. You might take your sisters there
occasionally, and turn them loose; it wants a woman's hand here and
there. Mrs. Alleyne would put you all right; and of course I should send
Waters down, and give up those rooms in Buckingham Street."

"But I cannot imagine your going to America, somehow," Lord Evelyn
said. "Surely there is plenty for you to do here."

"I will say this of Lind, that he is not an idle talker. What he says he
means. Besides, Molyneux can take up my work in the North; he is the
very man."

Again silence. It was now half-past seven.

"I wish, though, it had been something more exciting," Brand said. "I
should not have minded having a turn at the Syrian business; I am not
much afraid of risking my neck. There is not much danger in
Philadelphia."

"But look here, Brand," said Lord Evelyn, regarding him attentively.
"You are speaking with great equanimity about your going to America;
possibly you might like the change well enough; but do I understand you
that you are prepared to go alone?"

Brand looked up; he understood what was meant.

"If I am ordered--yes."

He held out his right hand; on the third finger there was a massive gold
ring--a plain hoop, without motto or design whatever.

"There," said he, "is the first ring I ever wore. It was given to me
this afternoon, to remind me of a promise; and that promise is to me
more binding than a hundred oaths."

He rose with a sigh.

"Ah, well, Evelyn, whatever happens we will not complain. There have
been compensations."

"But you have not told me what answer you mean to give to Lind."

"Suppose I wait until I see him before deciding?"

"Then you will say, No. You have allowed your distrust of him to become
a sort of mania, and the moment you see him the mere sight of him will
drive you into antagonism."

"I tell you what I wish I could do, Evelyn," said the other, laughing:
"I wish I could turn over everything I have got to you, and escape
scot-free to America and start my own life free and unencumbered."

"And alone?"

His face grew grave again.

"There is nothing possible else!" said he.

It was nearly eight o'clock when he left. As he walked along Piccadilly,
a clear and golden twilight was shining over the trees in the Green
Park. All around him was the roar of the London streets; but it was not
that that he heard. Was it not rather the sound of a soft, low voice,
and the silvery notes of the zither? His memory acted as a sea-shel