ternoon of the reading of the will--"did I not tell you that, if
you would consent to be guided by me, I would pull you through, and
have I not pulled you through? Never misdoubt my judgment again, my
dear George; it is infinitely sounder than your own."

"You did, Anne, you certainly did; you are a charming woman, and as
clever as you are charming."

"Compliments are all very well, and I am sure I appreciate yours"--and
she gave a little curtsey--"at their proper value; but I must remind
you, George, that I have done my part of the bargain, and that now you
must do yours."

"Oh! that's all right; Bellamy shall have the agency and two hundred a
year with it, and, to show you that I have not forgotten you, perhaps
you will accept this in memorial of our joint achievement;" and he
drew from his pocket and opened a case containing a superb set of
sapphires.

Mrs. Bellamy had all a beautiful woman's love for jewels, and
especially adored sapphires.

"Oh!" she said, clasping her hands, "thank you, George; they are
perfectly lovely!"

"Perhaps," he replied, politely; "but not half so lovely as their
wearer. I wonder," he added, with a little laugh, "what the old boy
would say, if he could know that a thousand pounds of his personalty
had gone by anticipation to buy a necklace for Anne Bellamy."

To this remark she made no reply, being apparently absorbed in her own
thoughts. At last she spoke.

"I don't want to seem ungracious, George, but these"--and she touched
the jewels--"were not the reward I expected: I want the letters you
promised me back."

"My dear Anne, you are under a mistake, I never promised you the
letters; I said that, under the circumstances, I might possibly
restore them--a very different thing from promising."

Mrs. Bellamy flushed a little, and the great pupils of her sleepy eyes
contracted till she looked quite dangerous.

"Then I must have strangely misunderstood you," she said.

"What do you want the letters for? Can't you trust me with them?"

"Don't you think, George, that if you had passed through something
very terrible, you would like to have all the mementoes of that dark
time destroyed? Those letters are the record of my terrible time;
nothing remains of it but those written lines. I want to burn them, to
stamp them into powder, to obliterate them as I have obliterated all
the past. Whilst they exist I can never feel safe. Supposing you were
to turn traitor to me and let those le