When I was first engaged to Lucy, I was
not happy until Elleu could share my joy, -
could see the object of my choice, and in
sweet sisterly tones could congratulate me
upon it. It was my delight to see the affection
springing up between my cousin and
her whom I now call my wife, — to hear their
mutual praises of each other, and to think
that, until some favoured suitor should come
to claim her for his own, Ellen would share
our new home. This was not to be. Just
before my marriage, my cousin went to
Burgundy, on a visit to an old schoolfellow,
whose husband, a sickly and consumptive,
man, was compelled to reside there for the
benefit of his health. Her stay in France,
which was to have occupied but a few weeks,
extended over six months. I heard from
her but twice during the interval, but upon
the occasion of my marriage, she wrote a
long and affectionate letter to Lucy, telling
her that she was perfectly happy, and
speaking in those mysterious terms which girls
love to use, of a certain Vicomte de Bodé,
who was paying her great attention. Two
months after, Ellen suddenly returned to
England, accompanied by her brother, who
had been dispatched to bring her back.
There was a mystery connected with her
return which I could never fathom; her
mother, indeed, wrote me a plaintive letter
lamenting the folly into which young
girls usually throw away their affections,
and hinting that even Ellen's good sense was
not proof against womanly weakness, and
that had she not been recalled when she
was, she would have been drawn into a
marriage which for reasons hereafter to be
verbally explained to me, must have been an
everlasting source of misery to her. At the
receipt of this letter from my aunt, I was, it
is needless to say, very much pained, but
being forbidden to answer it (for Ellen was
unaware that I had been written to, and the
sight of a letter in my well-known hand-
writing would doubtless arouse her
suspicions), I was compelled to wait until
further information was afforded me. That
information never came, and until her brother
telegraphed to me in the words with which
I have commenced my story, I heard nothing
of the Luttrell family.

Within ten minutes after I received the
telegraph message, I had thrown a few things
into a carpet-bag, had a card stitched on
to it with my name, and Boltons, Tamworth,
for the address (for I am oldfashioned enough
always to direct my luggage in case of loss), and
was rattling in a Hansom to Euston Square.
I arrived just in time to catch the night mail
train; the platform was thronged, there were
Oxford men going back to the university,
barristers starting on circuit, sporting men
going down for the Leamington steeple-chase,
and invalides off to Malvern in search of
health. Porters were pushing, rushing
against stolid old gentlemen, crushing their
feet with enormous heavily laden barrows,
and crying "by your leave" while the
sufferers were clasping their mangled limbs in
anguish. The post-offive van, with it's trim
arrangement of sorting boxes, and its
travelling-capped clerks, stood gaping to receive
the flood of bags pouring into it from the
shoulders of the red-coated guards; non-
passengers were bidding adieu to their friends
at the doors of the carriages; the policemen
were busy unhooking the various labels
from neighbouring Bletchley to distant Perth,
with which the vihicles were bedizened;
commercial gents, those knowing travellers,
were settling themselves comfortably on the
back seats of the second class; the old
gentleman who is always late, was being rapidly
hurried to his place; and the black-faced
stoker was leaning forward, looking out for
the signal of the station-master to go a-head,
when I sprang into a first-class compartment
and took the only vacant seat I found there.

Once started, I looked round upon my
travelling companions, who were apparently of the
usual stamp. There was a stout, red-faced,
elderly, gentleman-farmer looking man, rather
flushed with the last pint of port at Simpson's
and the exertion of cramming a fat little
portmanteau (the corner of which still
obstinately protruded) under the seat; there was
a thin pale-faced curate, with no whiskers
and no shirt-collar, but with a long black
coat, arid a silk waistcoat buttoning round
the throat, a mild, washed-out, limp,
afternoon-service style of man, engaged in
reading a little book with a brass cross
on the back, and "Ye Lyffe of St.
Crucifidge," emblazoned on it. in red letters.
There was a fidgety, pinched-up old lady,
with a face so wrinkled as to make one
thankful she was a female, as by no earthly
means could she have shaved it, who kept
perpetually peering into a mottled-looking
basket suggestive of sandwiches and sherry-
flasks, under apprehension of having lost her
ticket; and there was a young man
apparently devoted to the stock-broking interest,
stiff as to his all-rounder, checked as to his
trousers, natty as to his boots, who kept
alternately paring his nails, stroking his
chin, whistling popular melodies in a
subdued tone, and attempting to go to sleep.
Finally, on the opposite side to me, and in the
further corner, there was a large bundle, the
only visible component parts of which were
a large poncho cloak, a black beard, and a
slouched, foreign-looking hat; but these parts
were all so blended and huddled together,
that after five minutes sharp scrutiny it
would have been difficult to tell what the
bundle really was.

I had arrived so late at the station,
that I had not had time to provide myself
with a book, or even, to render the journey
more tedious, by the purchase of an
evening paper; so that after settling down
in my seat, I had to content myself with a