will teach me," she said. But already she was beginning to wonder whether she had not been wrong to wish for the tête-à-tête to be interrupted. If it is hard to seem amused when one is wearied, it is also difficult to conceal one's pain when one is wounded. They all sat down to breakfast. Monsieur Mérard asked for a pin, and carefully fastened his napkin across his shirt-front. Madame Mérard freely used her knife to cut bread, to eat dainty morsels off her plate. Everything went on pretty smoothly until Toto, who had been perfectly good for a whole fortnight, incited by the reappearance of his grandparents, and perhaps excited by some wine the old lady had administered, became as one possessed. He put his hands into the dishes, helped himself in this fashion to a nice little sole he had taken a fancy to, beat the rappel with his spoon upon the tablecloth, and held up his plate for more, so that the gravy dropped down upon Catherine's dress. She put her gentle hands upon his shoulder, and whispered gravely to him. This was a terrible offence. Madame Mérard took snuff, and wiped both eyes and nose in her handkerchief, shaking her head.

"Ah," she said, " Charles, do you remember how patient his poor mother used to be with him? She never reproved him never."

"I don't think poor Loénie herself could be more gentle with her son than his stepmother is," Fontaine answered, with great courage, holding out his hand to Catherine with a smile.

But this scarcely made matters better. Catherine had found no favour in Madame Mérard's little ferret eyes. She looked afraid of her for one thing, and there is nothing more provoking to people with difficult tempers and good hearts than to see others afraid. All day long Catherine did her best. She walked out a little way with the old couple; she even took a hand at whist. They began at one, and played till five. Then Monsieur le Curé came in to see his old friend Madame Mérard, and Catherine escaped into the garden to breathe a little air upon the terrace, and to try and forget the humiliations and weariness of the day. So this was the life she had deliberately chosen, these were to be the companions with whom she was to journey hence forth. What an old ménagère ! what economies! what mustachios! what fierce little eyes! what a living tariff of prices! A cool, delicious evening breeze came blowing through her rose-trees, consoling her somewhat, and a minute afterwards Catherine

saw her husband coming towards her. He looked beaming, as if he had just heard good news; he waved his hand in the air, and sprang lightly forward to where she was standing.

"All the morning I have not been without anxiety; I was afraid that something was wrong," he confided frankly to Catherine. "But now I am greatly relieved. My mother is telling Monsieur le Curé that she and my stepfather fully intend to pass the winter with us." Catherine tried to say something, but could not succeed-her husband noticed nothing.

Fontaine, from the very good-nature and affectionate fidelity of his disposition, seemed to cling very much to his early associates, and to the peculiar prejudices which he had learnt from them. The odd ways were familiar to him, the talk did not seem strange. It was of people and places he had known all his life. Their habits did not offend any very fine sense of taste. The translations which English minds make to themselves of foreign ways and customs are necessarily incorrect and prejudiced. Things which to Catherine seemed childish, partly humorous, partly wearisome, were to Fontaine only the simple and natural arrangements of every day. He could sit contentedly talking for hours in his cabane, with the little flag flying from the roof. He could play away the bright long afternoons with a greasy pack of cards or a box of dominoes. He could assume different costumes with perfect complacency, the sport costume, when he went to the shooting-gallery some enterprising speculator had opened at Bayeux, the red

the black gaiters pour affaire, flannel shirt for the sea-side stroll. Fontaine asked her one day if she would come down to the château with him. He had some business with the bailiff, who was to meet him there. Leaving the Mèrards installed upon the terrace, Catherine went for her hood and her cloak, and walked down the steep little ascent, and through the street, arm in arm with Monsieur le Maire. She had not been at the place since she left on the eve of her marriage. She began to think of it all; she remembered her doubts, her despair. They came to the gates at last, where only a few weeks ago Dick had told her of his love for Reine; the whole thing seemed running through her head like the unwinding of a skein. While Fontaine was talking to the bailiff she went and rang at the bell, and told Baptiste, who opened the door, that she wanted to go up to her room.

"Mais certainement, madame!

Vous

CHAPTER XXVIII.

sult to his wife or an injury to his sister because he had taught himself that to for

TER-IN-LAW.

As soon as Harry Clavering had made his promise to Mr. Burton, and had declared that he would be in Onslow Crescent that same evening, he went away from the offices at the Adelphi, feeling it to be quite impossible that he should recommence his work there at that moment, even should it ever be within his power to do so. Nor did Burton expect that he should stay. He understood, from what had passed, much of Harry's trouble, if not the whole of it; and though he did not despair on behalf of his sister, he was aware that her lover had fallen into a difficulty, from which he could not extricate himself without great suffering and much struggling. But Burton was a man who, in spite of something cynical on the surface of his character, believed well of mankind generally, and well also of men as individuals. Even though Harry had done amiss, he might be saved. And though Harry's conduct to Florence might have been bad, nay, might have been false, still, as Burton believed, he was too good to be cast aside, or spurned out of the way, without some further attempt to save him.

When Clavering had left him Burton went back to his work, and after a while succeeded in riveting his mind on the papers before him. It was a hard struggle with him, but he did it, and did not leave his business till his usual' hour. It was past five when he took down his hat and his umbrella, and, as I fear, dusted his boots before he passed out of the office on to the passage. As he went he gave sundry directions to porters and clerks, as was his wont, and then walked off intent upon his usual exercise before he should reach his home.

But he had to determine on much with reference to Florence and Harry before he saw his wife. How was the meeting of the evening to take place, and in what way should it be commenced? If there were indispensable cause for his anger, in what way should he show it, and if necessity for vengeance, how should his sister be avenged? There is nothing more difficult for a man than the redressing of injuries done to a woman who is very near to him and very dear to him. The whole theory of Christian meekness and forgiveness becomes broken to pieces and falls to the ground, almost as an absurd theory, even at the idea of such wrong. What man ever forgave an in

an argument, without a moment's thought, the man declares to himself that such trespasses as those are not included in the general order. But what is he to do? Thirty years since his course was easy, and unless the sinner were a clergyman, he could in some sort satisfy his craving for revenge by taking a pistol in his hand, and having a shot at the offender. That method was doubtless barbarous and unreasonable, but it was satisfactory and sufficed. But what can he do now? A thoughtful, prudent, painstaking man, such as was Theodore Burton, feels that it is not given to him to attack another with his fists, to fly at his enemy's throat, and carry out his purpose after the manner of dogs. Such a one has probably something round his heart which tells him that if so attacked he could defend himself; but he knows that he has no aptitude for making such onslaught, and is conscious that such deeds of arms would be unbecoming to him. In many, perhaps in most of such cases, he may, if he please, have recourse to the laws. But any aid that the law can give him is altogether distasteful to him. The name of her that is so dear to him should be kept quiet as the grave under such misfortune, not blazoned through ten thousand columns for the amusement of all the crowd. There is nothing left for him but to spurn the man, not with his foot but with his thoughts; and the bitter consciousness that to such spurning the sinner will be indifferent. The old way was barbarous certainly, and unreasonable, — but there was a satisfaction in it that has been often wanting since the use of pistols went out of fashion among us.

All this passed through Burton's mind as he walked home. One would not have supposed him to be a man eager for bloodshed,he with a wife whom he deemed to be perfect, with children who in his eyes were gracious as young gods, with all his daily work which he loved as good workers always do; but yet, as he thought of Florence, as he thought of the possibility of treachery on Harry's part, he regarded almost with dismay the conclusion to which he was forced to come,

that there could be no punishment. He might proclaim the offender to the world as false, and the world would laugh at the proclaimer, and shake hands with the offender. To sit together with such a man on a barrel of powder, or fight him over a handkerchief, seemed to him to be reasonable, nay salutary, under such a grievance. There

are sins, he felt, which the gods should punish with instant thunderbolts, and such sins as this was of such nature. His Florence, pure, good, loving, true, herself totally void of all suspicion, faultless in heart as well as mind, the flower of that Burton flock which had prospered so well, that she should be sacrificed through the treachery of a man who, at his best, had scarcely been worthy of her! The thought of this was almost too much for him, and he gnashed his teeth as he went on his way.

But yet he had not given up the man. Though he could not restrain himself from foreshadowing the misery that would result from such baseness, yet he told himself that he would not condemn before condemnation was necessary. Harry Clavering might not be good enough for Florence. What man was good enough for Florence? But still, if married, Harry, he thought, would not make a bad husband. Many a man who is prone enough to escape from the bonds which he has undertaken to endure, to escape from them before they are riveted, is mild enough under their endurance, when they are once fastened upon him. Harry Clavering was not of such a nature that Burton could tell himself that it would be well that his sister should escape even though her way of escape must lie through the fire and water of outraged love. That Harry Clavering was a gentleman, that he was clever, that he was by nature affectionate, soft in manner, tender of heart, anxious to please, good-tempered, and of high ambition, Burton knew well; and he partly recognized the fact that Harry had probably fallen into his present fault more by accident than by design. Clavering was not a skilled and practical deceiver. At last, as he drew near to his own door, he resolved on the line of conduct he would pursue. He would tell his wife everything, and she should receive Harry alone.

He was weary when he reached home, and was a little cross with his fatigue. Good man as he was, he was apt to be fretful on the first moment of his return to his own house, hot with walking, tired with his day's labour, and in want of his dinner. His wife understood this well, and always bore with him at such moments, coming down to him in the dressing-room behind the back parlour, and ministering to his wants. I fear he took some advantage of her goodness, knowing that at such moments he could grumble and scold without danger of contradiction. But the institution was established, and Cecilia never rebelled against

if it is so." "But it is not all right. I wonder what on earth the men do to the boots, that I can never get a pair that do not hurt me in walking." At this moment she was standing over him with his slippers.

"Will you have a glass of sherry before dinner, dear; you are so tired?" "Sherry-no!"

"And what about Harry? You don't mean to say "

"If you'll listen, I'll tell you what I do mean to say." Then he described to her as well as he could, what had really taken place between him and Harry Clavering at the office. "He cannot mean to be false, if he is coming here," said the wife.

"He does not mean to be false; but he is one of those men who can be false without meaning it, who allow themselves to drift away from their anchors, and to be carried out into seas of misery and trouble, because they are not careful in looking to their tackle. I think that he may still be held to a right course, and therefore I have begged him to come here."

"I am sure that you are right, Theodore. He is so good and so affectionate, and he made himself so much one of us!"

"Yes; too easily by half. That is just the danger. But look here, Cissy. I'll tell you what I mean to do. I will not see him myself;- at any rate, not at first. Probably I had better not see him at all. You shall talk to him."

"By myself!"

"Why not? You and he have always been great friends, and he is a man who can speak more openly to a woman than to another man.'

“And what shall I say as to your absence?"

"Just the truth.. Tell him that I am remaining in the dining-room because I think his task will be easier with you in my absence. He has got himself into some mess with that woman."

"With Lady Ongar?"

"Yes; not that her name was mentioned between us, but I suppose it is so."