answered, quickly and earnestly:

"It's that very thing, Windham, that has brought me here. I've left
her in Naples."

"What?" cried Lord Chetwynde, eagerly; "she is with you yet, then?"

"Yes."

"In Naples?"

"Yes--with my family. Poor little thing! Windham, I have a story to
tell about her that will make your heart bleed, if you have the heart
of a man."

"My God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion; "what is it? Has
any thing new happened?"

"Yes, something new--something worse than before."

"But _she_--_she_ is alive--is she not--she is well--she--"

"Thank God, yes," said Obed, not noticing the intense emotion of the
other; "yes--she has suffered, poor little girl, but she is getting
over it--and one day I hope she may find some kind of comfort. But
at present, and for some time to come, I'm afraid that any thing like
happiness or peace or comfort will be impossible for her."

"Is she very sad?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in a voice which was
tremulous from suppressed agitation.

"The poor child bears up wonderfully, and struggles hard to make us
think that she is cheerful; but any one who watches her can easily
see that she has some deep-seated grief, which, in spite of all our
care, may even yet wear away her young life. Windham, I've heard of
cases of a broken heart. I think I once in my life saw a case of that
kind, and I'm afraid that this case will--will come at last to be
classed in that list."

Lord Chetwynde said nothing. He had nothing to say--he had nothing to
do. His face in the few moments of this conversation had grown,
ghastly white, his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and an expression of
intense pain spread over his features. He walked along by Obed
Chute's side with the uncertain step of one who walks in a dream.

Obed said nothing for some time. His own thoughts were reverting to
that young girl whom he had left in Naples buried under a mountain of
woe. Could he ever draw her forth from that overwhelming grief which
pressed her down? They went on together through several streets
without any particular intention, each one occupied with his own
thoughts, until at last they found themselves at St. James's Park.
Here they entered, and walked along one of the chief avenues.

"You remember, Windham," said Obed at last--"of course you have not
forgotten the story which Miss Lorton told about her betrayal."

Lord Chetwynde bowed, without trusting himself to speak.

"And you remember the