"That's true. No one could expect it." "And yet--" said Judith. "Miss Crawford--Emmeline. Oh, Mr. Thorne, tell me what I ought to do." "How can I? I don't know what to say. Why do you attempt to decide now? You may safely leave it till the time comes." "Safely?" "Yes. You will not do less than your duty." She hesitated, having a woman's craving for something to which she might cling, something definite and settled. "It is not certain," she said at last. "No," he answered. "Bertie has deceived you, but it may be for some foolish scheme of his own. He may be guiltless of this: it is only a suspicion still." "Well, I will go," said Judith again. "Oh, if only he had come home!" "There is a choir-practice to-night," said Percival. "If all is well he will be back in time for that. They have no doubt of his coming. Why not leave a note?" She took a sheet of paper and wrote on it-- "MY DEAREST BROTHER:" ("If he comes back he will be best and dearest," she thought as she wrote. It had come to this, that it was necessary to justify the loving words! "If he comes back, oh how shall I ever atone to him?") "Come to me at once at Standon Square. Do not lose a moment, I entreat you. "Yours always, JUDITH." She folded and addressed it, and laid it where he could not fail to see it as he came in. Then, having put on her hat, she turned to go. "Let me walk with you," said Percival. Lydia met them on the stairs and cast a look of scornful anger on Miss Lisle. "Much she cares!" the girl muttered. "_He_ doesn't come back, but she can go walking about with her young man! Those two won't miss him much." Thorne saw his companion safely to Standon Square, and then went to the office. He was late, a thing which had never happened before, and, though he did his best to make up for lost time, he failed signally. His thoughts wandered from his work to dwell on Judith Lisle, and, if truth be confessed, on the dinner, which he had forgotten while with her. He was tired and faint. The lines seemed to swim before his eyes, and he hardly grasped the sense of what he wrote. Once he awoke from a reverie and found himself staring blankly at an ink-spot on the dingy desk. The young clerk on his right was watching him with a look of curiosity, in which there was as much malevolence as his feeble features could express, and when Thorne met his eyes he turned away with an unpleasant smile. It seemed as if six o'clock would never come, but it struck at last, and Percival escaped and made his way to Bellevue street. [TO BE CONTINUED.] UNWRITTEN LITERATURE OF THE CAUCASIAN MOUNTAINEERS. TWO PAPERS.--I.