"Oh, I have a hundred things in hand. I have had to 'interview' my lawyer, and then I have been with Box and Brushwood about exchanging into a regiment under orders for India--and--but the rest after dinner." "Why, what are you up to now?" replied Moncrief, but not in the tone of a man that expects a direct reply. Dinner passed very agreeably, for Wilton was in brilliant spirits. Not for many a year had Moncrief see him so bright. "I believe this is the same room we dined in the day you started for Monkscleugh, and had the smash?" observed Moncrief, as the waiter, having placed dessert on the table, left the friends together. "It is," said Wilton, looking round. "That is rather curious; and I remember your saying, 'I must dree my weird.' Well, Moncrief, I have dreed it, and I asked you here to-day to tell you the history, and receive your blessing or malediction, as the case may be." Setting down his glass of port untasted, the major stared at his friend with an air of dismay and bewilderment. "Courage, man!" continued Wilton, laughing at his consternation; "I am not in debt--only in love, and going to be married on Thursday next." "To be married! You--who could not oblige your pleasant relative, Lord St. George, because of your invincible objection to lose your liberty?" "Well, the liberty is gone long ago; so my only plan is to surrender at discretion, or, rather, without discretion. You remember a young lady we met at Brosedale--the lassie, in short, whom I picked out of the snow?" "What! that pale-faced, dark-eyed little girl--young Fergusson's companion or drawing-mistress? Why, she was scarcely pretty." "Just so. Well, I am going to marry her on Thursday. Will you come to the wedding?" Wilton had poured out a bumper of claret as he spoke, and, with a slight, defiant nod, drank it off. "By ----!" exclaimed Moncrief, who did not generally use strong language; "I am astonished. When did you decide on this preposterous piece of foolery?" "I put things in train last December, but the date was not decided till two days ago." "Ha! I thought I smelt a rat just before I left Glenraven; but I never dreamed of anything so serious. You are the last man I should have accused of such idiotic weakness. Who is this girl?" "I do not know." "Who was her father?" "A political adventurer, I believe; but I really do not know." "Who are her friends?" "She has none." "And, my God! Wilton, are you going to link yourself for life to a woman you know nothing about--who may have a murderer for her father and a harlot for a mother--who may be an unprincipled adventuress herself, for aught you know?" "Go on," said Wilton, calmly. "I know you have a good deal more to say, and I am quite prepared to hear it."