ung wife. Than a permanent separation anything would be better;
better even that she should be secluded and maligned, and even, for a
while, trodden under foot. Were such separation to take place his girl
would have been altogether sacrificed, and her life's happiness brought
to shipwreck. But then a permanent separation was not probable. She had
done nothing wrong. The husband and wife did in truth love each other
dearly. The Marquis would be soon gone, and then Lord George would
return to his old habits of thought and his old allegiance. Upon the
whole the Dean thought it best that his present influence should be
used in taking his daughter to the deanery.

"I should like to return quite early to-morrow," said Lord George, very
gravely, "unless my brother's condition should make it impossible."

"I trust you won't find your brother much the worse for what has
happened," said the Dean.

"But you will sleep here to-night," repeated Mary.

"I will come for you the first thing in the morning," said Lord George
in the same funereal voice.

"But why;--why?"

"I shall probably have to be a good deal with my brother during the
afternoon. But I will be here again in the afternoon. You can be at
home at five, and you can get your things ready for going to-morrow."

"Won't you dine here?"

"I think not."

Then there was silence for a minute. Mary was completely astounded.
Lord George wished to say nothing further in the presence of his
father-in-law. The Dean was thinking how he would begin to use his
influence. "I trust you will not take Mary away to-morrow."

"Oh;--certainly."

"I trust not. I must ask you to hear me say a few words about this."

"I must insist on her coming with me to-morrow, even though I should
have to return to London myself afterwards."

"Mary," said her father, "leave us for a moment." Then Mary retired,
with a very saddened air. "Do you understand, George, what it was that
your brother said to me?"

"I suppose so," he answered, hoarsely.

"Then, no doubt, I may take it for granted that you approve of the
violence of my resentment? To me as a clergyman, and as a man past
middle life, the position was very trying. But had I been an
Archbishop, tottering on the grave with years, I must have endeavoured
to do the same." This he said with great energy. "Tell me, George, that
you think that I was right."

But George had not heard the word, had not seen the man's face. And
then, though he