and dropped her hands angrily on her lap. Miss
Halcombe and Mr. Gilmore looked up in
astonishment from the card-table at which they
were playing. Even Mrs. Vesey, dozing in her
chair, woke at the sudden cessation of the music,
and inquired what had happened.

"You play at whist, Mr. Hartright?" asked
Miss Halcombe, with her eyes directed
significantly at the place I occupied.

I knew what she meant; I knew she was
right; and I rose at once to go to the card-table.
As I left the piano, Miss Fairlie turned a page
of the music, and touched the keys again with a
surer hand.

"I will play it," she said, striking the notes
almost passionately. "I will play it on the last
night."

"Come, Mrs. Vesey," said Miss Halcombe;
"Mr. Gilmore and I are tired of écarté—come
and be Mr. Hartright's partner at whist."

The old lawyer smiled satirically. His had
been the winning hand; and he had just turned
up a king. He evidently attributed Miss
Halcombe's abrupt change in the card-table arrangements
to a lady's inability to play the losing game.

The rest of the evening passed without a
word or a look from her. She kept her place at
the piano; and I kept mine at the card-table.
She played unintermittingly—played as if the
music was her only refuge from herself.
Sometimes, her fingers touched the notes with a
lingering fondness, a soft, plaintive, dying tenderness,
unutterably beautiful and mournful to hear
—sometimes, they faltered and failed her, or
hurried over the instrument mechanically, as if
their task was a burden to them. But still,
change and waver as they might in the expression
they imparted to the music, their resolution
to play never faltered. She only rose from the
piano when we all rose to say good night.

Mrs. Vesey was the nearest to the door, and
the first to shake hands with me.

"I shall not see you again, Mr. Hartright,"
said the old lady. "I am truly sorry you are
going away. You have been very kind and
attentive; and an old woman, like me, feels
kindness and attention. I wish you happy, sir—I
wish you a kind good-by."

Mr. Gilmore came next.

"I hope we shall have a future opportunity of
bettering our acquaintance, Mr. Hartright. You
quite understand about that little matter of
business being safe in my hands? Yes, yes,
of course. Bless me, how cold it is! Don't let
me keep you at the door. Bon voyage, my dear
sir—bon voyage, as the French say."

Miss Halcombe followed.

"Half-past seven to-morrow morning," she
said; then added, in a whisper, "I have heard
and seen more than you think. Your conduct
to-night has made me your friend for life."

Miss Fairlie came last. I could not trust
myself to look at her, when I took her hand, and
when I thought of the next morning.

"My departure must be a very early one," I
said. "I shall be gone, Miss Fairlie, before
you——"

"No, no," she interposed, hastily; "not
before I am out of my room. I shall be down
to breakfast with Marian. I am not so
ungrateful, not so forgetful of the past three
months—— "

Her voice failed her; her hand closed gently
round mine—then dropped it suddenly. Before
I could say, "Good night," she was gone.

The end comes fast to meet me—comes
inevitably, as the light of the last morning came
at Limmeridge House.

It was barely half-past seven when I went
down stairs—but I found them both at the
breakfast-table waiting for me. In the chill air, in
the dim light, in the gloomy morning silence of
the house, we three sat down together, and tried
to eat, tried to talk. The struggle to preserve
appearances was hopeless and useless; and I rose
to end it.

As I held out my hand, as Miss Halcombe, who
was nearest to me, took it, Miss Fairlie turned
away suddenly, and hurried from the room.

"Better so," said Miss Halcombe, when the
door had closed—"better so, for you and for
her."

I waited a moment before I could speak—it
was hard to lose her, without a parting word, or
a parting look. I controlled myself; I tried to
take leave of Miss Halcombe in fitting terms;
but all the farewell words I would fain have
spoken, dwindled to one sentence.

"Have I deserved that you should write to
me?" was all I could say.

"You have nobly deserved everything that I
can do for you, as long as we both live.
Whatever the end is, you shall know it."

"And if I can ever be of help again, at any
future time, long after the memory of my
presumption and my folly is forgotten—-"

I could add no more. My voice faltered, my
eyes moistened, in spite of me.

She caught me by both hands—she pressed
them with the strong, steady grasp of a man—
her dark eyes glittered—her brown complexion
flushed deep—the force and energy of her face
glowed and grew beautiful with the pure inner
light of her generosity and her pity.

"I will trust you—if ever the time comes, I
will trust you as my friend and her friend; as
my brother and her brother." She stopped;
drew me nearer to her—the fearless, noble
creature—touched my forehead, sisterlike, with her
lips; and called me by my Christian name.
"God bless you, Walter," she said. "Wait
here alone, and compose yourself—I had better
not stay for both our sakes; I had better see
you go, from the balcony upstairs."

She left the room. I turned away towards
the window, where nothing faced me but the
lonely autumn landscape—I turned away to
master myself, before I, too, left the room in
my turn, and left it for ever.

A minute passed—it could hardly have been
more—when I heard the door open again softly;
and the rustling of a woman's dress on the
carpet, moved towards me. My heart beat