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that Mr. Delamayn’s father is dangerously ill?” he asked, addressing himself to Arnold.

      “Dangerously ill, in London,” Arnold answered. “Geoffrey must leave Windygates with me. The train I am traveling by meets the train his brother is traveling by, at the junction. I shall leave him at the second station from here.”

      “Didn’t you tell me that Lady Lundie was going to send you to the railway in a gig?”

      “Yes.”

      “If the servant drives, there will be three of you—and there will be no room.”

      “We had better ask for some other vehicle,” suggested Arnold.

      Sir Patrick looked at his watch. There was no time to change the carriage. He turned to Geoffrey. “Can you drive, Mr. Delamayn?”

      Still impenetrably silent, Geoffrey replied by a nod of the head.

      Without noticing the unceremonious manner in which he had been answered, Sir Patrick went on:

      “In that case, you can leave the gig in charge of the station-master. I’ll tell the servant that he will not be wanted to drive.”

      “Let me save you the trouble, Sir Patrick,” said Arnold.

      Sir Patrick declined, by a gesture. He turned again, with undiminished courtesy, to Geoffrey. “It is one of the duties of hospitality, Mr. Delamayn, to hasten your departure, under these sad circumstances. Lady Lundie is engaged with her guests. I will see myself that there is no unnecessary delay in sending you to the station.” He bowed—and left the summer-house.

      Arnold said a word of sympathy to his friend, when they were alone.

      “I am sorry for this, Geoffrey. I hope and trust you will get to London in time.”

      He stopped. There was something in Geoffrey’s face—a strange mixture of doubt and bewilderment, of annoyance and hesitation—which was not to be accounted for as the natural result of the news that he had received. His color shifted and changed; he picked fretfully at his finger-nails; he looked at Arnold as if he was going to speak—and then looked away again, in silence.

      “Is there something amiss, Geoffrey, besides this bad news about your father?” asked Arnold.

      “I’m in the devil’s own mess,” was the answer.

      “Can I do any thing to help you?”

      Instead of making a direct reply, Geoffrey lifted his mighty hand, and gave Arnold a friendly slap on the shoulder which shook him from head to foot. Arnold steadied himself, and waited—wondering what was coming next.

      “I say, old fellow!” said Geoffrey.

      “Yes.”

      “Do you remember when the boat turned keel upward in Lisbon Harbor?”

      Arnold started. If he could have called to mind his first interview in the summer-house with his father’s old friend he might have remembered Sir Patrick’s prediction that he would sooner or later pay, with interest, the debt he owed to the man who had saved his life. As it was his memory reverted at a bound to the time of the boat-accident. In the ardor of his gratitude and the innocence of his heart, he almost resented his friend’s question as a reproach which he had not deserved.

      “Do you think I can ever forget,” he cried, warmly, “that you swam ashore with me and saved my life?”

      Geoffrey ventured a step nearer to the object that he had in view.

      “One good turn deserves another,” he said, “don’t it?”

      Arnold took his hand. “Only tell me!” he eagerly rejoined—“only tell me what I can do!”

      “You are going to-day to see your new place, ain’t you?”

      “Yes.”

      “Can you put off going till to-morrow?”

      “If it’s any thing serious—of course I can!”

      Geoffrey looked round at the entrance to the summer-house, to make sure that they were alone.

      “You know the governess here, don’t you?” he said, in a whisper.

      “Miss Silvester?”

      “Yes. I’ve got into a little difficulty with Miss Silvester. And there isn’t a living soul I can ask to help me but you.”

      “You know I will help you. What is it?”

      “It isn’t so easy to say. Never mind—you’re no saint either, are you? You’ll keep it a secret, of course? Look here! I’ve acted like an infernal fool. I’ve gone and got the girl into a scrape—”

      Arnold drew back, suddenly understanding him.

      “Good heavens, Geoffrey! You don’t mean—”

      “I do! Wait a bit—that’s not the worst of it. She has left the house.”

      “Left the house?”

      “Left, for good and all. She can’t come back again.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because she’s written to her missus. Women (hang ’em!) never do these things by halves. She’s left a letter to say she’s privately married, and gone off to her husband. Her husband is—Me. Not that I’m married to her yet, you understand. I have only promised to marry her. She has gone on first (on the sly) to a place four miles from this. And we settled I was to follow, and marry her privately this afternoon. That’s out of the question now. While she’s expecting me at the inn I shall be bowling along to London. Somebody must tell her what has happened—or she’ll play the devil, and the whole business will burst up. I can’t trust any of the people here. I’m done for, old chap, unless you help me.”

      Arnold lifted his hands in dismay. “It’s the most dreadful situation, Geoffrey, I ever heard of in my life!”

      Geoffrey thoroughly agreed with him. “Enough to knock a man over,” he said, “isn’t it? I’d give something for a drink of beer.” He produced his everlasting pipe, from sheer force of habit. “Got a match?” he asked.

      Arnold’s mind was too preoccupied to notice the question.

      “I hope you won’t think I’m making light of your father’s illness,” he said, earnestly. “But it seems to me—I must say it—it seems to me that the poor girl has the first claim on you.”

      Geoffrey looked at him in surly amazement.

      “The first claim on me? Do you think I’m going to risk being cut out of my father’s will? Not for the best woman that ever put on a petticoat!”

      Arnold’s admiration of his friend was the solidly-founded admiration of many years; admiration for a man who could row, box, wrestle, jump—above all, who could swim—as few other men could perform those exercises in contemporary England. But that answer shook his faith. Only for the moment—unhappily for Arnold, only for the moment.

      “You know best,” he returned, a little coldly. “What can I do?”

      Geoffrey took his arm—roughly as he took every thing; but in a companionable and confidential way.

      “Go, like a good fellow, and tell her what has happened. We’ll start from here as if we were both going to the railway; and I’ll drop you at the foot-path, in the gig. You can get on to your own place afterward by the evening train. It puts you to no inconvenience, and it’s doing the kind thing by an old friend. There’s no risk of being found out. I’m to drive, remember! There’s no servant with us, old boy, to notice, and tell tales.”

      Even Arnold began to see dimly by this time that he was likely to pay his debt of obligation with interest—as Sir Patrick had foretold.

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