on towards the room last named, saw the letter addressed to Sir Reginald Clinton on the slab. He seized it as if by a sudden impulse, and placed it in his pocket. Then, ascending the stairs, entered the drawing-room and sat down to wait for Gertrude.

It was with a certain tremor that Gertrude heard that Nugent was below in the drawing-room, and insisted upon her coming downstairs that instant. Ever since the anonymous letter, warning Nugent against "a certain popish baronet," Gertrude had frequently felt a thrill of secret misgiving, a vague dread of coming sorrow. That day, however, she had been in better spirits than usual. Her father's amendment of health, the arrival of her sisters, and other causes, had contributed to this, and banished the uneasy feeling from her mind.

The summons brought by Paine, and delivered with breathless haste, instantly renewed it. Her face, pale with recent anxiety and watching, assumed a still more careworn expression. She had not begun to undress, and immediately descended to the drawing-room.

Nugent advanced to her as she entered the room, seized both her hands in his, gazed at her with a kind of passionate anxiety, and endeavoured to speak, but agitation prevented him.

Gertrude was seriously alarmed.

"Oliver, what has happened? Speak to me, I implore you? Do not keep me in suspense!"

Nugent leant his head on her shoulder, and tears gushed from his eyes; such tears as even strong men shed when their hearts are wrung by conflicting emotions of love and anger, tenderness and despair. Gertrude threw her arms round his neck, and strove to soothe and comfort him. Very soon he regained his self-possession, drew back from her abruptly, and exclaimed in a voice of forced composure

"I am very sorry to disturb and alarm you at this late hour. But I could not help it. My sufferings were too severe. My mind was distracted. I did not know what might happen if I did not speak to you at once!"

Gertrude's heart beat fast; her limbs seemed to lose their strength; she sank into a chair, and gazed at her husband in mingled terror and perplexity.

"You remember," Nugent continued, resting his hand on the table as if to assist him to maintain composure, and gazing

on Gertrude with a painfully eager expression of countenance"You remember the book Sir Reginald sent to you the other day. I was hurt at his doing so. Perhaps I was unjust; perhaps I did not make sufficient allowance for him. I was brought up to regard papists with loathing and disgust from. my very cradle. Perhaps I have gone too far. But that is nothing. I must come to the point. Gertrude, you said you never had any other book of Clinton's in your possession except the one sent that day! You promised you never would have! Gertrude, my darling Gertrude, how is it, then, that I hear of popish books, and those, too, belonging to Clinton, being in your possession? Of course there is some mistake! You spoke unthinkingly, hastily! You forgot that you had other books

Gertrude had listened in undisguised amazement to her husband's hurried and passionate appeal up to this point. Now she broke in with eagerness

"Oliver-dear Oliver, can you doubt me? Is it possible you believe I could be so base as to deceive you? I am ready to swear I never had any other book from Clinton than the one you saw! Who dared to say the contrary? Who is trying to make mischief between us? Who told you I had other books of Sir Reginald's? Who told you I had any popish books at all?”

Nugent felt a sensation of relief. Her energy of manner impressed him. He could scarcely conceive she was not speaking the truth. Yet another kind of embarrassment came over him. He had shown a lack of confidence in her. He had come to her late at night; and, with much emotion, beset her with questions as to the veracity of her former statement. And what ground had he to stand upon? What justification for his suspicions?

At length, with an effort, he answered in a low voice"I have no doubt there was some mistake. Edward hinted almost accidentally-do not be angry, my dear love, he meant it for the best-Edward hinted that he had seen several of Clinton's books in one of your boxes."

Gertrude started up. Her feelings underwent a revulsion. In the dim light of the solitary candle left by the servants, Nugent saw her countenance change. Passion flashed from eyes, and brought crimson to her cheeks"I thought so!" she exclaimed. "I thought so! That miserable boy is my evil genius! He wickedly plotted against

her

our peace at home. He follows us to London, and pursues his schemes once more. Oliver, I have faults. I have not been all I might have been-all I ought to have been to you. But I am not a worthless, abandoned wretch! I am not utterly reprobate! You have no right to take that boy into your confidence-listen to his slanderous tales-drink in his poisonous words! It is cruel-it is unbearable-it is enough

to drive me mad!"

She sank back into her chair, and burst into a passion of tears.

That

The emotion seemed real and true. Nugent was humbled, almost crushed. He gently took her hand, kissed it tenderly, and assured her he believed every word she said. Edward was mistaken. That he himself had been hasty. That he, too, had to reproach himself with many faults and shortcomings. He asked her pardon. He trusted she would accept his repentance, and return his love.

Gertrude was still excited. She seized Nugent's arm, and exclaimed

"Oliver, the boy is a liar-a shameless liar! Here, take these keys," she added, snatching some from her pocket, and putting them in his hand-" take these keys, and search my trunks, boxes, wardrobes, all that I possess! See if any book of Sir Reginald's is to be found there! See if I have anything popish under your roof! Judge with your own eyes whether I am guilty or not."

He re

Nugent refused. He would not doubt her word. tracted everything he had said. He had been foolish, rash. Many things had combined to disturb his mind. Slanderous tongues had been busy. Others besides Edward had conspired against her. But now he would set the world at defiance. Would she forgive and forget all that had passed?

Gertrude was somewhat softened. Yes-she would do so on two conditions; first, that he would search all her boxes and all her wardrobes; secondly, if nothing were discovered, arrange that Edward should leave the house, and never enter it again.

To pacify and soothe her mind Nugent took her keys, and promised all she asked. They descended the stairs together; and, at the street door, after a few whispered words of renewed affection, parted, as each of them supposed, to meet next day.

Gertrude slowly retraced her steps. She paused outside the dining-room door. The letter to Sir Reginald was no

longer there. "Oh! no doubt Paine has given it to one of the men-servants." Still, for some reason or other, she rather regretted it had gone. With a woman's instinct she readily divined that something more than the affair of the books weighed upon her husband's mind. On the whole, she had rather the letter to Sir Reginald did not go. The household were all in bed, but if she woke early she would stop the letter. For, of course, Paine must have given it to one of the men. Nothing else could explain its disappearance.

She went upstairs once more. But as she passed her father's bedroom door, the faint tinkle of a bell caught her ear. She entered his room, and found him awake, and anxious to speak with her. He had heard whispers and footsteps below. Who had been calling, and for what purpose, at such an hour?

Gertrude sat with her father until the neighbouring church clock struck one. They conversed together with affectionate earnestness. But we need not intrude into the subject of their conversation. Gertrude left her father in a quiet and composed state of mind, though complaining of a sensation of bodily weakness, which he hoped a few hours' sleep might

remove.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE BURSTING OF THE STORM.

NUGENT had scarcely reached home after his interview with Gertrude, than he called to mind the letter to Sir Reginald Clinton of which he had taken possession. It was the mere impulse of the moment which induced him to seize it. Now, his mind had undergone a complete revulsion.

Certainly there was perplexity, discomfort, anxiety. But there was no longer anguish and dismay. The impression of Gertrude's looks and words was fresh in his recollection.

There must be an extraordinary mistake somewhere. He was loth to believe Edward had wilfully lied. Yet even this solution was more probable than that his own high-spirited, warm-hearted Gertrude should have meanly and cruelly deceived him. There must be some strange mistake. morrow strict inquiries must be made. But, as for this letter to Sir Reginald Clinton, what was to be done with it?

To

Send it to him as soon as possible. That was the least he could do.

Nugent went up to the man-servant's room, and, rousing him from sleep, directed him to take the letter to Sir Reginald the first thing in the morning.

Having so far discharged his conscience, Nugent thought it time to seek repose. But, first, he took out Gertrude's keys and looked at them in a state of indecision. Was there the least doubt that she had spoken the truth? Would it not be more gracious, more generous, to take her word, and make no search at all for the books?

He could not hesitate on the matter. He would not make any search whatever. He would simply believe her. Tomorrow he would ask her not to insist on his keeping his promise. He would beg her, of her goodness and forbearance, to let the matter pass and be forgotten.

With these feelings Nugent flung the keys on one side, and retired to rest. During the past week, Gertrude being at her father's lodging, he had slept in the small dressing - room communicating with his wife's apartment. It was so much less dreary than the latter now Gertrude was absent.

To-night, what with the excitement of the last few hours, and the perplexing thoughts that ebbed and flowed through his brain, Nugent could not sleep. A feverish heat burned in his veins, and imparted irritability to every nerve in his body. He tossed to and fro on his narrow bed, and could

not rest.

At length, when a ghostly streak of light began to break the darkness to the eastward, Nugent rose, threw open his window, and tasted the fresh air of early morning, if fresh air can be said to exist in London at all.

Thinking the feather-bed might have interfered with his rest, he drew the mattress from under it, intending to place it on the top. In doing so his hand touched something hard and solid in the straw paillasse beneath. "What can we possibly have here?" he exclaimed, as, perceiving an opening in the sacking, he thrust in his hand and found inside a parcel tied up with string.

"What can we possibly have here ?"

And, drawing the parcel out of the straw, he placed it on a table that stood near.

Up to this moment Nugent had no suspicion that the parcel was anything of consequence. He struck a light, for