t deal of gold at that moment for a very small quantity of
love, but love is not a marketable commodity. Denham knew that and
sighed again. He felt that in reference to this thing he was a beggar,
and, for the first time in his life, experienced something of a beggar's
despair.

While he sat thus, musing bitterly, there came a tap at the door.

"Come in."

The tapper came in, and presented to the astonished gaze of Mr Denham
the handsome face and figure of Guy Foster.

"I trust you will forgive my intrusion, uncle," said Guy in apologetic
tones, as he advanced with a rather hesitating step, "but I am the
bearer of a message from my mother."

Denham had looked up in surprise, and with a dash of sternness, but the
expression passed into one of sadness mingled with suffering. He
pointed to a chair and said curtly, "Sit down," as he replaced his
forehead on his hand, and partially concealed his haggard face.

"I am deeply grieved, dear uncle," continued Guy, "to see you looking so
very ill. I do sincerely hope--"

"Your message?" interrupted Denham.

"My mother having heard frequently of late that you are far from well,
and conceiving that the fresh air of Deal might do you good, has sent me
to ask you to be our guest for a time. It would afford us very great
pleasure, I assure you, uncle."

Guy paused here, but Mr Denham did not speak. The kindness of the
unexpected and certainly unmerited invitation, put, as it was, in tones
which expressed great earnestness and regard, took him aback. He felt
ill at ease, and his wonted self-possession forsook him. Probably much
of this was owing to physical weakness.

"Come, uncle," said Guy affectionately, "you won't refuse us? We all
live together in the cottage now, but we don't quite fill it; there is
still one room to spare, and my wife will be delighted to--"

"Your wife!" exclaimed Denham in amazement.

"Yes, uncle," replied Guy in some surprise. "Did you not get our
cards?"

Mr Denham rested his forehead again in his hand in some confusion, for
he remembered having received a letter long ago, the address of which he
knew to be in his nephew's hand, and supposing it to be an application
to be taken back into the office, he had tossed it into the fire without
opening it. Feeling much perplexed, he said--"Oh, ah,--what is the
lady's name?"

"Lucy Burton was her maiden name," said Guy; "she is the daughter of an
Independent minister, who was formerly a s