like, everything has given way to the
awful thought, that this unknown had not been unknown to him, and that
perhaps he had admired--loved----

"Couldn't hold a candle to you," says he, laughing in spite of himself
at her expression which, indeed, is nearly tragic. "You needn't
suffocate yourself with charcoal because of her. She had made her pile,
or rather her father had, at Birmingham or elsewhere, I never took the
trouble to inquire, and she was undoubtedly solid in _every way_, but I
don't care for the female giant, and so I--you know the rest, I met
_you_; I tell you this only to soften your heart, if possible, towards
these lonely, embittered old people of mine."

"Do you mean that when your brother disappointed them that they----" she
pauses.

"No. They couldn't make me their heir. The property is strictly entailed
(what is left of it); you need not make yourself miserable imagining you
have done me out of anything more than their good-will. George will
inherit whatever he has left them to leave."

"It is sad," says she, with downcast eyes.

"Yes. He has been a constant source of annoyance to them ever since he
left Eton."

"Where is he now?"

"Abroad, I believe. In Italy, somewhere, or France--not far from a
gaming table, you may be sure. But I know nothing very exactly, as he
does not correspond with me, and that letter of this morning is the
first I have received from my father for four years."

"He must, indeed, hate me," says she, in a low tone. "His elder son such
a failure, and you--he considers you a failure, too."

"Well, _I_ don't consider myself so," says he, gaily.

"They were in want of money, and you--you married a girl without a
penny."

"I married a girl who was in herself a mine of gold," returns he, laying
his hands on her shoulders and giving her a little shake. "Come, never
mind that letter, darling; what does it matter when all is said and
done?"

"The first after all these years; and the, _last_--you remember it? It
was terrible. Am I unreasonable if I remember it?"

"It was a cruel letter," says he slowly; "to forget it would be
impossible, either for you or me. But, as I said just now, how does it
affect us? You have me, and I have you; and they, those foolish old
people, they have----" He pauses abruptly, and then goes on in a changed
tone, "their memories."

"Oh! and sad ones!" cries she, sharply, as if hurt. "It is a terrible
picture you have conjured up. You and I s