rship had fixed itself, with
an almost unreasoning trust, on Muriel's father.

"Lord Ravenel, forgive anything I have said that may have hurt you. It
would grieve me inexpressibly if we did not part as friends."

"Part?"

"For a time, we must. I dare not risk further either your happiness or
my child's."

"No, not hers. Guard it. I blame you not. The lovely, innocent
child! God forbid she should ever have a life like mine!"

He sat silent, his clasped hands listlessly dropping, his countenance
dreamy; yet, it seemed to me, less hopelessly sad: then with a sudden
effort he rose.

"I must go now."

Crossing over to Mrs. Halifax, he thanked her, with much emotion, for
all her kindness.

"For your husband, I owe him more than kindness, as perhaps I may prove
some day. If not, try to believe the best of me you can. Good-bye."

They both said good-bye, and bade God bless him; with scarcely less
tenderness than if things had ended as he desired, and, instead of this
farewell, sad and indefinite beyond most farewells, they were giving
the parental welcome to a newly-chosen son.

Ere finally quitting us, Lord Ravenel turned back to speak to John once
more, hesitatingly and mournfully.

"If she--if the child should ask or wonder about my absence--she likes
me in her innocent way you know--you will tell her--What shall you tell
her?"

"Nothing. It is best not."

"Ay, it is, it is."

He shook hands with us all three, without saying anything else; then
the carriage rolled away, and we saw his face--that pale, gentle,
melancholy face--no more.

It was years and years before any one beyond ourselves knew what a near
escape our little Maud had had of becoming Viscountess Ravenel--future
Countess of Luxmore.

CHAPTER XXXVII

It was not many weeks after this departure of Lord Ravenel's--the pain
of which was almost forgotten in the comfort of Guy's first long home
letter, which came about this time--that John one morning, suddenly
dropping his newspaper, exclaimed:

"Lord Luxmore is dead."

Yes, he had returned to his dust, this old bad man; so old, that people
had begun to think he would never die. He was gone; the man who, if we
owned an enemy in the world, had certainly proved himself that enemy.
Something peculiar is there in a decease like this--of one whom,
living, we have almost felt ourselves justified in condemning,
avoiding--perhaps hating. Until Death, stepping in between, removes
hi