"I am happy to hear it; but do not, therefore, fall into an error which would come very easy to your sanguine and facile temperament. Be sure he is not changed in his nature, however modified he may be in his manners. Be quite sure he would object to your former associates just as strongly as ever; and remember, he would be right in doing so. Will you take my advice once more, George? You have done it before--" she stopped, and something like a shudder passed over her; "let bygones be completely bygones. Never try to associate the life and the home that will be yours for the future with anything in the past--least, oh least of all, with us." "What do you mean, Mrs. Routh?" George asked her eagerly. "Do you mean that you want to give me up? I know Routh does--he has not spoken to me a dozen times of his own accord since he has been here---but you, do _you_ want to get rid of me?" She paused for a moment before she answered him. Should she say Yes, and be done with it? Should she let things drift on to the inevitable end, yielding to the lassitude of mind and body which was stealing over her? Should she gain another argument to use in a renewed appeal to her husband for the flight in which she saw the sole prospect of safety, by providing herself with the power of telling him a rupture had taken place between herself and Dallas, and her power of guiding him was gone? The temptation was strong, but caution, habitual to her, instinctive in her, restrained her. Not yet, she thought; this may be my next move. George repeated his question: "Do you mean that _you_ want to get rid of me?" "No," she answered, "I do not, George. I was only led into overstating what I do want, that you should conform to your stepfather's reasonable wishes. He has been generous to you, be you just towards him." "I will," said George warmly. "I wonder how far he will carry his newly-found good will. I wonder--" he paused; the name of Clare Carruthers was on his lips; in another moment he would have spoken of her to Harriet. He would have told her of the self-reproach, mingled, however, with hope, which daily grew and throve in the congenial soil of his sanguine nature; he would have pierced Harriet's heart with a new sorrow, a fresh remorse, by telling her of another life, young, innocent, and beautiful, involved in the storm about to burst, whose threatenings were already sounding in the air. But it was not to be--the name of Clare Carruthers was never to be spoken by George to Harriet. Apparently she had not heard his last words: her attention had strayed; she was very weary. "I must go home," she said abruptly. "We are close to your mother's house. You had better go to her now; she has returned from her drive." "Let me see you home," said George; "pray don't dismiss me in this way." "No, no," she said, hurriedly; "let me have my own way, please. You will come to me to-morrow, and let me know your plans."