'Good gracious!' cried white-haired Mrs Barclay from the top of the table, 'what can have happened to the two? They must have gone out together. Gone out a raw wretched morning like this without breakfast! I never heard of such a thing. Miss Osborne, have you any notion of what has become of your brother?' 'No, Mrs Barclay, not the least. He said nothing about it last night, and he left no message. Perhaps he got a letter or telegram this morning obliging him to go out early.' 'Maybe so. Maybe so! I'll ring and ask. Without his breakfast such a morning! Why, it's enough to give him his death.' A servant answered. 'Did you take the letters out of the box this morning?' 'Yes, ma'am.' 'Were there any for Mr Osborne?' 'No, ma'am.' 'Nor a telegram?' 'No, ma'am.' 'Well, I'm sure I never heard of such a thing. They must have gone out together. But it is strange that Mr Nevill should have said nothing about going out. Miss Osborne, are you sure there is nothing the matter? You are looking very white.' 'I am quite well,' answered Kate. She felt perplexed about her brother, and confused about Nevill. She had passed a wakeful night. Two or three times before a man had seemed to court her society, but upon the introduction of anything like sentiment she had immediately and resolutely drawn back, and given the candidate wooer to understand she desired him to abandon the pursuit. Nevill had of late amused and diverted her. At first she had stood in mortal terror of that rattling tongue which dealt so freely with everyone, everything. Of late that feeling had worn away, and she could listen to his nonsense with a relish. She had never met anyone like him before; and when the shock of novelty had been overcome by time, she felt no repulsion from him or his rodomontade. She had never thought of the possibility of his falling in love. He was, she imagined, the last man in the world likely to marry and settle down. She had no more thought of his falling in love with her than of the Archbishop of Canterbury asking her to run away with him. What he had said when they were alone yesterday struck her as being peculiar, nothing more. It perplexed, puzzled, distressed her, that was all. It had, to her, no more indicated love than a polite bow indicates a proposal of marriage. All it had meant to her was that insensibly she had given him cause of disquietude. She would have been glad to remove that uneasiness by any assurance or proof she could give; but he had clung to the delusion with the greatest pertinacity until he turned over a new leaf of his mysterious book, and confessed he had been only playing at being hurt! He had, he said, invented a grievance to try an experiment, the nature of which he would not then divulge. She had tried to guess what that experiment could be, but failed. She had felt surprised and alarmed to think this man had been, unknown to her, trying experiments on her; but whether these experiments had been in repartee or mesmerism, she could not say. She had had no clue whatever to his meaning. Now she held the clue, but what an extraordinary, what an unlooked-for one it was! Although she had the clue to the experiment, she did not know what the experiment was. The clue was, he loved her! Could anything be more extraordinary than that he who had been over half the world, had seen girls of every degree of accomplishments and beauty, should single out her as the woman he would make his wife? She could not believe he was in earnest. She would again read the letter over after breakfast. When she found herself in the privacy of her own room, she took the letter out of her pocket and read it twice over carefully. Beyond all doubt, he was in earnest. Besides, no man of ordinary feeling plays at such matters. He asked for an immediate reply, and there was every reason for answering him at once. What should she say? What should she say? The position was one of the greatest difficulty. George was gone away. That was extraordinary enough. Even Marie did not know where George had gone. How awkward! No doubt Mr Nevill had gone out and taken George with him, to break to him what he had done, and to hear his opinion. What should she do? It was plain this letter ought to be answered in some way at once. George was out, and there were no means of learning when he would be back. What should she do? It was very awkward and depressing. What should she do?' There was no one she could talk to but Marie. She would go to Marie and tell her of this thing. Marie was now almost her sister, and having had such great experience in the world, no doubt she could tell her exactly what to do. Marie was greatly puzzled by George's absence. She thought it almost careless of him to leave no word when he was going out that he would not be back for breakfast. The people at the place now knew something was going on between them, and leaving in this way aroused remark and drew eyes upon her. When saying good-night last night, he had been most affectionate, had thanked her for that song, and blessed God his sweetheart had a voice that was better than a sermon. She wasn't in the least angry with him. Who could be angry with George? Her George! her master! her lord! What they were to do to-day she did not know. Nothing had been settled yesterday. How she wished George would come back! Breakfast had been so lonely and dreary without him. She had never been in love before. It was infinitely delightful, but it was hard to bear when he was away. Love was peace and rest and security when he was by; but when he was away it was a sick, sad yearning, a growing want. How often at breakfast that morning she felt when the door-handle moved she could see his face through the door. When the door did open and admitted a servant or some stout guest, she had felt first as if she wished that person dead, and then as if she would like to go up to her room and cry. Of course George had an excellent reason for going out and staying away; but what was the use of reason when she wanted to see George? It was all very well saying, 'He has a good reason; he has a good reason.' You might go on saying that with your mind or your lips as long as you liked, but the minute you stopped, your heart called out twice as loud, 'I want George. I want my love.' 'O'Connor, is that you?' 'The same, if it be pleasing to you, Miss Gordon.' 'Why are you so very stately, O'Connor?' 'Out of regard to what is on your third finger, Miss Gordon. You are now the next thing to a married lady, and of course it's only right and proper you should have more respect from me now than before.' 'O'Connor.' 'Yes, Miss Gordon.' 'Have you had your breakfast?' 'Yes, Miss Gordon.' 'I think your month was up last Saturday. 'Yes, miss.' 'Well, you have often expressed a wish to leave me. You can do so now, if you wish.' 'Child, do you mean it?' 'Yes, I mean it.' 'Why? What have I done?' 'Did you not come into this room now with the intention of annoying me?' 'Of course I did.' 'Well, I can have no more of this.' 'But you didn't let me. You stopped me before I began.' 'I saw what was coming. I might have borne it, only for the very circumstance of which you spoke. I gave you full scope before, but now I can no longer allow you to speak of my private affairs in an ill-tempered way; you would be sure and say something I could not endure. You must go, O'Connor. I'll pay you what I owe you and three months' wages. You can go back to Cork, and no doubt it will be for your benefit.' 'Child, what way are you talking?' 'I mean what I say, all of it, O'Connor.' 'And you're turning me away really, after all this time, for saying what you never let me say? Is that fair or reasonable?' 'I am letting you go because you would be quite sure to annoy me beyond endurance in a few days, and I will not run that risk.' 'But maybe I wouldn't, child. Maybe you'd stop me then as you did now.' 'No, O'Connor. We must part.' 'When I gave you impudence before, you always told me not to say I'd go away to Cork; and now, before I give you any impudence at all, you tell me to go. Child!' 'Yes, I am listening.' 'Let me say what I was going to say, child, and if I say anything about going back to Cork, stop me and tell me to go away for a foolish girl, and forgive me, child, forgive me this once. Let it be like the old time, before any man came between us. Do, child, do. For the love of heaven don't send me away like that. There, child, you're crying as bad as I am myself. Don't break our two hearts. I'll be foolish no more. There, child, forgive me this once. You know I'd die for you. You know I worship the ground you walk on. It's only when my love gets out of my heart into my head I forget myself and all I owe you. Child, do not send me away. Give me one more chance. The time is cold enough without sending me away. There, child, don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Is it I made you cry? Oh, misfortune on me, is it I made her cry? God above, forgive me. Child, child, is it because I am staying, not going, as you told me, you are crying? Is it? tell me, and I'll go at once. Tell me, child, is it because I am staying when you tell me to go that you are crying?' 'No.' 'And is it because you are sending me away you are crying? Tell me, child. Is it because you are sending me away you are crying?' 'It is.' 'There, now. There, now, don't cry any more. Don't cry any more. Why, child, do you think if it makes you cry for me to leave you that any mortal body could ever make me go? Not he. Why, yourself couldn't. The foolishness of your sending me away and making yourself cry when you can keep me and dry up your tears! There, there, now, dry up your eyes. You needn't be in the least afraid I'll go. Nothing in the world would make me go now. I did often think of leaving you, but now I won't speak of it again. Dry up your eyes now, child, and say no more about it. I'm not a bit put out. I'm not indeed. That's right. Now you're looking yourself again. When Cork catches a hold of me never mind. You mustn't let Mr Osborne see your eyes red like that; for if he found out that I did that, he'd turn cross on me and want me to go away, which of course I couldn't do. Here's the rose-water and the glass. That's it. There, now. Sit back and rest yourself. I'll go away. You don't want me. Won't you ring, child, if you want me? I'll sit on the stairs. Who's there? Miss Osborne!' 'Marie, I want a little chat with you, if you have time.' 'Come over and sit down, Kate,' said Miss Gordon, as Judith O'Connor left the room, shutting the door after her. 'Marie,' said Kate, standing over the other, 'you have been crying because George went out without telling you he was going. I can tell you why he is gone, although I don't know where.' 'No, Kate, I have not been crying about George. I am quite satisfied with him. I know he has good reason for everything he does. O'Connor has been annoying me.' 'O'Connor ought not to be borne with. Why don't you send her about her business? You tell me she is always threatening to leave you. Why don't you let her go?' 'I told her to go this morning.' 'Well?' 'And she refused.' 'Why not make her go?' 'She won't go. I told her most plainly, but she said nothing would ever make her leave me. I know I shall carry her with sorrow to the grave. Let us not bother about O'Connor, dear. You said you knew why George had gone away. If you like, you may tell me.' 'I don't like to tell you. But I fear I must.' 'Fear you must! Is it very bad?' asked Marie, looking up with alarm in her eyes. 'Oh no. Not bad that way,' said Kate, moving towards the window, and looking out to conceal a marked rise of colour. 'Then bad what way? What is it about?' 'About me.' 'And what is it about you, Kate?' 'Mr Nevill--' 'Oh, I see. Mr Nevill has spoken out at last, has he?' 'No.' 'Well, then, I'm at a loss. I don't know what else could have happened. Are he and George gone out together?' 'I think so.' 'Rut why on earth all this mystery on their part?' Why didn't George know last night?' 'Didn't know what?' 'Why, Kate, you are as mysterious as the men.' 'That Mr Nevill had written to me.' 'Write, did he? Oh, I see--I see. And what did he say?' 'He said he likes me.' 'Well, that is not a very remarkable thing. Now, if he said he didn't, I'd answer his letter by telling him I thought him very original; but as it is, Kate, you cannot say anything more complimentary than that you have every reason to believe his judgment in this matter is perfectly sound.' 'And--and he says he'd like I'd like him.' Marie rose and went to the window, and put her arm silently round the other girl's waist and drew her softly towards her. 'And I think,' went on Kate, averting her head, 'he must have gone to George's room early this morning and taken George with him.' Marie said nothing, but drew Kate still closer to her. Kate went on,-- 'And I am in a great difficulty, for this letter ought to be answered at once; and George is out, and I don't know what to say, so I have come to you for advice.' 'Do, Kate, whatever you think best.' 'If I was to do what I should like, I'd call a cab and drive to the railway station, and go home at once, without answering the letter at all.' 'But that would be cruel to him, and I suppose he has not done anything to annoy or offend you.' 'Oh no, he has been most kind. I do not mean to do anything of the sort. I mean to answer his letter at once, but I don't know what to say.' 'The only way I can help you is to suggest that you write him such a letter as you would have wished me to write if George had written to me. Can't you do that?' 'I'll try!' Marie kissed Kate, and Kate sobbed awhile, and then went back to her own room to answer Nevill's offer of love. That evening late she posted the following letter to Nevill, addressed to the care of Messrs Stainsforth & Co., Lombard Street:--

'Dear Mr Nevill,--I am greatly pained to think you should have thought we avoided you yesterday. When we were called out of the drawing-room we were introduced to the husband of a great friend of Miss Gordon's. He asked us to dinner, and we promised to go. When we got back to the drawing-room you had gone. George must have forgotten to leave a message with the servants for you. 'You have done me honour far above my merits in offering me your love. I was unprepared for anything of the kind. I will be quite frank with you. I have never thought of marrying, and have never thought of your asking me to marry you. My feelings towards you are those merely of friendship, and more I cannot promise. I hope you will believe me that I have a sincere regard for you, nothing more. If I have given you any cause to think I looked on you in any other light than that of a friend, I hope you will forgive me. Believe me, I never thought of you as anything else. 'Let me again thank you for the honour you have done me, and ask your forgiveness for any uneasiness I have unknowingly caused you; and I wish you all the happiness and success in the world, and that you may soon forget

Kate Osborne.'

She finished the writing of this letter by two o'clock. Still George had not come back. She remained in her own room most of that day, fearing if she went down she might meet Mr Nevill. Of a meeting with him she now stood in deadly terror. She would do anything on earth now rather than meet William Nevill; why this was she could not tell. Three, four, five came, and still no George. What could have happened to him? At ten minutes past five Marie came up. She had been out shopping. She had asked and learned that neither Nevill nor Osborne had been in the house since morning. This absence of both for so long a time could scarcely be explained by the mere fact of Nevill wanting to speak to Gordon about his proposal to Kate, What could it mean? If that letter was to go by to-night's post, it must be carried downstairs now. Marie rang for O'Connor, and the letter was sent away for post. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and still neither came. As eleven struck, the door of the drawing-room opened, and George Osborne, pale as a ghost, walked into the room!