and see him next day, or some early day, and insisting that he must not leave town without a farewell in person. So Clement came the next day, and Marion had a long talk with him, and did not find much difficulty in getting at the fact that the young man's resolve to settle in America, and not return to England any more, was not by any means the result of a philanthropic anxiety to cast in his lot for ever with the people of the new colony.

"You must see Geraldine Rowan before you go," Marion said suddenly.

Clement coloured so highly that Marion felt his own cheek redden in sympathy. It was not difficult to read that little heart-secret, Marion thought.

No, I think

"I don't think it would be right to disturb her," Clement said slowly. "I don't suppose she will expect to see me. not, Captain Marion. Why should I put her to the trouble?" "I am sure she will expect to see you. Let me go and ask her." "No, thanks, no, I couldn't think of it," Clement said. "She must not be disturbed. You will say everything kind for me to her, and you will let me know how you are all going on, won't you?" He brought out these words in a stammering, almost choking, voice.

"Wait a moment," Marion said promptly, "I will go and see Miss Rowan." He hurried out of the room, and he was lucky enough to find Geraldine alone.

me.

"Geraldine," he said gravely, "Clement Hope has come to see

He is going away to America at once. He is going with Montana, and he tells me he has no intention of ever coming back again. Won't you see him before he goes-for the last time?"

Geraldine turned pale and trembled. Even if Captain Marion had suspected nothing before, he must have seen by her agitation that the news was a shock to her, more great than even the parting with a dear friend could have given.

"I don't think I should like to see him," she said. "I think I had better not, Captain Marion. No, I think I'll not see him." She looked up and met his enquiring eyes, and her eyes did not venture to remain fixed on his. They dropped with a half scared, half guilty expression.

"Geraldine," Marion said, going up to her, and taking her hand, "I wonder, have you been quite candid with me of late?"

She looked at him now with a little more courage. "I should

always like to be candid with you," she said.

"Is Clement Hope in love with you?"

Geraldine stopped for a moment. answered quietly:

Then she looked up and

"He said so once; but he did not know, when he was saying so he did not know anything. He would not have said a word of the kind, I am sure, if he had known. I told him not, and he will never say so again," she added piteously.

"You did not tell me this."

"I could not," said Geraldine. "It was not my secret, but his. I could not tell about him."

"Oh,

"Come, tell me ; you know I only care about your happiness." "I did not know at the time," Geraldine pleaded. Captain Marion, I did not know; indeed, I never thought of anything of the kind. I did not understand my own feelings. But it does not matter. I will keep them down and conquer them. I could not have told you of this at the time "-she meant to say, "at the time when I promised to marry you," but she baulked at the words'Indeed, indeed, I never had any thought of it myself."

"But it is so?" Marion said gently.

'Oh, forgive me; forgive me," poor Geraldine said. "It is so-it is so, if you must know it. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Why, yes, girl," Marion answered cheerily. "You know very well that I only offered you a sort of asylum to save you from being worried by Montana. That was how it all began. I offered you a raft when there seemed no chance of your having passage in a better vessel. But now that the better chance has come, I am only too glad to give it to you."

"Oh, how can I?" Geraldine asked ; "how can I treat you so, and abuse your kindness? You are always so kind and dear to me, like a father."

"Quite so," Marion said, with a smile; "there it is, Geraldine. I was like a father to you, and felt like a father, and I never ought to have allowed myself to think of you in any other way than as a daughter. But I wanted to save you from trouble, and I didn't know of anything that was going on, and I had not my eyes open, I suppose; but anyhow, perhaps I cannot be blamed, since you did not know it yourself. There is one good thing, girl; nobody knows a word about all this except Montana, and he won't tell on us. I think my Katherine suspected something. She has prying eyes, and a rather prattling tongue; but she won't be likely to talk so much now as she might at some other time. She has her own affairs to think of. It is all right, Geraldine. Nobody will know, and I am happy in the thought of making you happy."

"He has not asked

"But this is all uncertain," Geraldine said. me. I didn't know he was going away. He might have told me that much, at least." She was inclined to be angry with Clement.

"See him for a few moments," Marion said, "and tell him to write to you. That will be enough; don't say any more. You need not. He must go out to America and do something, and show himself a man of spirit and energy. When he has done that, things will come all right. Of course, you could not rush into an engagement with him as you might rush into an engagement with me. His, I fancy, would not be got out of so easily, or with so little pain on either side."

Marion was saying

There was nothing ironical in these words. merely what he felt. As he left the room, some words that occur in "Faust" about "the Power that made boy and girl" came into his recollection. They are used by Mephistopheles; but Marion did not remember that at the moment, and he put them to a better application than would have delighted Mephistopheles. "The Power that made boy and girl," Marion said to himself, "made them for one another."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

"EVERY WISE MAN'S SON DOTH KNOW."

As Marion was on his way to Clement Hope he encountered Katherine Trescoe. A few days before Marion would gladly have avoided meeting his daughter. He would have dreaded her inquisitive glances and her saucy suggestive words. Now he felt free to meet her with a high head. "No wonder I was ashamed to meet the girl," he thought; "fancy a man of my age persuading a girl as young as his own youngest daughter to marry him!" He felt all the more drawn towards Katherine because of the consciousness that he had gone so near to doing a foolish thing. "Why should I have blamed her so much?" was his thought. Katherine seemed now to appeal to sympathy. Captain Marion need not have feared her glances or her words, so far as he was concerned. Poor Katherine's glances had lost their inquisitiveness of late, and her words had ceased to be saucy. She was concerned about her own life and her future more than about the doings and the follies of others.

Captain Marion barred her passage:

"Well, Kitty, when are you off for Paris? You had better get

under way as fast as you can; it will be growing late. We shall be after you almost at once. What does Frank say?"

"I don't know, papa dear," Katherine answered; and her look was very piteous. "I haven't seen Frank since morning. He hardly ever speaks to me now." Her eyes were filling with tears. "Frank's in the house, my dear; he is in the library; I saw him

there ten minutes ago."

"Is he? I didn't know."

"Look here, Kitty; don't be foolish. Frank's a very good fellow at heart, and awfully fond of you, if you would only let him be. He is angry with you, and I don't blame him; you did make yourself ridiculous. There, there! I'm not finding fault; I am only putting you in the way of mending matters. Go to your husband, child— go to him frankly, and tell him you know you were wrong, but that you thought no harm at the time, and that you are sorry now. Frank is as well satisfied as I am that you never thought any harm ; he never had any doubt of you that way-not a bit."

"If I could only think that!" Katherine began.

"You may be sure of it. He was angry because you made yourself and him ridiculous; and he was quite right. Go to him and talk to him freely, and tell him you know now that you ought to have had more sense, and that you are sorry, and see if he doesn't take you in his arms and kiss you without more ado. Come-go along."

He pushed the young woman before him with genial roughness, and did not leave her until they had reached the library door. "Now go in, Kitty, and have this over."

in.

"If he won't speak to me-if he is angry?"

“Oh, go in, girl, and try; it will all come right."

Captain Marion gently opened the door, and pushed his daughter

Frank was standing with his back to her as she entered. She went softly up to him and put her hand upon his arm. He turned round, not thinking it was she, and looked surprised when he saw her. Then his face contracted into a frown that was sullen and almost fierce in its expression. She was tremulous enough before, but she became more frightened than ever now.

"Dear Frank!" she said. "Won't you forgive me? I was very silly and foolish, but I never meant any more than that. It was all nonsense, and nothing else. You know that, Frank, don't you?"

Her face became contorted like that of a child who is about to burst into tears. For all the contortion she looked very pretty, and there was something peculiarly touching in her fear and supplication.

Trescoe had not been used to see his wife in that mood. He had never known her to supplicate to him before, or to be afraid of him. The novel fact that she was afraid of him brought a rush of pity into his heart. He felt for the moment angry with himself, because he had become thus an object of terror to the poor girl, whose control over him was once so complete. The changing expressions which passed across his face made Katherine believe at first that he was going to reject her appeal altogether. Indeed, he started and moved so suddenly the arm which she had touched, that she shrank back in terror, almost afraid that he was about to fling her away, or to strike her.

But Trescoe put his hand upon her shoulder, and drew her to him, and kissed her. "Never mind, Kitty," he said. "Let us not think any more of this. You were silly, and perhaps I was too cross, and made too much of it. But I never thought badly of you; only I was devilishly annoyed, you know; one must be very much annoyed when he is as fond of a woman as I am of you, and when he thinks she is neglecting him and admiring someone else."

"Oh, don't talk of that, Frank, please don't. I know how foolish I was; but they all admired him, and we all thought he was so good; and, indeed, I don't know anything bad about him now," she added timidly, yet with a certain frankness which pleased him.

"Well, it is all over now, anyhow," he said, " and you and I are friends again, Kitty."

"Papa will be so glad of this," Katherine said.

She was happy again. She had not been happy for months, and at one time she was afraid that all was coming to an end between her and her husband. Now peace was restored, and affection. But it must be said that she never recovered her former rule over Frank, or tried to have it. That is a sort of ascendency which, when once its spell has been broken, can hardly be restored to its old magic. Just as well for her and for him that it was not to be restored. He and she were happy, and she will get on better under the authority of a man than she could when she managed life for herself. She has found that Frank Trescoe is a stronger man than she thought, and he has found in himself the strength which he was too lazy to think of before, and they may be assumed to have bright days before them.

While this scene of reconciliation was going on in one room, Clement Hope had come to Geraldine in another. Their meeting was painfully embarrassed and constrained. Each was afraid of the other. Neither dared to give full liberty of expression, even to the eyes. As for Clement, he was utterly without a key to the mystery.