the veil, for the sake of oblivion."

While she said this, Stocmar's eyes were turned towards her with a most
unfeigned admiration. He felt as he might have done if a great actress
were to relinquish the stage in the climax of her greatest success. He
wished he could summon courage to say, "You shall not do so; there
are grander triumphs before you, and we will share them together;" but
somehow his "nerve" failed him, and he could not utter the words.

"I see what is passing in your heart, Mr. Stocmar," said she,
plaintively. "You are sorry for me,--you pity me,--but you can't help
it. Well, that sympathy will be my comfort many a day hence, when you
will have utterly forgotten me. I will think over it and treasure it
when many a long mile will separate us."

Mr. Stocmar went through another paroxysm of temptation. At last he
said, "I hope this Sir William Heathcote is worthy of you,--I do trust
he loves you."

She held her handkerchief over her face, but her shoulders moved
convulsively for some seconds. Was it grief or laughter? Stocmar
evidently thought the former, for he quickly said, "I have been very
bold,--very indiscreet Pray forgive me."

"Yes, yes, I do forgive you," said she, hurriedly, and with her head
averted. "It was _my_ fault, not _yours_. But here we are at your hotel,
and I have got so much to say to you! Remember we meet to-night at the
ball. You will know me by the cross of ribbon on my sleeve, which, if
you come in domino, you will take off and pin upon your own; this will
be the signal between us."

"I will not forget it," said he, kissing her hand with an air of
devotion as he said "Good-bye!"

"I saw her!" whispered a voice in his ear. He turned; and Paten, whose
face was deeply muffled in a coarse woollen wrapper, was beside him.

CHAPTER XXXIII. SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT

SIR William Heathcote in his dressing-room, wrapped up with rugs, and
his foot on a stool, looked as little like a bridegroom as need be. He
was suffering severely from gout, and in all the irritable excitement of
that painful malady.

A mass of unopened letters lay on the table beside him, littered as
it was with physic bottles, pill-boxes, and a small hand-bell. On the
carpet around him lay the newspapers and reviews, newly arrived, but all
indignantly thrown aside, uncared for by one too deeply engaged in his
sufferings to waste a thought upon the interests of the world.

"Not come in yet, Fenton?" cried h