made me a mysterious signal to follow him. In the hall he laid
his hand upon my shoulder, and whispered a few incomprehensible
sentences into my ear.

"Don't think any thing of me, my boy. Don't sacrifice yourself for me.
I'm an old fellow compared to you, though I'm not fifty yet; everybody
in Guernsey knows that. So put me out of the question, Martin. 'There's
many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip.' That I know quite well, my dear
fellow."

He was gone before I could ask for an explanation, and I saw him tearing
off toward Regent Street. I returned to the drawing-room, pondering over
his words. Johanna and Julia were sitting side by side on a sofa, in the
darkest corner of the room--though the light was by no means brilliant
anywhere, for the three gas-jets were set in such a manner as not to
turn on much gas.

"Come here, Martin," said Johanna; "we wish to consult you on a subject
of great importance to us all."

I drew up a chair opposite to them, and sat down, much as if it was
about to be a medical consultation. I felt almost as if I must feel
somebody's pulse, and look at somebody's tongue.

"It is nearly eight months since your poor dear mother died," remarked
Johanna.

Eight months! Yes; and no one knew what those eight months had been to
me--how desolate! how empty!

"You recollect," continued Johanna, "how her heart was set on your
marriage with Julia, and the promise you both made to her on her
death-bed?"

"Yes," I answered, bending forward and pressing Julia's hand, "I
remember every word."

There was a minute's silence after this; and I waited in some wonder as
to what this prelude was leading to.

"Martin," asked Johanna, in a solemn tone, "are you forgetting Olivia?"

"No," I said, dropping Julia's hand as the image of Olivia flashed
across me reproachfully, "not at all. What would you have me say? She is
as dear to me at this moment as she ever was."

"I thought you would say so," she replied; "I did not think yours was a
love that would quickly pass away, if it ever does. There are men who
can love with the constancy of a woman. Do you know any thing of her?"

"Nothing!" I said, despondently; "I have no clew as to where she may be
now."

"Nor has Tardif," she continued; "my brother and I went across to Sark
last week to ask him."

"That was very good of you," I interrupted.

"It was partly for our own sakes," she said, blushing faintly. "Martin,
Tardif says that if you have once