er awhile that he too had gone into the country, to dance
attendance on an old aunt, whose heir he had got the chance of being,
through his cousin's death. But I knew if I came back to London he
would hear of it, and then, sure, farewell to all my peace! He had
continually threatened to carry me off in a coach to some village by
the Channel, and take me across to France in a fishing-smack. When I
declared I would ask the magistrates for protection, he said they
would laugh at me as a play-actress trying to make herself talked
about. I took that to be true, and so, as I've told you, I left
London.

"Well, after more than two years, I thought he must have put me out of
his mind, and so I returned, and made my reappearance to-night. And,
mercy on me!--there he was, waiting outside the theatre. From his
appearance, I suppose the aunt has died and he has come into the
money. He followed me home, as you saw; and for a moment, when he was
carrying me toward the coach, I vow I had a fear of being rushed away
to a seaport, and taken by force, on some fisherman's boat, across the
Channel. And then, all of a sudden, 'twas as if you two had sprung out
of the earth. Where did you come from? How was it? Oh, tell me
all--all the news! Poor Tom! I thought I should die when I heard of
his death. 'Twas--'twas Falconer told me--how he was killed in a
skirmish with the--What's the matter? Why do you look so? Isn't it
true? I entreat--!"

"Did Falconer tell you Tom died that way?" I blurted out, hotly, ere
Phil could check me.

"In truth, he did! How was it?" She had turned white as a sheet.

"'Twas Falconer killed him in a duel," said I, with indignation, "the
very night after you sailed!"

"What, Fal--! A duel! My God, on my account, then! Oh, I never knew
that! Oh, Tom--little Tom--the dear little fellow--'twas I killed
him!" She flung her head forward upon the table, and sobbed wildly, so
that I repented of my outspoken anger at Falconer's deception of her.
For some minutes her grief was pitiful to see. If ever there was the
anguish of remorse, it was then. I sat sobered, leaving it to Phil to
apply comfort, which, when her outburst of tears had spent its
violence, he undertook to do.

"Well, well, Madge," said he, softly, "'tis done and past now, and not
for us to recall. 'Twas an honourable death, such as he would never
have shrunk from; and he has long been past all sorrow. The most of
his life, while it lasted, was happy; an