mention her name then or later; but I learned
through another channel that when the crash
in their fortunes came, she, forsaking the
husband on whom her extravagance had helped
to bring such sorrow, had gone to a distant
relation's with her child.

It was sorrow, but not dishonour, thank
Heaven. He had gone far, but stopped short
of that. But it was ruin, deep, irremediable,
and complete. Of that, the little he said soon
convinced me. I felt so sure of it, that my
course at once lay clear before me. My poor
boy's health was shattered, his spirit was
conquered, and, thanks to Ellen, his heart was
broken. That dear burden I could bear, but I
could never entail it on William Gibson!

So, whilst William sat shivering by the fire,
I put on my hat and walked out along the road
by which I knew Mr. Gibson was to come, and
where, indeed, I had appointed to meet him.
The November afternoon was calm and still,
and the landscape very silent. There had been
a sprinkling of snow in the morning, and it had
not yet melted away from the trees and hedges;
a grey sky, with here and there a faint patch of
red caught from the setting sun, bent low over
all.

"I, too, have reached my November season,"
I thought; " and what have I to do with hopes
and desires that are only fit for young life in
its spring? What should I think of trees and
flowers that would want to give forth leaves
and blossoms beneath this grey leaden sky! It
is too late— for ever too late. I forgot it for a
few days, and such forgetfulness was sweet
whilst it lasted; but I remember it now, and can
no longer delude myself or be deluded."

As I came to this conclusion Mr. Gibson
appeared, and walked briskly towards me. My
heart failed me a little. He seemed so happy!
And as he came up to me and passed my arm
within his, and looked at me, he seemed so sure
of me— and why should I be ashamed to write
it?— so glad to have me. I did not know how
to begin; but he was quick to see that
something ailed me. He questioned, and I replied.
I told him how and why William had come
back, and also the resolve I had taken.

He heard me out with more composure than
I expected.

"That's Ellen's doing," he said; "I knew
it would come to this, and told her so. Poor
boy, and so she is not with him! Dragged him
down the pit, then left him there."

"And now," I said, feeling he had not
understood me, " you see and know, Mr. Gibson,
why all that we had planned must be over. My
boy has come back to me a child 'again, and
again I am his mother, and——"

"You mean that you consider our engagement
broken."

"It cannot be helped, Mr. Gibson."

"Then, Miss Sydney, you may as well
prepare for an action for breach of promise. I
shall certainly not submit to such treatment."

Tears rose to my eyes.

"I cannot —I cannot put that burden upon
you," I said, passionately; "I tell you he is
ruined in purse, in mind, in body. I tell you
that what remains to him of life is a wreck."

"Matters may not be so bad as you think,"
he replied, still speaking very composedly;
"and, granting that they are, you have all the
more need for help. And surely if any one is
bound to assist the poor young fellow, Ellen's
brother is the man."

"Mr. Gibson, if my boy hears that I am
going to marry you—— "

"Don't let him hear it," he interrupted,
coolly; " do as he did; marry me first, and
then tell him."

Here was a cool proposal from a shy man!
But, you see, he was shy no longer. I told
him so, and he shook his head, and replied that
his shyness had cost him too dear not to be put
by for ever, and again he proposed a speedy
and secret marriage. At first, I was vehement
in denial, then little by little I yielded, and
began to think he might be right and I wrong.
My poor boy had never much liked his brother-in-law,
and was so accustomed to be everything
to me, that if he learned that I was going to
get married, he might just walk off and leave
me in a pet. But if I was really married, he
would submit to that which could not be
undone; or, at all events, he need only learn
the truth when it pleased me to tell it to him.
I cannot say that I find these arguments very
convincing now; then they were irresistibly
clear and persuasive, and at their breath all my
November theory melted away. So I stole out
one morning and got married, a few miles off,
and came back feeling very guilty.

"How long you have been away," said
William, poking the fire very crossly.

I did not answer.

"Luckily, Mr. Gibson did not look in," he
added, more good humouredly. "Why, how
scared you look!"

Well might I look scared on hearing such a
speech from my darling on my wedding-day.

"Why do you dislike Mr. Gibson?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't dislike him. He is a
good-natured fellow, only I do not delight in his
company. I care for none save yours, Sister
Anne, and, what is more, I do not think I shall
leave you again— if you will keep me," he
added, drawing me to his side, and resting his
head on my shoulder as he used to do when he
was a child and felt tired.

I kissed him fondly, but did not dare to say
one word.

"I have a fancy that we shall be very happy
together," he resumed, more cheerfully; "I
have not behaved well to you, and I know it
now, though I never meant to be unkind. I
thought then it could make no difference— I
mean about my marriage; but I have lived to
see the evils of concealment in such grave
matters."

I had never felt more disconcerted in my life
than when my dear boy spoke thus. Besides,
this fancy of his to leave me no more, joined to
his little relish for my poor husband's company,