ights--and all my
fault--I am the first to break up the jovial band, and others, in pure
despair, will follow my example. I was the very life and prop of the
community, they do me the honour to say, and I have shamefully betrayed
my trust--'

'You may join them again, if you like,' said I, somewhat piqued at the
sorrowful tone of his discourse. 'I should be sorry to stand between any
man--or body of men, and so much happiness; and perhaps I can manage to
do without you, as well as your poor deserted friends.'

'Bless you, no,' murmured he. 'It's "all for love or the world well
lost," with me. Let them go to--where they belong, to speak politely.
But if you saw how they abuse me, Helen, you would love me all the more
for having ventured so much for your sake.'

He pulled out his crumpled letters. I thought he was going to show them
to me, and told him I did not wish to see them.

'I'm not going to show them to you, love,' said he. 'They're hardly fit
for a lady's eyes--the most part of them. But look here. This is
Grimsby's scrawl--only three lines, the sulky dog! He doesn't say much,
to be sure, but his very silence implies more than all the others' words,
and the less he says, the more he thinks--and this is Hargrave's missive.
He is particularly grieved at me, because, forsooth he had fallen in love
with you from his sister's reports, and meant to have married you
himself, as soon as he had sown his wild oats.'

'I'm vastly obliged to him,' observed I.

'And so am I,' said he. 'And look at this. This is Hattersley's--every
page stuffed full of railing accusations, bitter curses, and lamentable
complaints, ending up with swearing that he'll get married himself in
revenge: he'll throw himself away on the first old maid that chooses to
set her cap at him,--as if I cared what he did with himself.'

'Well,' said I, 'if you do give up your intimacy with these men, I don't
think you will have much cause to regret the loss of their society; for
it's my belief they never did you much good.'

'Maybe not; but we'd a merry time of it, too, though mingled with sorrow
and pain, as Lowborough knows to his cost--Ha, ha!' and while he was
laughing at the recollection of Lowborough's troubles, my uncle came and
slapped him on the shoulder.

'Come, my lad!' said he. 'Are you too busy making love to my niece to
make war with the pheasants?--First of October, remember! Sun shines
out--rain ceased--even Boarham's not