On All Saints\' Day, the first of November--and it was as bright a day for the festival as the saints, whether in that world or this, could wish--Captain Andinnian took leave of his mother, and went to London. His chief business there was to transact some business with the family lawyers, Plunkett and Plunkett. Their chambers were within the precincts of the Temple, and for convenience\' sake he took up his quarters at the Charing Cross Hotel.

In the course of the afternoon, as he was turning out of Essex Street, having come through the little court from Plunkett and Plunkett\'s, he ran against a gentleman passing down the Strand. "I beg your pardon," Karl was beginning, and then became suddenly silent. It was Colonel Cleeve.

But, instead of passing on, as Karl might have expected him to do, the Colonel stopped and shook him cordially by the hand. To pass him would have jarred on every kindly instinct of Colonel Cleeve\'s nature. As to the affair with his daughter, he attached no importance to it now, believing it had made no permanent impression on Lucy, and had himself three-parts forgotten it.

"You have sold out, Captain Andinnian. I--I have been so very sorry for the sad causes that induced the step. Believe me, you have had all along my very best sympathy."

Karl hardly knew what he answered. A few words of murmured thanks; nothing more.

"You are not well," returned the Colonel, regarding the slender form that looked thinner than of yore, very thin in its black attire. "This has told upon you."

"It has; very much. There are some trials that can never be made light in this life," Karl continued, speaking the thoughts that were ever uppermost in his mind. "This is one of them. I thank you for your sympathy, Colonel Cleeve."

"And that\'s true, unfortunately," cried the Colonel, warmly, in answer. "You don\'t know how you are regretted at Winchester by your brother officers."

With another warm handshake, the Colonel passed on. Karl walked back to his hotel. In traversing one of its upper passages, a young lady came out of a sitting-room to cross to an opposite chamber. Captain Andinnian took a step back to let her pass in front of him; she turned her head, and they met face to face.

"Lucy!"

"Karl!"

The salutation broke from each before they well knew where they were or what had happened, amidst a rush of bewildering excitement, of wild joy. They had, no doubt, as in duty bound, been trying to forget each other; this moment of unexpected meeting proved to each how foolish was the fallacy. A dim idea made itself heard within either breast that they ought, in that duty alluded to, to pass on and linger not: but we all know how vain and weak is the human heart. It was not possible: and they stood, hand locked within hand.

Only for an instant. Lucy, looking very weak and ill, withdrew her hand, and leaned back against the doorpost for support. Karl stood before her.

"I have just met Colonel Cleeve," he said: "but I had no idea that you were in London. Are you staying here?"

"Until to-morrow," she answered, her breath seeming to be a little short. "We came up yesterday. Papa chose this hotel, as it is convenient for the Folkestone trains. Mamma is here."

"Lucy, how very ill you look!"

"Yes. I had fever and ague in the summer, and do not get strong again. We are going to Paris for change. You do not look well either," added Lucy.

"I have not had fever: but I have had other things to try me," was his reply.

"Oh, Karl! I have been so grieved!" she earnestly said. "I did not know your brother, but I--I seemed to feel all the dreadful trouble as much as you must have felt it. When we are not strong, I think we do feel things."

"You call it by its right name, Lucy--a dreadful trouble. No one but myself can know what it has been to me."

They were gazing at each other yearningly: Lucy with her sweet brown eyes so full of tender compassion; Karl\'s grey-blue ones had a world of sorrowful regret in their depths. As she had done in their interview when they were parting, so she now did again--put out her hand to him, with a whisper meant to soothe.

"You will live it down, Karl."

He slightly shook his head: and took her hand to hold it between his.

"It is only since this happened that I have become at all reconciled to--to what had to be done at Winchester, Lucy. It would have been so greatly worse, had you been tied to me by--by any engagement."

"Not worse for you, Karl, but better. I should have helped you so much to bear it."

"My darling!"

The moment the words had crossed his lips, he remembered what honour and his long-ago-passed word to Colonel Cleeve demanded of him--that he should absolutely abstain from showing any tokens of affection for Lucy. Nay, to observe it strictly, he ought not to have stayed to talk with her.

"I beg your pardon, Lucy," he said, dropping her hand.

She understood quite well: a faint colour mantled in her pale face. She had been as forgetful as he.

"God bless you, Lucy," he whispered. "Farewell."

"O Karl--a moment," she implored with agitation, hardly knowing, in the pain of parting, what she said. "Just to tell you that I have not forgotten. I never shall forget. My regret, for what had to be, lies on me still."

"God bless you," he repeated, in deep emotion. "God bless and restore you, Lucy!"

Once more their fingers met in a brief handshake. And then they parted; he going one way, she the other; and the world had grown dim again.

Later in the day Karl heard it incidentally mentioned by some people in the coffee-room, that Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve with their daughter and two servants were going to make a prolonged stay on the Continent for the benefit of the young lady\'s health, who had been suffering from fever. Little did they think that the quiet, distinguished looking man in mourning, who had but come in to ask for some information, and was waiting while the waiter brought it, had more to do with the young lady\'s failing health than any fever.

Captain Andinnian took his breakfast next morning in private: as he sat down to it, the waiter brought him a newspaper. While listlessly unfolding it, he took the opportunity to ask a question.

"Have Colonel Cleeve and his family left the hotel?"

"Yes, sir. Just gone off for Folkestone. Broiled ham, sir; eggs; steak with mushrooms," continued the man, removing sundry covers.

"Thank you. You need not wait."

But--ere the man had well closed the door, a startled sound like a groan of agony burst from Karl\'s lips. He sprung from his seat at a bound, his eyes riveted on the newspaper in one stare of disbelieving horror. The paragraph had a heading in the largest letters--


"ATTEMPTED ESCAPE FROM PORTLAND ISLAND. DEATH OF THE PRISONER, SIR ADAM ANDINNIAN."


Karl let the newspaper fall, and buried his face on the table-cloth to shut out the light. He had not courage to read more at once. He lay there praying that it might not be true.

Alas! it was too true. Two prisoners had attempted to escape in concert; Sir Adam Andinnian and a man named Cole. They succeeded in reaching the water, and got off in a small boat lying ready in wait. Some warders pursued them in another boat; and, after an exciting chase in the dark night, came up with them as they reached the Weymouth side. Sir Adam was shot dead by a pistol; the small boat was upset, and one of the warders drowned. Cole was supposed to have made his escape.

Such was the statement given in the newspapers. And, however uncertain the minor details might be at this early stage, one part appeared to admit of no doubt--Adam Andinnian was dead.

"I seemed to foresee it," moaned Karl. "From the very first, the persuasion has lain upon me that this would be the ending."

Ere many minutes elapsed, ere he had attempted to touch a morsel of breakfast, a gentleman was shown in. It was Mr. Plunkett: a stout man in spectacles, with a large red nose. He had the Times in his hand. Captain Andinnian\'s paper lay open on the breakfast table; Captain Andinnian\'s face, as he rose to receive his visitor, betrayed its own story.

"I see; you have read the tidings," began Mr. Plunkett, sitting down. "It is a dreadful thing."

"Do--do you think there\'s any chance that it may not be true?" he rejoined in an imploring tone.

"There\'s not the slightest as to the main fact--that Sir Adam is dead," replied the lawyer decisively. "What could he have been thinking of, to hazard it?"

Karl sat shading his face.

"I\'ll tell you what it is, sir--there was a spice of madness in your brother\'s composition, I said so when he shot Scott. There must have been. And who, but a madman, would try to get away from Portland Island?"

"Nay. A rash act, Mr. Plunkett; but not one that implies madness."

There ensued a silence. These interviews are usually attended by embarrassment.

"I have intruded on you this morning to express my best sympathy, and to ask whether I can be of any service to you, Captain Andinnian," resumed the lawyer. "I beg your pardon: Sir Karl, I ought to say."

Karl had raised his head in resentment--in defiance. It caused the lawyer\'s break.

"Nay, but you are Sir Karl, sir. You succeed to your brother."

"The reminder grated on me, Mr. Plunkett."

"The title\'s yours and the estates are yours. Every earthly thing is yours."

"Yes, yes; I suppose so."

"Well, if we can do anything for you, Sir Karl, down
there"--indicating with a nod of his head the direction in which Portland Island might be supposed to lie--"or at Foxwood, you have only to send to us. I hope you understand that I am not speaking now with a view to business, but as a friend," concluded Mr. Plunkett. "I\'ll say no more now, for I see you are not yourself."

"Indeed I am not," replied Karl. "I thank you all the same. As soon as I can I must get down to my mother."

The lawyer said good morning, and left him to his breakfast. But Karl had no appetite: then, or for many a day to come. Calling for his bill, he took his departure.

Never had Karl imagined distress and anguish so great as that which he witnessed on his arrival at Weymouth. For once all his mother\'s pride of power had deserted her. She flung herself at the feet of Karl, demanding why he did not persist in his objection to the contemplated attempt, and interfere openly, even by declaring all to the governor of Portland prison, and so save his brother. It was altogether too distressing for Karl to bear.

The first account was in the main correct. Adam Andinnian and the warder were both dead: the one shot, the other drowned.

It was understood that the body might be given up to them for burial. Though whether this was a special favour, accorded to the entreaties of Mrs. Andinnian, or a not-unusual one, Karl knew not. He was glad of this, so far: but he would have thought it better that the place of interment should be Weymouth, and the ceremony made one of the utmost privacy. Mrs. Andinnian, however, ruled otherwise. She would have her unfortunate son taken to Foxwood, and she at once despatched Karl thither to make arrangements.

On the day but one after Karl reached Foxwood, all that remained of poor Sir Adam arrived. Mrs. Andinnian came in company. She could not bear to part even with the dead.

"I wish I could have been him," remarked Karl sadly, as he stood with his hand on the coffin.

"I have seen him, Karl," she answered amid her blinding tears. "They suffered me to look at him. His face was peaceful."

They, and they only, saving Hewitt, attended the funeral. He was buried in the family vault, in Foxwood churchyard, side by side with Sir Joseph and Lady Andinnian.

What an ending, for a young man who, but a few short months before, had been full of health and hope and life!

But the world, in its cold charity; said it was better so.