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 GILLIAN.

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“We have wandered from our subject, Michael, let us return to your affairs. Tell me how it happens that you are again in difficulty—I wish to know all.”

“I do not see why I should account to any human being for my actions.”

‘Then why have you come tome for counsel?”

“Because you have told me that you were my friend, because you have taught me to consider you as one to whom I could come with every trouble, every pain ”

“Then at least do not insult me!”

“It is I who am insulted by your doubts and suspicions,” he replied, his passion again mastering his prudence.

“You certainly give me every reason for them by your reckless conduct Stop, Michael!” she continued, in a warning voice, as he was about to answer more insolently than before. “I will not suffer you again to address me in such language, more from the injury which this giving way to violent anger upon the slightest occasion causes you, than from any effect your words can have upon my feelings.”

“I will leave you, madam, if my presence is so distasteful to you.”

“Do not go away with such feelings, Michael; I have faith enough in your goodness of heart to believe that you would repent having left me thus.”

“It is useless for me to remain here—you have lost all interest in me—there is nothing left me now.”

“I have not lost it, Michael, but I confess that your conduct is rapidly wearing away my for¬ bearance. I have borne much from you for rea¬ sons of which you knew nothing; but even that desire to keep faithfully a promise made long years since, will not induce me to compromise my own dignity and self-respect.”

“Mine are not to be considered; I am to submit to disgrace, and bear it with calmness—I tell yon I will not do it! I must have a certain sum of money before night, and by some means have it I will.”

“It is out of my power to assist you today, even if I were so inclined; your needs cannot be so urgent that a few days delay will be more than a trifling inconvenience ”

“Surely I must be the best judge of that! < Have the money to-day I will.” $ CHAPTER VII.

“Then you must seek assistance elsewhere, for I have none to offer.”

“Good morning, madam!” he exclaimed, rising and hastening toward the door. He paused with his hand upon the knob, thinking that she would call him back, as she had often done before when he left in moments of anger: but the lady made no sign. She was leaning back in her chair with a sort of stony composure, which at times came over her, and did not even raise her eyes.

Hurst muttered an oath and dashed out of the room, closing the door violently behind him. When he had gained the street, he drew from his vest the card which he had secreted, and looked again at the name.

“Gillian Bentley,” he said, almost aloud. “Yes, yes, I know the name, I see my way clearer now—it is a plot worthy of Machiavelli! Many thanks for that little scene at the gamb- ling house last night; the money was well lost which was the means of my making the discovery.”

He sauntered carelessly down the street, greet- ing any chance acquaintance with a pleasant smile or word, seemingly unoccupied beyond the idle thoughts of the moment, so frank and happy- looking, that it appeared impossible it could be the same face which an hour before had been dark with evil passions.

Mrs. Ransom remained sitting where Hurst had left her. What a world of unquiet memo- ries surged over her face during that season of self-communion! One might have half understood her whole life by looking at her then; she usually so calm and gentle, full of tender sympathies for others, searching the bright side of life and turning resolutely away from the gloom, now so wan and spent beneath those harrowing reflections, which started up before her like mournful shapes that had, for a time, been hidden, but now forced themselves out of the mist of the past and intruded themselves upon her.

Once she raised her eyes to the portrait, murmuring,

“This is hard, hard to bear—give me strength, for I am without strength and without hope.”

So the day wore on in Julia Ransom’s solitude, and amid all the friends that her genius had raised up for her, there was not one with power to comfort her during that sad hour; and she whose beautiful creations had brought so much happiness to others, was unable to find in her own grand soul a single gleam of consolation for that irretrievable woe.

CHAPTER VII.

The room seemed to have been fitted up as a library, for the walls were filled with book-case and the tables covered with richly bound volumes and pamphlets; still it was evidently the common working room of a business man, for near one of the windows was a long writing table surmounted