would have been an insult, and so I just told him the truth right out. If you had to break to a man that one of your relations had embezzled his money, would you work up the story of his life into a sermon? impress upon his mind beforehand the blessing that poverty, rightly used, might prove to him?"
The Squire told his errand right out, and Steven stood, his face growing whiter and whiter, but passionless of demeanor as he had been on the night when he found M. Valentin's sketch upon his wife's dressing-table. "Was Clarendon Whyte the man she left me for?" he asked, after a minute—just a quiver on his lip—just a slight change—an ominous one it would have sounded to any one who knew him well—in his voice.
"Yes, yes," answered the Squire, a good deal relieved now that the first dreaded words had been spoken, more relieved still at seeing Steven taking things so quietly. "He was the man. I used to tell Kate I didn't like his looks when he was so much with them in Paris; indeed, if I had had my way, I should have spoken to you then; but it seems . . . Well," broke off Mr. Hilliard, reverting with a start from what he thought to what he had been told to think, "it really seems the thing was unpremeditated. Dora went to a ball the night you missed the train. You were harsher with her perhaps than you ought to have been on her return, and—without caring for this blackguard—she ran away with him sooner than face your anger!"
Steven laughed a laugh the Squire will find it hard to forget while he lives.
"And who persuaded her to return from the blackguard she did not care for? Lord Petres? Miss Fane? I should like to have the details of the story correct."
"Lord Petres and Katharine went after them. Dot had left a note, and Kate knew what road they had taken, and—really, you know," cried the Squire, shifting about uneasily, and not looking up in Steven's face—"the story, kept to ourselves, is not so very bad—went after them (I was out of Paris myself) and overtook them at Le Mans. A Miss Long, some friend of Dora's, was travelling with them. As far as appearances go, everything was saved, and then Kate, like the warm-hearted girl she is, promised Dora forgiveness, and brought her back. Such a wan, miserable, repentant creature as she looked when she returned next morning! Her face would have touched your heart, Lawrence, if you had seen it."
"Would it, sir? Now I have one further question to ask. What was Miss Fane's object in bringing back my wife from her lover? You will not, I suppose, refuse to answer me."
"Object, object!" stammered the Squire, more embarrassed than ever between the dictates of his own heart and his wish to do as Katharine had bidden him. "Why, to save her good name and yours while there was yet time, of course. To bring back the poor, weak fool to do her duty toward you, and—"
"Sir!" cried Steven, with sudden passion in his voice, "do you, does Katharine Fane, suppose that I would take this woman back?"
"We hoped (on my word I believe I know how I would act myself)," interpolated the Squire; "we hoped when you had looked over all the circumstances of the case—when you had seen that no actual stain rests on your name—"
"Mr. Hilliard," interrupted Steven, "I think I'd better put in a word or two here. It will save misunderstanding between you and me. No stain rests on my name, you say. To the best of my knowledge I have done nothing yet to incur one; and, in my class of life, a man's own actions are what determine his honor and his dishonor. If your niece, instead of stopping where she has
