own servant mad by demanding breakfast at an altogether
unaccustomed hour, he found that he had nothing to do. There was that
head of Imogene for which she had only once sat, and at which he had
occasionally worked from memory because of her refusal to sit again;
and he thought for a moment that this might be good employment
for him now. But his art was only an expense to him. He could not
now afford for himself paint and brushes and canvas, so he turned
the half-finished head round upon his easel. Then he took out his
banker's book, a bundle of bills and some blotted scraps of ruled
paper, with which he set himself to work to arrange his accounts.
When he did this he must certainly have been in earnest. But he had
not as yet succeeded in seeing light through his figures when he was
interrupted by the arrival of a letter which altogether arrested his
attention. It was from Mudbury Docimer, and this was the letter;--

DEAR HOUSTON,

Of course I think that you and Imogene are two fools.
She has told me what took place here yesterday, and I
have told her the same as I tell you. I have no power to
prevent it; but you know as well as I do that you and she
cannot live together on the interest of sixteen thousand
pounds. When you've paid everything that you owe I don't
suppose there will be so much as that. It had been
arranged between you that everything should be over; and
if I had thought that anything of the kind would have
occurred again I would have told them not to let you into
the house. What is the good of two such people as you
making yourselves wretched for ever, just to satisfy the
romance of a moment? I call it wicked. So I told Imogene,
and so I tell you.

You have changed your mind so often that of course you may
change it again. I am sure that Imogene expects that you
will. Indeed I can hardly believe that you intend to be
such a Quixote. But at any rate I have done my duty. She
is old enough to look after herself, but as long as she
lives with me as my sister I shall tell her what I think;
and until she becomes your wife,--which I hope she never
will be,--I shall tell you the same.

Yours truly,

MUDBURY DOCIMER.

"He always was a hard, unfeeling fellow," said Frank to himself. Then
he put the letter by with a crowd of others, assuring himself that it
was one which required no answer.

On the afternoon he called at the h