tion is, I cannot see that she is to blame for
it. She was the innocent victim of a vile fraud when that man married
her; she has suffered undeservedly since; and she has behaved nobly to
you and to me. I only do her justice in saying that she is a woman in a
thousand--a woman worthy, under happier circumstances, to be my daughter
and your wife. I feel _for_ you, and feel _with_ you, my dear--I do,
with my whole heart."

So this scene in my life was, to all appearance, a scene closed forever.
As it had been with my love, in the days of my boyhood, so it was again
now with the love of my riper age!

Later in the day, when I had in some degree recovered my
self-possession, I wrote to Mr. Van Brandt--as _she_ had foreseen I
should write!--to apologize for breaking my engagement to dine with him.

Could I trust to a letter also, to say the farewell words for me to the
woman whom I had loved and lost? No! It was better for her, and better
for me, that I should not write. And yet the idea of leaving her in
silence was more than my fortitude could endure. Her last words at
parting (as they were repeated to me by my mother) had expressed the
hope that I should not think hardly of her in the future. How could I
assure her that I should think of her tenderly to the end of my life?
My mother's delicate tact and true sympathy showed me the way. "Send a
little present, George," she said, "to the child. You bear no malice to
the poor little child?" God knows I was not hard on the child! I went
out myself and bought her a toy. I brought it home, and before I sent it
away, I pinned a slip of paper to it, bearing this inscription: "To your
little daughter, from George Germaine." There is nothing very pathetic,
I suppose, in those words. And yet I burst out crying when I had written
them.

The next morning my mother and I set forth for my country-house in
Perthshire. London was now unendurable to me. Traveling abroad I had
tried already. Nothing was left but to go back to the Highlands, and to
try what I could make of my life, with my mother still left to live for.

CHAPTER XVI. MY MOTHER'S DIARY.

THERE is something repellent to me, even at this distance of time, in
looking back at the dreary days, of seclusion which followed each
other monotonously in my Highland home. The actions of my life, however
trifling they may have been, I can find some interest in recalling: they
associate me with my fellow-creatures; they connect me, in