"Pardon me, Sir Harry Rokestone," said he, with a little dry dignity; "I have not leisure to throw away upon writing nonsense; I am one of those men who are weak enough to believe that there are rights besides those defined by statute or common law, and duties, consequently, you'll excuse me for saying, even more obligatory--Christian duties, which, in this particular case, plainly devolve upon you." "Christian flam! Humbug! and you an attorney!" "I'm not accustomed, sir, to be talked to in that way," said Mr. Forrester, who felt that his visitor was becoming insupportable. "Of course you're not; living in this town you never hear a word of honest truth," said Sir Harry; "but I'm not so much in the dark; I understand you pretty well, now; and I think you a precious impudent fellow." Both gentlemen had risen by this time, and Mr. Forrester, with a flush in his cheeks, replied, raising his head as he stooped over his desk while turning the key in the lock: "And I beg to say, sir, that I, also, have formed my own very distinct opinion of you!" Mr. Forrester flushed more decidedly, for he felt, a little too late, that he had perhaps made a rather rash speech, considering that his visitor seemed to have so little control over his temper, and also that he was gigantic. The herculean baronet, however, who could have lifted him up by the collar, and flung him out of the window, only smiled sardonically, and said: "Then we part, you and I, wiser men than we met. You write me no more letters, and I'll pay you no more visits." With another cynical grin, he turned on his heel, and walked slowly down the stairs, leaving Mr. Forrester more ruffled than he had been for many a day. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE OLD LOVE. The hour had now arrived at which our room looked really becoming. It had been a particularly fine autumn; and I have mentioned the effect of a warm sunset streaming through the deep windows upon the oak panelling. This light had begun to fade, and its melancholy serenity had made us silent. I had heard the sound of wheels near our door, but that was nothing unusual, for carts often passed close by, carrying away the rubbish that had accumulated in the old houses now taken down. Annie Owen, our Malory maid, peeped in at the door--came in, looking frightened and important, and closed it before she spoke. She was turning something about in her fingers. "What is it, Anne?" I asked. "Please, miss, there's an old gentleman downstairs; and he wants to know, ma'am," she continued, now addressing mamma, "whether you'll be pleased to see him." Mamma raised herself, and looked at the girl with anxious, startled eyes. "What is that you have got in your hand?" I asked. "Oh! I beg your pardon, ma'am; he told me to give you this, please." And she handed a card to mamma. She looked at it and grew very pale. She stood up with a flurried air. "Are you sure?" she said.