Year: 1872

endure the shock of the disclosure that would
E..ve to take place. 1t was relief to have
even that brief respite before him. Mean
while, he would be able, perhaps, to shape
out some plan, to make some arrangements
for the future. He would have time to think
it over.


He bathed his face, arranged his hair and
dress, and went about his daily employment
as usual. He did not forget to send the
promised message to DR.. Harris, asking him
to visit Mrs. Neale; but ere the evening he
received tidings oft the old DANES death. She
had expired that morning, before the doctor
reached the cottage.


And now Brooke's secret was all his own.
Might it not still remain secret, and the ia
tai revelation be blotted out as though it had
never been made7 None would be the wiser
for it many would be the happier, for he we'll
knew that his own misery could scarcely be
greater than that which the knowledge Of the
truth would entail upon Others


1t was but passing thought, suggestion
that flashed over his mind; but he put it from
him with scorn. He could endure life with.
out fortune, without home, without name,
but not without honor He could make a
name for himself; but honor once lost could
never be reclaimed. The burden which was
laid on him was great, but consciousness of
his own rectitude would help him to bear it.
He marvelled at the skill with which he
feigned cheerfulness and unconcern during
the next few days. He went oftener than
usual to the Grange; there was no harm in
that now. Of course he would be to Clare,
when once she knew his story, as though he
had never been so it was no disloyalty to
her to feast himself, with yearning, hungering
tenderness, on the gentle glances and kindly
words that came from the eyes and lips of the
woman he loved, knowing how soon they,
with all things else that were pleasant and
desirable, would be rent away out Of his life
forever. And Ethel, since that sickness of
Arly's, had been more gracious to him than
ever before, so that each hour Of their inter-
course made her presence dearer to him, and
invested the thought of leaving her with a
keener pang.


When ten had passed, he made up his mind
that he could stay here no longer. Arly was
nearly as we'll again as usual, and it was bet
ter that be should leave him now than wait
until his return to Oaklands. He did not
tell any of them of his intention; he did not
wish them to know his secret until after he
was gone. He we'll knew how they would
combat his resolution to 60 from them, and he
feared his strength might fail him, and yield
to their solicitations.


The night before he left, he wrote letter to
Mr.. Conway, explaining everything. He
made it as concise as he could, consistently
with the expression of his feelings, for each
word seemed to be written with his hearts
blood. In it he enclosed this note to Arly.


"My Brother For I must call you so for
the last time-my dear, dear brother Mr..
Conway will tell you my sad story; have
entrusted to him the care Of breaking it to
you as gently as he can. Forgive me for
leaving you without an explanation in person ;
but dearest Arly, 1 cannot trust myself with
word of adieu. My heart is breaking at
the thought of our separation, but l feel that
it must be. I we'll know all you would say to
persuade me to act differently I we'll know
and the thought is consolation--that your
love for me will never change Throug ghout
my life, whatever fate or fortune may betide
me, the memory Of our past intercourse, the
happy, happy years we have passed together,
will be inexpressibly dear to my heart. How
dearly I have loved you, and will forever love
you, no words of mine can tell.


II do not know whittier am going, and it
is best that you should not hear from me for
awhile. One of these far-oh days, when l
have earned a name for myself, I will come to
you again. Meanwhile think of me, pray for
me, and believe me as ever, most truly and
devotedly yours"


There was no signature at the end, for he
had none to put Not even his Christian
name, the name he had been always familiar
ly called by, could he call his own.


He left his letters, addressed to MIR. Con-
way, in conspicuous place on bis dressing ta-
BILE, where he knew his servant would find
them in the morning. Then he packed in
valise the few articles he could carry with
him; some necessary clothing, and few lit
tie keepsakes from which he could not part.
A little Bible of Arly's which was lying on
the table, he put in his pocket, substituting
his own for it. In the latter he placed a
folded paper containing short, fair curl of
his hair, with the date of the day and year !;
be knew no farther explanation of the ex-
change was needed A small sum Of money
it was absolutely requisite for him to take !;
strictly speaking he was not entitled to a
cent, but he we'll knew how gladly Arly
would still have shared with him every
dollar he possessed; so he decided to carry
what was already in his purse, which, on
counting it over, he found would be enough
to last him for few weeks, at the end of
which time he trusted that he would be in a
way of earning more


And now all his preparations were made,
and kneeling by his bedside he lifted his heart
in brief hut earnest prayer to the God OF
the friendless and fatherless on earth. One
bursting sob escaped him but he must check
his emotion, for he had no time now for tears.
Rising from his knees, he took his valise in his
hand and quietly descended the stairs. There
was no fear of any of the servants being up
at that early hour, for there was barely light
enough for him to see. Letting himself out
at the hall door, he passed across the lawn,
where the dew lay heavy on the grass. His