our slave--I ask nothing better than to be so still," he
whispered in her ear.

"And you will stay?"

"Yes, till you bid me go," he whispered again; "but remember, too, that,
when I ask a favour I can just as little brook refusal."

"We'll talk of that another time. Give me your arm now, and help me back
to the house, for I feel very weak and faint. Is Milly angry with you?"
she asked, as they walked along, side by side.

"I don't know; perhaps so," said he, carelessly.

"You used to be such good friends. I hope you have not fallen out?"

"I hope not," said he, in his former easy tone; "or that if we have,
we may make it up again. Bear in mind, Florence," added he with more
gravity of manner, "that I am a good deal changed from what you knew me.
I have less pride, cherish fewer resentments, scarcely any hopes, and
no affections--I mean, strong affections. The heart you refused is now
cold; the only sentiment left me, is a sense of gratitude, I can be very
grateful; I am already so." She made no answer to this speech, and they
re-entered the house in silence.

CHAPTER XXII. A LETTER OF CONFESSIONS.

THE following letter from Calvert to Drayton was written about three
weeks after the event of our last chapter.

"The Villa.

"My dear Algernon,--I knew my black fellow would run you to
earth, though he had not a word of English in his
vocabulary, nor any clue to you except your name and a map
of England. It must have, however, been his near kinsman--
the other 'black gentleman'--suggested Scarborough to him;
and, to this hour, I cannot conceive how he found you. I am
overjoyed to hear that you could muster enough Hindostanee
to talk with him, and hear some of those adventures which my
natural modesty might have scrupled to tell you. It would
seem from your note, that he has been candour itself, and
confessed much that a man of a paler and thinner skin might
prefer to have shrouded or evaded. All true, D.; we have
done our brigandage on a grand scale, and divided our prize
money without the aid of a prize-court.

"Keep those trinkets with an easy conscience, and if they
leave your own hands for any less worthy still, remember the
adage, 'Ill got, ill gone,' and be comforted. I suppose you
are right--you are generally right on a question of
worldly craft and prudence--it is better not to attempt the
sal