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“I’m not so sure of that, my good fellow. Men are seldom sentenced to the galleys for light offences; and I ‘d like to know something of the man I’m called on to befriend.”

“I make you the same answer I gave before – the story would take more time than I have well strength for. Do you know,” said he, earnestly, and in a voice of touching significance, “it is twenty-eight hours since I have tasted food?”

L’Estrange leaned forward in his chair, like one expecting to hear more, and eager to catch the words aright; and then rising, walked over to the rail where the prisoner stood. “You have not told me your name,” said he, in a voice of kindly meaning.

“I have been called Sam Rogers for some time back; and I mean to be Sam Rogers a little longer.”

“But it is not your real name?” asked L’Estrange, eagerly.

The other made no reply for some seconds; and then, moving his hand carelessly through his hair, said, in a half-reckless way, “I declare, sir, I can’t see what you have to do with my name, whether I be Sam Rogers, or – or – anything else I choose to call myself. To you – I believe, at least – to you I am simply a distressed British sailor.”

“And you are Jack Bramleigh?” said L’Estrange, in a low tone, scarcely above a whisper, while he grasped the sailor’s hands, and shook them warmly.

“And who are you?” said Jack, in a voice shaken and faltering.

“Don’t you know me, my poor dear fellow? Don’t you remember George L’Estrange?”

What between emotion and debility, this speech unmanned him so that he staggered back a couple of paces, and sank down heavily, not fainting, but too weak to stand, too much overcome to utter.

CHAPTER LVI. AT LADY AUGUSTA’S

“The Count Pracontal, my Lady,” said a very grave-looking groom of the chambers, as Lady Augusta sat watching a small golden squirrel swinging by his tail from the branch of a camellia tree.

“Say I am engaged, Hislop – particularly engaged. I do not receive – or, wait; tell him I am much occupied, but if he is quite sure his visit shall not exceed five minutes, he may come in.”

Count Pracontal seemed as though the permission had reached his own ears, for he entered almost immediately, and, bowing deeply and deferentially, appeared to wait leave to advance further into the room.

“Let me have my chocolate, Hislop;” and, as the man withdrew, she pointed to a chair, and said, “There. When did you come back?”

Pracontal, however, had dropped on his knee before her, and pressed her hand to his lips with a fervid devotion, saying, “How I have longed and waited for this moment!”

“I shall ring the bell, sir, if you do not be seated immediately. I asked when you returned?”

“An hour ago, my Lady – less than an hour ago. I did not dare to write; and then I wished to be myself the bearer of my own good news.”

“What good news are these?”

“That I have, if not won my suit, secured the victory. The registries have been discovered – found in the very spot indicated in the journal. The entries are complete; and nothing is wanting to establish the legality of the marriage. Oh, I entreat you, do not listen to me so coldly! You know well for what reason I prize this success. You know well what gives its brightest lustre in my eyes.”

“Pray be narrative now – the emotional can be kept for some other time. Who says that this means success?”

“My lawyer, Mr. Kelson. He calls the suit won. He proves his belief, for he has advanced me money to pay off my debt to Longworth, and to place me in a position of ease and comfort.”

“And what is Kelson; is he one of the judges?”

“Of course not. He is one of the leading solicitors of London; a very grave, thoughtful, cautious man. I have shown you many of his letters. You must remember him.”

“No; I never remember people; that is, if they have not personally interested me. I think you have grown thin. You look as if you had been ill.”

“I have fretted a good deal, – worried myself; and my anxiety about you has made me sleepless and feverish.”

“About me! Why, I was never better in my life.”

“Your looks say as much; but I meant my anxiety to lay my tidings at your feet, and with them myself and my whole future.”

“You may leave the chocolate there, Hislop,” as the man entered with the tray; “unless Count Pracontal would like some.”

“Thanks, my Lady,” said he, bowing his refusal.

“You are wrong, then,” said she, as the servant withdrew. “Hislop makes it with the slightest imaginable flavor of the cherry laurel; and it is most soothing. Is n’t he a love?”

“Hislop?”

“No, my darling squirrel yonder. The poor dear has been ill these two days. He bit Sir Marcus Guff, and that horrid creature seems to have disagreed with the darling, for he has pined ever since. Don’t caress him; he hates men, except Monsignore Alberti, whom, probably, he mistakes for an old lady. And what becomes of all the Bramleighs – are they left penniless?”

“By no means. I do not intend to press my claim farther than the right to the estates. I am not going to proceed for – I forget the legal word – the accumulated profits. Indeed, if Mr. Bramleigh be only animated by the spirit I have heard attributed to him, there is no concession that I am not disposed to make him.”

“What droll people Frenchmen are! They dash their morality, like their cookery, with something discrepant. They fancy it means ‘piquancy.’ What, in the name of all romance, have you to do with the Bramleighs? Why all this magnanimity for people who certainly have been keeping you out of what was your own, and treating your claim to it as a knavery?”

“You might please to remember that we are related.”

“Of course you are nothing of the kind. If you be the true prince, the others must be all illegitimate a couple of generations back. Perhaps I am imbittered against them by that cruel fraud practised on myself. I cannot bring myself to forgive it. Now, if you really were that fine generous creature you want me to believe, it is of me, of me, Lady Augusta Bramleigh, you would be thinking all this while: how to secure me that miserable pittance they called my settlement; how to recompense me for the fatal mistake I made in my marriage; how to distinguish between the persons who fraudulently took possession of your property, and the poor harmless victim of their false pretensions.”

“And is not this what I am here for? Is it not to lay my whole fortune at your feet?”

“A very pretty phrase, that does n’t mean anything like what it pretends; a phrase borrowed from a vaudeville, and that ought to be restored to where it came from.”

“Lord and Lady Culduff, my Lady, wish to pay their respects.”

“They are passing through,” said Lady Augusta, reading the words written in pencil on the card presented by the servant. “Of course I must see them. You need n’t go away, Count; but I shall not present you. Yes, Hislop, tell her Ladyship I am at home. I declare, you are always compromising me. Sit over yonder, and read your newspaper, or play with Felice.”

She had barely finished these instructions when the double door was flung wide, and Marion swept proudly in. Her air and toilet were both queenlike; and, indeed, her beauty was not less striking than either. Lord Culduff followed, a soft pleasant smile on his face. It might do service in many ways, for it was equally ready to mean sweetness or sarcasm, as occasion called for.

When the ladies had kissed twice, and his Lordship had saluted Lady Augusta with a profound respect, dashed with a sort of devotion, Marion’s eyes glanced at the stranger, who, though he arose, and only reseated himself as they sat down, neither lifted his glance nor seemed to notice them further.

“We are only going through; we start at two o’clock,” said she, hurriedly.

“At one-forty, my Lady,” said Lord Culduff, with a faint smile, as though shocked at being obliged to correct her.

“It was so kind of you to come,” said Lady Augusta; “and you only arrived this morning?”

“We only arrived half an hour ago.”

“I must order you some lunch. I’m sure you can eat something.”

“My Lady is hungry; she said so as we came along,” said Lord Culduff. “Allow me to ring for you. As for myself, I take Liebig’s lozenges and a spoonful of Curaçoa – nothing else – before dinner.”

“It’s so pleasant to live with people who are ‘dieted,’” said Marion, with a sneering emphasis on the word.

“So I hear from Bramleigh,” interposed Lord Culduff, “that this man – I forget his name – actually broke into the house at Casteilo, and carried away a quantity of papers.”

“My Lord, as your Lordship is so palpably referring to me, and as I am quite sure you are not aware of my identity, may I hasten to say I am Count Pracontal de Bramleigh?”

“Oh, dear! have I forgotten to present you?” said Lady Augusta, with a perfect simplicity of manner.

Marion acknowledged the introduction by the slightest imaginable bow, and a look of cold defiance; while Lord Culduff smiled blandly, and professed his regret if he had uttered a word that could occasion pain.

“Love and war are chartered libertines, and why not law?” said the Viscount. “I take it that all stratagems are available; the great thing is, they should be successful.”

“Count Pracontal declares that he can pledge himself to the result,” said Lady Augusta. “The case, in fact, as he represents it, is as good as determined.”

“Has a jury decided, then?” asked Culduff.

“No, my Lord; the trial comes on next term. I only repeat the assurance given me by my lawyer; and so far confirmed by him that he has made me large advances, which he well knows I could not repay if I should not gain my cause.”

“These are usually cautious people,” said the Viscount, gravely.

“It strikes me,” said Marion, rising, “that this sort of desultory conversation on a matter of such importance is, to say the least, inconvenient. Even the presence of this gentleman is not sufficient to make me forget that my family have always regarded his pretension as something not very far from a fraud.”

“I regret infinitely, madam,” said Pracontal, bowing low, “that it is not a man has uttered the words just spoken.”

“Lady Culduff’s words, sir, are all mine,” said Lord Culduff.

“I thank your Lordship from my heart for the relief you have afforded me.”

“There must be nothing of this kind,” said Lady Augusta, warmly. “If I have been remiss in not making Count Pracontal known to you before, let me repair my error by presenting him now as a gentleman who makes me the offer of his hand.”

“I wish you good-morning,” said Marion. “No, thank you; no luncheon. Your Ladyship has given me fully as much for digestion as I care for. Good-bye.”

“If my congratulations could only shadow forth a vision of all the happiness I wish your Ladyship,” began Lord Culduff.

“I think I know, my Lord, what you would say,” broke she in, laughingly. “You would like to have uttered something very neat on well-assorted unions. There could be no better authority on such a subject; but Count Pracontal is toleration itself: he lets me tell my friends that I am about to marry him for money, just as I married poor Colonel Bramleigh for love.”

“I am waiting for you, my Lord. We have already trespassed too far on her Ladyship’s time and occupations.” The sneering emphasis on the last word was most distinct. Lord Culduff kissed Lady Augusta’s hand with a most devoted show of respect, and slowly retired.

As the door closed after them, Pracontal fell at her feet, and covered her hand with kisses.

“There, there, Count, I have paid a high price for that piece of impertinence I have just uttered; but when I said it, I thought it would have given her an apoplexy.”

“But you are mine, – you are my own!”

“Noud en parlerons. The papers are full of breaches of promise; and if you want me to keep mine, you ‘ll not make it odious to me by tormenting me about it.”

“But, my Lady, I have a heart; a heart that would be broken by a betrayal.”

“What a strange heart for a Frenchman! About as suitable to the Boulevards Italiens as snow shoes to the tropics. Monsieur de Pracontal,” said she, in a much graver tone, “please to bear in mind that I am a very considerable item in such an arrangement as we spoke of. The whole question is not what would make you happy.”

Pracontal bowed low in silence; his gesture seemed to accept her words as a command to be obeyed, and he did not utter a syllable.

“Is n’t she handsome?” cried she, at length. “I declare, Count, if one of your countrywomen had a single one of the charms of that beautiful face she ‘d be turning half the heads in Europe; and Marion can do nothing with them all, except drive other women wild with envy.”

CHAPTER LVII. AT THE INN AT CATTARO

When L’Estrange had carried off Jack Bramleigh to the inn, and had seen him engaged with an excellent breakfast, he despatched a messenger to the villa to say that he was not to be expected home by dinner time, but would be back to tea “with a friend,” for whom he begged Gusty Bramleigh’s room might be prepared.

I shall not delay to chronicle all the doubt, the discussion, and the guessing that the note occasioned; the mere fact that George had ventured to issue an order of this kind without first consulting Julia investing the step with a degree of mysteriousness perfectly inscrutable. I turn, however, to Cattaro, where L’Estrange and Jack sat together, each so eager to hear the other’s tidings as to be almost too impatient to dwell upon himself.

To account for their presence in this remote spot, George, as briefly as he could, sketched the course of events at Castello, not failing to lay due stress on the noble and courageous spirit with which Augustus and Nelly had met misfortune. “All is not lost yet,” said L’Estrange; “far from it; but even if the worst should come, I do not know of two people in the world who will show a stouter front to adversity.”

“And your sister, where is she?” said Jack, in a voice scarce above a whisper.

“Here, – at the villa.”

“Not married?”

“No. I believe she has changed less than any of us. She is just what you remember her.”

It was not often that L’Estrange attempted anything like adroitness in expression; but he did so here, and saw, in the heightened color and sparkling eye of the other, how thoroughly his speech had succeeded.

“I wonder will she know me!” said Jack, after a pause. “You certainly did not at first.”

“Nor, for that matter, did you recognize me.”

“Ah, but I did, though,” said Jack, passing his hand over his brow; “but I had gone through so much, and my head was so knocked about, I could n’t trust that my senses were not deceiving me, and I thought if I make any egregious blunder now, these people will set me down for mad. That was the state I was in the whole time you were questioning me. I promise you it was no small suffering while it lasted.”

“My poor fellow, what trials you must have gone through to come to this! Tell me by what mischance you were at Ischia.”

With all a sailor’s frankness, and with a modesty in speaking of his own achievements just as sailor-like, Jack told the story of the storm at Naples.

“I had no thought of breaking the laws,” said he, bluntly. “I saw ships foundering, and small craft turning keel uppermost on every side of me; there was disaster and confusion everywhere. I had no time to inquire about the morals of the men I saw clinging to hencoops, or holding on by stretchers. I saved as many as I could, and sorry enough I was to have seen many go down before I could get near them; and I was fairly beat when it was all over, or, perhaps, they ‘d not have captured me so easily. At all events,” said he, after a minute’s silence, “they might have let me off with a lighter sentence, but my temper got the better of me in court, and when they asked me if it was not true that I had made greater efforts to save the galley-slaves than the soldiery, I told them it might have been so, for the prisoners, chained and handcuffed, as they were, went down like brave men, while the royal troops yelled and screamed like a set of arrant cowards; and that whenever I pulled one of the wretches out of the water I was half ashamed of my own humanity. That speech settled me; at least, the lawyer said so, and declared he was afraid to say a word more in defence of a man that insulted the tribunal and the nation together.”

“And what was your sentence?”

“Death, – commuted to the galleys for life; worse than any death! It’s not the hardship or the labor, I mean. A sailor goes through more downright hard work on a blowy night than these fellows do in a year. It is the way a man brutalizes when vice and crime make up the whole atmosphere of his life. The devil has a man’s heart all his own, whenever hope deserts it, and you want to do wickedness just because it is wickedness. For three weeks before I made my escape, it was all I could do not to dash the turnkey’s brains out when he made his night round. I told my comrade – the man I was chained to – what I felt; and he said, ‘We all go through that at first; but when you ‘re some years here you ‘ll not care for that or anything.’ I believe it was the terror of coming to that condition made me try to escape. I don’t know that I ever felt the same ecstasy of delight that I felt as I found myself swimming in that fresh cold sea in the silence of a calm starry night. I ‘m sure it will be a memory that will last my lifetime. I thought of you all, – I thought of long ago, of our happy evenings; and I pictured to my mind the way we used to sit around the fire, and I wondered what had become of my place. Was I ever remembered? Was I spoken of? Could it be that at that very moment some one was asking, where was poor Jack? And how I wished you might all know that my last thoughts were upon you; that it was the dear old long ago was before me to the last. I was seventeen hours in the water. When they picked me up I was senseless from a sun-stroke; for the corks floated me long after I gave up swimming. I was so ill when I landed that I went to hospital; but there was little care given to the sick, and I left it when I was able to walk, and came on here. Talk of luck; but I ask you was there ever such a piece of fortune befell a man?”

L’Estrange could not speak as he gazed on the poor fellow, over whose worn and wasted features joy had lighted up a look of delight that imparted an almost angelic elevation to his face.

“But can I go back like this?” asked he, sorrowfully, as he looked down at his ragged clothes and broken shoes.

“I have thought of all that There is nothing to be had here ready but Montenegrin costume, so the landlord tells me, and you will have to figure in something very picturesque.”

“Cannot I get a sailor’s jacket and trousers?”

“Aye, of Dalmatian cut and color; but they ‘ll not become you as well as that green velvet attila and the loose hose of the mountaineer. Try if you can’t take a sleep now; and when you awake you ‘ll find your new rig in that room yonder, where there ‘s a bath ready for you. I ‘ll go down the town, meanwhile, and do a few commissions, and we will set out homewards when you ‘re rested.”

“I wish it was over,” said Jack, with a sigh.

“Wish what was over?”

“I mean I wish the shock was over, – the shock of seeing me such an object as I am. Sickness changes a man quite enough, but there’s worse than that, George. I know what this rough life of mine must have made of me. You won’t say it, old fellow, but I see it in your sad face all the same. I am – say it out, man – I am a most disreputable-looking blackguard!”

“I declare, on my honor, that, except the ravages of illness, I see no change in you, whatever.”

“Look here,” said Jack, as his voice trembled with a peculiar agitation, “I ‘ll see Nelly first. A man’s sister can never be ashamed of him, come what will. If Nelly shows – and she ‘s not one to hide it – that – no matter, I ‘ll not say more about it. I see you ‘re not pleased with me laying stress on such a matter.”

“No, no, you wrong me, Jack; you wrong me altogether. My poor fellow, we never were – we never had such good reason to be proud of you as now. You are a hero, Jack. You’ve done what all Europe will ring with.”

“Don’t talk balderdash; my head is weak enough already. If you ‘re not ashamed of the tatterdemalion that comes back to you, it’s more than I deserve. There, now, go off, and do your business, and don’t be long, for I ‘m growing very impatient to see them. Give me something to smoke till you come back, and I ‘ll try and be calm and reasonable by that time.”

If L’Estrange had really anything to do in the town he forgot all about it, and trotted about from street to street, so full of Jack and his adventures that he walked into apple-stalls and kicked over egg-baskets amid the laughter and amusement of the people.

If he had told no more than the truth in saying that Jack was still like what he had been, there were about him signs of suffering and hardship that gave a most painful significance to his look; and more painful than even these was the poor fellow’s consciousness of his fallen condition. The sudden pauses in speaking, the deep sigh that would escape him, the almost bitter raillery he used when speaking of himself, all showed how acutely he felt his altered state.

L’Estrange was in nowise prepared for the change half an hour had made in Jack’s humor. The handsome dress of Montenegro became him admirably, and the sailor-like freedom of his movements went well with the easy costume. “Isn’t this a most appropriate transformation, George?” he cried out “I came in here looking like a pickpocket, and I go out like a stage bandit.”

“I declare, it becomes you wonderfully. I ‘ll wager the girls will not let you wear any other dress.”

“Ay, but my toilet is not yet completed. See what a gorgeous scarf I have got here – green and gold, and with a gold fringe that will reach to my boots; and the landlord insists on lending me his own silver-mounted sabre. I say, old fellow, have you courage to go through the town with me?”

“You forget you are in the last fashion of the place; if they stare at you now, it will be approvingly.”

“What’s the distance? Are we to walk?”

“Walk or drive, as you like best. On foot we can do it in an hour.”

“On foot be it, then; for though I am very impatient to see them, I have much to ask you about.”

As they issued from the inn, it was, as L’Estrange surmised, to meet a most respectful reception from the townsfolk, who regarded Jack as a mountaineer chief of rank and station. They uncovered and made way for him as he passed; and from the women, especially, came words of flattering admiration at his handsome looks and gallant bearing.

“Are they commenting on the ass in the lion’s skin?” said Jack, in a sly whisper. “Is that what they are muttering to each other?”

“Quite the reverse. It is all in extravagant praise of you. The police are on the alert, too; they think there must be mischief brewing in the mountains, that has brought a great chief down to Cattaro.”

Thus, chatting and laughing, they gained the outskirts of the town, and soon found themselves on one of the rural paths which led up the mountain.

“Don’t think me very stupid, George, or very tiresome,” said Jack, “if I ask you to go over again what you told me this morning. Such strange things have befallen me of late that I can scarcely distinguish between fact and fancy. Now, first of all, have we lost Castello – and who owns it?”

“No. The question is yet to be decided; the trial will take place in about two months.”

“And if we are beaten, does it mean that we are ruined? Does it sweep away Marion and Nelly’s fortunes, too?”

“I fear so. I know little accurately, but I believe the whole estate is involved in the claim.”

“Gusty bears it well, you say?”

“Admirably. I never saw a man behave with such splendid courage.”

“I ‘ll not ask about Nelly, for I could swear for her pluck. She was always the best of us.”

If L’Estrange drank in this praise with ecstasy, he had to turn away his head, lest the sudden flush that covered his face should be observed.

“I have no wish to hear the story of this claim now; you shall tell it to me some other time. But just tell me, was it ever heard of in my father’s time?”

“I believe so. Your father knew of it, but did not deem it serious.”

“Marion, of course, despises it still; and what does Temple say?”

“One scarcely knows. I don’t think they have had a letter from him since they left Ireland.”

“See what a wise fellow I was!” cried he, laughing. “I sank so low in life that any change must be elevation. You are all great folks to me!”

There was a long and painful pause after this – each deep in his own thoughts. At last Jack asked suddenly, “How is Marion? Is she happy in her marriage?”

“We hear next to nothing of her; the newspapers tell us of her being at great houses and in fine company, but we know no more.”

“Of course she ‘s happy, then. When she was a child she would only play with us if we made her a queen; and though we often tried to rebel – we were great levellers in our way – she always kept us down, and whether we liked it or not, we had to admit the sovereignty.”

“Your younger sister” – he did not call her Nelly – “was not of this mould?”

“Not a bit of it; she was the peacemaker, always on the side of the weak; and though she was a delicate child, she ‘d fight against oppression with the passion of a tigress. Wasn’t it strange?” said he, after a pause. “There we were, five of us, treated and reared exactly alike; in early life, certainly, there were no distinctions made, nor any favoritism practised. We were of the same race and blood, and yet no two of us were alike. Temple had, perhaps, some sort of resemblance to Marion, but he had not her bold, daring spirit. Where she was courageous, he ‘d have been crafty. Whatever good there was amongst us, Nelly had it.”

Another and longer pause now succeeded. “I say, George,” cried Jack, at last, “how do you mean to break it to the girls that I ‘m here? I take it, poor Nelly’s nerves must have suffered sorely of late. Is she likely to stand a shock without injury?”

“It is exactly what I ‘m trying to resolve this moment. Flushed with the walk, and cheered by the fresh air, you don’t look sickly now.”

“Ah, my dear fellow, that’s not the worst of it. It is the sight of me as recalling my fallen fortune – that’s what I fear for her; her last good-bye to me was blended with joy at my promotion – I was going to take up my command! She has never seen me since my disgrace.”

“Don’t call it that, Jack; we all know there is no other blame attaches to you than rashness.”

“When rashness can make a man forget his condition, it’s bad enough; but I ‘ll not go back to these things. Tell me how I am to meet her.”

“Perhaps it would be best I should first see Julia, and tell her you are here. I always like to ask her advice.”

“I know that of old,” said Jack, with a faint smile.

“I ‘ll leave you in the summer-house at the end of the garden, there, till I speak with Julia.”

“Not very long, I hope.”

“Not an instant; she never requires a minute to decide on what to do. Follow me, now, along this path, and I ‘ll place you in your ambush. You ‘ll not leave it till I come.”

“What a lovely spot this seems; it beats Castello hollow!”

“So we say every day. We all declare we ‘d like to pass our lives here.”

“Let me be one of the party, and I ‘ll say nothing against the project,” said Jack, as he brushed through a hedge of sweet-brier, and descended a little slope, at the foot of which a shady summer-house stood guardian over a well. “Remember, now,” cried he, “not to tax my patience too far. I ‘ll give you ten minutes, but I won’t wait twenty.”

L’Estrange lost no time in hastening back to the house. Julia, he heard, was giving orders about the room for the stranger, and he found her actively engaged in the preparation. “For whom am I taking all this trouble, George?” said she, as he entered.

“Guess, Julia, guess! Whom would you say was best worth it?”

“Not Mr. Cutbill – whom Nelly fixed on – not Sir Marcus Cluff, whose name occurred to myself, nor even the Pretender, Count Pracontal; and now I believe I have exhausted the category of possible guests.”

“Not any of these,” said he, drawing her to his side. “Where is Nelly?”

“She went down to gather some roses.”

“Not in the lower garden, I hope,” cried he, eagerly.

“Wherever she could find the best – but why not there? and what do you mean by all this mystery?”

“Go and fetch her here at once,” cried he. “If she should see him suddenly, the shock might do her great harm.”

“See whom? see whom?” exclaimed she, wildly. “Don’t torture me this way!”

“Jack, her brother, – Jack Bramleigh,” and he proceeded to tell how he had found him, and in what condition; but she heard nothing of it all, for she had sunk down on a seat, and sat sobbing, with her hands over her face; then, suddenly wiping the tears away, she rose up, and, while her voice trembled with each word, she said, “Is he changed, George? is he greatly changed?”

“Changed! yes, for he has been ill, and gone through all manner of hardships, and now he is dressed like a Montenegro chief, for we could get no other clothes, so that you’ll scarcely know him.”

“Let us find Nelly at once,” said she, moving towards the door. “Come, George, – come,” and she was down the stairs, and across the hall, and out at the door, before he could follow her. In her agitated manner, and rapid expression, it was evident she was endeavoring to subdue the deep emotion of her heart, and, by seeming to be occupied, to suppress the signs of that blended joy and sorrow which rack the nature more fatally than downright misery.

“See, George, look there!” cried she, wildly, as she pointed down a straight alley, at the top of which they were standing. “There they are. Nelly has her arm round him. They have met, and it is all over;” and so saying, she hid her face on her brother’s shoulder, and sobbed heavily. Meanwhile, the two came slowly forward, too much engaged with each other to notice those in front of them.