leaves it to my discretion to tell you that you must see
her for the future, always in the presence of some other person. Make no
reference to this when you next meet; and understand that she has only
spoken to me instead of to her mother, because she fears that Mrs.
Eyrecourt might use harsh words, and distress you again, as she once
distressed you in England. If you will take my advice, you will ask
permission to go away again on your travels."

It matters nothing what I said in reply. Let me only relate that we were
interrupted by the appearance of the nursemaid at the pavilion door.

She led the child by the hand. Among his first efforts at speaking,
under his mother's instruction, had been the effort to call me Uncle
Bernard. He had now got as far as the first syllable of my Christian
name, and he had come to me to repeat his lesson. Resting his little
hands on my knees, he looked up at me with his mother's eyes, and said,
"Uncle Ber'." A trifling incident, but, at that moment, it cut me to
the heart. I could only take the boy in my arms, and look at Madame
Villeray. The good woman felt for me. I saw tears in her eyes.

No! no more writing about myself. I close the book again.

Eighth Extract.

July 3.--A letter has reached Mrs. Eyrecourt this morning, from Doctor
Wybrow. It is dated, "Castel Gandolpho, near Rome." Here the doctor
is established during the hot months--and here he has seen Romayne,
in attendance on the "Holy Father," in the famous summer palace of the
Popes. How he obtained the interview Mrs. Eyrecourt is not informed. To
a man of his celebrity, doors are no doubt opened which remain closed to
persons less widely known.

"I have performed my promise," he writes "and I may say for myself that
I spoke with every needful precaution. The result a little startled me.
Romayne was not merely unprepared to hear of the birth of his child--he
was physically and morally incapable of sustaining the shock of the
disclosure. For the moment, I thought he had been seized with a fit of
catalepsy. He moved, however, when I tried to take his hand to feel the
pulse--shrinking back in his chair, and feebly signing to me to leave
him. I committed him to the care of his servant. The next day I received
a letter from one of his priestly colleagues, informing me that he was
slowly recovering after the shock that I had inflicted, and requesting
me to hold no further communication with him, either personally or
by lette