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man, to whom Grunter had churlishly refused a penny. Gregory would have bestowed one; but, when recalled to the actual world, he found, after a long fumbling in all his pockets, that he had spent all his loose coin at the bookstall; and, while standing there, had been relieved, by some light-fingered passenger, of his pocket-book, snuff-box, and handkerchief!

For a few minutes, his dismay was very great, for the pocket-book contained some bank-notes he had intended to force on his brother's acceptance; or, if that were impossible, to entrust to Ellen, for the use of the family, in case of need. Added to his own distress was the matrimonial fear of what Mrs. Lindsay would say, she having resigned these notes to him with a very bad grace, with an assertion that she was quite sure "his brother had plenty of money left," and her favourite remark, that "charity begins at home."

Grunter's distress equalled, nay, perhaps surpassed, the Rector's, for of the lost sum he

felt that he would certainly have had a share; and now, means must be raised among them to send poor Gregory back in safety to his own Moss Grove, for London was no place for the simple, absent, and unsuspecting old parson.

Mr. Lindsay heard the distressing narrative with great philosophy, and, to Grunter's dismay, borrowed of him enough to transmit his brother in safety to his home.

Night found Julian and De Villeneuve still at the Covent Garden hotel, and the former almost marvelled at the feeling of sudden and intense regret with which he now contemplated the departure of the beautiful and devoted Ellen. Even De Villeneuve, spite of her altered fortunes, felt an ardent wish to follow her into exile, and found no comfort but in the hope that the eloquent and impassioned letters he meant to write, under the sanction of Friendship, might, in her remote solitude, awaken an interest in her heart, and, then, as he was of a school which has no faith

in woman's virtue, when opposed to woman's love, if she was indeed penniless, and he accompanied Julian in a visit to her cold and dreary retreat, who could tell what the Platonic lover might become, " car après tout,” he said to himself, "ce n'est qu'une femme."

In the mean time, he was far from inclined to yield his place in the devoted heart of the pretty Annie. He had had, during this parting day, several long conferences with her, the result of which will be revealed ere long.

Midnight still found our party assembled, all but Miss Tibby, who had retired at last, and Mr. Grunter, who had resolved, to every one's dismay, to pass the night on the sofa, from which already issued a sound between the grunt of a pig and the braying of an ass, but which Mr. Lindsay observed was the lion's roar, or rather snore.

When twelve o'clock struck, Mr. Lindsay insisted that all should retire, and Julian and De Villeneuve secured beds in the same hotel with the rest of the family.

Morning came, clouded and rainy, as if Nature sympathised with the poor exiles. Screech, for whom a new travelling-cage had been purchased by De Villeneuve, was awake betimes. It was long before any efforts could get him into his new abode, and before he was housed he had severely bitten two waiters, who, of course, required ample compensation. Fatima and her daughters, unused to such early hours, were cross and snarling. Miss Tibby, at the last moment, "did na jist like the thoughts o' that great monster, the say, a-tossing for ever aboot, and ready, at a moment's warning, jist to swallow them all up." Grunter was in a wretched humour, for the sofa had not proved more propitious than the bed. Poor Gregory, who now seemed, for the first time, actually alive to the reality of his brother's and Ellen's exile, wept like a child.

De Villeneuve was pale, solemn, dressed in black, and eloquently tragic. He asserted

that he had not slept, and produced a poem, on which he said he had spent his night, addressed "Aux Exilés." Julian felt very desolate; Annie and Ellen could not choose but weep; and no one was calm or smiling but "the ruined man" himself.

Before they set off, Ellen had received a letter from her mother, half fond, half angry -now lamenting her departure, now scolding her for her folly; now pointing out that her exile was for an indefinite time, and her perpetual spinstership inevitable; now ordering her, on pain of a mother's malediction, never to encourage any foreigner, or any idea of the ruined Julian, but, to make the best of so bad a business, to improve her health, her beauty, and her accomplishments in the mountainous seclusion she was hastening to; and as soon as ever Augusta was settled, and could invite her to stay with her, to find some plausible excuse for leaving so remote and hopeless a

retreat.

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