affectionate old friend,

"ADELAIDE HOUGHTON."

Affectionate old friend! Serpent! Toad! Nasty degraded painted Jezebel!
Forgive her! No,--never; not though she were on her knees! She was
contemptible before, but doubly contemptible in that she could humble
herself to make an apology so false, so feeble, and so fawning. It was
thus that she regarded her correspondent's letter. Could any woman who
knew that love-letters had been written to her husband by another woman
forgive that other? We are all conscious of trespassers against
ourselves whom we especially bar when we say our prayers. Forgive us
our trespasses, as we forgive them who trespass against us,--excepting
Jones who has committed the one sin that we will not forgive, that we
ought not to forgive. Is there not that sin against the Holy Ghost to
justify us? This was the sin that Mary could not forgive. The
disgusting woman,--for to Mary the woman was now absolutely
disgusting,--had attempted to take from her the heart of her husband!
There was a good deal of evidence also against her husband, but that
she had quite forgotten. She did not in the least believe that Adelaide
was preferred to herself. Her husband had eyes, and could see,--a
heart, and could feel,--an understanding, and could perceive. She was
not in the least afraid as to her husband. But nothing on earth should
induce her to forgive Mrs. Houghton. She thought for a moment whether
it was worth her while to show the letter to the Marquis, and then tore
it into fragments and threw the pieces away.

CHAPTER LXIV.

CONCLUSION.

It is now only necessary that we should collect together the few loose
threads of our story which require to be tied lest the pieces should
become unravelled in the wear. Of our hero, Lord Popenjoy, it need only
be said that when we last heard of him he was a very healthy and rather
mischievous boy of five years old, who tyrannised over his two little
sisters,--the Lady Mary and the Lady Sarah. Those, however, who look
most closely to his character think that they can see the germs of that
future success which his grandfather so earnestly desires for him. His
mother is quite sure that he will live to be Prime Minister, and has
already begun to train him for that office. The house in Munster Court
has of course been left, and the Marchioness was on one occasion roused
into avowing that the family mansion is preferable. But then the family
mansion has been so cha