bring you fortune."

"I daresay not."

"And if you come to London to see Mr. Nowell, there will be some chance
of our meeting again."

"What good can come of that?"

"Not much to me, I daresay. It would be a desperate, melancholy kind of
pleasure. Anything is better than the idea of losing sight of you for
ever--of leaving this room to-day never to look upon your face again."

He wrote Jacob Nowell's address upon one of his own cards, and gave it to
Marian; and then prepared to take his departure. He had an idea that the
bailiff's daughter would conduct him to the gate, and that he would be
able to make some inquiries about Mr. Holbrook on his way. It is possible
that Marian guessed his intentions in this respect; for she offered to
go with him to the gate herself; and he could not with any decency
refuse to be so honoured.

They went through the hall together, where all was as still and lifeless
as it had been when he arrived, and walked slowly side by side along the
broad garden-path in utter silence. At the gate Gilbert stopped suddenly,
and gave Marian his hand.

"My darling," he said, "I forgive you with all my heart; and I will pray
for your happiness."

"Will you try to forgive my husband also?" she asked in her plaintive
beseeching way.

"I do not know what I am capable of in that direction. I promise that,
for your sake, I will not attempt to do him any injury."

"God bless you for that promise! I have so dreaded the chance of a
meeting between you two. It has often been the thought of that which has
made me unhappy when that faithful girl, Nelly, has noticed my low
spirits. You have removed a great weight from my mind."

"And you will trust me better after that promise?"

"Yes; I will trust you as you deserve to be trusted, with all my heart."

"And now, good-bye. It is a hard word for me to say; but I must not
detain you here in the cold."

He bent his head, and pressed his lips upon the slender little hand which
held the key of the gate. In the next moment he was outside that tall
iron barrier; and it seemed to him as if he were leaving Marian in a
prison. The garden, with its poor pale scentless autumn flowers, had a
dreary look under the dull gray sky. He thought of the big empty house,
with its faded traces of vanished splendour, and of Marian's lonely life
in it, with unspeakable pain. How different from the sunny home which he
had dreamed of in the days gone by--the happy domestic life