"An awful pity!" exclaimed Longcluse, who felt as if a mountain were lifted from his heart, and the entire firmament had lighted up; "an awful pity! Are you quite sure?" "There can't be a doubt, I'm sorry to say. Then, as Alice has taken wing, I'll pursue my first plan, and cross by the next mail." "For Paris?" inquired Mr. Longcluse, carelessly. "Yes, Sir, for Paris," answered Uncle David deliberately, looking at him; "yes, for Paris." And then followed a little chat on indifferent subjects. Then Uncle David mentioned that he had an appointment, and must dine with the dull but honest fellow who had asked him to meet him here on a matter of business, which would have done just as well next year, but he wished it now. Uncle David nodded, and waved his hand, as on entering the door he gave them a farewell smile over his shoulder. CHAPTER LXXVIII. THE CATACOMBS. At his disappearance, for Sir Richard the air darkened as when, in the tropics, the sun sets without a twilight, and the silence of an awful night descended. It seemed that safety had been so near. He had laid his hand upon it, and had let it glide ungrasped between his fingers; and now the sky was black above him, and an unfathomable sea beneath. Mr. Longcluse was in great spirits. He had grown for a time like the Walter Longcluse of a year before. They two dined together, and after dinner Mr. Longcluse grew happy, and as he sat with his glass by him, he sang, looking over the waves, a sweet little sentimental song, about ships that pass at sea, and smiles and tears, and "true, boys, true," and "heaven shows a glimpse of its blue." And he walks with Sir Richard to the station, and he says, low, as he leans and looks into the carriage window, of which young Arden was the only occupant-- "Be true to me now, and we may make it up yet." And so saying, he gives his hand a single pressure as he looks hard in his eyes. The bell had rung. He was remaining there, he said, for another train. The clapping of the doors had ceased. He stood back. The whistle blew its long piercing yell, and as the train began to glide towards London, the young man saw the white face of Walter Longcluse in deep shadow, as he stood with his back to the lamp, still turned towards him. The train was now thundering on its course; the solitary lamp glimmered in the roof. He threw himself back, with his foot against the opposite seat. "Good God! what is one to resolve! All men are cruel when they are exasperated. Might not good yet be made of Longcluse? What creatures women are!--what fools! How easy all might have been made, with the least temper and reflection! What d----d selfishness!" * * * * *