come of loving above her,
yet below her, and of loving an egotist.

Three years before our tale commenced, a gentleman's horse ran away with
him, and threw him on a heap of stones by the roadside, not very far
from Farmer Dale's gate. The farmer had him taken in. The doctor said he
must not be moved. He was insensible; his cheek like delicate wax; his
fair hair like silk stained with blood. He became Phoebe's patient, and,
in due course, her convalescent: his pale, handsome face and fascinating
manners gained one charm more from weakness; his vices were in abeyance.

The womanly nurse's heart yearned over her child; for he was feeble as
a child; and, when he got well enough to amuse his weary hours by making
love to her, and telling her a pack of arrant lies, she was a ready
dupe. He was to marry her as soon as ever his old uncle died, and left
him the means, etc., etc. At last he got well enough to leave her, and
went away, her open admirer and secret lover. He borrowed twenty pounds
of her the day he left.

He used to write her charming letters, and feed the flame; but one day
her father sent her up to London, on his own business, all of a sudden,
and she called on Mr. Falcon at his real address. She found he did not
live there--only received letters. However, half-a-crown soon bought his
real address, and thither Phoebe proceeded with a troubled heart, for
she suspected that her true lover was in debt or trouble, and obliged to
hide. Well, he must be got out of it, and hide at the farm meantime.

So the loving girl knocked at the door, asked for Mr. Falcon, and was
shown in to a lady rather showily dressed, who asked her business.

Phoebe Dale stared at her, and then turned pale as ashes. She was
paralyzed, and could not find her tongue.

"Why, what is the matter now?" said the other, sharply.

"Are you married to Reginald Falcon?"

"Of course I am. Look at my wedding-ring."

"Then I am not wanted here," faltered Phoebe, ready to sink on the
floor.

"Certainly not, if you are one of the bygones," said the woman,
coarsely; and Phoebe Dale waited to hear no more, but found her way,
Heaven knows how, into the street, and there leaned, half-fainting, on
a rail, till a policeman came, and told her she had been drinking, and
suggested a cool cell as the best cure.

"Not drink; only a breaking heart," said she, in her low, mellow voice
that few could resist.

He got her a glass of water, drove away the boys t