the past misery with feelings that are anything but bitter.

Two or three books for reference, fragments of torn-up manuscript,
drawers open, pens and inkstand, lines half visible on the
blotting-paper, a bit of sealing-wax twisted and bitten and broken into
sundry pieces--such relics as these were about the table, and Pen flung
himself down in George's empty chair--noting things according to his
wont, or in spite of himself. There was a gap in the bookcase (next to
the old College Plato, with the Boniface Arms), where Helen's bible used
to be. He has taken that with him, thought Pen. He knew why his friend
was gone. Dear, dear old George!

Pen rubbed his hand over his eyes. Oh, how much wiser, how much better,
how much nobler he is than I! he thought. Where was such a friend, or
such a brave heart? Where shall I ever hear such a frank voice, and kind
laughter? Where shall I ever see such a true gentleman? No wonder she
loved him. God bless him! What was I compared to him? What could she do
else but love him? To the end of our days we will be her brothers, as
fate wills that we can be no more. We'll be her knights, and wait on
her: and when we're old, we'll say how we loved her. Dear, dear old
George!

When Pen descended to his own chambers, his eye fell on the letter-box
of his outer door, which he had previously overlooked, and there was a
little note to A. P., Esq., in George's well-known handwriting, George
had put into Pen's box probably as he was going away.

"Dear Pen,--I shall be half-way home when you breakfast, and intend
to stay over Christmas, in Norfolk, or elsewhere.

"I have my own opinion of the issue of matters about which we talked
in J------ St. yesterday; and think my presence de trop.

"Vale. G. W."

"Give my very best regards and adieux to your cousin."

And so George was gone, and Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, ruled over his
empty chambers.

Pen of course had to go and see his uncle on the day after their
colloquy, and not being admitted, he naturally went to Lady
Rockminster's apartments, where the old lady instantly asked for
Bluebeard, and insisted that he should come to dinner.

"Bluebeard is gone," Pen said, and he took out poor George's scrap of
paper, and handed it to Laura, who looked at it--did not look at Pen in
return, but passed the paper back to him, and walked away. Pen rushed
into an eloquent eulogium upon