into the
shop. There he is, without a doubt. He sleeps under Mr. Goren's roof:
he (since one cannot be too positive in citing the punishment of such
a Pagan) stands behind a counter: he (and, oh! choke, young loves,
that have hovered around him! shrink from him in natural horror, gentle
ladies!) handles the shears. It is not my fault. He would be a Pagan. If
you can think him human enough still to care to know how he feels it, I
must tell you that he feels it hardly-at all. After a big blow, a very
little one scarcely counts. What are outward forms and social ignominies
to him whose heart has been struck to the dust? His Gods have fought for
him, and there he is! He deserves no pity.

But he does not ask it of you, the callous Pagan! Despise him, if you
please, and rank with the Countess, who despises him most heartily.
Dipping further into the secrets of the post, we discover a brisk
correspondence between Juliana Bonner and Mrs. Strike.

'A thousand thanks to you, my dear Miss Bonner,' writes the latter lady.
'The unaffected interest you take in my brother touches me deeply. I
know him to be worthy of your good opinion. Yes, I will open my heart to
you, dearest Juliana; and it shall, as you wish, be quite secret between
us. Not to a soul!

'He is quite alone. My sisters Harriet and Louisa will not see him,
and I can only do so by stealth. His odd other little friend sometimes
drives me out on Sundays, to a place where I meet him; and the Duke of
Belfield kindly lends me his carriage. Oh, that we might never part! I
am only happy with him!

'Ah, do not doubt him, Juliana, for anything he does! You say, that now
the Duke has obtained for him the Secretaryship to my husband's Company,
he should not thing, and you do not understand why. I will tell you. Our
poor father died in debt, and Evan receives money which enables him by
degrees to liquidate these debts, on condition that he consents to be
what I dislike as much as you can. He bears it; you can have no idea of
his pride! He is too proud to own to himself that it debases him--too
proud to complain. It is a tangle--a net that drags him down to it but
whatever he is outwardly, he is the noblest human being in the world to
me, and but for him, oh, what should I be? Let me beg you to forgive it,
if you can. My darling has no friends. Is his temper as sweet as ever?
I can answer that. Yes, only he is silent, and looks--when you look into
his eyes--colder, as men look