the trust I placed
in you, and acted with duplicity," I think it would have ruined me,
forever, in my own esteem. And would he not have had the right to say it?

So I came away from the temptation while I could, and plunged into my
proper work on earth, and found relief; but I loved her still.

Shall I speak of the correspondence which ensued between the squire and
myself? 'Twas a somewhat singular one, and revealed to me something which
I was before quite ignorant of. It is here beneath my hand; let us look at
it. It passed soon after my departure:

"Barrington Hall, Nov. 20, 18--.

"MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND:

"Since your somewhat abrupt departure, I have considered that
event with some attention, and fear that it was occasioned by
a want of kindness in myself, or some member of my family. I
saw with regret that Mrs. Barrington did not seem to look
upon you with as much favor as I hoped. If any word or action
of mine has wounded you, I pray you to forget and pardon it.

"Your friend,

"C. BARRINGTON.

"P.S. Pray present my best regards to your mother, who was
many long years ago, a very dear friend of mine."

My reply was in the following words:

"MY DEAR MR. BARRINGTON:

"Pray set your mind at rest upon the subject of my somewhat
hasty departure: 'twas caused by no want of courtesy in any
member of the household at the hall, but by unavoidable
circumstances. You will not think me wanting in candor or
sincerity when I add that I think these circumstances were
better not alluded to at present.

"Truly and faithfully,

"ST. GEORGE CLEAVE."

Thus ended then our correspondence. Three years afterward I received
another letter, in a handwriting somewhat tremulous and broken. It
contained simply the words:

"I am very ill; if your convenience will permit, may I ask
you to come and see me, my young friend?

"C. BARRINGTON."

I need not say that I went at once. As I approached the old manor house a
thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. There were the fields
over which I had rambled; there was the emerald lawn where so often I had
wandered in the long-gone days of earlier years. The great oak against
which I had leaned on that evening to watch the sun in his setting, and
where Annie had whispered and pointed to my torn elbow, still raised its
head proudly, and embowered the old gables in the bright-tin