rt is yours, and I had begun
almost to look upon you--in my thoughts--as my own child. I cannot bear
the thought of giving you up to any one. You will not think me very,
very selfish. I have only a few more months to live, and I know that you
will not grudge that much out of your future, that you will stay by me
to the end. Afterwards, I have no wish save for your happiness; and
although I must confess that I had hoped you might have married one of
the sons of our own country, still it is you who must choose, and I owe
you, or shall owe you soon, too great a debt to press upon you any
desire of mine which is not at one with your wishes. But tell me
this--Is he an Englishman? Alas! I fear so. Send me a word by the
bearer, and tell me; tell me, too, of what family he is, and whether he
is noble. But of that I feel already assured, if he be indeed the man to
whom your love is given.

"You must surely have sustained a shock at my sudden and rash
appearance. Doubtless you wonder at seeing me here at all. I could not
keep away. I must have news day by day, almost hour by hour. It is all
that keeps me alive. I must be near to feel that I am breathing the same
air as the woman on whom a long-delayed vengeance is about to fall.

"I have taken a furnished cottage on the outskirts of this village, and
a little more than a mile from Mallory Grange. But do not come to me.
Dearly as I would love to have you talk to me, and hear from your own
lips that all goes well, yet at present it were better not. I will
devise some means of communication, and let you know of it shortly. I am
living here as Mr. Angus.--Yours ever,

"L. M."

* * * * *

I folded up this letter with a shudder, and sitting down dashed off my
reply. It is here:--

* * * * *

"MY DEAR UNCLE,--I am a culprit--a miserable, pleading culprit. It is
true that I love an Englishman--the man who was standing by my side last
night; and it is true that he has asked me to marry him. But I have not
told him so, and I have not promised to marry him. That is not all of my
confession. Not only is he an Englishman, but his name is Lord Lumley
St. Maurice, and he is--her son.

"Now you know the terrible trouble I am in. Last night he was telling me
of his love, and assuring me of his mother's sanction and approval, when
your face appeared at the window. Can you wonder at my start, and that I
fainted? Can you wonder