Amboyne did not recover so quickly as they could have wished; but
they employed the interval. Feelers were adroitly applied to Henry by
both ladies, and they were pleased to find that he rather admired his
wrong-headed uncle, and had been deeply touched by the old gentleman's
address to his mother's picture.

Bolt never came near him, and the grass was beginning to grow on
the condemned bricks. In short, every thing seemed to incline in one
direction.

There was, however, something very serious going on out of their sight.

"Not at home!" That white lie made Mr. Coventry feel sick at heart.
He went home disconsolate. The same evening he received Miss Carden's
letter.

The writer treated him like a gentleman, said a few words about her own
peculiar position, and begged him to consider that position, and to be
very generous; to cease his visits entirely for the present, and so give
himself one more title to her esteem, which was all she had to give him.
This was the purport, and the manner was simply perfect, so gentle yet
firm; and then she flattered his amour propre by asking that from his
generosity which she could have taken as a right: she did all she could
to soften the blow. But she failed. The letter was posted too soon after
Henry's visit. Behind the velvet paw that struck him, Coventry saw the
claws of the jealous lover. He boiled with rage and agony, and cursed
them both in his fury.

After an hour or two of frenzy, he sat down and wrote back a letter full
of bitter reproaches and sneers. He reflected. He lighted a cigar and
smoked it, biting it almost through, now and then. He burned his letter.
He lay awake all night, raging and reflecting alternately, as passion or
judgment got the upper hand.

In the morning he saw clearer. "Don't quarrel with HER. Destroy HIM." He
saw this as plainly as if it was written.

He wrote Grace a few sad lines, to say that of course he submitted to
her will. The letter ended thus: "Since I can do nothing to please you,
let me suffer to please you: even that is something."

(This letter brought the tears to Grace's eyes, and she pitied and
esteemed the writer.)

He put on a plain suit, and drove into Hillsborough, burning with
wild ideas of vengeance. He had no idea what he should do; but he was
resolved to do something. He felt capable of assassinating Little with
his own hand.

I should be sorry to gain any sympathy for him; but it is only fair
the reader should un