l evil."

"Not money, but the love of it," replies she, quickly. "Do not lose
heart, Philip; he cannot last forever; and this week how ill he has
been!"

"So he has, poor old wretch," her companion interrupts her hastily.
"Well, I have just one clear week before me, and then,--I suppose I had
better have recourse to my friends, the Jews. That will be a risky
thing, if you like, under the circumstances. Should he find that
out----"

"How can he? They are always so secret, so safe. Better do it than eat
your heart out. And who is to betray you?"

"You." With a laugh.

"Ay, tremble!" says she, gayly; then softly, "If that is all you have
to fear, Philip, you are a happy man. And when you have got the two
thousand pounds, will you be free?"

"No, but comparatively easy for awhile. And who knows, by that
time----"

"He may die?"

"Or something may turn up," exclaims he, hurriedly, not looking at her,
and therefore unable to wonder at the stolidity and utter unconcern of
her expression.

At this moment a querulous, broken voice comes to them from some inner
room. "Marcia, Marcia!" it calls, with trembling impatience; and, with
a last flick at the unoffending peacock, she turns to go, yet lingers,
as though loath to leave her companion.

"Good-bye,--for awhile," she says.

"Good-bye," replies he, and, clasping her lightly round the waist,
presses a kiss upon her cheek,--not upon her lips.

"You will be here when I return?" asks she, turning a face slightly
flushed by his caress toward him as she stands with one foot placed
upon the bow-window sill preparatory to entering the room beyond. There
is hope fully expressed in her tone.

"No, I think not," replies he, carelessly. "The afternoon is fine; I
want to ride into Longley, for----" But to the peacocks alone is the
excuse made known, as Marcia has disappeared.

* * * * *

Close to a fire, although the day is oppressively warm, and wrapped in
a flannel dressing-gown, sits an old man,--old, and full of the
snarling captiousness that makes some white hairs hideous. A tall man,
with all the remains of great beauty, but a singularly long nose (as a
rule one should always avoid a person with a long nose), that perhaps
once might have added a charm to the bold, aristocratic face it
adorned, but now in its last days is only suggestive of birds of prey,
being peaky and astonishingly fine toward the point. Indeed, looking at