e best; it is my favorite," replied the bookseller.
"Her son, Felix Sefton, a clergyman now, was in here yesterday, asking
the same question. If you are related to Madame Sefton, you'll be very
welcome at the Old Bank; and you'll find both of Madame's grand-children
visiting old Mr. Clifford. I'll send one of my boys to show you the
house."

"Not now," said Jean Merle. If Mr. Clifford was living yet he must be
careful what risks he ran. Hatred has eyes as keen as love; and if any
one could break through his secret it would be the implacable old man,
who had still the power of sending him to a convict prison.

A shudder ran through him at the dread idea of detection. What would it
be to Felicita now, when her name was famous, to have it dragged down to
ignominy and utter disgrace? The dishonor would be a hundred-fold the
greater for the fair reputation she had won, and the popularity she had
secured. And her children too! Worse for them past all words would it be
than if they were still little creatures, ignorant of the value of the
world's opinion. He bade the bookseller good-morning, and threaded his
way through many alleys and by-lanes of the old town until he reached a
ferry and a boat-house, where many a boat lay ready for him, as they
had always done when he was a boy. He seated himself in one of them, and
taking the oars fell down with the current to the willows under the
garden-wall of his old home.

He steered his boat aside into a small creek, where the willow-wands
grew tall and thick, from which he could see the whole river frontage of
the old house. Was there any change in it? His keen, despairing gaze
could not detect one. The high tilted gables in the roof stood out clear
against the sky, with their spiral wooden rods projecting above them.
The oriel window cast its slowly moving shadow on the half-timber walls;
and the many lattice casements, with their small diamond-shaped panes,
glistened in the sun as in the days gone by. The garden-plots were
unchanged, and the smooth turf on the terraces was as green and soft as
when he ran along them at his mother's side. The old house brought to
his mind his mother rather than his wife. It was full of associations
and memories of her, with her sweet, humble, self-sacrificing nature.
There was repose and healing in the very thought of her, which seemed
to touch his anguish with a strong and soothing hand. Was there an echo
of her voice still lingering for him abou