y heart, which should not be, although it is, a sad one,
tells me that we shall meet soon--soon.'

Stupefied and sickened, Lancelot turned carelessly to Mrs.
Lavington's cover, whose blameless respectability thus uttered
itself:--

'I cannot deceive you or myself by saying I regret that providential
circumstances should have been permitted to break off a connection
which I always felt to be most unsuitable; and I rejoice that the
intercourse my dear child has had with you has not so far undermined
her principles as to prevent her yielding the most filial obedience
to my wishes on the point of her future correspondence with you.
Hoping that all that has occurred will be truly blessed to you, and
lead your thoughts to another world, and to a true concern for the
safety of your immortal soul,

'I remain, yours truly,

'C. LAVINGTON.'

'Another world!' said Lancelot to himself. 'It is most merciful of
you, certainly, my dear madame, to put one in mind of the existence
of another world, while such as you have their own way in this one!'
and thrusting the latter epistle into the fire, he tried to collect
his thoughts.

What had he lost? The oftener he asked himself, the less he found
to unman him. Argemone's letters were so new a want, that the
craving for them was not yet established. His intense imagination,
resting on the delicious certainty of her faith, seemed ready to
fill the silence with bright hopes and noble purposes. She herself
had said that he would see her soon. But yet--but yet--why did that
allusion to death strike chilly through him? They were but words,--
a melancholy fancy, such as women love at times to play with. He
would toss it from him. At least here was another reason for
bestirring himself at once to win fame in the noble profession he
had chosen.

And yet his brain reeled as he went upstairs to his uncle's private
room.

There, however, he found a person closeted with the banker, whose
remarkable appearance drove everything else out of his mind. He was
a huge, shaggy, toil-worn man, the deep melancholy earnestness of
whose rugged features reminded him almost ludicrously of one of
Land-seer's bloodhounds. But withal there was a tenderness--a
genial, though covert humour playing about his massive features,
which awakened in Lancelot at first sight a fantastic longing to
open his whole heart to him. He was dressed like a foreigner, but
spoke E