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forever.

  "You gave me leave to mention it, Sir Patrick--didn't you?" said

  Arnold.

  Sir Patrick shifted round a little, so as to get the sun on his

  back, and admitted that he had given leave.

  "If I had only known, I would rather have cut my tongue out than

  have said a word about it. What do you think she did? She burst

  out crying, and ordered me to leave the room."

  It was a lovely morning--a cool breeze tempered the heat of the

  sun; the birds were singing; the garden wore its brightest look.

  Sir Patrick was supremely comfortable. The little wearisome

  vexations of this mortal life had retired to a respectful

  distance from him. He positively declined to invite them to come

  any nearer.

  "Here is a world," said the old gentleman, getting the sun a

  little more broadly on his back, "which a merciful Creator has

  filled with lovely sights, harmonious sounds, delicious scents;

  and here are creatures with faculties expressly made for

  enjoyment of those sights, sounds, and scents--to say nothing of

  Love, Dinner, and Sleep, all thrown into the bargain. And these

  same creatures hate, starve, toss sleepless on their pillows, see

  nothing pleasant, hear nothing pleasant, smell nothing

  pleasant--cry bitter tears, say hard words, contract painful

  illnesses; wither, sink, age, die! What does it mean, Arnold? And

  how much longer is it all to go on?"

  The fine connecting link between the blindness of Blanche to the

  advantage of being married, and the blindness of humanity to the

  advantage of being in existence, though sufficiently perceptible

  no doubt to venerable Philosophy ripening in the sun, was

  absolutely invisible to Arnold. He deliberately dropped the vast

  question opened by Sir Patrick; and, reverting to Blanche, asked

  what was to be done.

  "What do you do with a fire, when you can't extinguish it?" said

  Sir Patrick. "You let it blaze till it goes out. What do you do

  with a woman when you can't pacify her? Let _her_ blaze till she

  goes out."

  Arnold failed to see the wisdom embodied in that excellent

  advice. "I thought you would have helped me to put things right

  with Blanche," he said.

  "I _am_ helping you. Let Blanche alone. Don't speak of the

  marriage again, the next time you see her. If she mentions it,

  beg her pardon, and tell her you won't press the question any

  more. I shall see her in an hour or two, and I shall take exactly

  the same tone myself. You have put the idea into her mind--leave

  it there to ripen. Give her distress about Miss Silvester nothing

  to feed on. Don't stimulate it by contradiction; don't rouse it

  to defend itself by disparagement of her lost friend. Leave Time

  to edge her gently nearer and nearer to the husband who is

  waiting for her--and take my word for it, Time will have her

  ready when the settlements are ready."

  Toward the luncheon hour Sir Patrick saw Blanche, and put in

  practice the principle which he had laid down. She was perfectly

  tranquil before her uncle left her. A little later, Arnold was

  forgiven. A little later still, the old gentleman's sharp

  observation noted that his niece was unusually thoughtful, and

  that she looked at Arnold, from time to time, with an interest of

  a new kind--an interest which shyly hid itself from Arnold's

  view. Sir Patrick went up to dress for dinner, with a comfortable

  inner conviction that the difficulties which had beset him were

  settled at last. Sir Patrick had never been more mistaken in his

  life.

  The business of the toilet was far advanced. Duncan had just

  placed the glass in a good light; and Duncan's master was at that

  turning point in his daily life which consisted in attaining, or

  not attaining, absolute perfection in the tying of his white

  cravat--when some outer barbarian, ignorant of the first

  principles of dressing a gentleman's throat, presumed to knock at

  the bedroom door. Neither master nor servant moved or breathed

  until the integrity of the cravat was placed beyond the reach of

  accident. Then Sir Patrick cast the look of final criticism

  in the glass, and breathed again when he saw that it was done.

  "A little labored in style, Duncan. But not bad, considering the

  interruption?"

  "By no means, Sir Patrick."

  "See who it is."

  Duncan went to the door; and returned, to his master, with an

  excuse for the interruption, in the shape of a telegram!

  Sir Patrick started at the sight of that unwelcome message. "Sign

  the receipt, Duncan," he said--and opened the envelope. Yes!

  Exactly as he had anticipated! News of Miss Silvester, on the

  very day when he had decided to abandon all further attempt at

  discovering her. The telegram ran thus:

  "Message received from Falkirk this morning. Lady, as described,

  left the train at Falkirk last night. Went on, by the first train

  this morning, to Glasgow. Wait further instructions."

  "Is the messenger to take any thing back, Sir Patrick?"

  "No. I must consider what I am to do. If I find it necessary I

  will send to the station. Here is news of Miss Silvester,

  Duncan," continued Sir Patrick, when the messenger had gone. "She

  has been traced to Glasgow."

  "Glasgow is a large place, Sir Patrick."

  "Yes. Even if they have telegraphed on and had her watched (which

  doesn't appear), she may escape us again at Glasgow. I am the

  last man in the world, I hope, to shrink from accepting my fair

  share of any responsibility. But I own I would have given

  something to have kept this telegram out of the house. It raises

  the most awkward question I have had to decide on for many a long

  day past. Help me on with my coat. I must think of it! I must

  think of it!"

  Sir Patrick went down to dinner in no agreeable frame of mind.

  The unexpected recovery of the lost trace of Miss

  Silvester--there is no disguising it--seriously annoyed him.

  The dinner-party that day, assembling punctually at the stroke of

  the bell, had to wait a quarter of an hour before the hostess

  came down stairs.

  Lady Lundie's apology, when she entered the library, informed her

  guests that she had been detained by some neighbors who had

  called at an unusually late hour. Mr. and Mrs. Julius Delamayn,

  finding themselves near Windygates, had favored her with a visit,

  on their way home, and had left cards of invitation for a

  garden-party at their house.

  Lady Lundie was charmed with her new acquaintances. They had

  included every body who was staying at Windygates in their

  invitation. They had been as pleasant and easy as old friends.

  Mrs. Delamayn had brought the kindest message from one of her

  guests--Mrs. Glenarm--to say that she remembered meeting Lady

  Lundie in London, in the time of the late Sir Thomas, and was

  anxious to improve the acquaintance. Mr. Julius Delamayn had

  given a most amusing account of his brother. Geoffrey had sent to

  London for a trainer; and the whole household was
on the tip-toe

  of expectation to witness the magnificent spectacle of an athlete

  preparing himself for a foot-race. The ladies, with Mrs. Glenarm

  at their head, were hard at work, studying the profound and

  complicated question of human running--the muscles employed in

  it, the preparation required for it, the heroes eminent in it.

  The men had been all occupied that morning in assisting Geoffrey

  to measure a mile, for his exercising-ground, in a remote part of

  the park--where there was an empty cottage, which was to be

  fitted with all the necessary appliances for the reception of

  Geoffrey and his trainer. "You will see the last of my brother,"

  Julius had said, "at the garden-party. After that he retires into

  athletic privacy, and has but one interest in life--the interest

  of watching the disappearance of his own superfluous flesh."

  Throughout the dinner Lady Lundie was in oppressively good

  spirits, singing the praises of her new friends. Sir Patrick, on

  the other hand, had never been so silent within the memory of

  mortal man. He talked with an effort; and he listened with a

  greater effort still. To answer or not to answer the telegram in

  his pocket? To persist or not to persist in his resolution to

  leave Miss Silvester to go her own way? Those were the questions

  which insisted on coming round to him as regularly as the dishes

  themselves came round in the orderly progression of the dinner.

  Blanche---who had not felt equal to taking her place at the

  table--appeared in the drawing-room afterward.

  Sir Patrick came in to tea, with the gentlemen, still uncertain

  as to the right course to take in the matter of the telegram. One

  look at Blanche's sad face and Blanche's altered manner decided

  him. What would be the result if he roused new hopes by resuming

  the effort to trace Miss Silvester, and if he lost the trace a

  second time? He had only to look at his niece and to see. Could

  any consideration justify him in turning her mind back on the

  memory of the friend who had left her at the moment when it was

  just beginning to look forward for relief to the prospect of her

  marriage? Nothing could justify him; and nothing should induce

  him to do it.

  Reasoning--soundly enough, from his own point of view--on that

  basis, Sir Patrick determined on sending no further instructions

  to his friend at Edinburgh. That night he warned Duncan to

  preserve the strictest silence as to the arrival of the telegram.

  He burned it, in case of accidents, with his own hand, in his own

  room.

  Rising the next day and looking out of his window, Sir Patrick

  saw the two young people taking their morning walk at a moment

  when they happened to cross the open grassy space which separated

  the two shrubberies at Windygates. Arnold's arm was round

  Blanche's waist, and they were talking confidentially with their

  heads close together. "She is coming round already!" thought the

  old gentleman, as the two disappeared again in the second

  shrubbery from view. "Thank Heaven! things are running smoothly

  at last!"

  Among the ornaments of Sir Patrick's bed room there was a view

  (taken from above) of one of the Highland waterfalls. If he had

  looked at the picture when he turned away from his window, he

  might have remarked that a river which is running with its utmost

  smoothness at one moment may be a river which plunges into its

  most violent agitation at another; and he might have remembered,

  with certain misgivings, that the progress of a stream of water

  has been long since likened, with the universal consent of

  humanity, to the progress of the stream of life.

  FIFTH SCENE.--GLASGOW.

  CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH.

  ANNE AMONG THE LAWYERS.

  ON the day when Sir Patrick received the second of the two

  telegrams sent to him from Edinburgh, four respectable

  inhabitants of the City of Glasgow were startled by the

  appearance of an object of interest on the monotonous horizon of

  their daily lives.

  The persons receiving this wholesome shock were--Mr. and Mrs.

  Karnegie of the Sheep's Head Hotel- and Mr. Camp, and Mr. Crum,

  attached as "Writers" to the honorable profession of the Law.

  It was still early in the day when a lady arrived, in a cab from

  the railway, at the Sheep's Head Hotel. Her luggage consisted of

  a black box, and of a well-worn leather bag which she carried in

  her hand. The name on the box (recently written on a new luggage

  label, as the color of the ink and paper showed) was a very good

  name in its way, common to a very great number of ladies, both in

  Scotland and England. It was "Mrs. Graham."

  Encountering the landlord at the entrance to the hotel, "Mrs.

  Graham" asked to be accommodated with a bedroom, and was

  transferred in due course to the chamber-maid on duty at the

  time. Returning to the little room behind the bar, in which the

  accounts were kept, Mr. Karnegie surprised his wife by moving

  more briskly, and looking much brighter than usual. Being

  questioned, Mr. Karnegie (who had cast the eye of a landlord on

  the black box in the passage) announced that one "Mrs. Graham"

  had just arrived, and was then and there to be booked as

  inhabiting Room Number Seventeen. Being informed (with

  considerable asperity of tone and manner) that this answer failed

  to account for the interest which appeared to have been inspired

  in him by a total stranger, Mr. Karnegie came to the point, and

  confessed that "Mrs. Graham" was one of the sweetest-looking

  women he had seen for many a

  long day, and that he feared she was very seriously out of

  health.

  Upon that reply the eyes of Mrs. Karnegie developed in size, and

  the color of Mrs. Karnegie deepened in tint. She got up from her

  chair and said that it might be just as well if she personally

  superintended the installation of "Mrs. Graham" in her room, and

  personally satisfied herself that "Mrs. Graham" was a fit inmate

  to be received at the Sheep's Head Hotel. Mr. Karnegie thereupon

  did what he always did--he agreed with his wife.

  Mrs. Karnegie was absent for some little time. On her return her

  eyes had a certain tigerish cast in them when they rested on Mr.

  Karnegie. She ordered tea and some light refreshment to be taken

  to Number Seventeen. This done--without any visible provocation

  to account for the remark--she turned upon her husband, and said,

  "Mr. Karnegie you are a fool." Mr. Karnegie asked, "Why, my

  dear?" Mrs. Karnegie snapped her fingers, and said, "_That_ for

  her good looks! You don't know a good-looking woman when you see

  her." Mr. Karnegie agreed with his wife.

  Nothing more was said until the waiter appeared at the bar with

  his tray. Mrs. Karnegie, having first waived the tray off,

  without instituting her customary investigation, sat down

  suddenly with a thump, and said to her husband (who had not

  uttered a word in the interval), "Don't talk to Me about her

  being out of health! _That_ fo
r her health! It's trouble on her

  mind." Mr. Karnegie said, "Is it now?" Mrs. Karnegie replied,

  "When I have said, It is, I consider myself insulted if another

  person says, Is it?" Mr. Karnegie agreed with his wife.

  There. was another interval. Mrs. Karnegie added up a bill, with

  a face of disgust. Mr. Karnegie looked at her with a face of

  wonder. Mrs. Karnegie suddenly asked him why he wasted his looks

  on _her,_ when he would have "Mrs. Graham" to look at before

  long. Mr. Karnegie, upon that, attempted to compromise the matter

  by looking, in the interim, at his own boots. Mrs. Karnegie

  wished to know whether after twenty years of married life, she

  was considered to be not worth answering by her own husband.

  Treated with bare civility (she expected no more), she might have

  gone on to explain that "Mrs. Graham" was going out. She might

  also have been prevailed on to mention that "Mrs. Graham" had

  asked her a very remarkable question of a business nature, at the

  interview between them up stairs. As it was, Mrs. Karnegie's lips

  were sealed, and let Mr. Karnegie deny if he dared, that he

  richly deserved it. Mr. Karnegie agreed with his wife.

  In half an hour more, "Mrs. Graham" came down stairs; and a cab

  was sent for. Mr. Karnegie, in fear of the consequences if he did

  otherwise, kept in a corner. Mrs. Karnegie followed him into the

  corner, and asked him how he dared act in that way? Did he

  presume to think, after twenty years of married life, that his

  wife was jealous? "Go, you brute, and hand Mrs. Graham into the

  cab!"

  Mr. Karnegie obeyed. He asked, at the cab window, to what part of

  Glasgow he should tell the driver to go. The reply informed him

  that the driver was to take "Mrs. Graham" to the office of Mr.

  Camp, the lawyer. Assuming "Mrs. Graham" to be a stranger in

  Glasgow, and remembering that Mr. Camp was Mr. Karnegie's lawyer,

  the inference appeared to be, that "Mrs. Graham's" remarkable

  question, addressed to the landlady, had related to legal

  business, and to the discovery of a trust-worthy person capable

  of transacting it for her.

  Returning to the bar, Mr. Karnegie found his eldest daughter in

  charge of the books, the bills, and the waiters. Mrs. Karnegie

  had retired to her own room, justly indignant with her husband

  for his infamous conduct in handing "Mrs. Graham" into the cab

  before her own eyes. "It's the old story, Pa," remarked Miss

  Karnegie, with the most perfect composure. "Ma told you to do it,

  of course; and then Ma says you've insulted her before all the

  servants. I wonder how you bear it?" Mr. Karnegie looked at his

  boots, and answered, "I wonder, too, my dear." Miss Karnegie

  said, "You're not going to Ma, are you?" Mr. Karnegie looked up

  from his boots, and answered, "I must, my dear."

  Mr. Camp sat in his private room, absorbed over his papers.

  Multitudinous as those documents were, they appeared to be not

  sufficiently numerous to satisfy Mr. Camp. He rang his bell, and

  ordered more.

  The clerk appearing with a new pile of papers, appeared also with

  a message. A lady, recommended by Mrs. Karnegie, of the Sheep's

  Head, wished to consult Mr. Camp professionally. Mr. Camp looked

  at his watch, counting out precious time before him, in a little

  stand on the table, and said, "Show the lady in, in ten minutes."

  In ten minutes the lady appeared. She took the client's chair and

  lifted her veil. The same effect which had been produced on Mr.

  Karnegie was once more produced on Mr. Camp. For the first time,

  for many a long year past, he felt personally interested in a

  total stranger. It might have been something in her eyes, or it

  might have been something in her manner. Whatever it was, it took

  softly hold of him, and made him, to his own exceeding surprise,

  unmistakably anxious to hear what she had to say!

  The lady announced--in a low sweet voice touched with a quiet

  sadness--that her business related to a question of marriage (as

  marriage is understood by Scottish law), and that her own peace