sort of thing. I never could do it. It's only
fair to tell you. The girl's pining away. She
eats no more than a sparrow does. And I tell
you, Tillotson, it goes to my heart to see it, and
it would go to yours, too; and, before God, I
don't know what to do."

Mr. Tillotson said, in some agitation, " What
can I do? I feared this, and suspected it."

"Why should you fear it?" said the captain,
gloomily. " She's as bright as a jewel—too
good for any man; even for you. I shouldn't
tell you this. I think, if she knew it, the
creature would die. But you can't see her
wasting and pining. I can't bear to think of
her, as I saw her last night—I can't. And I
know it's hard upon you, too."

"But what would you have me do?" said
Mr. Tillotson, irresolutely. " No woman could
think of me. I have lived long enough to find
that out," he added, bitterly. " And, indeed, I
could make no woman happy."

"You don't know," said the captain, warming
and growing excited. " You could, I'll
swear. You'll make her happy. She'll make a
man of you — she'll worship the ground you
walk on—be your slave, and that sort of thing.
And see — see, Tillotson," added the captain,
with what seemed very marked meaning, " you
ought to: for you'll save her life! I tell you,
you will."

Mr. Tillotson's lip curled a little. " I know,
and hope I never shall forget the obligation to
which you allude. But——"

"Before Heaven, I never meant it," said the
captain, starting up in an agony. " I did not,
on my soul — only I don't know how to say
things. My dear friend, you must forgive
me. But when I think of this poor child last
night, I lose my wits. Do try," he added,
piteously, " and do something for her, and
you won't regret it. Tom Diamond tells you
so!"

Tom Diamond said no more then. He had
worked himself into a heat, and seemed to be
almost pleading for pardon for some act.

"I shouldn't have done this," he said, as he
went away. " I know I shouldn't. If she
knew it, I declare I believe she would drop
down and die! But I don't want to see her
miserable, and you miserable, Tillotson, all for
want of a little speaking out. If I knew how
to speak out and come round the point like some
of the clever fellows, I'd do it. But I never
was trained. You don't mind me, Tillotson
—do you?" he added, wistfully. " Only a
fogie, but a well-meaning fogie. And that
poor thing at home. I mean, it well for her,
Tillotson."

"My dear friend," Mr. Tillotson said, taking
his hand kindly, " I know you now by this time,
and all your goodness, and what a deep interest
you have taken in me — more than, indeed, I
deserve. The world is only too good to me;
and I suppose if I was but sensible enough to
meet it half way——Perhaps I am, as you
say, only shutting myself out from bright
gardens, and flowers, and paradise, and happiness.
Perhaps I might succeed in getting rid
of myself, or changing myself. And so I promise
you now that I will think seriously of what
you have said to me. But of course not a word
to——"

"As I am a living man—no!" said the captain,
fervently. " Indeed, no—not for the whole
world! This is noble of you, Tillotson. And
you send me away I can't tell you how happy."
And the captain limped down-stairs joyfully.
He went home, and was in great spirits for the
rest of the day. During dinner, laughed and
talked very cheerfully

The girl, with her flushed cheeks, sat
silently opposite. After dinner, when the
elder had gone to fetch the eternal work, she
stole over to him suddenly, and whispered,
"Don't mind what I said last night, while my
head was all confused. Promise me not to
think——"

"I will," said the captain, readily. " Honour
bright! There's my hand! Now!"

Thus the life went on. Gradually Tillotson got
into the habit of going to the captain's. The
sight of the faces there, the tone of that fireside,
tranquillised him. He began to find that he had
greater control over his mind, could find strength
to close the great gates against the past, and
keep the crowd of old images from rushing in
tumultuously as they did at home in his lonely
rooms. Not that he lost the image of the old
cathedral casket, and what it held. Did he dare
to open it and look in, the old perfume would
have poured in and intoxicated him and brought
back the old malady. Now he had a firmer
grasp of himself, could look more coldly and
even hopefully to the future. He hesitated a long
time, undecided.

A little incident at last decided him. He used
to have sent to him from the old cathedral town
the weekly paper of the place, the St. Alans
Courant, which seemed to revive for him its
flavour and colouring. Latterly (part of his new
programme), he had ordered it to be discontinued;
but they still sent it. His eye glanced
over it mechanically, but fell upon the word
"Marriage." Then he read, in the usual florid
language appropriate to such events, that it
"was rumoured that a lovely and accomplished
ward of one of the most influential gentlemen of
our town would shortly give her hand to a young
gentleman in the Company's service, also favourably
known to the citizens of St. Alans. Quod
faustum," added the local journal.

"Give her hand," repeated Mr. Tillotson.
"There is the last act, chapter and verse, too.
So be it: the age of self-sacrifice is over." He
longed to begin his new life. He was to go to
the captain's to dinner that evening. He thought
a good deal at intervals during the day, and
finally, when the hour was near, set off
hastily. He found the captain and his younger
niece waiting there. As usual, her face coloured
suddenly as he entered. He presently made a
sign to the captain, which that intelligent old
officer understood at once, and who, with some