grasped my hand. His difficulty was removed.

I continued rapidly, "Give me your address. I'll see Sharp, and, if they
permit me, Mrs. Daker. Let us make an effort to end this miserable
business well. You had better remain behind till I have settled with
Sharp."

Bertram remained inert, without power of thinking or speaking, in his
seat. I pushed him, to rouse him. "Bertram, the address--quick."

"Too late, my dear Q. M.--much too late. She's dying--I am sure of it."

The address was 102 in the next street to that in which we had been
breakfasting. I hurried off, tearing myself, at last, by force from
Bertram. I ran down the street, round the corner, looking right and left
at the numbers as I ran. I was within a few doors of the number when I
came with a great shock against a man, who was walking like myself
without looking ahead. I growled and was pushing past, when an iron grip
fell upon my shoulder. It was Reuben Sharp. He was so altered I had
difficulty in recognising him. At that moment he looked a madman; his
eyes were wild and savage; his lips were blue; his face was masked by
convulsive twitches.

"I was running to see you. Come back," I said.

"It's no use--no use. They can ill-treat her no more. My darling Emmy!
It's all over--all over--and you have been very kind to me."

The poor man clapped his heavy hands upon me like the paws of a lion,
and wept, as weak women and children weep.

Yea, it was all over.

It was on New Year's Day, 1867, I supported Reuben Sharp, following a
hearse to the cemetery hard by. Lucy Rowe accompanied us--at my urgent
request--and her presence served to soften and support old Reuben's
honest Kentish heart in his desolate agony. As they lowered the coffin a
haggard face stretched over a tomb behind us. Sharp was blinded with
tears, and did not see it.

CHAPTER XV.

THE FIRST TO BE MARRIED.

It will happen so--and here is our moral--the bonnets of Sophonisba and
Theodosia, bewitching as they were, and archly as these young ladies
wore them, paling every toilette of the Common, were not put aside for
bridal veils. Carrie, who was content with silver-grey, it was who
returned to Paris first, sitting at the side of the writer of the
following letters, sent, it is presumed, to his bachelor friend:--

"Paris, 'The Leafy Month of June.'

"MY DEAR MAC,--I will be true to my promise. I will give you
the best advice my experience may en