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ence, with the power of another's soul; to live with every day, every hour, threaded by those electric links of sympathy which, through all intervening distance, seem to convey to one heart the consciousness of another's meeting thoughts. Around and about her path wove these airy fetters, encircling her in a web through which she could not pass. She felt it binding her closer and closer; but it seemed drawn by the hand of destiny. A little while her conscience wrestled, then she became still and struggled m no more.

Against these two erring ones the world's tongue had not yet been lifted. With others, as well as with Katharine herself, Paul Lynedon set a watch upon his lips and actions. He who had worn carelessly and openly the chains of many another light fancy, now buried this strong real love-the only true love of his life-in the very depths of his heart. Besides, his passion had sprung up, budded and blossomed, in a space so short that the world had no time to note its growth, and probably would not have believed in its existence.

But

"Love counts time by heart-throbs, and not years."

Mrs. Lancaster-gossiping, light-tongued Mrs. Lancaster-visited her "dear, talented, charming friend, Mrs. Hugh Ogilvie," as frequently as ever, without seeing the haunting shadow that, near or distant, followed Katharine wherever she moved. Indeed, the lady often made Paul writhe beneath her hints and inuendoes respecting his various flames, past and present, which she had discovered-or at least thought she had.

One morning, she amused herself thus during the whole of a long visit at which she had met Lynedon at Mrs. Ogilvie's. Paul bore the jests restlessly at first, then indifferently! for in the calm, proud eye and slightly-curled lip of the sole face he ever watched, he saw that no credence was given to the idle tale. Katharine knew now-and the knowledge came mingled with remorse and despair-that she herself was the only woman who had ever had power to sway Paul Lynedon's soul.

(his tone grew lower and more earnest still), "the memory of that week at Summerwood." The dark eyes turned away, though not until he had seen the gleam of rapture which kindled them into dazzling light.

"But the rumor from Italy, which made us hope to see a Mrs. Lynedon ere long-how can you explain that ?" pursued Mrs. Lancaster, who, in resigning, perforce, the character of a "woman of genius," had assumed that of the most annoying and pertinacious gossip who ever sinned against good sense and good breeding.

"I think you are mistaken," said Mrs. Ogilvie, with some dignity. "My sister,"-(since her marriage, Katharine had ever most punctiliously used this title, thus gratifying at once her own real affection for Eleanor, and showing in the world's sight that outward respect which she always paid to her husband)-" my sister never met your friend when abroad. Is it not so, Mr. Lynedon ?"

With that look meeting his, Paul for his life's worth could not have uttered a falsehood. "I had, indeed, the pleasure of seeing Miss Ogilvie and Mrs. Breynton at Florence, but-"

His further hurried explanation was stopped by the entrance of a messenger from Summerwood, bringing tidings of Eleanor's severe illness. Mrs. Lancaster, who always spread her wings and fled away before the least cloud of adversity, made a hasty disappearance. Katharine, startled, and touched with self-reproach for the neglect which for weeks past had made her forget all olden ties in one absorbing dream, was left alone-alone, save for the one everhaunting shadow which now approached her.

"You

She started up almost angrily; for the images of Hugh and Hugh's dying sister were then present to the conscience-stricken wife. here, Mr. Lynedon! I thought you had departed with your friend!"

"How could I go and leave you thus ?" said Paul, softly. "Remember, it is not the first time that I have been with you in your sorrow.

Katharine looked up, to meet the same face which years before had bent over the trembling, The last historiette which Mrs. Lancaster fix-weeping child; the same look, the same tone, ed upon for the delectation of her former favor-yet fraught with a tenderness deeper a thousandite, was the suspected love episode with Eleanor fold. She saw it, and a strange terror came Ogilvie. She continued the jest even further than she believed in it herself, as she observed, with malicious pleasure, that Paul seemed more than usually sensitive on this point.

"I always thought, Mr. Lynedon, that there was some deep mystery in your sudden escapade to the Continent; and a friend of yours at last enlightened me a little on the subject. Confess, now, as we are quite alone-for Mrs. Ogilvie's sisterly ears need not listen unless she chooses -confess that your memory treasured long a certain visit at Summerwoood, and that the meeting in London is not entirely accidental, any more than was the rencounter at Florence.

Paul Lynedon might have laughed off the accusation, but that Katharine's eyes were upon him. He answered, earnestly

"Indeed, Mrs. Lancaster, I am not accountable for any imputed motives. My pleasure in Miss Ogilvie's society is not lessened by the fact that I have always owed it to chance alone. Most truly I do bear, and shall bear all my life"

over her she closed her eyes; she dared not look again. Pressing back all the memories that were thronging madly to her heart, she arose, saying

"That is long ago—very long ago, Mr. Lynedon! I must now think not of the past but the present. My husband"-and she desperately tried to strengthen herself with the word—" my husband is from home; I will go to Summerwood at once myself."

"It is a long distance. If I were permitted to accompany-at least, to follow you in a few hours," he added, correcting himself, "it would give me real happiness. Indeed, my own anxiety-"

Katharine turned round suddenly, with a doubtful, penetrating glance. Lynedon perceived it.

"You do not-you will not believe that idle tale? you can not think that I-that I ever did or ever shall love any woman living, save—” He paused abruptly-then eagerly caught her hand.

The burning crimson rushed to Katharine's very brow. A moment, and she drew her hand away; not hurriedly, but with a cold, haughty gesture. She remembered, still, that she was Hugh's wife.

"Mr. Lynedon, you really misinterpret my thoughts; this confidence was quite unnecessary and I believe unasked. Let us change the subject."

He shrank abashed and humbled before her look and tone. Katharine ruled him with an irresistible sway, chaining even the torrent of passion that was ready to burst forth. And she -loving as she did-had strength thus to put a seal on his love, that he should not utter it. But the struggle was such as woman can rarely endure, and live.

Soon afterward Paul Lynedon quitted her presence. She parted from him with a few words of gentle but distant kindness, which instantly lighted up his whole countenance with joy. But when he was gone, she sank back exhausted, and lay for a long time almost senseless. Again and again there darted through her heart that sharp, arrowy pain-which she had first felt after the night when a few chance words, false words as she now believed, had swept away all hope and love forever from her life. Of late this pain had been more frequent and intense; and now, as she lay alone, pressing her hand upon her heart, every pulse of which she seemed to feel and hear, a thought camesolemn, startling! the thought that even now upon her, so full of life, of youth, and youth's wildest passions, might be creeping a dark shadow from the unseen world.

For an instant she trembled; and then the thought came again, bearing with it a flood of joy. Lifting a vail between her and the dreaded future, Katharine saw a shadowy hand; she would have fallen down and blessed it, even though it were the hand of death.

"It must be so," she said softly to herself; "I shall die, I shall die!" and her tone rose into a desperate joy. "This long, fearful life will not be. I shall pass away and escape. Oh rest!-oh peace !-come soon-soon ! Let me sleep an eternal sleep! Let me feel no moresuffer no more!"

Poor struggling one-stretching thine arms from life's desolate shore to the wide, dark ocean beyond-is there no mercy in earth or heaven for thee? Thy lips now drain the cup thine own hands lifted; yet, if the suffering righteous needeth compassion, surely the stricken sinner needeth more.

Ye who, untempted, walk secure, with Levite step and averted face, noting carefully how by his own vain folly or wickedness your weaker brother "fell among thieves,"-should ye not rather come with the merciful touch, the cleansing water, and then the oil and wine, that the erring one may be saved, and the heavenward road receive one strengthened, hopeful traveler more ?

CHAPTER XLVIII.

"Ah, why," said Ellen, sighing to herself,
"Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge-
Why do not these prevail, for human life

To keep two hearts together, that began
Their spring-time with one love, and that have need
Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet
To grant, or be received!"

WORDSWORTH.

KATHARINE OGILVIE reached Summerwood when it was almost night. Over all the house there seemed a stillness and hush, as in a dwelling where there is one life, a precious life, hanging on a thread. Stealthy, noiseless footsteps-doors opened and closed without a sound loud voices softened into anxious whispers— all showed how much Eleanor was beloved. Sir Robert, his parliamentary papers and eternal blue-books lying unopened, sat talking with the physician, and often glancing sorrowfully at the neglected tea-equipage, behind which he missed the gentle moonlight smile of his niece, even more than the long-absent one of his ever-ailing wife. Lady Ogilvie, unable to quit her couch, lay with her door opened, listening to every sound. Between her and the sick-chamber there moved continually, with light steps and mourning garments, a figure so unobtrusive that Katharine did not for some time notice it. It was Mrs. Pennythorne.

She had come in by chance, the day after poor Eleanor had laid down her weary head-perhaps forever. Then toward the sick girl the heart of the childless mother yearned. She became her nurse, never quitting her except to speak a few words of comfort to the terrified and griefstricken Lady Ogilvie. In truth, Mrs. Pennythorne, meek and quiet as she was, had become the guiding spirit in this house of sickness. But she crept into her place so gradually, and sustained it so imperceptibly, that no one ever thought of the fact; and even Lady Ogilvie did not speak of her until she appeared, suddenly and silently, to lead Katharine to her sister's room

Mrs. Pennythorne had at first shrunk, both in timidity and dislike from the stylish Mrs. Ogilvie, the neglectful daughter of whom she had heard. But this feeling passed away when she saw how subdued Katharine's manner was, and with what trembling steps she moved to Eleanor's chamber.

"And you have tended her night and dayyou, almost a stranger!" said Katharine; "How good you are! while I—" She stopped; for the remorse which had smitten her heart at the sight of her long-forsaken mother, was renewed when she beheld the sick, almost dying girl, who, from the triple ties of marriage, kindred, and affection, might have claimed from her a sister's care.

Eleanor was sitting up in bed; her arms extended, and her eyes-those once beautiful, calm eyes-glittering and burning with fever. She began to talk in quick, sharp, ringing accents.

"Ah! you have been to fetch her; I thought you would. I could not die without seeing Mrs Breynton. Tell her she need not fear meeting him-he will not come. Philip will not come→ never more-never more!"

"She often talks in this way," whispered Mrs. Pennythorne; and so I am glad that no one is with her except myself. I do not know any thing, but I feel sure that she and poor Mr. Wychnor-"

Low as the tone was, the words reached Eleanor's ear. She turned quickly round.

.

"What! do you speak about him, Mrs. Breynton?--for I know you are Mrs. Breynton, though you look different-younger, and so beautiful! Ah! perhaps you have died, and so become a spirit like my mother! But did you not pray her to forgive you for breaking her poor child's heart? We will not talk about it. Still, it was cruel of you to part my Philip from me."

"Philip again!" said Katharine, softly. "Ah! I see it all now-I guessed it long Is it even so with her, too? Eleanor, dearest!" And she spoke very tenderly.

"Who calls me dearest? He used, once, but he will never call me so again! She kept me from him until his love has changed. I shall never be Philip's wife now. It is all your work, Mrs. Breynton!"

"I am not Mrs. Breynton. I am Katharineyour sister."

"Are you? No, no! Katharine is Hugh's wife-loving and happy." Katharine drooped her head shudderingly. "She would not come here we have only sorrow here. But you must not let her know--no living soul must know what Philip said that night-that there was a gulf, a bar between us. Let me whisper it, lest the world might hear, and call him cruel. But he is not cruel-he is all-good. Listen!"and she placed her lip to Katharine's ear: "perhaps some one loved him better than he thought I did, and he is married-married!"

"Oh, no, indeed, Miss Ogilvie !" broke in Mrs. Pennythorne, with tears in her eyes; "Mr. Wychnor will never marry. He told me so one day-the very day I brought you his letter."

"Letter-his letter! Ah! I remember every word-every word;" and with an accent of thrilling sorrow she repeated, line by line, Philip's last farewell. "And then-I forget all afterward it is darkness-darkness!" she moaned, while her head drooped on her bosom, and her eyes closed.

Mrs. Pennythorne laid her down on the pillow, parted the disheveled hair, and bathed her brow with water. "What a gentle, skillful nurse you are!" said Katharine, who, a stranger to scenes like this, was trembling with alarm and agitation.

"I am used to it," was the meek, sad reply, as she bent over her charge.

There was a few minutes' silence, and then Eleanor opened her eyes, and regarded wistfully her tender nurse.

"I do not know you, but you are very kind to me. Perhaps my mother has sent you. I hear her calling me every hour, but I can not go. Tell her I can not! I must not die until-until -what was it that I had to do ?" Her eyes wandered restlessly, and she put her hand to her brow. "My head is wild! I can not remember any thing! Help me! do help me!" And her piteous gaze was lifted mournfully to Mrs. Pennythorne. "Tell me what it is that I have to do before I die."

Repeat his name; she will hear that," whispered Katharine, regarding her sister with a deep sympathy unfelt before.

"Shall we send for any one-for Philip ?" gently asked Mrs. Pennythorne.

"Philip! Why do you speak about Philip? I dared not even utter his name; Mrs. Breynton would not let me. Ah, that is it!" and a deliri

ous light shone in her face. "I must see Mrs. Breynton; I must tell her to forgive my Philip! She has had her will, for we shall never marry -never see one another any more."

She ceased a moment, and then rose wildly from her couch.

"You are cruel; you will not fetch Mrs. Breynton and until I know she will forgive him, I can not die. I am weary-so weary!-and you will not let me go to my mother! Do you know"-and she caught hold of Mrs. Pennythorne's dress-"I see her standing waiting for me-there! there!"

Katharine started, for there seemed a strange reality in the fantasy which directed Eleanor's fixed eyes and lifted finger.

"The room is filled with them!" continued the delirious girl. "They come around me by night and by day-some dead faces, some living; but they are all sad-like yours. Philip's is there too sometimes-smiling so tenderly, as he used to do in the dear old palace-garden. See! he is looking on me now! Ah, Philip, you did love me once-you do love me-I read it in your eyes; but you dare not speak. Then I must! You see, dear Philip, I am calm," voice sank almost to its natural tones-" as calm as I was that day you called me your strength, your comfort. Tell me, then, what is this bar between us-when I am rich, when I love you, only you, my Philip, my own Philip!" She paused, but after a few moments' silence, broke once more into vague, disconnected ravings.

and_her_י

Katharine waited until the shrill tones ceased, and her sister fell into the heavy slumber which foretold the near approach of the crisis. Then she drew Mrs. Penny thorne aside.

"Tell me you know more than I-is there any hope?"

There was hope, for youth can withstand so much; with this sleep the delirium might pass away, and the fever be conquered.

"And then she will wake-wake to what? Death might be better than life! it is so sometimes," muttered Katharine to herself.

Mrs. Pennythorne spoke comfortingly-she looked on the pale, excited face of the young wife, and forgave all her imagined errors. Katharine sat in deep thought without making any answer-perhaps she did not even hear. At last she said, suddenly and decisively

"Mrs. Pennythorne, you have a woman's heart, and so have I-we shall understand one another. Those strange words which poor Eleanor has uttered, you will keep sacred; and I must do more, I must act. Philip Wychnor is your friend: tell me all you know about him."

And once more Mrs. Pennythorne's grateful and affectionate tongue dwelt on the history of Philip's goodness. Then, most glad to relieve her simple heart from a secret that weighed heavily upon it, she related all she knew about the letter, which had made her the unconscious messenger of so much evil.

"I did not notice then, but I remember now, how earnestly he spoke, and how unhappy he seemed. I have no right to say a word on this subject, but I do feel toward Philip Wychnor as though he were my own son. I think he loves that sweet sister of yours. I am old, and almost past the memory of these things; yet I would like to see my dear Mr. Wychnor happy, and

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Miss Ogilvie too, so good and gentle as she is. | "Mr. Lynedon"-the calm, cold tone struck The moment I saw her I felt sure of his loving him like an arrow-"shall we talk of the reason her-he could not help it. It is a sorrowful which made me trespass on your kindness ?" world," continued she, alter waiting awhile for He bowed, and suffered her to put her arm the answer, which Mrs. Ogilvie, absorbed in through his, while they paced up and down the thought, withheld, "yet if one could but make walk. these two young creatures happy-"

"It shall be-I will do it!" cried Katharine. "And oh!" she said softly to herself, as Mrs. Pennythorne glided away at the physician's summons, "if I, erring, heart-withered, maddened as I am, can leave behind me a little peace, a little happiness, which without me perchance had not been-surely it will prove some atonement. If I have sinned, though only in thought, against my husband, I may bring joy to the sister he loves; and then I shall pass away from all, and my misery will cumber the earth no more."

With Katharine, to will was to act. She sat down and wrote to Mrs. Breynton, entreating, or rather commanding-for her earnestness seemed almost like a command-that she would come at once to Summerwood. Then she wrote with a swift though trembling hand a few lines -to Paul Lynedon! After she had finished, she stood irresolute-but only for a moment. She sealed the letter, and laid it with the other. "Yes, it shall go-I can trust him-him only. He will do my will, whatever it be," and a bitter though triumphant smile curved her lips. "And he will be silent too, no fear! This my act might seem strange to the world-perhaps to him; but what matter, when the end comes? and it is perhaps near-very near. I pray it may be so!" Her voice sank to an inaudible whisper; scarce a breath; for even then, as if in answer to that awful prayer, she felt the sharp death-warning dart through her heart.

In the early morning, Paul Lynedon came. Katharine knew he would; and had risen long before the rest of the wearied and anxious household. She was walking in the avenue when his panting horse approached; he leaped from it with a look of the wildest joy.

"You sent for me: how good, how kind! What thanks can I give you, dear Mrs. Ogilvie

-Katharine ?"

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Paul drew back. "Pardon me: I had forgotted all, as you say--all but that happy time. Would to heaven it could come again, and you were once more that dear child who"

"A child-you thought me a child!" cried Katharine, with that impulse which in the early days of this second meeting had made her very love half vengeance; and even now caused her, as it were, to set herself against herself, the slighted girl against the worshiped woman.

"I thought-shall I tell you what I thought you -what I think you?" said Lynedon, eagerly.

"No!" The word reined him in his mad career, and he stood mute. And she who once, nay even now, would have died rather than that he should suffer a single pang, knew that one word of hers would have given him peace-yet she must not, she dared not, utter it.

Katharine went on. "There is something very near my heart in which I can trust no friend," she laid the faintest emphasis on the word, "no friend but you. Will you-asking no questions, seeking no explanations-do it for me ?"

"Will I?-you know I will!" And again there came a brightness to his face.

"I want you to seek for a friend of yours, or an acquaintance at least-Philip Wychnor. He is gone a journey: whither I know not, and have no means of knowing, save through you. Find him bring him hither, on what excuse you will: or perhaps the truth is always best-I will write, and you shall bear the letter."

"This is all mystery, I can not fathom it," said Paul, uneasily; his jealous mind at once forming the wildest and most torturing conclusions. "Only tell me

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"I will tell you nothing: do this, I pray you; do it for me." And Katharine's eagerness made her tone so tremulous, so winning in its entreaty, that Paul Lynedon could have fallen at her feet.

"I promise," said he. "Heaven knows I would plunge a knife into my very heart if you bade me," he added, speaking low and hurriedly. As low, but almost fearful in its firmness, was Katharine's reply: "I might, but I would thrust it into my own heart next."

He looked at her astonished, but her face was turned away. The next moment she had sprung forward to meet her father, who crossed their path on his early morning walk.

"You rode over to inquire for my poor niece?" said Sir Robert. "How kind of you, Mr. Lynedon! you must stay and breakfast with us. Katharine!"

But Katharine had already glided away.

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THERE is scarce a town in England more suggestive of speculation upon what our good friend David Drysdale would have entitled the noble science of man," than that turnpike gate on the European highway-Dover. Not that one need pause to enumerate from Pinnock or Goldsmith how many kings "landed at Dover," or "set sail from Dover." The present is quite fruitful enough to set aside the past. Think of the multitudes of small historiettes worked out here: how that among the throng that from year to year pass by, are all ranks and characters-fugitive royalty; errant nobility; the regi

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ment departing, its mournful fragments return- of any man sick of life-looking curiously, deed; or, to descend to individuals-debtor flying siringly, into the awful mystery beyond-so near creditor; married lovers speeding to happiness that one movement of limb would make it a and honeymoon; wretched and erring ones, reality. speeding faster still into what must be in the end a miserable doom; happy men seeking pleasure; sick-hearted, hopeless men, rushing any where for oblivion. And here we pause,

for with such an one we have to do.

Suddenly he remembered how in that man he had pictured himself.

The conviction-horrible, yet full of a daring pride, a delicious, alluring awe-burst upon him, that he held his soul as it were by a thread; that he was master of his own destiny: one step, and he might pass from the world's tortures, to-where?

"My life is in my hand," he muttered in the words of one sorely tried of old-" My life is in my hand, yet I do not forget thy law!"

Philip Wychnor had reached Dover on his way to the Continent. He would have simply passed through it, longing for the moment when he should set his last footstep-at least, the last for many years, on English shores. But fate, the fate which one less pious-hearted would have angrily cursed, detained him for many days. He spent them restlessly enough, patient as he was; in his daily toil of literary necessity -alas for the poor author! and in evening wanderings about the country. Beauty he found for a poet's mind finds beauty every where-life's torments to clasp the specter as a bride. but yet he could not realize it. He felt upon him the commencement of that doom, to roam the wide world, "finding no rest for the sole of his foot."

The reviving from a great woe is sometimes worse than the woe itself. The world looks so blank, so dreary; we see it once more; our dull eyes even acknowledge its glory; but it is like looking on a beautiful corse from whence the life is gone. Earth smiles, Heaven smilesjust as heretofore; but the smile resembles that on a face once loved, which meets us vacantly, the heart beneath it shining out no longer. We do not weep; perhaps we scarcely suffer: we are quite calm, gentle, patient; all goes on with us as before; we walk through the beaten path of our daily existence, but the light is gone from the world; the present seems inane and dim; and oh, merciful God! we have no future and no past! Not here! but we know we have hereafter. And then we see enfolding us an arm of comfort and strength, and hear the voice -"I AM!"

"Can I suffice for heaven and not for earth ?"

So Philip felt when he sat alone in the twilight on the cliff hallowed by tradition as "Shakspeare's." The hour was so late that all seaside idlers had long departed, and the place seemed as lonely and dreary as in the olden time of Shakspeare, Lear, and poesy. The sea sang hollowly, far below; and when the last sunset tinge had faded behind the Downs, they assumed a robe of mist, spectral and mysterious. Gradually it folded itself round the cliff, likewise hiding the sea beneath; so that the melancholy voice arose from waters that were heard, not

seen.

Driven by that irresistible impulse which seizes most men on such a spot of danger-so much so, that the ancients believed a demon stood on the brink of each abyss-tempted, as by the great Tempter of old, "Cast thyself down!" Philip crept to the utmost verge of the cliff. Unwittingly, and fitfully there danced through his brain the poet's tale which had made the spot renowned-he thought of blind Gloster, hunted by fate into that last plunge which would end all. He conjured the old man's spirit into his own, pictured what his thoughts must be, what must be the thoughts

Shuddering, he drew back a few paces from the abyss, recoiling in horror from the phantom which he had only seen afar off. But he felt that to his latest day that hour's sensation would teach him compassion for those goaded on by

And while he shrank fearfully from the crime, only thought of in possibility, the revulsion of his soul softened it from its dull dreariness into a sorrow, that, but for his strong manhood, would have melted in tears. He was glad thankful for any sense-even the sense of suffering. He looked up at the stars which were beginning to shine through the gloomy night, and prayed Heaven to keep him free from sin, that he might endure with a patient heart through life unto its ending.

Then he went homeward, quiet and composed. He sought to feel as though he belonged to the world. Passing through the town, he tried to look around him, and feel an interest in the various ta king and laughing groups, the street music, the cheerful shops: but it was in vain. He, in his lonely dreariness, seemed as different, placed as far from his brethren among men, as the gloomy cliffs from the gay lighted street which they overhung.

When he reached home, he learned there was a gentleman awaiting him. Entering, he saw -Paul Ly nedon.

Had the visitant been a ghost from the dead, a demon returned to the upper world, he could not have raised more fearful passions in Philip Wychnor's breast. Anguish, terror, even a thrill of fierce hatred, overwhelmed him. He sprang toward Lynedon, scarcely conscious of what he did, and then sank into a chair, utterly speechless.

"I have startled you, I see. I ought to apologize," said Lynedon, gently and courteously, though somewhat annoyed at this rather strange reception. But Paul was a man who would have shown dignified civility to his executioner on the scaffold.

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Philip Wychnor answered him not a word. Perhaps this visit is ill-timed-an intrusion. But I need only mention your friends and mine the Ogilvies."

Philip started up in an agony. "For God's sake, Mr. Lynedon, tell me what you have to say without mentioning any living soul. I am a man who have suffered much. How or why, matters not. I wish to leave England, forget all friends, break all ties, for a season. Why must I be tortured any more ?"

Lynedon opened his eyes with extreme but still most polite astonishment.

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