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said the sole question was, whether it was maid, wife, or widow.

      "I'll go to her this evening," Mountfalcon resumed, after—to judge by the cast of his face—reflecting deeply. "I'll go to her this evening. She shall know what infernal torment she makes me suffer."

      "Do you mean to say she don't know it?"

      "Hasn't an idea—thinks me a friend. And so, by heaven! I'll be to her."

      "A—hm!" went the Honourable Peter. "This way to the sign of the Green

      Man, ladies!"

      "Do you want to be pitched out of the window, Brayder?"

      "Once was enough, Mount. The Salvage Man is strong. I may have forgotten the trick of alighting on my feet. There—there! I'll be sworn she's excessively innocent, and thinks you a disinterested friend."

      "I'll go to her this evening," Mountfalcon repeated. "She shall know what damned misery it is to see her in such a position. I can't hold out any longer. Deceit's horrible to such a girl as that. I'd rather have her cursing me than speaking and looking as she does. Dear little girl!– -she's only a child. You haven't an idea how sensible that little woman is."

      "Have you?" inquired the cunning one.

      "My belief is, Brayder, that there are angels among women," said

      Mountfalcon, evading his parasite's eye as he spoke.

      To the world, Lord Mountfalcon was the thoroughly wicked man; his parasite simply ingeniously dissipated. Full many a man of God had thought it the easier task to reclaim the Hon. Peter.

      Lucy received her noble friend by firelight that evening, and sat much in the shade. She offered to have the candles brought in. He begged her to allow the room to remain as it was. "I have something to say to you," he observed with a certain solemnity.

      "Yes—to me?" said Lucy, quickly.

      Lord Mountfalcon knew he had a great deal to say, but how to say it, and what it exactly was, he did not know.'

      "You conceal it admirably," he began, "but you must be very lonely here—

      I fear, unhappy."

      "I should have been lonely, but for your kindness, my lord," said Lucy.

      "I am not unhappy." Her face was in shade and could not belie her.

      "Is there any help that one who would really be your friend might give you, Mrs. Feverel?"

      "None indeed that I know of," Lucy replied. "Who can help us to pay for our sins?"

      "At least you may permit me to endeavour to pay my debts, since you have helped me to wash out some of any sins."

      "Ah, my lord!" said Lucy, not displeased. It is sweet for a woman to believe she has drawn the serpent's teeth.

      "I tell you the truth," Lord Mountfalcon went on. "What object could I have in deceiving you? I know you quite above flattery—so different from other women!"

      "Oh, pray, do not say that," interposed Lucy.

      "According to my experience, then."

      "But you say you have met such—such very bad women."

      "I have. And now that I meet a good one, it is my misfortune."

      "Your misfortune, Lord Mountfalcon?"

      "Yes, and I might say more."

      His lordship held impressively mute.

      "How strange men are!" thought Lucy. "He had some unhappy secret."

      Tom Bakewell, who had a habit of coming into the room on various pretences during the nobleman's visits, put a stop to the revelation, if his lordship intended to make any.

      When they were alone again, Lucy said, smiling: "Do you know, I am always ashamed to ask you to begin to read."

      Mountfalcon stared. "To read?—oh! ha! yes!" he remembered his evening duties. "Very happy, I'm sure. Let me see. Where were we?"

      "The life of the Emperor Julian. But indeed I feel quite ashamed to ask you to read, my lord. It's new to me; like a new world—hearing about Emperors, and armies, and things that really have been on the earth we walk upon. It fills my mind. But it must have ceased to interest you, and I was thinking that I would not tease you any more."

      "Your pleasure is mine, Mrs. Feverel. 'Pon my honour, I'd read till I was hoarse, to hear your remarks."

      "Are you laughing at me?"

      "Do I look so?"

      Lord Mountfalcon had fine full eyes, and by merely dropping the lids he could appear to endow them with mental expression.

      "No, you are not," said Lucy. "I must thank you for your forbearance."

      The nobleman went on his honour loudly.

      Now it was an object of Lucy's to have him reading; for his sake, for her sake, and for somebody else's sake; which somebody else was probably considered first in the matter. When he was reading to her, he seemed to be legitimizing his presence there; and though she had no doubts or suspicions whatever, she was easier in her heart while she had him employed in that office. So she rose to fetch the book, laid it open on the table at his lordship's elbow, and quietly waited to ring for candles when he should be willing to commence.

      That evening Lord Mountfalcon could not get himself up to the farce, and he felt a pity for the strangely innocent unprotected child with anguish hanging over her, that withheld the words he wanted to speak, or insinuate. He sat silent and did nothing.

      "What I do not like him for," said Lucy, meditatively, "is his changing his religion. He would have been such a hero, but for that. I could have loved him."

      "Who is it you could have loved, Mrs. Feverel?" Lord Mountfalcon asked.

      "The Emperor Julian."

      "Oh! the Emperor Julian! Well, he was an apostate but then, you know, he meant what he was about. He didn't even do it for a woman."

      "For a woman!" cried Lucy. "What man would for a woman?"

      "I would."

      "You, Lord Mountfalcon?"

      "Yes. I'd turn Catholic to-morrow."

      "You make me very unhappy if you say that, my lord."

      "Then I'll unsay it."

      Lucy slightly shuddered. She put her hand upon the bell to ring for lights.

      "Do you reject a convert, Mrs. Feverel?" said the nobleman.

      "Oh yes! yes! I do. One who does not give his conscience I would not have."

      "If he gives his heart and body, can he give more?"

      Lucy's hand pressed the bell. She did not like the doubtful light with one who was so unscrupulous. Lord Mountfalcon had never spoken in this way before. He spoke better, too. She missed the aristocratic twang in his voice, and the hesitation for words, and the fluid lordliness with which he rolled over difficulties in speech.

      Simultaneously with the sounding of the bell the door opened, and presented Tom Bakewell. There was a double knock at the same instant at the street door. Lucy delayed to give orders.

      "Can it be a letter, Tom!—so late?" she said, changing colour. "Pray run and see."

      "That an't powst" Tom remarked, as he obeyed his mistress.

      "Are you very anxious for a letter, Mrs. Feverel?" Lord Mountfalcon inquired.

      "Oh, no!—yes, I am, very." said Lucy. Her quick ear caught the tones of a voice she remembered. "That dear old thing has come to see me," she cried, starting up.

      Tom ushered a bunch of black satin into the room.

      "Mrs. Berry!" said Lucy, running up to her and kissing her.

      "Me, my darlin'!" Mrs. Berry, breathless and rosy with her journey, returned the salute. "Me truly it is, in fault of a better, for I ain't one to stand by and give the devil his licence—roamin'! and the salt sure enough have spilte my bride-gown at the beginnin',

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