r!"

There was but little more said between them upon the matter--but
little more, at least, in words; but there was an infinity of
caresses, and deep--deep assurances of undying love and confidence.
And then she asked him about his bride, and he told her where he
had been, and what had happened. "You must not claim her, Herbert,"
she said to him. "God is good, and will teach you to bear even that
also."

"Must I not?" he asked, with a sadly plaintive voice.

"No, my child. You invited her to share your prosperity, and would it
be just--"

"But, mother, if she wills it?"

"It is for you to give her back her troth, then leave it to time and
her own heart."

"But if she love me, mother, she will not take back her troth. Would
I take back hers because she was in sorrow?"

"Men and women, Herbert, are different. The oak cares not whether the
creeper which hangs to it be weak or strong. If it be weak the oak
can give it strength. But the staff which has to support the creeper
must needs have strength of its own."

He made no further answer to her, but understood that he must do as
she bade him. He understood now also, without many arguments within
himself, that he had no right to expect from Clara Desmond that
adherence to him and his misfortunes which he would have owed to her
had she been unfortunate. He understood this now; but still he hoped.
"Two hearts that have once become as one cannot be separated," he
said to himself that night, as he resolved that it was his duty to
write to her, unconditionally returning to her her pledges.

"But, Herbert, what a state you are in!" said Lady Fitzgerald, as
the flame of the coal glimmering out, threw a faint light upon his
clothes.

"Yes, mother; I have been walking."

"And you are wet!"

"I am nearly dry now. I was wet. But, mother, I am tired and fagged.
It would do me good if I could get a glass of wine."

She rang the bell, and gave her orders calmly--though every servant
in the house now knew the whole truth,--and then lit a candle
herself, and looked at him. "My child, what have you done to
yourself? Oh, Herbert, you will be ill!" And then, with his arm round
her waist, she took him up to her own room, and sat by him while he
took off his muddy boots and clammy socks, and made him hot drinks,
and tended him as she had done when he was a child. And yet she
had that day heard of her great ruin! With truth, indeed, had Mr.
Prendergast said that she was made o