"I think I saw him over at the Rectory window," I said quietly, and in a tone which must have jarred dreadfully on Miss Saville's excited ears. "Was not he the man who brought Mr. Southcote first to Cottiswoode? I recollect him; I trust my husband has not forgotten the claims his friend has upon him." I had scarcely spoken the words, when I was bitterly ashamed of them; and I felt my face burn under my companion's eye. She was startled by my tone, and she had evidently forgotten, if, indeed, she ever clearly knew, that my husband's possession of Cottiswoode had been any injury to me, who now shared it with him. When she answered, she spoke in a tone of pique--she saw a certain disrespect, but she did not see the bitterness in my tone. "He is not what he once was, Mrs. Southcote," said Miss Saville; "but I think poor dear Richard does deserve something better than to be spoken of as 'the man.' I am not proud, but I know Edgar Southcote has reason to reckon a friend in Richard Saville. It was he who brought the poor boy over from Jamaica, when he had not a friend in the world to care for him--and he got him his rights. I am sorry for what has happened to my brother, and grieved for him; and I was foolish to think I might get sympathy from a stranger--but I'm not ashamed of Richard, Mrs. Southcote, and never will be." "I beg your pardon, Miss Saville," said I--for the moment I felt very much ashamed of myself. Flora had not succeeded, and was tired with her scramble, and momentarily silenced by the fatigue; while neither Miss Saville nor I had much to say to her, or to each other. We walked on quietly, till we came to the little private gate which entered directly into the grounds surrounding Cottiswoode; for this favorite lane which led to the village, was much nearer to the house itself than to the great gate at the end of the avenue. When we arrived there, I invited Miss Saville to come in, but she would not; though, as we passed through the garden ourselves, I could see that she still stood by the little wicket watching us anxiously--no doubt, to see if we encountered her brother even here. I was no less on the watch myself, but we saw no one till we had entered the hall. Flora, as usual, tripped on before me. I followed after, slow and languidly; she was already in the drawing-room, when I had scarcely crossed the threshold, and when the wide hall-door, still held fully open, admitted the entire flood of noon-day light into the hall. At that moment, the library door was opened suddenly, and the very man I had been looking for stood before me. I could see that he was heated and flushed, as if with some recent argument; and his stealthy, sidelong, cunning look, which I could remember, had given way to an air of coarse dissipation; that state in which everything is surrendered, and when even appearance and dress and personal neatness are lost in the universal bankruptcy. Behind him, within the library, appeared my