“Because, being a shareholder, he is a partner, and a man cannot legally embezzle his own property. It is a bad business, a very bad business!” added Mr. Harcourt. “I am afraid Mr. Black is a thorough-paced scoundrel.” “I know he is,” said Arthur; but the fact of his knowledge did not make matters any the better for him or for the Protector. After the clerks were gone, and Mr. Harcourt had departed, Arthur still sate alone in his office, looking his misery in the face. Twice Tifford had been good enough to inform the secretary that dinner was ready; Arthur took no notice of the summons. How to go upstairs and see Heather—how to tell her the game was over, and that it had left him a beggar, he could not imagine. What were his dreamings in the old days, speeding down to Palinsbridge, and planning to communicate the fact of a thousand a year being added to their income, to this! Coldness and doubt had not visited Heather; Mrs. Croft had not aroused her jealousy; Lally was still with her, and he had not then neglected his child. Poor Lally, poor little Lally! The man’s heart must have been very heavy that night, for, sitting in the firelight, the tears dropped down from his eyes, one by one, as he sat thinking of his living wife and his dead child. If only the past could come back again, how differently he would act! if only Heather would be to him the wife of old, he might still make a struggle and conquer Fortune yet. Twice that day Arthur had found his level; had seen in what estimation people held his talents; and, in the years gone by, he had estranged from him the woman who believed him perfect—who was unto him, in the old, happy time at Berrie Down, though he recked not then of his blessing, more than silver or gold, Far above Rubies. While he was thinking, Heather herself opened the door, and glided up to where he sat. For weeks previously she had been trying to draw nearer to her husband, seeking for an opportunity to pray for “forgiveness,” Lord help her, “for her selfish sorrow;” and now, in the firelight, she came and laying her hand on his shoulder, said,— “Is anything the matter, Arthur? Are you ill? are you vexed? I have sent Tifford twice to tell you dinner is ready.” “I do not want any dinner,” he answered. “I have had meals enough for one day—meals enough to destroy any man’s appetite. The ‘Protector’ is going to be wound up, Heather, and my salary will be stopped, of course.” She hesitated for a moment before replying, then she said, “I am very sorry for your sake, dear, for you hoped to make so much out of it. We must return to the Hollow, I suppose.” “I must sell the Hollow,” he answered; and then, in a few hurried sentences, he told her all—his folly, his credulity, his hopes, his ruin. He kept nothing back; and when he had quite finished, when there was nothing more to add to the dreary recital of loss and misfortune, he paused, listening for what she should say, for how she should receive his confession.