"I thought—that is, I supposed—I hoped there might be some indication in them

I am sorry

if

I have troubled you unnecessarily. He belonged to a good family, and I imagined I might perhaps have but it doesn't matter. If that is what

reclaimed

you think

"Oh yes, I see," said Mr Brownlow; "you can leave them, and perhaps another time

But as

it is, if you feel inclined, my groom can drive you down to-morrow morning. I am not sure that I shall be going myself; and I will not detain you any longer to-night."

"Very well, sir," said Powys. He stood for a moment looking for something more-for some possible softening; but no word of kindness came except an abrupt good-night. Good-night-yes, good-night to everything-hope, love, happiness, fortune. Farewell to them all; and Sara, she who had almost seemed to belong to him. It seemed to Powys as if he was walking on his own heart as he left the room, trampling on it, stamping it down, crying Fool, fool! Poor fellow, no doubt he had been a fool; but it was a hard awakening, and the fault, after all, was not his own.

Mr Brownlow, however, was too much occupied with his own deliverance to think of Powys. He said that new name over to himself again and again,

name.

to realise what had happened. Mary ChristianMary Christian-surely he had heard it before; but so long as it was not Phoebe Thomson what did it matter who was his mother? Not Phoebe Thomson. She was dead perhaps―dead, and in a day or two more it would not matter. Two days, that was all -for it was now October. She might turn up a week hence if she would; but now he was freequite free; without any wrong-doing or harm to anybody; Brownlows and everything else his own. Could it be true? Mary Christian, that was the And she came from the Isle of Man. But there was plenty of time to inquire into all that. The thing in the mean time was that he was released. When he got up and roused himself he found he could scarcely stand. He had been steady enough during all the time of his trial; but the sudden relief took all his forces from him. He shook from head to foot, and had to hold by the tables and chairs as he went out. And he left the lamp burning in forlorn dreariness on the library table. The exertion of walking up-stairs was almost too much for him. He had no attention to give to the common things surrounding him. All his powers, all his senses were absorbed in the one sensation of being free. Only once as he went up-stairs did his ordinary faculties return to him, as it were, for a moment.

It was when he was passing the great window in the staircase, and glancing out saw the white moonlight glimmering over all the park, and felt the cold of the night. Then it occurred to him to wonder if the pale old woman whom he had seen getting into the carrier's cart could be travelling through this cold night. Poor old soul! He could not but think for the moment how chilly and frozen it would be. And then he bethought himself that he was safe, might go where he liked, do what he liked, had nobody menacing him, no enemy looking on to watch an opportunity and no harm done! Thus Mr Brownlow paused in the weakness of deliverance, and his heart melted within him. He made not vows to the saints, of new churches or big tapers, but secret, tender resolutions in his heart. For this awful danger escaped, how should he show his gratitude to God? He was himself delivered, and goodness seemed to come back to him, his natural impulse. He had been saved from doing wrong, and without doing wrong all he wanted had been secured to him. What reason had not he to be good to everybody; to praise God by serving his neighbour? This was the offering of thanksgiving he proposed to render. He did not at the moment think of young Powys sitting at his window looking out on the same moonlight, very dumb and motionless and heartstricken, thinking life hence

forward a dreary desert. No harm was done, and Mr Brownlow was glad. But it did not occur to him to offer any healing in Powys's case. If there was to be a victim at all, it was best that he should

be the victim. Had he not brought it on himself?

VOL. III.

F

CHAPTER XXXV.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR.

Powys was proud, and his pride was up in arms. He slept little that night, and while he sat and brooded over it all, the hopelessness and folly of his hope struck him with tenfold distinctness. Early next morning, before any one was up, he came down the great silent staircase, and left the house in the morning sunshine. The distance to Masterton was nothing to him. It was the second time he had left the house with despair in his heart. It would be the last time, he said to himself as he paused to look up at the closed windows; he would never suffer himself to be deluded—never be led away by deceptive hopes again; and he went away, not without bitterness, yet with a certain stern sense of the inevitable which calmed down his passion. Whenever he had been in his right senses, he had felt that this must be the end; and the thing for him now was to bear