gement, he had made up his mind that
his nephew and Mary Lowther would never be married. Seeing what
his nephew was--or rather seeing that which he fancied his nephew
to be,--he was sure that he would not sacrifice himself by such a
marriage. There was always a way out of things, and Walter Marrable
would be sure to find it. The way out of it had been found now with
a vengeance. Immediately after breakfast the Captain took his hat
without a word, and walked steadily up the hill to Uphill Lane. As
he passed the door of the Bull he saw, but took no notice of, a
gentleman who was standing under the covered entrance to the inn, and
who had watched him coming out from the parsonage gate; but Gilmore,
the moment that his eyes fell upon the Captain, declared to himself
that that was his rival. Captain Marrable walked straight up the
hill and knocked at Miss Marrable's door. Was Miss Lowther at home?
Of course Miss Lowther was at home at such an hour. The girl said
that Miss Mary was alone in the breakfast parlour. Miss Marrable had
already gone down to the kitchen. Without waiting for another word,
he walked into the little back room, and there he found his love.
"Walter," she said, jumping up and running to him; "how good of you
to come so soon! We didn't expect you these two days." She had thrown
herself into his arms, but, though he embraced her, he did not kiss
her. "There is something the matter!" she said. "What is it?" As she
spoke she drew away from him and looked up into his face. He smiled
and shook his head, still holding her by the waist. "Tell me, Walter;
I know there is something wrong."

"It is only that dirty money. My father has succeeded in getting it
all."

"All, Walter?" said she, again drawing herself away.

"Every shilling," said he, dropping his arm.

"That will be very bad."

"Not a doubt of it. I felt it just as you do."

"And all our pretty plans are gone."

"Yes;--all our pretty plans."

"And what shall you do now?"

"There is only one thing. I shall go to India again. Of course it is
just the same to me as though I were told that sentence of death had
gone against me;--only it will not be so soon over."

"Don't say that, Walter."

"Why not say it, my dear, when I feel it?"

"But you don't feel it. I know it must be bad for you, but it is not
quite that. I will not think that you have nothing left worth living
for."

"I can't ask you to go with me to that happy Paradise."

"But I