"I am happy to hear it; but do not, therefore,
fall into an error which would come very
easy to your sanguine and facile temperament.
Be sure he is not changed in his nature,
however modified he may be in his manners.
Be quite sure he would object to your former
associates just as strongly as ever; and remember,
he would be right in doing so. Will you take
my advice once more, George? You have done it
before——" she stopped, and something like a
shudder passed over her; "let bygones be
completely bygones. Never try to associate the life
and the home that will be yours for the future
with anything in the past—least, oh least of all,
with us."

"What do you mean, Mrs. Routh?" George
asked her, eagerly. "Do you mean that you
want to give me up? I know Routh does—he
has not spoken to me a dozen times of his own
accord since he has been here—but you, do you
want to get rid of me?"

She paused for a moment before she answered
him. Should she say Yes, and be done with it?
Should she let things drift on to the inevitable
end, yielding to the lassitude of mind and body
which was stealing over her? Should she gain
another argument to use in a renewed appeal to
her husband for the flight in which she saw the
sole prospect of safety, by providing herself with
the power of telling him a rupture had taken
place between herself and Dallas, and her power
of guiding him was gone? The temptation was
strong, but caution, habitual to her, instinctive
in her, restrained her. Not yet, she thought;
this may be my next move. George repeated
his question:

"Do you mean that you want to get rid of
me?"

"No," she answered, "I do not, George. I
was only led into overstating what I do want,
that you should conform to your step-father's
reasonable wishes. He has been generous to
you, be you just towards him."

"I will," said George, warmly. "I wonder
how far he will carry his newly-found good
will. I wonder——" he paused; the name
of Clare Carruthers was on his lips; in another
moment he would have spoken of her to Harriet.
He would have told her of the self-reproach,
mingled, however, with hope, which daily grew
and throve in the congenial soil of his sanguine
nature; he would have pierced Harriet's heart
with a new sorrow, a fresh remorse, by telling
her of another life, young, innocent, and beautiful,
involved in the storm about to burst, whose
threatenings were already sounding in the air.
But it was not to be—the name of Clare
Carruthers was never to be spoken by George to
Harriet. Apparently she had not heard his
last words; her attention had strayed; she was
very weary.

"I must go home," she said, abruptly. "We
are close to your mother's house. You had
better go to her now; she has returned from her
drive."

"Let me see you home," said George;
"pray don't dismiss me in this way."

"No, no," she said, hurriedly; "let me have
my own way, please. You will come to me
tomorrow, and let me know your plans."

She stood still, and put out her hand so
decidedly in the attitude of farewell, that he had
no choice but to take leave of her. They
parted on the shaded road, close to the garden
gate of Mr. Carruthers's house. As Harriet
walked away with her usual rapid step, George
looked after her very sadly.

"She is fearfully changed," he said; "I
never saw anything like it. Since I went to
Amsterdam she might have lived twenty years
and been less altered. Can it be that my uncle
is right, that Routh ill-treats her? I wonder if
there's any truth in what those fellows said last
night about him and Mrs. P. Ireton? If there
is, it's an infernal shame—an infernal shame."
And George Dallas opened the little gate in the
wall, and walked up the garden with a moody
countenance, on which, however, a smile showed
itself as he lifted his hat gaily to his mother,
who nodded to him from the window above.
His spirits rose unaccountably. The positive
information which Mrs. Bembridge had afforded
Mr. Felton relative to his son's expected
arrival had immensely relieved George's mind.
He was satisfied with the progress of his novel;
day by day his mother's health was improving.
His prospects were bright. The distressing
recollection of Deane, and the unhappy
consequences of the tragedy, were becoming light and
easy to him; sometimes he forgot all about it.
If he could but win his step-father's confidence
and regard sufficiently to induce him to pardon
his clandestine acquaintance with Clare, he
would be altogether happy. How serene and
beautiful the weather was! He stood in the
verandah, which extended into the garden,
bare-headed, and inhaled the sweet air
with keen pleasure. His impressionable
nature readily threw off care and caught at
enjoyment.

"It's such a glorious afternoon, mother," he
said, as he entered Mrs. Carruthers's sitting-
room; "I am sure you must have enjoyed your
drive."

"I did, very much," his mother replied.
"The air seems rather closer, I think, since I
came in. I fancy we shall have a storm."

"Oh no," said George, carelessly. Then
he said: "Shall I read you my last chapter?
I want to post it this evening. It's a funny
chapter, mother. I bring in the queer old
bookseller I told you about, who persisted in
being his own banker."

"I remember, George. What are you looking
at?"  He had taken up a letter from the
table beside her, and was scrutinising the
address closely. "Are you admiring the
handwriting? That is a letter from Clare
Carruthers."

"Oh," said George. And he laid down the
letter, and went to fetch his manuscript. So it
was she who had forwarded Mr. Felton's letters
to him. Ellen must have asked her to do so—
must, therefore, have talked of him—have