marks were old. The address on each letter "La Signora Clinton."

Nugent's firmness almost gave way. The revulsion of feeling was great. Yet the suddenness of the surprise confused and perplexed him. He felt as one who awakes in the dead of night and cannot call to mind in what place he is.

Strange to say, at the first moment there was almost as much pain as joy. He had committed a great wrong-inflicted a cruel injury. How much must she have sufferedhow much must she be at that moment suffering!

He rose, and, mechanically accepting Clinton's arm, hastened towards the town. He would start for London by the first train. But, unfortunately, being Sunday, there was none till next morning. Then he must send a telegraphic message.

Lovell, that morning, in pursuance of a plan of operations laid down the night before, had gone to another church on the chance of meeting either Nugent or Edward. He had returned to the hotel, and was beginning to feel anxious at Clinton's prolonged absence, when the waiter threw open the sitting-room door, and Clinton entered and sank into a chair, pale and exhausted. He asked for wine and water, and then related what had passed.

Nugent, after despatching the telegraphic message, hastened back to his lodgings to see Edward. It was indispensable that the lad should be fully prepared for meeting his father. There was much to be said-much to be explained. Clinton consented, therefore, not to go to the lodging until the evening. In fact, Lovell would have prevailed on him to put off the interview until next day. But to this Clinton would not submit.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

CONCLUSION.

In the front parlour of Nugent's lodgings, close to the quay at Avonsbury, two figures are seated on a sofa side by side. Their hands are locked in silent and affectionate sympathy.

The gray shadows of a summer's evening have already descended on the multitudinous streets and spacious squares of Avonsbury, wrapped its courts and alleys in a deeper gloom, and veiled from sight all but the more prominent outlines of the shipping on the river,

Here and there, from the deck or cabin of vessels lying sleepily on those leaden waters, flared a ruddy quivering light, studding the more distant darkness like sparks of fire. Streets and quays were quieter than usual even on a Sunday evening. A soft but heavy rain was falling from the undefined masses of cloud that sloped down from above till they seemed to rest on the very roofs of the houses, and few but citizens bent on keeping some special appointment cared to venture forth. Through the haze of streaming rain, the gas-lamps in the streets gave a blurred, distorted light. The pavement immediately beneath, flooded with the pouring rain, shone with a watery glare.

In the room where these two figures are seated all is now wrapped in obscurity. You cannot precisely distinguish who they are.

Is it Sir Reginald and Edward? Is it the father and his newly recovered son? Are they sitting there, hand grasping hand, tasting in silence the happiness of a relationship never realized till now? No. One indeed is Edward, but the other is Nugent. Yet it is now more than an hour since Sir Reginald, accompanied by Lovell, entered the house-since he approached his son, and held out his arms to fold him to his heart. It is more than an hour since then. Why are they not together?

To explain this, we must listen to the conversation of Sir Reginald Clinton and Lovell in the drawing-room of the same house.

"Sir Reginald, it is hard to bear !" exclaims Lovell. "But recollect all that has passed. He is taken by surprise, perplexed, bewildered. You have been looking for him, but he has not been looking for you. He cannot realize what it is to have a father. Everything is strange to him. Give him time, Sir Reginald-give him time. Let the idea work in his mind a little. Sooner or later, nature will speak

out."

"Lovell !" rejoined Clinton-"Lovell, he shrank from me with horror! He clung to Nugent as to his good angel, and recoiled from me as from an evil spirit. Coldness, indifference, distrust, I could have borne; but this loathing-this terror-shocks and unmans me. It seems, as I look into his dark, scornful eyes, that the soul of his dead mother confronts me, and sets me once more at defiance. It is horrible--too horrible ! Ever since I grew weary and sick of

the vanity and the rottenness of earthly joys-ever since my heart felt a touch of sorrow for past iniquity, and yearned for pardon and for peace, I have striven-honestly and earnestly striven-to find my son, and clasp him to my heart, and do him justice in the face of Heaven and of man. And nownow when at length I have found him, he loathes me, he spurns me, he rushes into the arms of a mere chance protector, and flees from a father ready to embrace him with tears of gratitude and joy !"

"Recollect," Lovell gently interposed, "he owes much to Nugent-recollect the misery and degradation from which he rescued him-recollect all he has done for him since!"

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Truly," continued Clinton, unheeding the interruptiontruly, when I call to mind the hatred stamped on every feature of his face, and the vehement fury with which he clenched that right hand of his and shook it almost in my face; if a dagger had been within his reach, he would have plunged it into his father's heart !"

Clinton threw himself on a sofa, and for some minutes was a prey to the keenest distress.

Soon, however, he rose, and, taking Lovell's arm, said, in calmer accents

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My friend, bear with me. Why should I fret and fume, as if peace and happiness were mine by indisputable right? I will be patient. I will give the poor lad time. And now, Lovell, accept my thanks for all your kindness—your great and constant kindness. I shall never forget it, wherever my future lot may be cast!"

And so they parted for the night.

Meantime, Nugent sat up with Edward, honestly endeavouring to reason him into a right state of feeling towards his father-but in vain.

The lad's countenance expressed only impatience and disgust. He said little, except now and then a few words of bitterness, such as, "Why should I love him? What has he ever done for me? What has he done for my mother? Where is she? Why did he drive her forth into the world alone? He has never been a father to me. I do not love him at all. I only love you. I hope I may never see him again!"

Edward's excitement made Nugent uneasy, and, instead of retiring to rest, he lay down on a sofa in his bedroom, and made the lad occupy his own bed.

From Edward's constant change of posture, and occasional whispered exclamations and sighs, Nugent gathered that he, too, was little disposed for slumber. Nevetheless, towards morning, Nugent fell asleep, and did not wake till it was light. To his surprise, he perceived Edward dressed, and sitting at the table writing. So soon as the latter saw he was awake, he rose, and, leaving the table, sat down on the sofa by his side.

A great change had passed over Edward's countenance. It wore a quiet expression, and his voice was gentle and subdued. He took Nugent's hand, and said simply

"I am writing to him."

Nugent looked at him inquiringly.

"Do not you know whom I mean? My father."

And as he uttered the words, his eyes filled with tears. He continued

"I am asking him to forgive me for my sin and my folly yesterday. I've not slept all night thinking and thinking. I am very sorry. I see everything different now."

Nugent rose up, and, seizing his hand, exclaimed

"Come to him, Edward; come to him at once!"

"Will he forgive me?"

Forgive you? You cannot tell what joy you will cause

him!"

Passing his arm round the lad's waist, Nugent drew him upstairs to the drawing-room.

Sir Reginald had come down a few minutes before, and stood opposite the fireplace, leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece. He did not hear them enter, but as they approached he started and turned.

The father and son looked at one another for an instant, and then, with tears, clasped each other to the heart.

Nugent quietly withdrew to the room below, and, writing a short note to Sir Reginald, left it in charge of the servant. Then, summoning Lovell to accompany him, he hastened to the railway station to catch the first train for London.

About mid-day there was a loud ring of the front-door bell at Lady Maud's house in Grosvenor Street. Whereupon Mrs. Grierson, who had been chatting with Lady Maud and the young ladies on various topics, just to pass the time-for the telegraphic message had duly arrived, and Nugent was hourly expected-sprang from her chair, and exclaimed

"There he is !"

The other ladies also rose and looked at each other with some excitement of manner. But Mrs. Grierson, being a surgeon's lady, thought it her duty to exhibit cool presence of mind and a sound judgment. She left the room, trembling all over, and exclaiming, with a palsied shake of the head meant for a gesture of stern decision—

"I must run down and stop him, or he will be rushing upstairs to see Gertrude !"

Now, it so happened that the surgeon himself was at that moment paying a little visit to Gertrude, to keep her mind occupied; she too being, as may be supposed, in a flutter of expectation, although the happier aspect of affairs had been only gradually revealed to her. The moment, then, that Mr. Grierson heard the bell, he extricated himself from the easy-chair in which he had been reclining, and stepping to the bedside, felt Gertrude's pulse, and, looking in her face, said, with surprising hilarity of manner

"Now, Mrs. Nugent, remember all I have been saying to you. Will you be a hard-headed, sensible woman, without hysterics or any of that nonsense, if I allow Nugent to see you? Eh, Mrs. Nugent?"

Gertrude smiled assent, and the doctor vanished.

Meantime a subdued altercation was going on in the passage below between Nugent and Mrs. Grierson.

"Dear sir," exclaimed the latter, in a voice meant to be solemn, but fast verging on the hysterical, "My heart bleeds to cause you this disappointment. But you must not see her! As a surgeon's wife, I say so. My heart"

"But," remonstrated Nugent, "I will not stay two minutes in the room

"My heart bleeds for you, dear Mr. Nugent; it does indeed! But I cannot permit it. As a surgeon's wife, I cannot. Any message, dear Mr. Nugent," continued Mrs. Grierson, with her eyes full of tears-" any message I will convey, but see her you must not, you cannot

"Pooh, nonsense!" exclaimed a good-humoured voice from above. "Come up, Mr. Nugent, directly. Your good lady is expecting you."

And Mr. Grierson's face peered down through the banisters of the stairs over their heads, smiling as if he had perpetrated some excellent practical joke, and was watching the result of it.

"Don't stay more than a quarter of an hour," he added, as