out a packet of letters, but she
hesitated, and looked timidly at Monckton, after his late severity. "Am I
bound to part with them?"

"Certainly not," said Monckton, "but you can surely trust them for a
minute to such a man as Colonel Clifford. I am of opinion," said he,
"that since you can not be confronted with this gentleman's son (though
that is no fault of yours), these letters (by-the-bye, it would have been
as well to show to me,) ought now at once to be submitted to Colonel
Clifford, that he may examine both the contents and the handwriting; then
he will know whether it is his son or not; and probably as you are fair
with him he will be fair with you and tell you the truth."

Colonel Clifford took the letters and ran his eye hastily over two or
three; they were filled with the ardent protestations of youth, and a
love that evidently looked toward matrimony, and they were written and
signed in a handwriting he knew as well as his own.

He said, solemnly, "These letters are written and were sent to Miss Lucy
Muller by my son, Walter Clifford." Then, almost for the first time in
his life, he broke down, and said, "God forgive him; God help him and me.
The honor of the Cliffords is an empty sound."

Lucy Monckton rose from her chair in genuine agitation. Her better angel
tugged at her heartstrings.

"Forgive me, sir, oh, forgive me!" she cried, bursting into tears. Then
she caught a bitter, threatening glance of her bad angel fixed upon her,
and she said to Monckton, "I can say no more, I can do no more. It was
fourteen years ago--I can't break people's hearts. Hush it up amongst
you. I have made a hero weep; his tears burn me. I don't care for the
man; I'll go no further. You, sir, have taken a deal of trouble and
expense. I dare say Colonel Clifford will compensate you; I leave the
matter with you. No power shall make me act in it any more."

Monckton wrote hastily on his card, and said, quite calmly, "Well, I
really think, madam, you are not fit to take part in such a conference as
this. Compose yourself and retire. I know your mind in the matter better
than you do yourself at this moment, and I will act accordingly."

She retired, and drove away to the Dun Cow, which was the place Monckton
had appointed when he wrote upon the card.

"Colonel Clifford," said Monckton, "all that is a woman's way. When she
is out of sight of you, and thinks over her desertion and her unfortunate
condition--neither maid, wi