effacement, his crime might be forgiven—to his little girl; that he hoped much from Guy's strength and Sir Arthur's need of that £300,000.
"The shrivelled figure on the couch trembled."
Sir Arthur hesitated. "I think," he said, slowly, at last, "it will be the best plan."
"You consent, then? You can assure this man's silence—"
"I consent. And as for Mr.—Mr.———, yes, I can silence him."
When at length Ellinor was rid of her guests, she went to seek her father. She found that he had gone to his room, and that the door was locked.
He answered back to her inquiries that he was better—anxious to sleep; she might go to bed without fear. She went back to Guy, who was waiting in the drawing-room. He had declined a seat in his mother's carriage, and meant to ride home. Ellinor slipped her arms about his neck—
"Guy, what is the matter to-night? Something has happened, or is going to happen. What is it?"
He gathered her in his arms, crushing the chiffons of her yellow gown—
"Nothing but your own nervous fears, sweetheart."
"Guy, we have never talked much about our love. Tell me now how much you love me."
"An idle question, Nell. I love you, dear. If you were alone, and poor—"
"And dishonoured—say dishonoured. Guy."
He paused a moment, then said quietly—
"And dishonoured, Nell—outwardly; in your own pure heart you never could be—you are mine; the one woman for whom, by God's help, I live or die."
She clung to him—
"Thank you, Guy."
"It is nonsense," he said; "it is you who give me everything. If I loved you less I could not take it. You believe that, Nell?"
"Indeed, I do."
She lifted up her face to say good-night. Suddenly he caught her back to his arms.
"Oh, my love, my love, I almost wish these things might come upon you, that I might prove it."
When the quiet darkness of night had settled down upon Firholt, the door of its master's room opened softly. Treading as a thief in his own house, Mr. Rawdon stole out. He glided, a small dark blot, through passages where a faint moonlight from time to time illuminated his shrinking figure, until he reached the door of his daughter's room.
He paused, listening. All was so quiet within, he ventured to turn the handle.
The stillness told him that Ellinor was asleep. Treading on tip-toe he stole across to the bed. There was sufficient light for him to see her face plainly, and, stooping over her, he kissed her lightly on the forehead for the last time.
The poor little outcast was crying; a tear was rolling down his cheek, but he wiped it away, lest it should fall upon her and waken her, following the light touch of his kiss. As it was she stirred a little in her sleep, and he drew back behind the curtain. He waited a few moments, then, without venturing to touch her again, he stole away out into the night. Early the next morning Mrs. Montresor came to Ellinor's room with a letter. She looked grave and anxious.
Matthew Rawdon had written to her, begging her to be herself the bearer of a letter to his daughter, and to break the news of his departure.
"How is my father?" asked Ellinor. "Has John been to him—have you heard?"
"Your father has been called away sud-
