te, to be loud in the praise of the man who had
saved the life of her "darling nephew,"--and to see that others also
should be loud in his praise. In a little time all London had heard
of the affair, and it had been discussed out of London. Down at
Gatherum Castle the matter had been known, or partly known,--but the
telling of it had always been to the great honour and glory of the
hero. Major Pountney had almost broken his heart over it, and Captain
Gunner, writing to his friend from the Curragh, had asserted his
knowledge that it was all a "got-up thing" between the two men. The
"Breakfast Table" and the "Evening Pulpit" had been loud in praise of
Lopez; but the "People's Banner," under the management of Mr. Quintus
Slide, had naturally thrown much suspicion on the incident when it
became known to the Editor that Ferdinand Lopez had been entertained
by the Duke and Duchess of Omnium. "We have always felt some slight
doubts as to the details of the affair said to have happened about a
fortnight ago, just at midnight, in St. James's Park. We should be
glad to know whether the policemen have succeeded in tracing any of
the stolen property, or whether any real attempt to trace it has been
made." This was one of the paragraphs, and it was hinted still more
plainly afterwards that Everett Wharton, being short of money, had
arranged the plan with the view of opening his father's purse. But
the general effect was certainly serviceable to Lopez. Emily Wharton
did believe him to be a hero. Everett was beyond measure grateful to
him,--not only for having saved him from the thieves, but also for
having told nothing of his previous folly. Mrs. Roby always alluded
to the matter as if, for all coming ages, every Wharton ought to
acknowledge that gratitude to a Lopez was the very first duty of
life. The old man felt the absurdity of much of this, but still it
affected him. When Lopez came he could not be rough to the man who
had done a service to his son. And then he found himself compelled
to do something. He must either take his daughter away, or he must
yield. But his power of taking his daughter away seemed to be less
than it had been. There was an air of quiet, unmerited suffering
about her, which quelled him. And so he yielded.

It was after this fashion. Whether affected by the violence of the
attack made on him, or from other cause, Everett had been unwell
after the affair, and had kept his room for a fortnight. During this