elegantly
furnished; and with several pictures on the walls, including a painted
photograph of himself, taken recently by the first photographer in
Guernsey. There were book-cases containing a number of the best medical
works; behind which lay, out of sight, a numerous selection of French
novels, more thumbed than the ponderous volumes in front. He sank down
into an easy-chair, shivering as if we were in the depth of winter.

"Martin, I am a ruined man!" he said, for the third time.

"But how?" I asked again, impatiently; for my fears were growing strong.
Certainly he was not acting a part this time.

"I dare not tell you," he cried, leaning his head upon his desk, and
sobbing. How white his hair was! and how aged he looked! I recollected
how he used to play with me when I was a boy, and carry me before him on
horseback, as long back as I could remember. My heart softened and
warmed to him as it had not done for years.

"Father!" I said, "if you can trust any one, you can trust me. If you
are ruined and disgraced I shall be the same, as your son."

"That's true," he answered, "that's true! It will bring disgrace on you
and your mother. We shall be forced to leave Guernsey, where she has
lived all her life; and it will be the death of her. Martin, you must
save us all by making it up with Julia."

"But why?" I demanded, once more. "I must know what you mean."

"Mean?" he said, turning upon me angrily, "you blockhead! I mean that
unless you marry Julia I shall have to give an account of her property;
and I could not make all square, not if I sold every stick and stone I
possess."

I sat silent for a time, trying to take in this piece of information. He
had been Julia's guardian ever since she was left an orphan, ten years
old; but I had never known that there had not been a formal and legal
settlement of her affairs when she was of age. Our family name had no
blot upon it; it was one of the most honored names in the island. But if
this came to light, then the disgrace would be dark indeed.

"Can you tell me all about it?" I asked.

My father, after making his confession, settled himself in his chair
comfortably; appearing to feel that he had begun to make reparation for
the wrong. His temperament was more buoyant than mine. Selfish natures
are often buoyant.

"It would take a long time," he said, "and it would be a deuse of a
nuisance. You make it up with Julia, and marry her, as you're bound to
do. Of course