what-d'ye-call-him, your father, whom they
hunted to——By the way, where does Tillotson
get this? Does he bottle himself?"

"My poor father," said she, sadly, " I begin
now to look back to him. We turn back to those
old friends again and again, though that was only
a dream, and must ever remain so. It was God's
will that I should be so young at that time."

"Only a dream, as you say, my dear, and far
better it should stay so. Far better not, than
have our pillow—yours and Tillotson's, I mean
—full of thorns."

"O, what would I give," she said, with sudden
eagerness, " to know the whole, no matter what
pain or sorrow it brought with it. Latterly I
have begun to turn back to that time, and
something tells me I shall know all yet. In fact, I
think I have got on the track."

Mr. Tilney started. "God bless me, don't,
my dear child. Put it out of your head.There
are good reasons why all these old things should
be let to lie."

"I'll tell you," she said, stopping her work,
and not heeding his expostulation. "I have
been turning it over a great deal, and a thing
has struck me.  Promise me you will admit it."

"Nonsense, nonsense," said he, waving his
hand half sadly.

"I suspect my husband has been told of it, and
has been cautioned."

Mr. Tilney started. "No, no, my dear; put
it out of your head. He knows no more than
this—this glass of wine."

"But he does," said she, "and I'll tell you
why. When we were travelling—now mark
this—there was a little Italian town directly in
our way on the coast—Spezia."

"Spezia!" said Mr. Tilney,  looking at her
amazed, and laying down his glass untasted—
a sign of genuine astonishment. " Why,
that's——How did you?"

"Ah! I know it," she went on. "We
turned out of the road and avoided it. He
wished to spare me. He has been cautioned."

"Upon my soul," said Mr. Tilney, looking
round, "this is next to marvellous. Perhaps
he does know something. Poor Dick Bateman
knew everybody, and may have met him. Still
we were all bound up, you know; and so you
took a détour? How curious!"

"You know it all," she said, more excitedly.
"If you could only imagine how it has taken
hold, how it haunts me in dreams, how latterly
a sort of unrest and craving has come upon me
to have something to cling to in the weary hours
that I have to pass through. Dearest father,
as I always call you and have called you, do
this one thing for me."

"Why not ask him, then?" said Mr. Tilney,
in real trouble and agitation, flying for assistance
to the comforting decanter beside him,
"since he knows? though, indeed, my poor
child, why should your little life be troubled,
when an old wreck like me can give you a little
comfort? After all, we are not to keep you a
child all the days of your life; and really, now,
we are so snug here, and so comfortable, that
I don't see why——There was a little money,
as you know, my dear; and I, as you know, my
dear, was clothed with a sort of trust. But I
have been so run from post to pillar—so hunted
about, like the commonest hare—that literally,
my dear, I was obliged——"

She stopped him. "You must never talk of
that, dear papa," she said, gently. "It was
quite right; for it was all yours—all. Had you
not been at the cost of taking care of me for so
many years? Never speak of it; but tell me
about these letters, and papa whom I never saw,
but for whom I feel—O, such a yearning!"

Mr. Tilney was mellowed into an extraordinary
power of melancholy retrospect.

"Dear me," he said, "I remember the whole
so well, as if it were only last night, and yet it
is how many years ago now?"

"And you saw him, and knew him?" she
asked, eagerly. "I always thought that your
goodness to me was a mere accident—that
some friend——"

"Don't let us call it accident," said Mr.
Tilney, lifting his eyes devotionally. "Nothing
is accident—not even the sparrow on the house-
top! In a certain sense, I did not know him—
hardly. But indeed the time is ripe, my dear,
when you should know something of this. Do
you know, I feel a pang at having kept it from
you so long. I was travelling at that time
with poor Dick Bateman, now gone. Before
that, indeed, he broke hopelessly—horse and
foot; but at that time he was really as nice
a fellow to know as you wish for. He was
on the Dook's staff, too, and I picked him
up at Venice, or some such place; so we
agreed to travel home together. Same chaise,
and that sort of thing. And, coming home,
I recollect very well our stopping at one of
those little Italian towns. Bateman, dear,
was as fine-hearted and romantic a fellow as
you'd ask to see. Well, we dined at the
inn—a very fair dinner indeed, and uncommon
good wine, and sat out in the garden drinking
it; and while we sat there a gentlemanly looking
man, a little decayed and broken up though,
came out to one of the little tables and had his
bottle of wine there. He had been a handsome
fellow in his days, but was rather gone about
the cheeks here, and he sat there taking his wine
until it got towards ten o'clock. I think he
was listening to us talking, for we were in high
spirits. When, as we were getting up to go
away, he came over and stopped Bateman, and,
in good English, asked to speak to him for a
moment. Now, if poor Dick had a horror of
anything in this world, or in the next, it was
of your gentlemanly seedy Englishman, so he
drew himself up a little dryly. 'I used to
know you,' said the Englishman—'I knew you
well only a few years ago, Mr. Bateman, and you
will know me when I tell you my name.' ' What,'
said the other, starting back and recollecting
him, 'You? Augustus Millwood? What is
this? What does all this mean?'"

"And this," said Mrs. Tillotson, her soft
eyes fixed on the story-teller, " this was——"