public life. Of course, you will say it is easy to talk. But don’t misunderstand me. What can you do except attend to these immediate and practical affairs? If George Bethune and Margaret have decided, for reasons best known to themselves, to sever the association between you and them, mere advertising won’t bring them back. And searching the streets of this or that town is a pretty hopeless business. No; if you hear of them, it will not be in that way: it will be through some communication with some common friend, and just as likely as not that friend will be myself." All this seemed very reasonable—and hopeless. Vincent rose. "I must not keep you up too late," said he, in am absent sort of way. "I suppose you are right—I may as well go away back to England at once. But of course I will call to see you before I go—to-morrow if I may—to thank you for all your kindness." "Ah, but you must keep up your heart, you know," the banker said, regarding the young man in a favouring way. "No despair. Why, I am sure to hear from one or other of them; they cannot guess that you have been here; even if they wish to keep their whereabouts concealed from you they would have no such secret from me. And be sure I will send you word the moment I hear anything. I presume the House of Commons will be your simplest and surest address." As he walked away home that night Vincent had many things to ponder over; but the question of questions was as to whether Maisrie had indignantly scorned him for his blindness in not perceiving more clearly her grandfather’s nature and circumstances, or for his supineness in wavering, and half-admitting that these charges might bring disquiet. For now the figure of old George Bethune seemed to stand out distinctly enough: an amiable and innocent monomaniac; a romantic enthusiast; a sublime egotist; a dreamer of dreams; a thaumaturgist surrounding himself with delusions and not knowing them to be such. And if Daniel Thompson’s reading of the character of his old friend was accurate—if George Bethune had merely in splendid excess that faculty of self-deception which in lesser measure was common to all mortals—who was going to cast the first stone? CHAPTER V. MARRIAGE NOT A LA MODE.