n hastily arranged for his private sitting-room; and can walk its
floors with a step that grows daily firmer in the delight of leaning on
Sophy's arm.

Since the girl's arrival, Darrell has relaxed his watch over the
patient. He never now enters his guest's apartment without previous
notice; and, by that incommunicable instinct which passes in households
between one silent breast and another, as by a law equally strong to
attract or repel--here drawing together, there keeping apart--though
no rule in either case has been laid down;--by virtue, I say, of that
strange intelligence, Sophy is not in the old man's room when Darrell
enters. Rarely in the twenty-four hours do the host and the fair young
guest encounter. But Darrell is a quick and keen observer. He has seen
enough of Sophy to be sensible of her charms--to penetrate into her
simple natural loveliness of character--to feel a deep interest in
her, and a still deeper pity for Lionel. Secluding himself as much as
possible in his private room, or in his leafless woods, his reveries
increase in gloom. Nothing unbends his moody brow like Fairthorn's flute
or Fairthorn's familiar converse.

It has been said before that Fairthorn knew his secrets. Fairthorn had
idolised Caroline Lyndsay. Fairthorn was the only being in the world to
when Guy Darrell could speak of Caroline Lyndsay--to whom he could own
the unconquerable but unforgiving love which had twice driven him from
the social world. Even to Fairthorn, of course, all could not be told.
Darrell could not speak of the letter he had received at Malta, nor of
Caroline's visit to him at Fawley; for to do so, even to Fairthorn, was
like a treason to the dignity of the Beloved. And Guy Darrell might rail
at her inconstancy--her heartlessness; but to boast that she had lowered
herself by the proffers that were dictated by repentance, Guy Darrell
could not do that;--he was a gentleman. Still there was much left to
say. He could own that he thought she would now accept his hand; and
when Fairthorn looked happy at that thought, and hinted at excuses for
her former fickleness, it was a great relief to Darrell to fly into a
rage; but if the flute-player meanly turned round and became himself
Caroline's accuser, then poor Fairthorn was indeed frightened; for
Darrell's trembling lip or melancholy manner overwhelmed the assailant
with self-reproach, and sent him sidelong into one of his hidden
coverts.

But at this moment Fairth