when your uncle's name is mentioned."

"Good gracious!" says the horrified nephew of this apparently
disreputable old man. He is staring at Monica, but in reality he does
not even see her. Before his mind's eye is a picture of a stout old
gentleman, irascible, but kindly, with a countenance innocent of guile.
Yet how can he doubt this girl's story? Twenty years ago, as it seems,
George Desmond had done something too bad to be discussed. After all,
how impossible it is to trust to appearances! As a rule, the most
seemingly harmless people are those who are guilty of the vilest
misdemeanors. And, yet, what on earth _could_ George have done twenty
years ago? Visions of forgery, murder, homicide, rise up before him,
but, try as he will, he cannot connect Mr. Desmond's face with any of
them.

"You don't exactly know yourself what the crime is with which he is
charged?" he asks her, with growing diffidence.

"No. But I shall find out, and tell----But that will be
impossible!"--with a glance full of liveliest regret. "I _cannot_ tell
you, because after to-day I shall never see or speak to you again."

"That is the most insane nonsense I ever heard in my life," says Mr.
Desmond.

The girl shakes her head sadly.

"If you won't speak to me I shall speak to you, whether you like it or
not," says Desmond, with decision.

"That will be out of your power, as you will never see me."

"Do you mean to tell me I may not call at Moyne?"

"Certainly I do. They wouldn't hear of it. They wouldn't, in fact,
receive you."

"But why must they visit my uncle's sins upon my shoulders? I have heard
of a father's sins being entailed upon his heir, but never an uncle's."

"It is your name," says Monica. Then she laughs a little, in spite of
herself, and quotes, in a low tone, "Oh! Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art
thou Romeo?"

But he takes no heed of this frivolous quotation.

"You mean me to understand, then, that I am never to speak to you
again?"

"I do, indeed."

"What! Do you know we are to be close neighbors for the future, you and
I? This is to be your home. Coole is to be mine. At the most, only a
mile of road lies between us, and _here_ not quite a yard. And yet you
calmly tell me I am from this day forth to be only a common stranger to
you."

"You look as if you were angry with _me_," says Monica, with sudden
tears in her eyes at his injustice. "It isn't my fault; I haven't done
anything wicked. Blame your uncle for it a