d by the catlike steps of the man who was not old Fordham.
She had fallen asleep very happily, with a vague sense of hopefulness
and well-being. She had no idea that Bertie had just flung himself on
his bed to snatch a little rest, with a trouble on his mind which, had
she known it, would have effectually banished sleep from her eyes, and a
hope of escape which would have nearly broken her heart. Her burden had
been laid aside for a few hours, and through her dreams there ran a
golden thread of melody, the unconscious remembrance of that evening's
songs and music.

CHAPTER XL.

BERTIE AT THE ORGAN.

Bertie was duly called, and came down the next morning punctually
enough, but somewhat weary and pale. A slight headache was supposed to
account for his looks. Lydia complained of the same thing over her
breakfast of bacon down stairs. But Fate was partial, for Bertie's
marble pallor and the faint shadow beneath his eyes were utterly unlike
poor Lydia's dull complexion and heavy, red-rimmed eyelids. She was
conscious of this injustice, and felt in a dim way that she had proved
herself capable of one of those acts of self-devotion which are the more
admirable that they are sure not to be admired. But the longer she
thought of it the more she felt that this noble deed was not one to be
repeated. One must set bounds to one's heroism. "I can't go on losing my
beauty-sleep in this fashion," said Lydia to herself. "I do look such a
horrid fright the next day."

When Judith had gone to Standon Square, Bertie yawned, stretched
himself, got out his little writing-case and sat down to write a letter.
He spent some time over it, erasing and interlining, balancing himself
on two legs of his chair, while he looked for stray words on the ceiling
or murmured occasional sentences to judge of the effect. At last it was
finished, and, being copied in a dashing hand, looked very spontaneous
indeed. "I think that ought to do it," he said to himself as he smoked
his pipe, glancing over the pages: "I think it _will_ do it." He smiled,
in the pride of triumphant authorship, but presently there came a line
between his brows and a puzzled expression to his face: "I'll be shot if
I know how it is to be managed afterward. People do it, but how? I
wonder if Thorne knows? If law is at all catching, a year of that musty
office must have given him a touch of it." Lisle considered the matter
for a few minutes, and then shrugged his shoulders: "It won