giving his arm, led her to admire the picture of a Madonna in the next room. From thence they passed into the inner apartment already spoken of, and seated on a sofa, the back o which was towards the door, were soon engaged in a conversation that appeared to interest them.

"Have you any news to-day ?" asked Gertrude.

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"None," replied Clinton, with a sigh; none whatever." "Was that your advertisement in to-day's Times?" asked Gertrude. "I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, but I feel so deep an interest in your anxieties!"

"My dear friend, your words of sympathy are my best earthly consolation. The advertisement was mine, and it has been once, but only once, replied to. That was the day of our last ride—a day I shall always look back to with thankfulness, for it broke the solitude of my life, and gave me a glimpse of happiness to which I had long been a stranger. Would that we were in the country once more!"

"Do you then dislike London ?"

"I abhor it! More so than ever now, because I am compelled to remain here. I pine for the fresh air, for mountains and forests, and for the blue sea! Why, the mere sensation of London life, the stir, the excitement, the variety of objects passing before the eye, stimulate the brain to unhealthy activity! It is more difficult to resist evil, and to do good in London, than in the country!"

"Then there is the more merit if you are successful."

"But do you not feel this excitement?" asked Clinton, fixing his dark eyes on Gertrude with an expression of respectful tenderness. "Do you really feel happy away from the country?"

"I hardly know," said Gertrude. "It is at least a pleasant change."

"It is too often," rejoined Clinton, "the first drop of what is little better than an intoxicating poison. We sip, we drink, we at length quaff like madmen. Then sink into selfish torpor, and gorge ourselves from habit!"

"But would you have me never mix in London society?" "Perhaps I shall offend you."

"No. I do not think you can offend me.”

"Well, then, I think yours is a mind which were better outside this vortex of fashionable life."

"But why? Tell me why?"

"The physician cannot always confide the grounds of his

opinion to the patients who consult him; sometimes he would be at fault to put his reasons into words."

"But surely friends are good for us? And there are so few to be found in the country!"

"Friends! Do you call these unfortunate people friends? Selfishness is written on every line of their faces. Beware of them. Never confide in them. They are not to be trusted!"

"But, then, in whom are we-are women, to confide?"

"Those who are your natural guides and protectors," answered Clinton, holding her hand for one instant in both of his; "and, if they fail you, then in One above!" As he spoke these last words, Clinton lowered his voice.

Gertrude regarded him with interest and affection. But at that instant she saw a thrill of anxiety pass across his face. His eyes were fixed on the large mirror opposite to them. Her own followed in the same direction. But she saw nothing there except the reflection of a throng of fashionables fluttering to and fro.

What, then, had Clinton seen? What, then, had attracted and fixed his gaze as by some irresistible spell? Simply the reflection of a face, pale as ashes, just seen for one moment gazing at Gertrude and himself, and then vanishing from sight.

Clinton rose hastily.

"What is the matter?" asked Gertrude. "You look quite changed!"

"Nothing of consequence. I have seen some one I wish to speak to."

He was agitated, and, as they shook hands, Gertrude felt his hand tremble.

The next moment he was gone.

The instant after Clinton had seen that pale face, which he recognized, and barely recognized, as Nugent's, the dance that had for a time been suspended was resumed. Clinton could only by slow degrees make his way through the room, and by the time he reached the lobby, Nugent had sprung into a cab and was halfway towards home.

It was with a feeling of dull, blank wretchedness that Nugent ascended the steps to his house, and mechanically rang the bell. He had not seen anything which could justify him in absolutely condemning his wife. A few hours before, and he would have sat down on the same sofa, and greeted

Y

Clinton with perfect good-will and complacency. True, he had found him engaged in close conversation with his wife. True he had noticed him for a moment press Gertrude's hand in his.

But it was a tête-à-tête in the presence of one or two hundred people. There was more of grave courtesy than of passion in Clinton's demeanour. Nevertheless, after the hateful and offensive words he had overheard that evening, the spectacle of these two sitting apart, in earnest conversation, regarding each other with almost affectionate interest, influenced apparently by some common sympathy-this spectacle, in Nugent's overwrought state of mind, was a fatal corroboration of the cruel charge against his wife's fidelity still ringing in his ears. For a moment he had been tortured by a feeling of savage hatred against Clinton; since to a man who endeavours day by day to do what is right, the passion of hatred is nothing else than torture; it is wholly antagonistic to every feeling he labours to cherish and maintain. For a moment he had been thus tortured, but he had not lost his self-command. He still, with all his strength, kept down the wrath gathering within him. He resolved, and again resolved, not to act hastily, but to wait and watch.

Nugent rang the bell, we have said, mechanically.

Scarcely had he touched it when the door was flung open, and he saw before him, in the light of the gas-lamp-Edward Harrill.

Perhaps at another time Nugent might have felt annoyed at the lad's unexpected appearance, without invitation or authority given, but now he felt differently. Here was some one who cared for him; nay, who seemed to love him. Nugent yielded to the impulse of the moment, and pressed Edward to his heart. Then, as if ashamed of the emotion he had evinced, he thrust the lad away, and asked him, with an ineffectual attempt at sternness, what brought him to town?

Edward hung down his head, and could not at first be induced to give any account of his proceedings. At length, when Nugent had made him sit down beside him in his study, he explained, in disjointed sentences, how he had met Lucy at the Manor Farm, and how the sight of her brought old times so vividly before him, that, after several days' excitement, he could bear it no longer, but wrote a line asking Lovell's forgiveness, and started by third-class train for London.

They were still engaged in conversation-for Nugent had

many questions to ask about the state of affairs at Okenham -when a loud rap at the street-door rudely interrupted them, and brought back to Nugent's mind, with a kind of sudden shock, the recollection of his new and painful anxiety.

He dismissed Edward to bed, and, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, was about to address Gertrude on the subject nearest his heart in the hope of relieving the bitterness of his distress. Suddenly, however, she herself entered the room with an open letter in her hand, and a countenance full of sorrow and alarm.

"What is the matter, Gertrude ?" asked Nugent, with forced composure.

"A note from poor mamma! She father is very says my unwell, and they are coming up to town with him to-morrow to get the best advice!"

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Then, he is evidently well enough to travel?"

"Well enough to travel as yet," answered Gertrude, with the tears running down her cheeks. "But it is something very serious. Mamma writes in the greatest distress!"

She was pale with agitation, and Nugent could not maintain the coldness of manner he had first exhibited. He put his arm round Gertrude, and made her sit down. Then fetohed sal-volatile and other restoratives; gently wiped away her tears; and by degrees soothed her into a state of comparative tranquillity.

"You are very kind," said Gertrude, pressing Nugent's hand to her lips, and gazing upwards at his face with a look of affectionate thankfulness.

"Can she be otherwise than pure as drifted snow?" was Nugent's silent question to himself at that moment.

CHAPTER XXX.

A. B. X.

CLINTON, finding when he got down-stairs that Nugent had left the house, gave up the idea of seeking an interview with him, at all events that night. But he did not return to the gay scene he had just quitted. Calling for his carriage, which was waiting in attendance, he desired the coachman to drive him straight home.

It was about twelve o'clock when Clinton crossed the

threshold of his solitary mansion. The spacious hall, with its marble floor and lofty pillars of giallo antiquo, was bright with the lustre of gas lamps. Yet there was a sense of silent desolation even amidst the tokens of luxury, and wealth, and refined taste which met the eye on every side. The graceful forms of Greek and Roman sculpture, adorning the niches and recesses on either hand as you advanced, gleamed motionless in the mellow light. On the right, folding-doors spread open and displayed a broad and lofty dining-room also lighted up. Here against the sober-tinted walls hung some choice paintings by Italian and Spanish masters. Their harmonious tone soothed the eye even before the forms and outlines of the picture were perceptible. On the left, other folding doors led into a suite of drawing-rooms luxuriously furnished, where you moved with noiseless footstep over carpets that rivalled in texture the softest and richest velvet, and every variety of easy-chair, ottoman, and couch tempted you to rest, and view at leisure the multitude of rare and beautiful objects which adorned the apartment. There was here no gas permitted, but wax-lights suspended from the ceiling shed a gentle radiance on the scene. Beyond the dining-room a marble staircase, designed after one in a celebrated palace in Rome, led to the upper apartments; whilst on the left a long wide gallery, containing statues and basso relievos, conducted to a door communicating with the servants' offices. Here, as in every other direction, there was abundance of light; and, were it not for the silence and solitude, you might have supposed on first entering that some great festivity was going forwards. But in a few minutes the very beauty and gorgeousness of the scene, bright with an artificial day, yet so still, so vacant, so deserted, cast a chill upon the mind. It was like some enchanted palace in the "Arabian Nights," or mystic incident in a dream, when we pass through suites and suites of gorgeous apartments, and feel a painful suspicion that something untoward is about to happen.

The owner of this magnificent mansion paid little heed to anything on the right hand or the left, as he entered the house and hastily nodded to the greyheaded butler, who never allowed him to pass without making him a bow, and who with two footmen behind him flung open the front doors for his reception. Clinton, we say, paid little heed to anything around him, but walked rapidly across the hall to a door opposite the principal entrance. He opened it and entered a