, and make an
end of it!" After a few seconds' pause he
went on: "She may think what she likes of me,
but one thing is plain enough—she does not
love him. It is the sort of compassionating,
commiserating estimate imaginative girls
occasionally, get up for dreary depressed fellows,
constituting themselves discoverers of intellect
that no one ever suspected—revealers of wealth
that none had ever dreamed of. Don't I know
scores of such who have poetised the most
common-place of men into heroes, and never found
out their mistake till they married them!"

"You always terrify me when you take to
predicting, Mr. Calvert."

"Heaven knows, it's not my ordinary mood.
One who looks so little into the future for
himself has few temptations to do so for his
friends."

"Why do you feel so depressed?"

"I'm not sure that I do feel depressed. I'm
irritable, out of sorts, annoyed if you will; but
not low or melancholy. Is it not enough to
make one angry to see such a girl as Florry
bestow her affections on that—Well, I'll not
abuse him, but you know he is a 'cad'—that's
exactly the word that fits him."

"It was no choice of mine," she sighed.

"That may be; but you ought to have been
more than passive in the matter. Your fears
would have prevented you letting your niece
stop for a night in an unhealthy locality. You'd
not have suffered her to halt in the Pontine
Marshes; but you can see no danger in linking
her whole future life to influences five thousand
times more depressing. I tell you, and I tell
you deliberately, that she'd have a far better
chance of happiness with a scamp like myself."

"Ah, I need not tell you my own sentiments
on that point," said she, with a deep sigh.

Calvert apparently set little store by such
sympathy, for he rose, and throwing away the
end of his cigar, stood looking out over the
lake. "Here comes Onofrio, flourishing some
letters in his hand. The idiot fancies the post
never brings any but pleasant tidings."

"Let us go down and meet him," said Miss
Grainger; and he walked along at her side in
silence.

"Three for the Signor Capitano," said the
boatman, "and one for the signorina," handing
the letters as he landed.

"Drayton," muttered Calvert; "the others
are strange to me."

"This is from Joseph. How glad poor Florry
will be to get it."

"Don't defer her happiness, then," said he,
half sternly; "I'll sit down on the rocks here
and con over my less pleasant correspondence."
One was from his lawyer, to state that outlawry
could no longer be resisted, and that if his
friends would not come forward at once with
some satisfactory promise of arrangement, the
law must take its course. "My friends," said
he, with a bitter laugh, "which be they?"
The next he opened was from the army agents,
dryly setting forth that as he had left the service
it was necessary he should take some immediate
steps to liquidate some regimental claims against
him, of which they begged to enclose the
particulars. He laughed bitterly and scornfully
as he tore the letter to fragments and threw
the pieces into the water. "How well they
know the man they threaten!" cried he,
defiantly. "I'd like to know how much a drowning
man cares for his duns:" He laughed
again. "Now for Drayton. I hope this will be
pleasanter than its predecessors." It was not
very long, and it was as follows:

"The Rag, Tuesday.

"Dear Harry,—Your grateful compliments
on the dexterity of my correspondence in the
Meteor arrived at an unlucky moment, for
some fellow had just written to the editor a
real statement of the whole affair, and the next
day came a protest, part French, part English,
signed by Edward Rochfort, Lieutenant-
Colonel; Gustavus Brooke, D.L.; George Law,
M.D.; Alberic de Raymond, Vicomte, and
Jules de Lassagnac. They sent for me to the
office to see the document, and I threw all