be a dreary piece of work for her. It is a melancholy fact
that all that time, and even long after she had gone in shuddering from
the window, poor Sheppard was standing in a doorway at the opposite
side of the street, and that she not only never saw him, but never
thought of him. Her thoughts were of Victor Heron, and of her own folly
and her own love--that love which seemed such folly, which was so
hopeless, which she knew, or at least believed it was a sort of treason
against friendship to indulge, although in absolute secret.

In Uhland's pretty poem called "Departure" a youth is going on his
wanderings, and his comrades escort him a little on his way, and as
they go along they pass beneath the windows of a pretty girl. The lad
looks up, and would fain if he might have a rose from her hand, and yet
tells himself that he would not have it--for to what end to have the
rose when she whom he loved cared nothing for him, and the rose would
only wither with him, and to no purpose? When he has gone the girl
strains her eyes after him in grief, and wonders what the world is to
be to her now that he she loved is going far away, and never knew of
her love. A few timely words might have spared all the heart-ache, no
doubt; but it will be a very different world from that which we have
known when all the words that might have been timely are spoken in
time, or even when the feelings that might prompt the timely words have
learned their own meaning at the right moment to give it breath.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"COUNSEL BETRAYED."

The next morning Heron rose with a distinct purpose of doing something
to put Minola on her guard. His purpose to do something was much more
clear than his knowledge of what he had better do. Anyhow he thought he
would go and see Minola, and say something to her. When he began to
speak he would probably hit upon the thing to say. As he might have put
it himself, Providence would pull him through somehow. The first thing
was to get to speech of Minola. This, at least, ought not to be hard to
compass.

His first idea was simply to go to her house and ask to see her. But
when he was near the scene of his mounting guard the past night he
began to think of the difficulties that would be put in his way if any
one else were present. How, for example, could he possibly say what he
specially wanted to say if Mary Blanchet were present, or were even
coming and going in and out of the room, as she was almost sur