"I scarce knew my own heart till I saw him wounded and poor, and myself rich at his expense. Entreat Mr. Neville to forgive me." He handed the note to Neville without a word. Neville read it, and his lip trembled; but he said nothing, and presently went out into the hall, and put on his hat, for he saw his nag at the door. Father Francis followed him, and said, sorrowfully, "What, not one word in reply to so humble a request?" "Well, here's my reply," said George, grinding his teeth. "She knows French, though she pretends not. 'Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot, L'honnete homme trompe s'eloigne et ne dit mot.'" And with this he galloped furiously away. He buried himself at Neville's Cross for several days, and would neither see nor speak to a soul. His heart was sick, his pride lacerated. He even shed some scalding tears in secret; though, to look at him, that seemed impossible. * * * * * So passed a bitter week: and in the course of it he bethought him of the tears he had made a true Italian lady shed, and never pitied her a grain till now. He was going abroad: on his desk lay a little crumpled paper. It was Kate's entreaty for forgiveness. He had ground it in his hand, and ridden away with it. Now he was going away, he resolved to answer her. He wrote a letter full of bitter reproaches; read it over; and tore it up. He wrote a satirical and cutting letter; read it; and tore it up. He wrote her a mawkish letter; read it; and tore it up. The priest's words, scorned at first, had sunk into him a little. He walked about the room, and tried to see it all like a by-stander. He examined her writing closely: the pen had scarcely marked the paper. They were the timidest strokes. The writer seemed to kneel to him. He summoned all his manhood, his fortitude, his generosity, and, above all, his high-breeding; and produced the following letter; and this one he sent:-- "MISTRESS KATE,--I leave England to-day for your sake; and shall never return unless the day shall come when I can look on you but as a friend. The love that ends in hate, that is too sorry a thing to come betwixt you and me. "If you have used me ill, your punishment is this; you have given me the right to say to you----I forgive you. "GEORGE NEVILLE." And he went straight to Italy. * * * * * Kate laid his note upon her knee, and sighed deeply; and said, "Poor fellow! How noble of him! What _can_ such men as this see in any woman to go and fall in love with her?" Griffith found her with a tear in her eye. He took her out walking, and laid all his radiant plans of wedded life before her. She came back flushed, and beaming with complacency and beauty. Old Peyton was brought to consent to the marriage. Only he attached one condition, that Bolton and Hernshaw should be settled on Kate for her separate use.