feet; Mr. Carlyle leaned
over her, her hands held sympathizingly in his. Madame Vine would have
escaped, but the key was gone.

"Oh, Archibald, tell me the truth. _You_ will not, deceive me?" she
gasped, in earnest entreaty, the cold dew gathering on her pale, gentle
face. "Is the time come to prove my boy's innocence?"

"It is."

"Is it possible that it can be that false, bad man who is guilty?"

"From my soul I believe him to be," replied Mr. Carlyle, glancing round
to make sure that none could hear the assertion save those present. "But
what I say to you and Barbara, I would not say to the world. Whatever
be the man's guilt, I am not his Nemesis. Dear Mrs. Hare, take courage,
take comfort--happier days are coming round."

Mrs. Hare was weeping silently. Barbara rose and laid her mamma's head
lovingly upon her bosom.

"Take care of her, my darling," Mr. Carlyle whispered to his wife.
"Don't leave her for a moment, and don't let that chattering crew in
from the next room. I beg your pardon, madame."

His hand had touched Madame Vine's neck in turning round--that is, had
touched the jacket that encased it. He unlocked the door and regained
the street, while Madame Vine sat down with her beating and rebellious
heart.

Amidst the shouts, the jeers, and the escort of the mob, Sir Francis
Levison and Otway Bethel were lodged in the station-house, preparatory
to their examination before the magistrates. Never, sure, was so
mortifying an interruption known. So thought Sir Francis's party. And
they deemed it well, after some consultation amongst themselves, to
withdraw his name as a candidate for the membership. That he never had a
shadow of chance from the first, most of them knew.

But there's an incident yet to tell of the election day. You have
seen Miss Carlyle in her glory, her brocaded silk standing on end with
richness, her displayed colors, her pride in her noble brother. But now
could you--or she, which it is more to the purpose--have divined who and
what was right above her head at an upper window, I know not what the
consequence would have been.

No less an eyesore to Miss Carlyle than that "brazen hussy," Afy
Hallijohn! Smuggled in by Miss Carlyle's servants, there she was--in
full dress, too. A green-and-white checked sarcenet, flounced up to the
waist, over a crinoline extending from here to yonder; a fancy bonnet,
worn on the plait of hair behind, with a wreath and a veil; delicate
white gloves, an