From motives of delicacy towards Miss Bellew I did not call that day at the Rooneys. For many months such an omission on my part had never occurred. Accordingly, when O'Grady returned at night to the Castle, he laughingly told me that the house was in half-mourning. Paul sat moodily over his wine, scarce lifting his head, and looking what he himself called nonsuited. Mrs. Paul, whose grief was always in the active mood, sobbed, hiccupped, gulped, and waved her arms as if she had lost a near relative. Miss Bellew did not appear at all, and Phil discovered that she had written home that morning, requesting her father to send for her without loss of time.

'The affair, as you see,' continued O'Grady, 'has turned out ill for all parties. Dudley has lost his post, you your mistress, and I my money—a pretty good illustration how much mischief a mere fool can at any moment make in society.'

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when I mounted my horse to ride over to Stephen's Green. As I passed slowly along Dame Street my attention was called to a large placard, which, in front of a house opposite the lower Castle gate, had attracted a considerable crowd around it. I was spared the necessity of stopping to read by the hoarse shout of a ragged ruffian who elbowed his way through the mob, carrying on one arm a mass of printed handbills; the other hand he held beside his mouth to aid the energy of his declamation. 'Here's the full and true account,' cried he, 'of the bloody and me-lan-chc-ly duel that tuk place yesterday morning in the Phaynix Park, between Lord Dudley de Vere and Mr. Hinton, two edge-du-congs to his Grace the Lord Liftinint, wid all the particulars, for one ha'penny.'

'Here's the whole correspondence between the Castle bucks,' shouted a rival publisher—the Colburn to this Bentley—'wid a beautiful new song to an old tune—

“Bang it up, bang it up, to the lady in the Green.”'

'Give me one, if you please,' said a motherly-looking woman, in a grey cloak.

'No, ma'am, a penny,' responded the vendor. 'The bloody fight for a halfpenny! What!' said he; 'would you have an Irish melody and the picture of an illigint female for a copper?'

'Sing us the song, Peter,' called out another.

'This is too bad!' said I passionately, as, driving the spurs into my horse, I dashed through the ragged mob, upsetting and overturning all before me. Not, however, before I was recognised; and, as I cantered down the street, a shout of derision, and a hailstorm of offensive epithets followed me.

It was, I confess, some time before I recovered my equanimity enough to think of my visit. For myself, individually, I cared little or nothing; but who could tell in what form these things might reach my friends in England?—how garbled! how exaggerated! how totally perverted! And then, too, Miss Bellew! It was evident that she was alluded to. I trembled to think that her name, polluted by the lips of such wretches as these, should be cried through the dark alleys and purlieus of the capital; a scoff and a mockery among the very outcasts of vice.

As I turned the corner of Grafton Street a showy carriage with four grey horses passed me by. I knew it was the Rooney equipage, and although for a moment I was chagrined that the object of my visit was defeated, on second thoughts I satisfied myself that, perhaps, it was quite as well; so I rode on to leave my card. On reaching the door, from which already some visitors were turning away, I discovered that I had forgotten my ticket-case; so I dismounted to write my name in the visiting-book; for this observance among great people Mrs. Rooney had borrowed, to the manifest horror and dismay of many respectable citizens.

'A note for you, sir,' said the butler, in his most silvery accent, as he placed a small sealed billet in my hand.

I opened it hastily. It contained but two lines:

'Miss Bellew requests Mr. Hinton will kindly favour her with a few moments' conversation at an early opportunity.'

'Is Miss Bellew at home?'

'Yes, sir,' said the servant, who stood waiting to precede me upstairs, and announce me.

'Mr. Hinton,' said the man; and the words echoed in the empty drawing-room, as he closed the door behind me. The next moment I heard the rustle of a silk dress, and Miss Bellew came out of the boudoir and walked towards me. Contrary to her usual habit—which was to hold out her hand to me—she now came timidly, hesitatingly forward, her eyes downcast, and her whole air and appearance indicating, not only the traces of sorrow, but of physical suffering.

'Mr. Hinton,' said she, in a voice every accent of which vibrated on my heart, 'I have taken the liberty to ask a few moments' interview with you; for, although it is not only probable, but almost certain, we shall not meet again, yet I wish to explain certain portions of my conduct, and, indeed, to make them the reason of a favour I have to ask at your hands.'

'Permit me to interrupt you for a moment,' said I. 'It is evident how painful the matter you would speak of is to you; you have no need of explanation, least of all to me. By accident, I overheard that which, however high my esteem for Miss Bellew before, could but elevate her in my eyes. Pass then at once, I beseech you, to what you call a favour; there is no service you can seek for——'

'I thank you,' replied she, in a voice scarcely articulate; 'you have, indeed, spared me much in not asking me to speak of what it is misery enough to remember. But it is not the first time my unprotected position in this house has exposed me to outrage: though assuredly it shall be the last.' The tone of indignation she spoke in supplied her with energy, as she hurriedly continued: 'Already, Mr. Hinton, persons have dared to build a scandal upon the frail foundation of this insolent wager. Your name has been mixed up with it in such a way that no possible intercourse could exist between us without being construed into evidence of a falsehood; therefore, I have made up my mind to ask you to discontinue your visits here, for the few days I may yet remain. I have already written home; the answer may arrive the day after to-morrow; and, while I feel that I but ill repay the hospitality and kindness I have received, and have met with, in closing the door to a most valued guest, I am assured you will understand and approve my motives, and not refuse me my request.'

Delighted at the prospect of being in some way engaged in a service, I had listened with a throbbing heart, up to the moment she concluded. Nothing could so completely overthrow all my hopes as these last few words. Seeing my silence and my confusion—for I knew not what to say —she added, in a slightly tremulous voice—

'I am sorry, Mr. Hinton, that my little knowledge of the world should have led me into this indiscretion. I perceive from your manner that I have asked a sacrifice you are unwilling to make. I ought to have known that habits have their influence, as well as inclinations; and that this house, being the resort of your friends——'

'Oh, how much, how cruelly you have mistaken me! Not on this account, not for such reasons as you suppose did I hesitate in my reply; far from it. Indeed, the very cause which made me a frequent visitor of this house, is that which now renders me unable to answer you.' A slight flush upon her cheek and a tremulous motion of her lip, prevented my adding more. 'Fear not, Miss Bellew,' said I, 'fear not from me; however different the feeling that would prompt it, no speech of mine shall cause you pain to listen to, however the buried thought may rack my own bosom. You shall have your request; good-bye.'

'Nay, nay, not so,' said she, as she raised her handkerchief to her eyes, and gave a soft but sickly smile; 'you mustn't go without my thanking you for all your kindness. It may so chance that one day or other you will visit the wild west; if so, pray don't forget that my father, of whom you have heard me speak so much, would be but too happy to thank one who has been so kind to his daughter. And, if that day should come'—here a slight gleam of animation shot across her features—' I beseech you not to think, from what you will see of me there, that I have forgotten all your good teaching, and all your lessons about London manners, though I sadly fear that neither my dress nor deportment will testify in my favour; and so, good-bye.'

She drew her glove from her hand as she spoke. I raised the taper fingers, respectfully, to my lips, and, without venturing another look, muttered 'good-bye,' and left the room.

As step by step I loitered on the stairs, I struggled with myself against the rising temptation to hurry back to her presence, and tell her that, although hitherto the fancied security of meeting her every day had made me a stranger to my own emotions, the hour of parting had dispelled the illusion; the thought of separation had unveiled the depth of my heart, and told me that I loved her. Was this true?