use in returning home. There was no one in that silent house in the square. The rooms would be dark in the twilight. Probably dinner would be laid, with no one to sit down at the table. He wished Sheila had left word where she was going.

Then he bethought him of the way in which they had parted; and of the sense of fear that had struck him, the moment he left the house, that after all he had been too harsh with the child. Now, at least, he was ready to apologize to her. If only he could see Sheila coming along in one of those hansoms -if he could see, at any distance, the figure he knew so well walking towards him on the pavement-would he not instantly confess to her that he had been wrong, even grievously wrong, and beg her to forgive him? She should have it all her own way about going up to Lewis. He would cast aside this Society-life he had been living, and, to please her, would go in for any sort of work or amusement of which she approved. He was so anxious, indeed, to put these virtuous resolutions into force, that he suddenly turned and walked rapidly back to the house, with the wild hope that Sheila might have already come back.

The windows were dark-the curtains were yet drawn; and by this time the evening had come on, and the lamps in the square had been lit. He let himself into the house by his latch-key. He walked into all the rooms, and up into Sheila's room; everything remained as he had left it. The white cloth glimmered in the dusk of the dining-room, and the light of the lamp outside in the street touched here and there the angles of the crystal and showed the pale colours of the glasses. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked in the silence. If Sheila had been lying dead in that small room up-stairs, the house could not have appeared more silent and solemn.

He could not bear this horrible solitude. He called one of the servants, and left a message for Sheila, if she came in in the interval, that he would

be back at ten o'clock; then he went out, got into a hansom, and drove down to his club in St. James's Street.

Most of the men were dining; the other rooms were almost deserted. He did not care to dine just then. He went into the library; it was occupied by an old gentleman who was fast asleep in an easy-chair. He went into the billiardrooms, in the vague hope that some exciting game might be going on; there was not a soul in the place, the gases were down, and an odour of stale smoke pervaded the dismal chambers. Should he go to the theatre ? His sitting there would be a mockery, while this vague and terrible fear was present to his heart.

Or go down to see Ingram, as had been his wont in previous hours of trouble? He dared not go near Ingram without some more definite news about Sheila. In the end, he went out into the open air, as if he were in danger of being stifled; and, walking indeterminately on, found himself once more at his own house.

The place was still quite dark; he knew before entering that Sheila had not returned, and he did not seem to be surprised. It was now long after their ordinary dinner-hour. When he went into the house he bade the servants light the gas and bring up dinner; he would himself sit down at this solitary table, if only for the purpose of finding occupation and passing this terrible time of suspense.

It never occurred to him, as it might have occurred to him at one time, that Sheila had made some blunder somewhere and been unavoidably detained. He did not think of any possible repetition of her adventures in Richmond Park. He was too conscious of the probable reason of Sheila's remaining away from her own home; and yet, from minute to minute, he fought with that consciousness, and sought to prove to himself that, after all, she would soon be heard driving up to the door. ate his dinner in silence; and then drew a chair up to the fire and lit a cigar.

He

For the first time in his life he was driven to go over the events that had

occurred since his marriage, and to ask himself how it had all come about that Sheila and he were not as they once had been. He recalled the early days of their friendship at Borva; the beautiful period of their courtship; the appearance of the young wife in London ; and the close relegation of Sheila to the domestic affairs of the house, while he had chosen for himself other companions, other interests, other aims. There was no attempt at self-justification in those communings, but an effort, sincere enough in its way, to understand how all this had happened. He sat and dreamed there, before the warmth of the fire, with the slow and monotonous ticking of the clock unconsciously acting on his brain. In time the silence, the warmth, the monotonous sound, produced their natural effects, and he fell fast asleep.

He awoke with a start. The small silver-toned bell on the mantelpiece had struck the hour of twelve. He looked around, and knew that the evil had come upon him; for Sheila had not returned, and all his most dreadful fears of that evening were confirmed. Sheila had gone away and left him-whither had she gone?

Now there was no more indecision in his actions. He got his hat, plunged into the cold night air, and, finding a hansom, bade the man drive as hard as he could go down to Sloane Street. There was a light in Ingram's windows, which were on the ground-floor; he tapped with his stick on one of the panes-an old signal that had been in constant use when he and Ingram were close companions and friends. Ingram came to the door and opened it; the light of a lamp glared in on his face.

"Hillo, Lavender," he said, in a tone of surprise.

The other could not speak; but he went into the house, and Ingram, shutting the door and following him, found that the man's face was deadly pale.

"Sheila-" he said, and stopped. "Well, what about her?" said Ingram, keeping quite calm, but with wild fancies about some terrible accident

almost stopping the pulsation of his heart.

"Sheila has gone away."

Ingram did not seem to understand. "Sheila has gone away, Ingram," said Lavender, in an excited way. "You don't know anything about it? You don't know where she has gone? What am I to do, Ingram-how am I to find her? Good God, don't you understand what I tell you? And now it is past midnight, and my poor girl may be wandering about the streets."

He was walking up and down the room, paying almost no attention, in his excitement, to the small sallow-faced man, who stood quite quiet, a trifle afraid, perhaps, but with his heart full of a blaze of anger.

"She has gone away from your house," he said, slowly. "What made her do that?"

"I did," said Lavender, in a hurried way. "I have acted like a brute to her —that is true enough. You needn't say anything to me, Ingram; I feel myself far more guilty than anything you could say you may heap reproaches on me afterwards-but tell me, Ingram, what I am to do. You know what a proud spirit she has-who can tell what she might do? She wouldn't go home -she would be too proud-she may have gone and drowned herself—

"If you don't control yourself, and tell me what has happened, how am I to help you?" said Ingram, stiffly; and yet disposed somehow-perhaps for the sake of Sheila, perhaps because he saw that the young man's self-embarrassment and distress were genuine enough—not to be too rough with him.

"Well, you know Mairi," said Lavender, still walking up and down the room in an excited way: "Sheila had got up the girl here without telling me-some friends of mine were coming home to luncheon-we had some disagreement about Mairi being present-and then Sheila said something about not remaining in the house if Mairi did notsomething of that sort. I don't know what it was, but I know it was all my fault; and if she has been driven from

the house I did it-that is true enough. And where do you think she has gone, Ingram? If I could only see her for three minutes, I would explain everything; I would tell her how sorry I am for everything that has happened, and she would see, when she went back, how everything would be right again. I had no idea she would go away. It was mere peevishness that made me object to Mairi meeting those people; and I had no idea that Sheila would take it so much to heart. Now tell me what you think should be done, Ingram—all I want is to see her just for three minutes to tell her it was all a mistake, and that she will never have to fear anything like that again."

Ingram heard him out, and said, with some precision—

"Do you mean to say that you fancy all this trouble is to be got over that way? Do you know so little of Sheila, after the time you have been married to her, as to imagine that she has taken this step out of some momentary caprice, and that a few words of apology and promise will cause her to rescind it? You must be crazed, Lavender; or else you are actually as ignorant of the nature of that girl as you were up in the Highlands."

The young man seemed to calm down his excitement and impatience, but it was because of a new fear that had struck him, and that was visible in his face.

"Do you think she will never come back, Ingram?" he said, looking aghast.

"I don't know. She may not. all events, you may be quite sure that, once having resolved to leave your house, she is not to be pacified and cajoled by a few phrases and a promise. of repentance on your part. That is quite sure. And what is quite as sure is this, that if you knew just now where she was, the most foolish thing you could do would be to go and see her

"But I must go and see her-I must find her out, Ingram," he said, passionately. "I don't care what becomes of me. If she won't go back home, so

much the worse for me; but I must find her out, and know that she is safe! Think of it, Ingram-perhaps she is walking about the streets somewhere at this moment-and you know her proud spirit-if she were to go near the river"

"She won't go near the river," said Ingram, quietly. "And she won't be walking about the streets. She is either in the Scotch mail-train, going up to Glasgow, or else she has got some lodg ings somewhere, along with Mairi. Has she any money?"

"No," said Lavender. And then he thought for a minute. "There was some money her father gave her in case she might want it at a pinch-she may have that, I hope she has that. I was to have given her money to-morrow morning. But hadn't I better go to the police-stations, and see, just by way of precaution, that she has not been heard of? I may as well do that as nothing. I could not go home to that empty house. I could not sleep."

"Sheila is a sensible girl; she is safe enough," said Ingram. enough," said Ingram. "And if you don't care about going home, you may as well remain here. I can give you a room up-stairs when you want it. In the meantime, if you will pull a chair to the table, and calm yourself, and take it for granted that you will soon be assured of Sheila's safety, I will tell you what I think you should do. Here is a cigar to keep you occupied; there is whisky and cold water back there, if you like; you will do no good by punishing yourself in small matters; for your trouble is likely to be serious enough, I can tell you, before you get Sheila back, if ever you get her back. Take the chair with the cushion."

It was so like the old days when these two used to be companions! Many and many a time had the younger man come down to these lodgings, with all his troubles, and wild impulses, and pangs of contrition ready to be revealed; and then Ingram, concealing the liking he had for the lad's generous waywardness, his brilliant and facile cleverness, and his dashes of honest self-deprecia

tion, would gravely lecture him, and put him right, and send him off comforted. Frank Lavender had changed much since then. The handsome boy had grown into a man of the world; there was less self-revelation in his manner, and he was less sensitive to the opinions and criticisms of his old friend; but Ingram, who was not prone to idealism of any sort, had never ceased to believe that this change was but superficial, and that, in different circumstances and with different aims, Lavender might still fulfil the best promise of his youth.

"You have been a good friend to me, Ingram," he said, with a hot blush, "and I have treated you as badly as I have treated— By Jove, what a chance I had at one time!"

He was looking back on all the fair pictures his imagination had drawn while yet Sheila and he were wandering about that island in the northern

seas.

"You had," said Ingram, decisively. "At one time I thought you the most fortunate man in the world. There was nothing left for you to desire, as far as I could see. You were young, and strong, with plenty of good spirits and sufficient ability to earn yourself an honourable living, and you had won the love of the most beautiful and besthearted woman I have known. You never seemed to me to know what that meant. Men marry women-there is no difficulty about that; and you can generally get an amiable sort of person to become your wife, and have a sort of affection for you, and so on. But how

many have bestowed on them the pure and exalted passion of a young and innocent girl, who is ready to worship with all the fervour of a warmly imaginative and emotional nature the man she has chosen to love? And suppose he is young, too, and capable of understanding all the tender sentiments of a high-spirited, sensitive, and loyal woman, and suppose that he fancies himself as much in love with her as she with him? These conditions are not often fulfilled, I can tell you. It is a No. 168.-VOL. XXVIII.

happy fluke when they are. Many a day ago I told you that you should consider yourself more fortunate than if you had been made an Emperor; and, indeed, it seemed to me that you had everything in the shape of worldly happiness easily within your reach. How

you came to kick away the ball from your feet-well-God only knows. The thing is inconceivable to me. You are sitting here as you used to sit two or three years ago; and in the interval you have had every chance in life; and now if you are not the most wretched man in London, you ought at least to be the most ashamed and repentant."

Lavender's head was buried in his hands; he did not speak.

"And it is not only your own happiness you have destroyed. When you saw that girl first, she was as light-hearted and contented with her lot as any human being could be. From one week's end to the other not the slightest care disturbed her mind. And then, when she entrusted her whole life to you-when she staked her faith in human nature on you, and gave you all the treasures of hope and reverence, and love that lay in her pure and innocent soul-my God! what have you done with these? It is not that you have shamed and insulted her as a wife, and driven her out of her home-there are other homes than yours where she would be welcome a thousand times over-but you have destroyed her belief in everything she had taught herself to trust, you have outraged the tenderest sentiments of her heart, you have killed her faith as well as ruined her life. I talk plainly. I cannot do otherwise. If I help you now, don't imagine I condone what you have done -I would cut my right hand off first. For Sheila's sake, I will try to help you."

He stopped just then, however, and checked the indignation that had got the better of his ordinarily restrained manner and curt speech. The man before him was crying bitterly, his face hidden in his hands.

"Look here, Lavender," he said, presently. "I don't want to be hard on

K K

you. I tell you plainly what I think of your conduct, so that no delusions may exist between us. And I will say this for you, that the only excuse you have

"There is no excuse," said the other, sadly enough. "I have no excuse, and I know it."

The

"The only thing, then, you can say in mitigation of what you have done is that you never seem to have understood the girl whom you married. You started with giving her a fancy character when first you went to the Lewis; and, once you had got the bit in your teeth, there was no stopping you. If you seek now to get Sheila back to you, the best thing you can do, I presume, would be to try to see her as she is, to win her regard that way, to abandon that operatic business, and learn to know her as a thoroughly good woman, who has her own ways and notions about things, and who has a very definite character underlying that extreme gentleness which she fancies to be one of her duties. child did her dead best to accommodate herself to your idea of her, and failed. When she would rather have been living a brisk and active life in the country, or by the sea-side-running wild about a hill-side, or reading strange stories in the evening, or nursing some fisherman's child that had got ill-you had her dragged into a sort of society with which she had no sympathy whatever. And the odd thing to me is that you yourself seemed to be making an effort that way! You did not always devote yourself to fashionable life. What became of all your old ambitions you used to talk about in the very chair you are now sitting in?"

"Is there any hope of my getting Sheila back?" he said, looking up at last. There was a vague and bewildered look in his eyes. He seemed incapable of thinking of anything but that.

"I don't know," said Ingram. "But one thing is certain-you will never get her back to repeat the experiment that has just ended in this desperate way."

"I should not ask that," he said, hurriedly. "I should not ask that at

all. If I could but see her for a moment, I would ask her to tell me everything she wanted-everything she demanded as conditions-and I would obey them all. I will promise to do everything that she wishes."

"If you saw her, you could give her nothing but promises," said Ingram, quietly. "Now what if you were to try to do what you know she wishes, and then go to her?"

"You mean," said Lavender, glancing up with another startled look on his face. "You don't mean that I am to remain away from her a long time-go into banishment, as it were— and then, some day, come back to Sheila and beg her to forget all that happened long before?"

"I mean something very like that," said Ingram, with composure. "I don't know that it would be successful. I have no means of ascertaining what Sheila would think of such a project— whether she would think that she could ever live with you again."

Lavender seemed fairly stunned by the possibility of Sheila's resolving never to see him again; and began to recall what Ingram had many a time said about the strength of purpose she could show when occasion needed.

"If her faith in you is wholly destroyed, your case is hopeless. A woman may cling to her belief in a man, through good report and evil report; but if she once loses it, she never recovers it. But there is this hope for you. I know very well that Sheila had a much more accurate notion of you than ever you had of her; and I happen to know, also, that at the very time when you were most deeply distressing her, here in London, she held the firm conviction that your conduct towards her-your habits, your very self-would alter if you could only be persuaded to get out of the life you have been leading. That was true, at least, up to the time of your leaving Brighton. She believed in you then. She believed that if you were to cut society altogether, and go and live a useful and hard-working life somewhere, you would soon become