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homely vase upon the centre table, and a work-basket with some slippers, in Berlin-wool work, unfinished.

Gilbert Fenton contemplated all these things with supreme tenderness. It was here that Marian had lived for so many months -alone most likely for the greater part of the time. He had a fixed idea that the man who had stolen his treasure was some dissipated worldling, altogether unworthy so sacred a trust. The room had a look of loneliness to him. He could fancy the long solitary hours in this remote seclusion.

He had to wait for some little time, walking slowly up and down; very eager for the interview that was to come, yet with a consciousness that his fate would seem only so much the darker to him afterwards, when he had to turn his back upon this place, with perhaps no hope of ever seeing Marian again. At last there came a light footfall; the door was opened, and his lost love came into the room. Gilbert Fenton was standing near the fireplace, with his back to the light. For the first few moments it was evident that Marian did not recognise him. She came towards him slowly, with a wondering look in her face, and then stopped suddenly with a faint cry of surprise.

You here!' she exclaimed. O, how did you find this place ? Why did you come ?'

She clasped her hands, looking at him in a half-piteous way that went straight to his heart. What he had told Mrs. Branston was quite true. It was not in him to be angry with this girl. Whatever bitterness there might have been in his mind until this moment fled away at sight of her. His heart had no room for any feeling but tenderness and pity.

'Did you imagine that I should rest until I had seen you once more, Marian? Did you suppose I should submit to lose you without hearing from your own lips why I have been so unfortunate?'

I did not think you would waste time or thought upon any one so wicked as I have been towards you,' she answered slowly, standing before him with a pale sad face and downcast eyes. 'I fancied that whatever love you had ever felt for me-and I know how well you did love me—would perish in a moment when you found how basely I had acted. I hoped that it would be so.'

'No, Marian; love like mine does not perish so easily as that. O, my love, my love! why did you forsake me so cruelly? What had I done to merit your desertion of me?'

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What had you done! You had only been too good to me. I know that there is no excuse for my sin. I have prayed that you and I might never meet again. What can I say? From first to last I have been wrong. From first to last I have acted weakly and wickedly. I was flattered and gratified by your affection for me; and when I found that my dear uncle had set his heart upon our

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marriage, I yielded against my own better reason, which warned me that I did not love you as you deserved to be loved. Then for a long time I was blind to the truth. I did not examine my own heart. I was quite able to estimate all your noble qualities, and I fancied that I should be very happy as your wife. But you must remember that at the last, when you were leaving England, I asked you to release me, and told you that it would be happier for both of us to be free.'

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'Why was that, Marian?'

'Because at that last moment I began to doubt my own heart.' 'Had there been any other influence at work, Marian? Had you seen your husband, Mr. Holbrook, at that time ?'

She blushed crimson, and the slender hands nervously clasped and unclasped themselves before she spoke.

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I cannot answer that question,' she said at last.

That is quite as good as saying "yes." You had seen this man; he had come between us already. O Marian, Marian, why

were you not more candid ?'

'Because I was weak and foolish. I could not bear to make you unhappy. O, believe me, Gilbert, I had no thought of false

hood at that time.

what might.'

I fully meant to be true to my promise, come

I am quite willing to believe that,' he answered gently. 'I believe that you acted from first to last under the influence of a stronger will than your own. You can see that I feel no resentment against you. I come to you in sorrow, not in anger. But I want to understand how this thing came to pass. Why was it that you never wrote to me to tell me the complete change in your feelings?'

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It was thought better not,' Marian faltered, after a pause.
'By you?'

No; by my husband.'

And you suffered him to dictate to you in this matter, against your own sense of right?'

'I loved him,' she answered simply. I have never refused to obey him in anything. I will own that I thought it would be better to write and tell you the truth; but my husband thought otherwise. He wished our marriage to remain a secret from you, and from all the world, for some time to come. He had his own reasons for that- -reasons I was bound to respect. I cannot think how you came to discover this out-of-the-world place.'

'I have taken some trouble to find you, Marian, and it is a hard thing to find you the wife of another; but the bitterness of it must be borne. I do not want to reproach you when I tell you that my life has been broken utterly by this blow. I want you to believe my truth and honour, to trust me now as you might have trusted

in

me when you first discovered that you could not love me.

Since I am not to be your husband, let me be the next best thing-your friend. The day may come in which you will have need of an honest man's friendship.'

She shook her head sadly.

6

'You are very good,' she said; but there is no possibility of friendship between you and me. If you will only say that you can forgive me for the great wrong I have done you, there will be a heavy burden lifted from my heart; and whatever you may think now, I cannot doubt that in the future you will find some one far better worthy of your love than ever I could have been.'

That is the stereotyped form of consolation, Marian, a man is always referred to-that shadowy and perfect creature who is to appear in the future, and heal all his wounds. There will be no such after-love for me. I staked all when I played the great game; and have lost all. But why cannot I be your friend, Marian?'

'Can you forgive my husband for his part in the wrong that has been done you? Can you be his friend, knowing what he has done?' 'No!' Gilbert answered fiercely between his set teeth. forgive your weakness, but not the man's treachery.'

'I can

6 Then you can never be mine,' Marian said firmly. Remember I am not talking of a common friendship, a friendship of daily association. I offer myself to you as a refuge in the hour of trouble, a counsellor in perplexity, a brother always waiting in the background of your life to protect or serve you. Of course, it is quite possible you may never have need of protection or service -God knows, I wish you all happiness-but there are not many lives quite free from trouble, and the day may come in which you will want a friend.'

If it ever does, I will remember your goodness."

Gilbert looked scrutinisingly at Marian Holbrook as she stood before him with the cold gray light of the sunless day full upon her face. He wanted to read the story of her life in that beautiful face, if it were possible. He wanted to know whether she was happy with the man who had stolen her from him.

She was very pale, but that might be fairly attributed to the agitation caused by his presence. Gilbert fancied that there was a careworn look in her face, and that her beauty had faded a little since those peaceful days at Lidford, when these two had wasted the summer hours in idle talk under the walnut-trees in the Captain's garden. She was dressed very plainly in black. There was no coquettish knot of ribbon at her throat; no girlish trinkets dangled at her waist-all those little graces and embellishments of costume which seem natural to a woman whose life is happy were wanting in her toilet to-day; and slight as these indications were, Gilbert did not overlook them.

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