John himself felt the energy of his will shaken for the moment, and wisely enough paused for recovery.

'Jarman,' and he now spoke as friend might speak to friend, while the gray, bright, piercing eyes glanced again at the water-colour, 'I want to ask you a favour-to do some things for me, not in the formal spirit of business, but—'

'I understand, Sir John,' said Mr. Jarman, with a sort of grateful smile lighting up his whole countenance, and reddening his complexion to the very roots of his hair, and feel myself more honoured than I can easily express.'

Cunliff then, in a few words, and without any sort of preliminary or accompanying explanation, told the story which Robert Chamberlayne had told to him on their first meeting. of the Morgans' supposed fortune; and then of the bursting of the bubble, and its consequences to the 'Morgans,' who were permitted to be known to the agent only through the individuality of Elias.

'It's a cruel position. He is in debt which he cannot pay, except through long years of exhausting labour and anxiety. But he will take nothing from my friend Chamberlayne, therefore I, a stranger, cannot hope he will take anything from me. A sort of fanatic of independence, goodness, and piety; but, after all, a good sort of fellow enough at the bottom. I can aid him, if only you will undertake for the way. My notion is that some debtor of the bankruptcy concern in years gone by, who has since grown rich, may by accident hear of the Morgans' misfortune, and offer to send a sum of money, on the understanding that it is to be devoted exclusively to the use of the family. I see the difficulties, and improbabilities, but I want it done.'

'Exactly, Sir John!' said the agent thoughtfully.

'And it'll be no good unless it's so well done that no one can get behind the pretences to see the real actors.' 'I will do my best.'

'Don't say that, or I must give the thing up. Say you will do it, and I'll leave the whole in your hands-sure of your tact, skill, and secrecy.'

'I will do it, Sir John. Already I see how to improve on your idea. I think I can make the offer to Elias seem bonâ fide a something due; and I am sure I can keep off all suspicion from you or me, by acting through my own solicitors,

who will then act through other solicitors, on whom we may all rely.'

'Very good. Mind, it is not now done, therefore I cannot now know it is done. When it is done, I wish to hear nothing about it; therefore I shall still know nothing.

stand?'

'Perfectly, Sir John.'

You under

'This to me is serious-I mean for the family's sake.' And to what extent?'

'Just so far as you can go without exciting suspicion.' 'Would a capital realising an income of a hundred a year be--?'

'No! Too much to be believed. Five hundred in all would set Elias on his legs, and enable him to take a larger farm. And let it be in the funds, so that if the acceptance be once got over, the recipient will be sure of the value of what he gets. If I know Elias rightly—'

You do know him, then, Sir John?' thoughtlessly interrupted Mr. Jarman.

Cunliff's reply was only by a look; one, however, that considerably disturbed the agent, who felt he had been an ass to let out such a womanish bit of gossip or curiosity.

'If I know Elias Morgan rightly,' Cunliff repeated, he will never use the bulk of the money, but keep it as a safeguard for-for the future. I wish you a very good morning, Mr. Jarman.'

'Good morning, Sir John.'

They shook hands, and Cunliff accompanied his agent with unusual ceremony downstairs to the very door leading to the street. There he said,

'Can you go to-day about this business?'

'Instantly! Nor will I let it alone till it is quite accomplished.'

He descended the steps, bowed, and turned.

'Jarman!' was called after him.

'I thought there was something else. Can you manage within a week from this time to be at my late uncle's place ?' 'Certainly, Sir John.'

'Say this day week-Monday.'

'Yes.'

'I have an odd fancy to walk through the place alone, or possibly with a friend; could you'-here some person passed

by, and Cunliff whispered low into the agent's ear a few words, which, to make sure of their being exactly understood, he repeated.

Mr. Jarman bowed, did not again look in his employer's face, but said,

Everything shall be, Sir John, as you wish.' And then they separated.

Cunliff returned to his desk, but, strange to say, all his old self-dissatisfaction seemed to have suddenly returned upon him, and with it all his old irritability.

He could no longer work, but paced to and fro in gloomy reverie, uttering now and then an angry or impatient exclamation, and making as if he would renew his labours, but after two or three ineffectual efforts he gave up the attempt, saying to himself,

'No, no; the matter must be fought out now once for all. Delay will only deepen the difficulty, till it becomes insurmountable. Fool that I was, and am! What on earth must she be thinking about my prolonged absence and silence?

And, Arnold! He must put a new ingredient into this devil's broth which Fate a second time, with her infernal irony, seems to commend to my lips.'

He took up a letter that had been laid aside from the others after a first hasty perusal, and read a second time a certain passage in it. He read it slowly-very slowly, as if to give himself time to branch out in thought in any direction he liked as he read.

'Shall I tell you something that almost exposes me to a charge of breach of faith, and against one of the most charming of women-my cousin, Miss Harrington? She was asked her opinion of you, not by me, trust me, but by one who had a right to say what he pleased to her her grandfather. I was present. "Sir John Cunliff," she said-but, no, on further consideration, I will not tell you. You are already one of the vainest of men, and my telling you may spoil her telling you when you ask her, as I hope you will. Cunliff, my friend, one serious word with you. No man ever really settles to any worthy labours after a life like yours, till he marries. When a man like you does marry, his whole future is to a large extent in the hands of his wife. You must not only love your wife's person and heart, but you must honour her intellect

and character. There must be sympathy between you. Cunliff, I will tell you what I have never before spoken of to mortal man. That I am what I am, I owe to my wife. Spare your sarcasm, it is out of place. I know God gave me little of original personal gift, but she has helped me to make the best of what he did give; and in no spirit of vanity or conceit do I say I am satisfied as regards myself; I am happy as a reasonable man expects to be, and grateful alike to God and to her. You are too shrewd not to understand what all this means. If you like Miss Harrington, as I fancy you do, pray attend to her a bit, study her, and, my life on it, you will thank me for the hint. I shall not for a moment use my privilege as a cousin, or my knowledge of her thus obtained, to extol her virtue, her talent, beauty, or accomplishments, because you of all men are the one to take nothing in trust, but to judge from your own independent point of view. Still less do I feel inclined to speak of mere worldly advantages, or the powerful political influence her relatives could and would exercise in behalf of one they esteemed worthy of her. But this slight remark may be ventured, I hope, without offence. Were you to marry my cousin, and take your position as one of England's future statesmen, I know no woman in all my circle of acquaintances who would be so fit as she to grace your every conquest or smooth over your every difficulty, by her exquisite tact, and perfect knowledge and estimate of all those social influences which play so large though unacknowledged a part in our public life. Forgive this plain speaking; if it offend you, I shall never certainly repeat the offence.'

The letter was laid down with a sort of tender and respectful care; and the man to whom it was addressed sat with it before him on the desk, his head supported on his elbows, till a sudden and seemingly accidental resemblance, suggested, perhaps, by the water-colour, made him start as if stung, rise, turn, and lay the water-colour flat on the table, and then again pace about the room in deep, brooding anxiety.

Yes, John Cunliff was feeling deeply now the cruel irony of fortune, which brought him a second time, in the same place, without a single admonitory warning beforehand, to deliberate on certain matters, while even now the deliberation itself was a something so disgraceful he could not courageously face it, or truthfully and frankly characterise it.

'At least, whatever I do, she shall see I do not fear to meet her. I think I can trust myself. The world-my best compliments to it!-has in a few weeks once more taught me, I think, the lesson I have been so near forgetting-to take care of myself.

'And will she too take care of herself? It is calumny to doubt it. From her spiritual elevation-it is childish to pursue the thought. It is I who have to fear; and my safety must come out of my full knowledge of that fact beforehand. Yes, I plunge, and hesitate no more.'

Again retracing the old ground, past Shrewsbury; past the spot where Chamberlayne jumped in so unceremoniously; past his own bare-looking fields, which the young farmer had so condemned; past the station where that tenant of his had hung on to the window; past the precise spot-how well he knew it where he had looked out of the other window while Robert Chamberlayne was wanting to know the name of the landlord who then dealt out, for a weekly rent, disease, misery, and since then, death; all this he now vividly remembered, but somehow found his chief consolation in the fact that it was he who had faced doctor and querist, and silenced them by his answer-' Cunliff.'

When he arrived at Dolgarrog, and made arrangements to stay the night at the new hotel, his old recollection and perplexity returned upon him, and he sat brooding over the fire in the coffee-room hour after hour, as if he had come to Wales with no other purpose. At last his friend and landlord of the Council House, having heard of his arrival, came in to him full of Elias Morgan's trouble, and his journey to town in search of Hugh.

Cunliff's hesitation was now at an end. He immediately gave orders for a car to be made ready for him at half-past five o'clock the next morning to take him to Capel Illtyd.

Before it was announced he had already breakfasted, and for many minutes paced restlessly up and down the room, to the great annoyance of some gentlemen belonging to the gold mines, who, with sundry white papers of yellow dust and peculiar-looking stones beside them, were making calculations over their coffee at the same untimely hour.

Cunliff left the car waiting at the toll-gate, and began to ascend the familiar fields of Bod Elian with a quick, springing step.