fit to call on Mr. Mayne, and expostulate with him on the subject. Really it is a a grave charge-a very grave charge, as a magistrate and a clergyman, to protect a ruffianly incendiary."

"I am not aware that my brother has protected him," replied Harriett, haughtily, with a crimson flush on her cheek.

66

Happily Burrows is apprehended now," said Mr. Leslie, triumphantly, "and safe in the hands of the police."

The flush died out of Harriett's face, and she grew very pale; she foresaw difficulty and danger, because her brother loved mercy better than justice.

"Yes, he was taken at Halford this morning, and is now safe in the county gaol," and Mr. Leslie nodded his head vehemently. "He will wait there until the next assizes, when he will take his trial. I should advise your brother, Miss Mayne as a friend, I should advise himhim—

to abstain from appearing to vindicate the

man's character: it is a dirty business, a very dirty business, for a clergyman of the Church of England to soil his fingers with."

Hot words rushed to Harriett's lips, but she kept them back, and only said, with some passion:

"It does not seem that Mr. Sevelli has behaved very honourably in inducing a wife to leave her husband. I think, if there is any dirty business, it is in Mr. Sevelli's doings. Do you know that my brother has a dagger belonging to him, with which he attempted to stab Burrows?"

Mr. Leslie looked uncomfortable, and surprised.

66

My dear madam, that is a religious matter, and I decline to discuss it. Mr. Sevelli had his reasons, and felt justified in acting on them.”

Harriett felt very glad the priest had received a severe beating, but she said she would inform her brother of all that had

passed; and as there was no more to be said, she rose with the grace of a countess, and terminated the disagreeable interview by bowing distantly to the ruffled magistrate, and ringing for the servant to open the door.

Mr. Leslie, when he returned to his carriage, had a confused notion that the Maynes' drawing-room was gorgeously furnished, and Miss Mayne attired in a rustling silk. Such was the effect that Harriett's queenly bearing had on the undiscerning man.

It rained all day. St. Clare, who rose late after his fatigue, found that Talbot had taken the carriage and driven to the Leslies' to inquire after Mr. SevelliTalbot, who had roared with laughter at his friend's description of the encounter be-tween Burrows and the priest.

"Faugh! how false he is," sighed St.

Clare, over his late breakfast.

"He would

go with words of tender condolence to

Sevelli, pretend wrath at Burrows and Mr. Mayne; Sevelli all the time would see his hypocrisy, and they would try to cheat each other." It seemed a foolish business, and St. Clare began to wish he had never mixed himself up in it; he hoped, though, that Burrows would escape safely to London, and from thence to Australia. How lucky he had that twenty pounds loose cash in his pocket! it would help them a little on their way. Then St. Clare thought of Ethel; his thoughts always went back into the old groove, as surely as the dove flies back to its home.

Alas! this rain, that fell so heavily and incessantly against the windows, how could he get through it to the Greshams? Not that he cared for a wetting himself; but what excuse had he sufficiently strong and feasible to go, dripping and muddy, into the Greshams' parlour? No, it was no good; and he walked fretfully to the window. He could not go to-day, however much he

wanted to tell Ethel and her mother all his exploits; not boastfully, but because it had become a necessity to tell them all he did, or even thought, and receive their dear sympathy. Ethel's widely-opened eyes and exclamations of astonishment, then her little shudder and terrified clasp of the hands-how sweet she would look! He was arranging the incidents into a consecutive history, thinking how he would tell it; with a pleased smile, he was looking on Ethel's face, not out into the rain-drowned garden, when Somers entered the room with the information that some one wanted particularly to see him.

"To see me!" exclaimed St. Clare, with something like terror on his face-he had had so many horrid surprises in his life, not all imaginary horrors. Who could want to see him in Maxwell but some one from Isobel ?

"It is only a poor woman,

poor woman, Master

Ernest," replied the old servitor, seeing the