“Aha!” went Andrew, as if the joke were too good to be dwelt on; “Hem”; and by way of diverting from it cleverly and naturally, he remarked that the weather was fine. This made Evan allude to his letter written from Lymport, upon which Andrew said: “tush! pish! humbug! nonsense! won’t hear a word. Don’t know anything about it. Van, you’re going to be a brewer. I say you are. You’re afraid you can’t? I tell you, sir, I’ve got a bet on it. You’re not going to make me lose, are you—eh? I have, and a stiff bet, too. You must and shall, so there’s an end. Only we can’t make arrangements just yet, my boy. Old Tom—very good old fellow—but, you know—must get old Tom out of the way, first. Now go and dress for dinner. And Lord preserve us from the Great Mel to-day!” Andrew mumbled as he turned away. Evan could not reach his chamber without being waylaid by the Countess. Had he remembered the sister who sacrificed so much for him? “There, there!” cried Evan, and her hand closed on the delicious golden whispers of bank-notes. And, “Oh, generous Andrew! dear good Evan!” were the exclamations of the gratified lady. There remained nearly another hundred. Evan laid out the notes, and eyed them while dressing. They seemed to say to him, “We have you now.” He was clutched by a beneficent or a most malignant magician. The former seemed due to him, considering the cloud on his fortunes. This enigma might mean, that by submitting to a temporary humiliation, for a trial of him—in fact, by his acknowledgement of the fact, loathed though it was,—he won a secret overlooker’s esteem, gained a powerful ally. Here was the proof, he held the proof. He had read Arabian Tales and could believe in marvels; especially could he believe in the friendliness of a magical thing that astounded without hurting him. He, sat down in his room at night and wrote a fairly manful letter to Rose; and it is to be said of the wretch he then saw himself, that he pardoned her for turning from so vile a pretender. He heard a step in the passage. It was Polly Wheedle. Polly had put her young mistress to bed, and was retiring to her own slumbers. He made her take the letter and promise to deliver it immediately. Would not to-morrow morning do, she asked, as Miss Rose was very sleepy. He seemed to hesitate—he was picturing how Rose looked when very sleepy. Why should he surrender this darling? And subtler question—why should he make her unhappy? Why disturb her at all in her sweet sleep? “Well,” said Evan. “To-morrow will do.—No, take it to-night, for God’s sake!” he cried, as one who bursts the spell of an opiate. “Go at once.” The temptation had almost overcome him.