er,

SILVERBRIDGE.

With these letters that special grief was removed from his mind for
awhile. Looking over the dark river of possible trouble which seemed
to run between the present moment and the time at which the money
must be procured, he thought that he had driven off this calamity of
Gerald's to infinite distance. But into that dark river he must now
plunge almost at once. On the next day, he managed so that there
should be no walk with Mabel. In the evening he could see that the
Duke was uneasy;--but not a word was said to him. On the following
morning Lady Mabel took her departure. When she went from the door,
both the Duke and Silverbridge were there to bid her farewell. She
smiled and was as gracious as though everything had gone according
to her heart's delight. "Dear Duke, I am so obliged to you for your
kindness," she said, as she put up her cheek for him to kiss. Then
she gave her hand to Silverbridge. "Of course you will come and see
me in town." And she smiled upon them all;--having courage enough to
keep down all her sufferings.

"Come in here a moment, Silverbridge," said the father as they
returned into the house together. "How is it now between you and
her?"

CHAPTER LXI

"Bone of My Bone"

"How is it now between you and her?" That was the question which the
Duke put to his son as soon as he had closed the door of the study.
Lady Mabel had just been dismissed from the front door on her
journey, and there could be no doubt as to the "her" intended. No
such question would have been asked had not Silverbridge himself
declared to his father his purpose of making Lady Mabel his wife.
On that subject the Duke, without such authority, would not have
interfered. But he had been consulted, had acceded, and had
encouraged the idea by excessive liberality on his part. He had never
dropped it out of his mind for a moment. But when he found that the
girl was leaving his house without any explanation, then he became
restless and inquisitive.

They say that perfect love casteth out fear. If it be so the love of
children to their parents is seldom altogether perfect,--and perhaps
had better not be quite perfect. With this young man it was not that
he feared anything which his father could do to him, that he believed
that in consequence of the declaration which he had to make his
comforts and pleasures would be curtailed, or his independence
diminished. He knew his father too well to dread su