before my
accident. Perhaps she did not tell you, ma'am, of what passed between
us. We had had a quarrel; one of many. Some cowardly hand, which we both
of us can guess at, had written to her an account of my past life, and
she showed me the letter. Then I told her, that if she loved me she
never would have showed it me: without any other words of reproof. I
bade her farewell. It was not much, the showing that letter; but it was
enough. In twenty differences we have had together, she had been unjust
and captious, cruel towards me, and too eager, as I thought, for other
people's admiration. Had she loved me, it seemed to me Ethel would
have shown less vanity and better temper. What was I to expect in life
afterwards from a girl who before her marriage used me so? Neither she
nor I could be happy. She could be gentle enough, and kind, and anxious
to please any man whom she loves, God bless her! As for me, I suppose,
I'm not worthy of so much talent and beauty, so we both understood that
that was a friendly farewell; and as I have been lying on my bed yonder,
thinking, perhaps, I never might leave it, or if I did, that I should
like to lead a different sort of life to that which ended in sending me
there, my resolve of last month was only confirmed. God forbid that she
and I should lead the lives of some folks we know; that Ethel should
marry without love, perhaps to fall into it afterwards; and that I,
after this awful warning I have had, should be tempted to back into that
dreary life I was leading. It was wicked, ma'am, I knew it was; many and
many a day I used to say so to myself, and longed to get rid of it. I am
a poor weak devil, I know, I am only too easily led into temptation, and
I should only make matters worse if I married a woman who cares for the
world more than for me, and would not make me happy at home."

"Ethel care for the world!" gasped out Lady Kew; "a most artless,
simple, affectionate creature; my dear Frank, she----"

He interrupted her, as a blush came rushing over his pale face. "Ah!"
said he, "if I had been the painter, and young Clive had been Lord Kew,
which of us do you think she would have chosen? And she was right. He is
a brave, handsome, honest young fellow, and is a thousand times cleverer
and better than I am."

"Not better, dear, thank God," cried his mother, coming round to the
other side of his sofa, and seizing her son's hand.

"No, I don't think he is better, Frank," said the di