ar, in many cases,' said Louis; 'but I have seen this
poor child in circumstances that make me feel sure that she is an
admirable creature. What misunderstanding can have arisen?'

'No misunderstanding, my Lord. I saw, as plain as I see you, her name
and her writing in the book that she gave to Ford--her copying out of
his love-poems, my Lord, in the blank pages,--if I had wanted any proof
of what he alleged.'

And he had nearly thrown the letter into the Pacific; but Louis caught
his arm.

'Did you ever read Cymbeline, Tom?'

'Yes, to be sure I have,' growled Tom, in surprise.

'Then remember Iachimo, and spare that letter. What did he tell you?'

With some difficulty Fitzjocelyn drew from Madison that he had for some
time been surprised at Ford's knowledge of Northwold and the
neighbourhood; but had indulged in no suspicions till about the epoch
of Robson's return from Guayaquil. Chancing to be waiting in his
fellow-clerk's room, he had looked at his books, and, always attracted
by poetry as the rough fellow was, had lighted on a crimson
watered-silk volume, in the first page of which he had, to his horror,
found the name of Charlotte Arnold borne aloft by the two doves, and in
the blank leaves several extremely flowery poems in her own handwriting.

With ill-suppressed rage he had demanded an explanation, and had been
met with provokingly indifferent inuendoes. The book was the gift of a
young lady with whom Ford had the pleasure to be acquainted; the little
effusions were trifles of his own, inscribed by her own fair hands.
Oh, yes! he knew Miss Arnold very well--very pretty, very complaisant!
Ah! he was afraid there were some broken hearts at home! Poor little
thing! he should never forget how she took leave of him, after forcing
upon him her little savings! He was sorry for her, too; but a man
cannot have compassion on all the pretty girls he sees.

'And you could be deceived by such shallow coxcombry as this!' said
Louis.

'I tell you there was the book,' returned Tom.

'Well, Tom, if Mr. Ford prove to be the Ford I take him to be, I'll
undertake that you shall see through him, and be heartily ashamed of
yourself. Give me back the letter,--you do not deserve to have it.'

'I don't want it,' said Tom, moodily; 'she has not been as true to me
as I've been to her, and if she isn't what I took her for, I do not
care to hear of her again. I used to look at the mountain-tops, and
think she was as