After the first few words of greeting he spoke of Barbara's death, and said it was a happy release for her and for me. He then spoke of Ellen, and I gathered that he had formed a high opinion of her; but he made no inquiries as to my intentions with respect to her. He asked, however, whether it was my wish that she should not be informed of my return. I replied that I wished nobody to know, and he promised to preserve absolute silence. If he felt surprise, he evinced none. "Have you seen much of her?" I asked. "Very little," he replied. "Altogether, I think, not more than four or five times. I send her her allowance every month through the post, and she sends me an acknowledgment by return. Am I to continue to send the money?" "Yes; it is hers for life, whatever becomes of me." He raised his eyes. "Life is uncertain," I added. "And I shall feel obliged by your forwarding any letters to her which I may address to your care, and by your forwarding her letters to any address I may give you. My reasons for concealment are such as I cannot confide to you." "My dear sir," he returned, and I observed a coldness in his tone, "this is purely a matter of business, and it is my practise never to inquire into reasons or motives. All I have to do, as your solicitor, is to carry out your instructions. When you ask for my advice I shall be ready to give it." We then went into accounts, and he said that on his next visit he would bring papers for my signature, which would place me in possession of the money which had been set aside to secure my allowance to Barbara. It was in the afternoon of the day on which this visit was to be paid that I carried into execution my cherished design of seeing my dear Ellen. An effectual disguise was imperative, and for this purpose I had purchased in another neighborhood a false beard which I had no difficulty in slipping on, unobserved, in a quiet street. Thus protected, with my overcoat drawn up to my ears, and my hat shading my eyes, I proceeded to the house in which she resided. I had to wait some time before she appeared. She came out alone, and as she crossed the road she raised her eyes to an upper window, disclosing in that mother's glance the room in which she had left her darling boy. She entered a provision shop a few doors off to make a purchase, and was absent from him not longer than five minutes. Her eye was bright, her step elastic, her face wore an expression of content. How sweet, how beautiful she was! Oh, cruel fate, that kept me from the shelter of her love, that held me bound in bonds I dared not break! I groaned in agony of spirit. But she was happy--yes, happy with her boy, and through her faith in the man to whom she had given her heart. I should have been grateful for that; and I was; but none the less did I suffer, and sigh for the happiness which I had hoped would be mine.