"I am afraid," he said, "that I must make a statement now that I would have made before but for the fear of agitating Miss Leslie; it is this: Last night, about twelve o'clock, happening to be at Charing Cross Station, I saw Captain Willard take the express for Dover. Before I could get near enough to speak with him the train was off. I was surprised to see him taking such a journey only a few hours before his intended wedding. 'But perhaps,' I thought, 'he has some urgent business to do at Dover connected with the marriage, and will return by an early train.'" "It is true," I said in a voice too low to reach Daphne's ear. "As I was landing from the packet-boat this morning I saw George on the pier at Dover, but not to speak to. He avoided me--fled from me, in fact." My wondering uncle gazed at Angelo and myself, as if not quite comprehending the import of our words. "Do you mean to say that George has deserted her?" he gasped. "I will not believe it." Once more the hall-bell rang, causing an additional wave of excitement to pass over the company. Alas! it was not George who rang, but that bearer of joy and sorrow, the postman, with a letter directed to "Miss D. Leslie." "It is George's handwriting," said Daphne. "Read it for me, papa." My uncle took the letter, and turned it over as suspiciously as Cardinal de Medici may have done with an epistle from Pope Borgia in the old Italian days when clerical dignitaries enlivened the monotony of their ecclesiastical duties by taking off their enemies with poison concealed in a glove, a flower, or a letter. At length, breaking the seal amid a deep silence, he proceeded to unfold the letter, and as he mastered its contents his face darkened. "What does George say?" asked Daphne, with her hand pressed to her beating heart. "He says," replied her father, not wishing to let the whole truth burst on her at once, "that he regrets having to defer his wedding for a few days, but as soon as----" "That's not it! You are deceiving me, papa! Give me the letter. I will have it--it is mine!" With difficulty she rose to her feet, trembling all over, and before my uncle could prevent her she had snatched the letter from him, and, oblivious of the company, read out each word aloud: "DEAREST DAPHNE--Break not your heart over what is as sad to me as you. That has occurred which compels me to leave you forever. What the terrible circumstance is that forces me to this step I dare not say. It has occurred only within the past hour. I can never hope to look upon your face again. We must part forever. By the time you receive this I shall be crossing the Channel. Do not seek for me: you will never find me. In some secluded part of Europe I shall live out my days a lonely recluse. Try to believe that this is all for the best, and forget that there ever lived such a one as "GEORGE WILLARD."