"One of the errands, my dear, which brings
me here is to bid you good-by," I began. "I
must get back to London to-day; and, before I
leave, I want to have a word with you on the
subject of your own affairs."

"I am very sorry you are going, Mr.
Gilmore," she said, looking at me kindly. "It is
like the happy old times to have you here."

"I hope I may be able to come back, and
recal those pleasant memories once more," I
continued; "but as there is some uncertainty
about the future, I must take my opportunity
when I can get it, and speak to you now. I am
your old lawyer and your old friend; and I may
remind you, I am sure, without offence, of the
possibility of your marrying Sir Percival Glyde."

She took her hand off the little album as
suddenly as if had turned hot and burnt her. Her
fingers twined together nervously in her lap;
her eyes looked down again at the floor; and an
expression of constraint settled on her face
which looked almost like an expression of pain.

"Is it absolutely necessary to speak of my
marriage engagement?" she asked, in low tones.

"It is necessary to refer to it," I answered;
"but not to dwell on it. Let us merely say that
you may marry, or that you may not marry. In
the first case, I must be prepared, beforehand,
to draw your settlement; and I ought not to do
that without, as a matter of politeness, first
consulting you. This may be my only chance of
hearing what your wishes are. Let us, therefore,
suppose the case of your marrying, and
let me inform you, in as few words as possible,
what your position is now, and what you may
make it, if you please, in the future."

I explained to her the object of a marriage-
settlement; and then told her exactly what her
prospects were—in the first place, on her coming
of age, and, in the second place, on the decease
of her uncle—marking the distinction between
the property in which she had a life interest only,
and the property which was left at her own
control. She listened attentively, with the
constrained expression still on her face, and her
hands still nervously clasped together in her lap.

"And, now," I said, in conclusion, "tell me
if you can think of any condition which, in the
case we have supposed, you would wish me to
make for you—subject, of course, to your
guardian's approval, as you are not yet of age."

She moved uneasily in her chair—then looked
in my face, on a sudden, very earnestly.

"If it does happen," she began, faintly; " if
I am——"

"If you are married," I added, helping her
out.

"Don't let him part me from Marian," she
cried, with a sudden outbreak of energy. "Oh,
Mr. Gilmore, pray make it law that Marian is to
live with me!"

Under other circumstances, I might perhaps
have been amused at this essentially feminine
interpretation of my question, and of the long
explanation which had preceded it. But her
looks and tones, when she spoke, were of a kind
to make me more than serious—they distressed
me. Her words, few as they were, betrayed a
desperate clinging to the past which boded ill
for the future.

"Your having Marian Halcombe to live with
you, can easily be settled by private arrangement,"
I said. "You hardly understood my
question, I think. It referred to your own
property—to the disposal of your money. Supposing
you were to make a will, when you come of age,
who would you like the money to go to?"

"Marian has been mother and sister both to
me," said the good, affectionate girl, her pretty
blue eyes glistening while she spoke. "May I
leave it to Marian, Mr. Gilmore?"

"Certainly, my love," I answered. "But
remember what a large sum it is. Would you
like it all to go to Miss Halcombe?"

She hesitated; her colour came and went;
and her hand stole back again to the little album.

"Not all of it," she said. "There is some
one else, besides Marian——"

She stopped; her colour heightened; and the
fingers of the hand that rested upon the album
beat gently on the margin of the drawing, as if
her memory had set them going mechanically
with the remembrance of a favourite tune.

"You mean some other member of the family
besides Miss Halcombe?" I suggested, seeing her
at a loss to proceed.

The heightening colour spread to her forehead
and her neck, and the nervous fingers suddenly
clasped themselves fast round the edge of the
book.

"There is some one else," she said, not
noticing my last words, though she had evidently
heard them; "there is some one else who might
like a little keepsake, if—if I might leave it.
There would be no harm, if I should die
first——"

She paused again. The colour that had spread
over her cheeks suddenly, as suddenly left them.
The hand on the album resigned its hold,
trembled a little, and moved the book away from
her. She looked at me for an instant—then
turned her head aside in the chair. Her
handkerchief fell to the floor as she changed her
position, and she hurriedly hid her face from me in
her hands.

Sad! To remember her, as I did, the liveliest,
happiest child that ever laughed the day through;
and to see her now, in the flower of her age and
her beauty, so broken and so brought down as
this!

In the distress that she caused me, I forgot
the years that had passed, and the change they
had made in our position towards one another.
I moved my chair close to her, and picked up
her handkerchief from the carpet, and drew her
hands from her face gently. "Don't cry," my
love," I said, and dried the tears that were
gathering in her eyes, with my own hand, as if
she had been the little Laura Fairlie of ten
long years ago.

It was the best way I could have taken to
compose her. She laid her head on my shoulder,
and smiled faintly through her tears.

"I am very sorry for forgetting myself," she