solicitor to write to me as heir-at-law.'

'Heir-at-law! Frank, do you mean that you are--' she said, turning pale.

'Baron Northmoor,' he answered, 'and you, my patient Mary, will be the
baroness as soon as may be.'

'Oh, Frank!'--and there was a rush of tears--'dear Frank, your hard work
and cares are all over!'

'I am not sure of that,' he said gravely; 'but, at least, this long
waiting is over, and I can give you everything.'

'But, oh!' she cried, sobbing uncontrollably, with her face hidden in her
handkerchief.

'Mary, Mary! what does this mean? Don't you understand? There's nothing
to hinder it now.'

She made a gesture as if to put him back from her, and struggled for
utterance.

'It is very dear, very good; but--but it can't be now. You must not drag
yourself down with me.'

'That is just nonsense, Mary. You are far fitter for this than I am.
You are the one joy in it to me.'

'You think so now,' she said, striving to hold herself back; 'but you
won't by and by.'

'Do you think me a mere boy to change so easily?' said the new lord
earnestly. 'I look on this as a heavy burthen and very serious
responsibility: but it is to you whom I look to sweeten it, help me
through with it, and guard me from its temptations.'

'If I could.'

'Come, Mary, I am forced to go to London immediately, and then on to the
funeral. I shall miss the train if I remain another minute. Don't send
me away with a sore heart. Tell me that your affection has not been worn
out by these weary years.'

'You cannot think so, Frank,' she sobbed. 'You know it has only grown.
I only want to do what is best for you.'

'Not another word,' he said, with a fresh kiss. 'That is all I want for
the present.'

He was gone, while Mary crept up to her little attic, there to weep out
her agitated, uncertain feelings.

'Oh, he is so good! He deserves to be great. That I should be his first
thought! Dear dear fellow! But I ought to give him up. I ought not to
be a drag on him. It would not be fair on him. I can love him and watch
him all the same; but oh, how dreary it will be to have no Sunday
afternoons! Is this selfish? Is this worldly? Oh, help me to do right,
and hold to what is best for him!'

And whenever poor Mary had any time to herself out of sight of curious
eyes, she spent it in concocting a letter that went near to the breaking
of her constant heart.

CHAPTER II
HONOURS REFLECTED

On the beach