and natural manner came behind his chair, put a hand on each shoulder, and called him 'dear.'

Mr. Gayre thought of this experience with a shudder. He recalled the sudden chill her action had sent through him, and earnestly trusted the good generous soul felt nothing of the deadly tremor which for a moment turned his strength into weakness.

He could not draw back now. In honour, in common honesty, he was forced to go on. As long as he could make the woman who trusted him happy and content, what did it signify how wretched he felt? He had been placed in a sore strait; on the one side lay the Scylla. of poverty, on the other the Charybdis of an uncongenial marriage.

Matrimony was the only interest Mrs. Jubbins would have accepted and that he could have offered for the use of her fortune. Yes, looking back he could see no other course possible for him to pursue. Given that he dared not face bankruptcy, no resource remained but to marry the relict of Mr. Jubbins. The position did not bear thinking about; so, deciding not to think about it, Mr. Gayre put aside his papers and started for Chislehurst.

He found Mrs. Jubbins arrayed in a very pretty summer dress, which did not become her in the least. Susan or his niece would have looked lovely in it; but the soft flow of the light material, and the cunning interlacing of delicate colours, were death to Mrs. Jubbins' mature charms. Nevertheless, he had to say something about her attire, and he spoke a few words of compliment with such grace as he could assume. That was the first event of an afternoon he will never forget as long as he keeps his memory. From the first moment things went on steadily

chafing his spirit, and indeed inducing such a state of irritability that, finally addressing one of Mrs. Jubbins' young people in a tone of sharp decision, he said, 'Don't be so rude, sir! Mrs. Jubbins' offspring were, as a rule, extremely rude, but no one had ever ventured to tell them so before; and the lad stared at the banker ere, turning on his heel, he walked out of the room, whistling defiantly.

Mrs. Jubbins looked at Mr. Gayre, and Mr. Gayre looked at Mrs. Jubbins, but neither spoke. The boy had been offensively impertinent; even a mother's partiality couldn't deny that fact. Mr. Gayre regretted his hasty speech, but felt he ought not to apologise. He waited for Mrs. Jubbins to make some remark, but, to his surprise and relief, she took no verbal notice of what had occurred. Instead, she began to talk of The Warren, and her wish to return to town.

'I have been thinking,' she said, 'that I should like to take a house somewhere in the Kensington direction. I do not care much for Palace Gardens, though the houses there are good, and of course it is nice to look out on the Park. I prefer Campden Hill. I really do not think I should object to Campden Hill.'

You have quite decided, then, not to return to Brunswick Square?

'Quite; the neighbourhood, you see, has so altered its character. Besides, the lease has not long to run; and I feel sure Mr. Motten would be glad to take it for the remainder of my term.'

'And I had a letter this morning from an old Indian friend, who is coming home on leave for eighteen months, asking me to look out for a place for him within twelve miles of town.

The Warren would, I know, suit him exactly.'

'I am so glad. I have taken it on for another year; and I should not like to be under two rents.'

'That is a thing to be avoided, certainly; and then there ensued another silence. Mr. Gayre felt he was spending a very quiet afternoon indeed.

'Shall we take a turn through the grounds?' asked Mrs. Jubbins; the gardens are looking beautiful. As Mrs. Gibson was saying only yesterday, they do Holditch very great credit indeed.'

As he had observed a score of times before, Mr. Gayre again. observed there could be no doubt but that Holditch understood his business.

I must just get a parasol, so we may as well go through the hall;' and accordingly they passed through the hall, where Mr. Gayre had seen Susan sitting amongst the flowers on that night which seemed so long and long ago.

As though she had known of what he was thinking, Mrs. Jubbins, directly they got upon the gravelled walk leading down the hill-side on which the gardens lay, began,

young man; and what can be in store for her but misery? Nobody will ever believe in his innocence; and even supposing he had been innocent when he was sent to that dreadful place, how can he be fit for any nice woman to associate with after living among thieves and murderers and, as Deputy Pettell calls them, the very scum of the population?'

'I do not think we need discuss that question again,' suggested Mr. Gayre, who had heard it discussed till he was tired.

'Then they have SO little money; nothing, I assure you, but the trifle she has left out of her own small fortune.'

'They have a great deal of love, though.'

'But, good gracious, people can't live entirely on love! And, after all, I am afraid, though I did not say so to her, there is much more love on the one side than on the other. I shall never feel quite satisfied about that business of Miss Colvend. he had not paid attentions to the young lady, of course she would never have thought of getting so violently fond of him.'

If

'You must understand such matters better than I,' said Mr. Gayre humbly.

And I have not patience with his folly in refusing to accept compensation from Mr. Colvend. He says it would look as if he were being bought off--like taking hush-money. So ridiculous! "He ought to take all he can for your sake, my dear," I told her; but she wouldn't see it. Her cousin means to try and get him an appointment; but I suppose he can only expect some paltry salary.'

'I rejoice to hear she is looking well and happy.'

Yes; but I am afraid that won't last. She spoke very gratefully about you, though not so

gratefully as I consider she ought, considering the enormous trouble you gave yourself over Mr. Dane's affair.'

'I only wish I had been able to do more, and do it sooner,' he answered. Ah, there goes Ah, there goes Joshua! Did you see how he turned back the moment he saw us? He hasn't forgiven me yet for telling him not to be rude.'

'No, poor boy; you see, my children have never been spoken to in that way.'

'If you really think I went beyond the limit of what I ought to have said, I suppose I ought to apologise.'

'No, no; don't think of such a thing,' said Mrs. Jubbins hurriedly. You did not mean to vex me; only-only-you scarcely understand-you have not been accustomed to young people, and, besides-'

He looked at her inquiringly, as she paused and coloured violently.

'I fear I have annoyed you even more than I thought,' he said. Believe me, I had not the slightest idea my remark would wound you in any way. I am very sorry. You know, if there be one person in the world whose feelings I should consider more than another, that person is yourself.'

She made a little sign to ask him to stop; then, all of a sudden, turning and beginning to retrace her steps, she murmured, in a voice so low he could scarcely catch her tones,

Let

'I want to speak to you. us go and sit under the ash-trees; we shall not be interrupted there.'

Mr. Gayre assented, wondering greatly. He had not understood an inexplicable change in her manner, which he noticed from the first moment she greeted him. What could she be going to say?

He racked his brain to imagine what had happened.

Afterwards he remembered each detail of that interview, could recall the way the sunbeams lay athwart the road, could see the trembling of the leaves, feel again the touch of the gentle wind which lightly swayed the branches; but just at that moment all sense of observation seemed swallowed up in amazement.

'It is no use beating about the bush,' she began; and her voice was not quite steady. I will tell you at once what I have been thinking. We must never marry -our engagement must end.' 'Why?' he asked.

The last two months have been very pleasant to me,' she went on, unheeding his question; 'one week out of them, I may say, was the happiest in all my life. When I look back I can never remember a time when I did not care for you; when I was a girl you were the hero of my imagination, the ideal man of all my girlish dreams.'

He was about to speak; but she laid her hand on his, as a token she did not want him to do so.

I

'When I was left a widow, and my mother told me your father wished you and me to marry, felt life almost too happy; I forgot my dead husband and all he had done for me and mine, and thought of you, and you only. I am not ashamed to tell you this now,' she proceeded, after the slightest break, because it is all past and done with; we will, I hope, be good friends for ever; but I have thought matters over, and know it is best we should be nothing more.'

May I again ask you why-I shall not try to influence your decision; but if not disagreeable, I wish you would tell me the

causes which have induced you to arrive at it?'

'I will tell you as well as I can. First of all, the conviction has been growing upon me for a long time that we were unfitted for each other-it is no sudden fancy of mine-that we should never be quite happy together. You have your notions, and I have mine; and we could not make them agree. Even in upholstery, the things I like you don't like; and it is the same in other matters. That we might get over, though; but what I could never get reconciled to is that you do not care for mereally. If you ever had cared for me you would have said so, years ago'

6

Passionate attachment,' he urged, can perhaps scarcely be expected from a man of my age; but-'

'Yes, I understand all that,' she interrupted; but I should not feel satisfied. I know now why at times lately I have been so unsettled and miserable-yes, miserable even while I believed myself happy; but there is more still. I have yet another reason-'

'I must indeed be a heinous criminal,' he remarked, with a faint smile.

No,' she said, 'you are not to blame at all; the fault is entirely my own. I have no right to marry-anybody. My husband left me in charge of a great trust, and I ought to try to be worthy of it. How could I do justice to his children and to you? I never thought of marrying anybody but you, and I shall never think of marrying again. I mean to live for my sons and my daughters, and to be what your father once said I was a faithful steward.'

It is perhaps quite as well, then, that I spoke to Joshua as I

did to-day; otherwise you might not have found out your duty till it was too late,' said Mr. Gayre.

'Yes, I should. I had found it out, and what do you think showed it to me?'

'I would really rather not hazard any conjecture.'

'Miss Drummond.'

'Why, what did she say?'

'She said nothing-except two words. I'll tell you how it happened. When we were talking together, and she was speaking about how happy she was, I could not help telling her I was very happy too. I forgot for the moment you and I had agreed to let no one know how affairs stood for the present, and I went on, “I am going to marry a man I have loved all my life; your friend Mr. Gayre." I assure you, it slipped out quite accidentally.'

Yes, and then-'

She repeated "Mr. Gayre!" just like that, in an incredulous sort of tone, yet still as if she were shocked; and I shall never forget the look in her face, like some one who could scarcely believe her ears. Then she recovered herself, and said prettily she wished us all sorts of happiness; but the way she cried out "Mr. Gayre!" and her startled expression, have haunted me ever since. I could not close my eyes last night, I felt so wretched; and then, when you spoke to Joshua as you did, I knew it was best we should consider everything at an end. As for the money, don't trouble yourself about that-keep it as long as you like I always knew you would not wrong me or my children of a penny; but lending money is one thing and marrying another. And now say you are not angry with me, and that we shall never cease to be friends?'

'Mrs. Jubbins, I never respect

ed or admired you so much as I do at this moment, and I shall always be your devoted friend,' said Mr. Gayre; and it is only right to add he spoke from his heart.

'Relief!' Was that any word to express the load taken from his heart? As he returned to town that night he felt very humble, very penitent, very thankful. 'Heaven has been more merciful to me than I deserve,' he thought; and who can deny but that there was a considerable amount of truth in the observation?

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CONCLUSION.

WHITSUNTIDE, 1877. May once again, for the third time since that morning when Mr. Gayre stood beside the railings in Hyde Park, and watched Margaret Chelston's meeting with the fairest of fair women.'

London was virtually deserted. On the previous Saturday London had despatched her hundreds, and tens of hundreds-her millions, indeed-into the quiet country, to the seashore, and the Continent. On Monday morning there was not a street, situated in as low and poor neighbourhood a district visitor could name, but found means to raise enough money to charter some sort of conveyance, and proceed behind wretched horses, that must long previously have learned to curse the sound of a cornopean, to such places of resort as represent fun and fashion to the excursionist mind. The great metropolis was like a city of the dead. Round and about the Royal Exchange many commercial corpses lay awaiting burial; but the ceremony being compulsorily delayed till after Bank Holiday,

the men whose cheques and bills had been dishonoured were waiting in suburban villas and great West End mansions for some miracle to happen in the interval which should enable them to begin the struggle of business life afresh on the Tuesday following Pentecost.

In the streets scarcely a human being was to be met with. Cabmen, recognising a possible fare afar off, hailed him with effusion; a few country cousins wandered four abreast along the pavements without getting shouldered' for their pains; lads who had no pennies wherewith to pay train or tram fares tied white woollen scarves tightly round their throats, and started to walk for the nearest places where sticklebacks could be fished for, or the pleasing sport witnessed of starved donkeys being thrashed by brutes armed with heavy sticks. Scarce a soul was abroad. The better classes who were forced to remain in town kept close within doors; on the railways all distinctions of class were virtually abolished; it was possible to walk from Temple Bar to Ludgate Circus down the middle of the horse-road; the West End conveyed a pleasing impression of rustic seclusion; men walked to their clubs as if a large balance of the seventy allotted years remained in which to stroll along the shady side of the street; in the home counties rhododendrons and early roses, hawthorn, laburnum, lilac, a thousand wild flowers-yellow buttercups, meekeyed daisies, springing grass-girt London round with a natural belt of emerald green, gemmed by a thousand stars of divine hues, such as no astronomer, no jeweller, ever, out of his own consciousness, could have imagined.

In the hedgerows, by the wayside, flowers were springing, bloom