rd aside, as it were, that
the journey was not to be made. "That is all over," he had said,--and
then had left her, telling her nothing further. Of course she stayed
her needle. Whether the last word had been true or false, she could
not work again, at any rate till it had been contradicted. If it were
so, what was to be her fate? One thing was certain to her;--that she
could not remain under her father's roof. It was impossible that an
arrangement so utterly distasteful as the present one, both to her
father and to herself, should be continued. But where then should
they live,--and of what nature would her life be if she should be
separated from her father?

That evening she saw her father, and he corroborated her husband's
statement. "It is all over now," he said,--"that scheme of his of
going to superintend the mines. The mines don't want him, and won't
have him. I can't say that I wonder at it."

"What are we to do, papa?"

"Ah;--that I cannot say. I suppose he will condescend still to honour
me with his company. I do not know why he should wish to go to
Guatemala or elsewhere. He has everything here that he can want."

"You know, papa, that that is impossible."

"I cannot say what with him is possible or impossible. He is bound by
none of the ordinary rules of mankind."

That evening Lopez returned to his dinner in Manchester Square, which
was still regularly served for him and his wife, though the servants
who attended upon him did so under silent and oft-repeated protest.
He said not a word more as to Arthur Fletcher, nor did he seek any
ground of quarrel with his wife. But that her continued melancholy
and dejection made anything like good-humour impossible, even on his
part, he would have been good-humoured. When they were alone she
asked him as to their future destiny. "Papa tells me you are not
going," she began by saying.

"Did I not tell you so this morning?"

"Yes;--you said so. But I did not know you were earnest. Is it all
over?"

"All over,--I suppose."

"I should have thought that you would have told me with more--more
seriousness."

"I don't know what you would have. I was serious enough. The fact
is, that your father has delayed so long the payment of the promised
money that the thing has fallen through of necessity. I do not know
that I can blame the Company."

Then there was a pause. "And now," she said, "what do you mean to
do?"

"Upon my word I cannot say. I am quite as much in