Herbert Dare sat enjoying the beauty of the April evening in the garden of Pomeranian . He was on the back of a garden bench, and balanced himself astride it, the tip of one toe resting on the seat, the other foot . The month was drawing to its close, and the beams of the setting sun streamed athwart Herbert's face. It might be supposed that he had seated himself there to in the soft, still air and lovely sunset. In point of fact, he hardly knew whether the sun was rising or setting—whether the evening was fair or foul—so buried was he in deep thought and perplexing care.  
The particular care which was troubling Herbert Dare, was one which has, at some time or other, troubled the peace of a great many of us. It was . Herbert had been in it for a long time; had, in fact, been sinking into it deeper and deeper. He had managed to it off hitherto in some way or other; but the time to do that much longer was going by. He was not given to forethought, it has been mentioned; but he could not from himself that unpleasantness would ensue, and that speedily, unless something could be done. What was that something to be? He did not know; he could not imagine. His father protested that he had not the means to help him; and Herbert believed that Mr. Dare the truth. Not that Mr. Dare knew of the extent of the embarrassment. Had he done so, it would have come to the same thing, so far as his help went. His sons, as he said, had drained him to the utmost.
 
Anthony passed the end of the walk. Whether he saw Herbert or not, certain it was, that he turned away from his direction. Herbert lifted his eyes, an angry light in them. He lifted his voice also, angry too.
 
"Here, you! Don't go off because you see me sitting here. I want you."
 
Anthony was taken to. It is more than probable that he was skulking off, and that he had seen Herbert, for he did not particularly care then to come into contact with his brother. Anthony was in embarrassment on his own score; was ill at ease from more reasons than one; and when the mind is troubled, sharp words do not tend to it. Little else than sharp words had been exchanged latterly between Anthony and Herbert Dare.
 
It was no temporary ill-feeling, to-day, pleased to-morrow, which had grown up between them; the ill-will had existed a long time. Herbert believed that his brother had injured him, had played him false, and his heart bitterly resented it. That Anthony was in fault at the beginning was undoubted. He had Herbert unsuspiciously—unsuspiciously on Herbert's part, you understand—into some mess with regard to bills. Anthony was fond of "bills;" Herbert, more wise in that respect, had never with them: his opinion coincided with his father's: they were edged tools, which cut both ways. " bills if you want to die upon your own bed," was a saying of Mr. Dare's, frequently uttered for the benefit of his sons. Good advice, no doubt. Mr. Dare, as a lawyer, ought to know. Herbert had held by the advice; Anthony never had; and the time came when Anthony took care that his brother should not.
 
In a period of deep embarrassment for Anthony, he had persuaded Herbert to sign two bills for him, their amount being large; assuring him, in the most earnest and manner, that the money to meet them, when due, was already provided. Herbert, in his good nature, fell into the . It turned out not only that the bills were not met at all, but Anthony had so it that Herbert should be responsible, not he himself. Herbert regarded it as a piece of treachery, and never ceased to reproach his brother. Anthony, who was of a , temper, resented the reproach; and they did not lead together the happiest of lives. The bills were not settled yet; indeed, they formed part of Herbert's most pressing . This was one cause of the ill-feeling between them, and there were others, of a different nature. Anthony and Herbert Dare had never been cordial with each other, even in childhood.
 
Anthony, called by Herbert, advanced. "Who wants to away?" asked he. "Are you judging me by yourself?"
 
"I hope not," returned Herbert, in tones of the most contempt and scorn. "Listen to me. I've told you five hundred times that I'll have some settlement, and if you don't come to it , I'll force you to it. Do you hear, you? I'll force you to it."
 
"Try it," retorted Anthony, with a mocking laugh; and he coolly walked away.
 
Walked away, leaving Herbert in a towering rage. He felt inclined to follow him; to knock him down. Had Anthony only met the affair in a proper spirit, it had been different. Had he said, "Herbert, I am vexed—I'll see what can be done," or words to that effect, half the sting in his brother's mind would have been removed; but, to Herbert with having to pay—as he sometimes did—was almost . Had Herbert been of Anthony's temper, he would have proved that it was quite unbearable.
 
But Herbert's temper was roused now. It was the toss of a die whether he followed Anthony and struck him down, or whether he did not. The die was cast by the appearance of Signora Varsini; and Anthony, for that evening, escaped.
 
It was not very of Herbert to remain where he was, in the presence of the governess, astride upon the garden bench. Herbert was feeling angry in no ordinary degree, and this may have been his excuse. She came up, apparently in anger also. Her brow was frowning, her compressed mouth drawn in until its lips were hidden.
 
There is good advice in the old song or saying: "It is well to be off with the old love, before you are on with the new." As good advice as that of Mr. Dare's, relative to the bills. Herbert might have sung it in character. He should have made things square with the Signora Varsini, before entering too extensively on his friendship with Anna Lynn.
 
Not that the governess could be supposed to occupy any position in the mind or heart of Herbert Dare, except as governess; governess to his sisters. Herbert would probably have said so, had you asked him. What she might have said, is a different matter. She looks angry enough to say anything just now. The fact appeared to be—so far as any one not personally interested in the matter could be supposed to gather it—that Herbert had latterly given offence to the governess, by not going to the school-room for what he called his Italian lessons. Of course he could not be in two places at once; and if his leisure hour after dinner was spent in Atterly's field, it was impossible that he could be in the school-room, learning Italian with the governess. But she resented it as a slight. She was of an nature; probably of a jealous nature; and she regarded it as a personal slight, and resented it bitterly. She had been rather in speech and manner to Herbert, in consequence; and that, he resented. But, being naturally of an easy temper, Herbert was no friend to unnecessary disputes. He tried what he could towards the young lady; and, finding he effected no good in that way, he adopted the other alternative—he her. The governess perceived this, and worked herself up into a state of semi-fury.
 
She came down upon him in full sail. The moment Herbert saw her, he remembered having given her a half-promise the previous day to pay her a visit that evening. "Now for it," thought he to himself.
 
"Why you keep me waiting like this?" began she, when she was close to him.
 
"Have I kept you waiting?" civilly returned Herbert. "I am very sorry. The fact is, mademoiselle, I have a good deal of worry upon me, and I'm fit for nobody's company but my own to-night. You might not have thanked me for my visit, had I come."
 
"That is my own look-out," replied the governess. "When a gentleman makes a promise to me, I expect him to keep it. I go up to the school-room, and I wait, I wait, I wait! Ah, my poor patience, how I wait! I have that copy of Tasso, that you said you would like to see. Will you come?"
 
Herbert thought he was in for it. He glanced at the setting sun—at least, at the spot where the sun had gone down, for it had sunk below the horizon, leaving only in the grey sky to tell of what had been. was rapidly coming on, when he would depart to pay his usual evening visit: there was no time, he , for Tasso and the governess.
 
"I'll come another evening," said he. "I have an engagement, and I must go out to keep it."
 
A hardness settled on mademoiselle's face. "What engagement?" she demanded.
 
It might be thought that Herbert would have been in civilly declining to satisfy her curiosity. What was it to her? Apparently he thought otherwise. Possibly he was afraid of an outbreak.
 
"What engagement! Oh—I am going to play a pool at with Lord Hawkesley. He is in Helstonleigh again."
 
"And that is what you go for, every evening—to play billiards with Lord Hawkesley?" she resumed, her eyes .
 
"Of course it is, mademoiselle. With Hawkesley or other fellows."
 
"A lie!" responded mademoiselle.
 
"I say," cried Herbert, laughing good-humouredly: "do you call that orthodox language?"
 
"It nothing to you what I call it," she cried, clipping her words in her , as she would do when excited. "It not with Milord Hawkesley, not to billiards that you go! I know it is not."
 
"Then I tell you that I often play billiards," cried Herbert. "On my honour I do."
 
"May-be, may-be," answered she, very rapidly. "But it not to billiards that you go every evening. Every evening!—every evening! Not an evening now, but you go out, you go out! I bought Tasso—do you know that I bought Tasso?—that I have bought it with my money, that you may have the pleasure of hearing me read it, as you said—as you call it? Should I spend the money, had I thought you would not come when I had it—would not care to hear it read?"
 
Had she been in a more mood, Herbert would have told her that she was a simpleton for spending her money; he would have told her that Tasso, read in the original, would have been to him as Sanscrit. He had a faint remembrance of saying to mademoiselle that he should like to read Tasso, in answer to a remark that Tasso was her favourite of the Italian poets: but he had only made the observation carelessly, without seriously meaning anything. And she had been so foolish as to go and buy it!
 
"Will you come this evening and hear it begun?" she continued, breaking the pause, and speaking rather more graciously.
 
"Upon my word of honour, Bianca, I can't to-night," he answered, feeling himself, between the two—the engagement made, and the engagement sought to be made—somewhat embarrassed. "I will come another evening; you may depend upon me."
 
"You say to me yesterday that you would come this evening; that I might depend upon you. Much you care!"
 
"But I could not help myself. An engagement arose, and I was obliged to fall in with it. I was, indeed. I'll hear Ta............