Sir William Patterson, the
Solicitor-General. May I tell him what you told me yesterday?"

"I cannot hinder you."

"But you can give me your permission. If he will promise me that it
shall go no farther,--then may I tell him? I shall hardly know what
to do unless he knows all that I know."

"Everybody will know soon."

"Nobody shall know from me,--but only he. Will you say that I may
tell him?"

"Oh, yes."

"I am much indebted to you even for that. I cannot tell you now how
much I hoped when I got up yesterday morning at Bolton Bridge that I
should have to be indebted to you for making me the happiest man in
England. You must forgive me if I say that I still hope at heart that
this infatuation may be made to cease. And now, good-bye, Lady Anna."

"Good-bye, Lord Lovel."

She at once went to her room, and sent down her maid to say that she
would not appear at prayers or at breakfast. She would not see him
again before he went. How probable it was that her eyes had rested on
his form for the last time! How beautiful he was, how full of grace,
how like a god! How pleasant she had found it to be near him; how
full of ineffable sweetness had been everything that he had touched,
all things of which he had spoken to her! He had almost overcome her,
as though she had eaten of the lotus. And she knew not whether the
charm was of God or devil. But she did know that she had struggled
against it,--because of her word, and because she owed a debt which
falsehood and ingratitude would ill repay. Lord Lovel had called her
Lady Anna now. Ah, yes; how good he was! When it became significant
to her that he should recognise her rank, he did so at once. He had
only dropped the title when, having been recognised, it had become
a stumbling-block to her. Now he was gone from her, and, if it was
possible, she would cease even to dream of him.

"I suppose, Frederic, that the marriage is not to be?" the rector
said to him as he got into the dog-cart at the rectory door.

"I cannot tell. I do not know. I think not. But, uncle, would you
oblige me by not speaking of it just at present? You will know all
very soon."

The rector stood on the gravel, watching the dog-cart as it
disappeared, with his hands in the pockets of his clerical trousers,
and with heavy signs of displeasure on his face. It was very well to
be uncle to an earl, and out of his wealth to do what he could to
assist, and, if possible, to dispel his noble nephew's po