right sort. This is our hard fate. We are
obliged to pocket our nicest feelings for the
public. Breakfasted? No? Ring, please."

Sir Hopkins was a Frenchman in Paris, and
could speak French.

They breakfasted together, spent the day
very pleasantly going about Paris, Sir Hopkins
leaning on his arm; dined at the Three
Brothers café; went to the Opera; and walked
after the Opera along the Arabian Nights'
Entertainment, translated into the Boulevard
des Italiens. Fermor felt pensive among these
glories, yet was not disturbed in mind—great
dreams of ambition were filling his soul.

In the morning they were gone, flying down
through the delightful wine countries to Lyons,
seeming to breathe the bouquet of Burgundies
and other choice vintages as they passed.
Delightfully musical names rang in their ears.
They were at Lyons that night, and there was
light enough, as they crossed the airy bridge,
to see the silver of the Rhône below. They
slept soundly through the night, and in the
morning were breakfasting at the Empereur, at
Marseilles. The hum and clatter of the
Cambière was under their windows. The gay parti-
coloured sails before the shop windows were
fluttering below them. The delightful quay of
La Joliette was but a few yards away, where the
ships of all countries, and the sailors of all
countries, and the merchants and the wares,
and the voices and the dresses of all were as gay
and bright under the sun as the market scene
in Masaniello. The steamer was to sail at noon,
as, indeed, were many more steamers, and the
commissionnaire was busy in their interest.

"By the way, my dear boy," said Sir Hopkins
"(I have sent for the cab), I found a letter
here this morning. Sent on, you know. It is
rather awkward. That post I spoke of—
Mackenzie's—you know."

"Yes," said Fermor, nervously. "Good
gracious; nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Oh, it will all come right, I am sure. But,
it now seems (I don't understand it, I am
sure), the home government claims the
appointment."

"WHAT?" said Fermor, breaking out hotly.
"Do you mean to tell me that, after all I have
done, and been made to do———"

"It is outrageous, as you say," said Sir
Hopkins, coolly; "they grasp at everything. The
worst part is, they have a sort of a shadow
of a title, you see—some arrangement or
composition. But, of course, it must be looked into."

"But," said Fermor, pacing up and down
excitedly, "this is very odd—looks very odd, sir!
I don't understand it at all. I have been led
away depending on assurances, and now it
seems—I must tell you, sir—it has a very
curious look, sir."

"I am not accountable, Charles. You must
deal with the home government. It is they who
are grasping at your office. You know there is
time yet to withdraw.

"Ah! it is easy, sir, to say there is time to
withdraw. At this place—at this time—after
sacrificing everything on the faith of this—my
word—my honour——"

"Your honour! Good God!" said Sir
Hopkins, starting up, and nearly overthrowing his
chair. "Your honour, Charles! I hope not.
O, I hope not. You are not in earnest? No,
I see you are not."

Fermor hung his head. It almost seemed the
bargain of Faust and his Mentor, done in water-
colours.

"Well, I don't mean that," he said. "But,
sir, sir," he added, sadly, "how could you
deceive me in this way?"

"Come, come," said Sir Hopkins, in a friendly,
hearty manner, "I allow for this excitement,
Charles. It is quite natural, and I respect you
for it. There are other things going, and we
shall make out something for you. You know,"
added Sir Hopkins, smiling, "it would hardly do
to re-present yourself after all this fuss and
esclandre. As the Frenchmen say, ridicule always
kills. I declare," he added, looking down over
the balcony, "here is the cab. We really ought
to pay the bill now. Yes, and put the final
touches to the baggage. Will you look after
those servants, like a good boy. Allons."

Fermor bowed his head and said not a word.
In a few minutes more he was driven away to
the quay, and was on board the Indian mail-
boat.

The life on board the Mediterranean steamer
was epicurean. There were bright days and
cobalt seas. Youth was at the prow, and
Pleasure at the helm. It was a gay voyage.

       CHAPTER XXXVII.   FADING OUT.

AT the very time that Captain Fermor (who
must fill up his day), seated on a camp-stool on
deck, was gossiping agreeably to an Indian lady
whose husband was below at cards, a dreary
desolation and hopeless sorrow was falling on
the Manuels' house.

Violet rose up after the shock sooner than her
family dared to hope. For a week the very
acuteness of the suffering, the excitement and
speculation it brought with it, carried her forward.
Her sister, worn away with night watching,
had whispered desperately, "You must not
give way, darling; keep away the thought; fight
it off!" For she knew if it once seized on her,
the talons would sink deeper and deeper, and
never let her go. She said this over and over
again, with a sort of despair—almost with
menace; and Violet, already stunned and
exhausted, actually found herself avoiding the
thought by a sort of horror.

It was when she came down again into the old
routine of life—white, worn, shrunk, and with
a timid, cowering look, as if she expected that
the blow would come again from some uncertain
quarter—that the change was seen in all its
dismal force. They could all have wept over her.
And when sister and mother clung about her,
and pressed her to them, they remarked, a sort
of insensibility that did not seem to require
consolation.

"I am getting better," she said, looking at