ster to his bosom, "pardon me for thus sudden rupture of all our
hopes. We will forget them, or think of them as a chapter of romance."

"Is it inevitable?" Helen asked in a low tone.

"Ay," Randolph answered. "The disguise has led me to the brink of an
abyss. Even now I know not whether I have recoiled in time. Forgive
me, I am scarcely calm. One day I may tell you more. But let us for
ever shake off this degrading masquerade. We will go home to
Trevethlan. Will you not like to see the sea beating at our feet? It
is vain to regret. Ah, me! It is hopeless to forget."

Peremptoriness and fondness mingled both in his word and manner. He
kissed his sister's cheek.

"Write, dearest, to Polydore," he continued. "The news will make him
sad. You will soften it better than I. Say, we will be at home
immediately after the letter. For myself, I have much to do."

Helen obeyed, with many a thought of the surprise which her letter
would occasion, coming so close upon that communication of the
chaplain's, which the reader has just perused. And Randolph drew up a
memorial to the benchers of his Inn, in which he very briefly stated
the case, and petitioned for the removal of his name from their books,
a matter of course. With this he proceeded to town, and delivered it
at the proper office. He then called upon Rereworth. His friend had
not yet heard of the scene at Mrs. Winston's.

"Rereworth," he said, "I have a tale to tell you, and an apology to
make. Let it be done in the fresh air. Come with me into the gardens."

So they went down into those pleasant grounds, rife with historical
recollections, and not long previously the field of exercise for that
regiment of legal volunteers, which ambiguous wit designated "the
devil's own." May we never see a year like eighteen hundred and
eleven!

"You little thought," said Randolph, as they paced the terrace by the
Thames, "that in presenting me to Mrs. Winston last night, you
introduced a relation."

Rereworth turned and looked at the speaker with unfeigned surprise.

"Under the name of Winston," the latter continued, "I did not
recognize a Pendarrel. I am Randolph Trevethlan. Yes, you may well
show astonishment. But bear with me a moment. No mean purpose lurked
under my masquerade.

"You know that the last owner of Trevethlan Castle had long lost the
means of maintaining his house. I inherited a ruin and a name. To
restore the one, without degrading the other, was the hope of