ad not so written because he liked
what he knew of the man. He disliked all that he knew of him. But it
had not been possible for him to show that he distrusted the prudence
of her, whom, as his future wife, he was prepared to trust in all
things.

I have said that he read Alice's letter with an agony of sorrow; as
he sat with it in his hand he suffered as, probably, he had never
suffered before. But there was nothing in his countenance to show
that he was in pain. Seward had received some long epistle, crossed
from end to end,--indicative, I should say, of a not far distant
termination to that college tutorship,--and was reading it with
placid contentment. It did not occur to him to look across at Grey,
but had he done so, I doubt whether he would have seen anything to
attract his attention. But Grey, though he was wounded, would not
allow himself to be dismayed. There was less hope now than before,
but there might still be hope;--hope for her, even though there might
be none for him. Tidings had reached his ears also as to George
Vavasor, which had taught him to believe that the man was needy,
reckless, and on the brink of ruin. Such a marriage to Alice Vavasor
would be altogether ruinous. Whatever might be his own ultimate fate
he would still seek to save her from that. Her cousin, doubtless,
wanted her money. Might it not be possible that he would be satisfied
with her money, and that thus the woman might be saved?

"Seward," he said at last, addressing his friend, who had not yet
come to the end of the last crossed page.

"Is there anything wrong?" said Seward.

"Well;--yes; there is something a little wrong. I fear I must leave
you, and go up to town to-day."

"Nobody ill, I hope?"

"No;--nobody is ill. But I must go up to London. Mrs Bole will take
care of you, and you must not be angry with me for leaving you."

Seward assured him that he would not be in the least angry, and
that he was thoroughly conversant with the capabilities and good
intentions of Mrs Bole the housekeeper; but added, that as he was
so near his own college, he would of course go back to Cambridge.
He longed to say some word as to the purpose of Grey's threatened
journey; to make some inquiry as to this new trouble; but he knew
that Grey was a man who did not well bear close inquiries, and he was
silent.

"Why not stay here?" said Grey, after a minute's pause. "I wish
you would, old fellow; I do, indeed." There was a tone of specia