write to Barrington Erle. I don't suppose he would
do much now for his poor cousin, but he can at any rate say what can
be done. I should bid you come here,--only that stupid people would
say that you were my lover. I should not mind, only that he would
hear it, and I am bound to save him from annoyance. Would you not go
down to Oswald again?"

"With what object?"

"Because anything will be better than returning to Ireland. Why not
go down and look after Saulsby? It would be a home, and you need not
tie yourself to it. I will speak to Papa about that. But you will get
the seat."

"I think I shall," said Phineas.

"Do;--pray do! If I could only get hold of that judge by the ears!
Do you know what time it is? It is twelve, and your train starts at
eight." Then he arose to bid her adieu. "No," she said; "I shall see
you off."

"Indeed you will not. It will be almost night when I leave this, and
the frost is like iron."

"Neither the night nor the frost will kill me. Do you think I will
not give you your last breakfast? God bless you, dear."

And on the following morning she did give him his breakfast by
candle-light, and went down with him to the station. The morning was
black, and the frost was, as he had said, as hard as iron, but she
was thoroughly good-humoured, and apparently happy. "It has been so
much to me to have you here, that I might tell you everything," she
said. "You will understand me now."

"I understand, but I know not how to believe," he said.

"You do believe. You would be worse than a Jew if you did not believe
me. But you understand also. I want you to marry, and you must tell
her all the truth. If I can I will love her almost as much as I do
you. And if I live to see them, I will love your children as dearly
as I do you. Your children shall be my children;--or at least one of
them shall be mine. You will tell me when it is to be."

"If I ever intend such a thing, I will tell you."

"Now, good-bye. I shall stand back there till the train starts, but
do not you notice me. God bless you, Phineas." She held his hand
tight within her own for some seconds, and looked into his face with
an unutterable love. Then she drew down her veil, and went and stood
apart till the train had left the platform.

"He has gone, Papa," Lady Laura said, as she stood afterwards by her
father's bedside.

"Has he? Yes; I know he was to go, of course. I was very glad to see
him, Laura."

"So was I, Papa;--very