him as he lingered to look
in at a bookseller's window. He and the bookseller had been
school-fellows together at the grammar-school, and their friendship had
lasted after each was started in his own career. Hundreds of times he
had crossed this door-sill to have a chat with the studious and quiet
bookworm within whose modest life was so great a contrast with his own.
Jean Merle stopped at the well-remembered shop-window.

His eyes glanced aimlessly along the crowded shelves, but suddenly his
attention was arrested, and his pulses, which had been beating somewhat
fast, throbbed with eager rapidity. A dozen volumes or more, ranged
together, were labelled, "Works by Mrs. Roland Sefton." Surprise, and
pride, and pleasure were in the rapid beatings of his heart. By
Felicita! He read over the titles with a new sense of delight and
admiration; and in the first glow of his astonishment he stepped quickly
into the shop, with erect head and firm tread, and found himself face
to face with his old school-fellow. The sight of his blank,
unrecognizing gaze brought him back to the consciousness of the utter
change in himself. He looked down at his coarse hands and mechanic's
dress, and remembered that he was no longer Roland Sefton. His tongue
was parched; it was difficult to stammer out a word.

"Do you want anything, my good man?" asked the bookseller quietly.

There was something in the words "my good man" that brought home to him
at once the complete separation between his former life and the present,
and the perfect security that existed for him in the conviction that
Roland Sefton was dead. With a great effort he commanded himself, and
answered the bookseller's question collectedly.

"There are some books in the window by Mrs. Roland Sefton," he said,
"how much are they?"

"That is the six shilling edition," replied the bookseller.

Jean Merle was on the point of saying he would take them all, but he
checked himself. He must possess them all, and read every line that
Felicita had ever written, but not now, and not here.

"Which do you think is the best?" he asked.

"They are all good," was the answer; "we are very proud of Mrs. Roland
Sefton, who belongs to Riversborough. That is her great uncle yonder,
the first Lord Riversdale; and she married a prominent townsman, Roland
Sefton, of the Old Bank. I have a soiled copy or two, which I could sell
to you for half the price of the new ones."

"She is famous then?" said J