"Melanie de Ruisseau could never have known the contents of this letter," I observed. "She arrived here with you, an entire stranger, she knows nothing either of Rowland's fate or his love. You should have seen her when she read his letter. My only course will be to shut her up, and send for her guardian at once, that guardian who was to have accompanied her, I always understood, to England. It is evident enough that there is some mystery which wants unravelling. Poor Rowland! and he recommends this strange being to my protection and friendship." "And may I ask what explanation is given by Mademoiselle Melanie ?" "A consistent one enough, so far as the letter goes. I believe with you that its contents must have been unknown to her; with regard to other matters, she is reserved and hesitating." "Surely, Mr. Seyton, independently of your son's last recommendation, you will find kindness and patience the wisest course. There is nothing disengenuous in Mademoiselle's appearance; she is not, so far as appears, the blameable cause of the sad calamity which has taken place." Something in this did not appear to please Mr. Seyton, he waved his hand half impatiently, half apologetically. "Mr. Meredith," he said, "I have a painful task before me. My poor Margaret even now suspects something. Forgive all my hastiness, and remember the unhappiness which causes it. Farewell, sir; I have your London address, and will, probably, write to you there, you will see the propriety of taking a hasty leave, and will pardon the abruptnesses which such moments as these cause." What was I to think, what conjecture to form ? how could the apparent mystery be unravelled, and what right had I to take into my hands this tangled skein, and what excuse or authority to venture into the strange labyrinth that spread out before me? How I longed to see Melanie again, to hear an explanation from her own lips, for surely she could give one. The day wore wretchedly away at my hotel, no particulars that I gleaned about the family at Ty-y-gan-wy threw the slightest light upon my path. From motives of delicacy I could not again force my way into "the house by the foaming water," and I waited the next day, and the next, anxiously hoping against hope for some sign, some message, but none came. The only part of the weary time which I passed in a way satisfactory to myself, was that devoted to the composition of a note to Melanie, expressing my feelings of great interest in her, and affection for her entreating that she would give me some opportunity of assisting her in any troubles which might have occurred, or any difficulties in which she might be implicated. This was sealed, and carefully placed in my pocket-book for immediate use at any time. However, on the evening of the second day, when I came in from a stroll, Mr. Seyton's coachman, with an anxious air, was waiting with a letter. Melanie had flown, had been missing since the previous night, no one knew exactly when she had started, or where she had gone. The coachman had ridden in hot haste to the nearest railway station, but his inquiries were all in vain. In the morning I went over to "the house by the foaming water," and had a conversation with Mr. Seyton, who received me with marked coldness, and informed me that having written urgently to Melanie's guardian, he was daily expecting him, and was waiting to consult with him before acting. further. My efforts to sympathize with the poor old gentleman's troubles were met with considerable mistrust, and he neither appeared able or willing to afford me any information. On returning to the hotel I found a little note in Melanie's handwriting, which had come for me by post, the post-mark was Dowsbury; no one knew my address, so that it was all the more strange. I tore it open, there was no signature. How rapidly my eyes glanced over the few lines. Accept the thanks of one who is far more hopelessly unhappy than you are aware of. Farewell! we shall probably never meet again; but your kindness will never be forgotten by poor, innocent Melanie, hunted as she is by misfortune and fear!" Half an hour later I had left Bodlondeb, and was making rapid progress towards English ground. My minute, but guarded, inquiries at Dowsbury were unattended with the slightest vestige of a result; wearied and disappointed I returned to the station, and sat there by the fire in the waitingroom till the train should arrive, rendered none the less impatient by the fact that nearly two hours had to elapse before I could go on. There was but one other person in the room, a pleasant looking, middle-aged fellow, who had just finished some letters, and who seemed to look upon me with an air of relief, as if inclined for conversation. Endeavouring to shake off my growing irritability, I encouraged this passing friendly intimacy, and learned that my neighbour was a civil engineer. We were soon conversing upon the subject of railway adventures, and after several narrations on both sides of hair-breadth escapes, and other travelling experiences, he told me the following quiet story, ending it most opportunely just as the whistle of the in-coming train was heard in the distance. CHAPTER VI. THE STORY OF THE CIVIL ENGINEER. "And say, without our hopes, without our fears, CAMPBELL. that I have to Still there are IT is to some extent an old tale tell you; so do not be disappointed. points in it which could hardly have occurred in any but our own days; and it may also be interesting as a rare instance of a supposed impossibility being made possible. Some eighteen months ago I was sent down by our company to Stonnishaw to settle a question which had turned up concerning the permanent way, and found it necessary to proceed along the line, past the little Stonnishaw station, to a spot where the rains had done considerable damage, and caused a kind of landslip. To form a judgment how such occurrences were to be provided against, and what was then the best plan to pursue, I had |