order, as he said, to give her the necessary explanations for his absence.  Charles undertook this mission the more willingly, as it was his firm intention to remonstrate with the girl on the impropriety of her conduct, in continuing a secret and guilty intrigue, which must end only in her own shame and ruin.  But when Harry deputed him upon such a message he anticipated the very event which had occurred, or, rather, a more fatal one still, for, despite his hopes of Alice Goodwin’s ill state of health, he entertained strong apprehensions that his stepfather might, by some accidental piece of intelligence, be restored to his original impressions on the relative position in which she and Charles stood.  An interview between Mr. Lindsay and her might cancel all he had done; and if every obstruction which he had endeavored to place between their union were removed, her health might recover, their marriage take place, and then what became of his chance for the property?  It is true he had managed his plans and speculations with great ability.  Substituting Charles, like a villain as he was, in his own affair with Grace Davoren, he contrived to corroborate the falsehood by the tragic incident of the preceding night.  Now, if this would not satisfy Alice of the truth of his own falsehood, nothing could.  That Charles was the intrigant must be clear and palpable from what had happened, and accordingly, after taking a serious review of his own iniquity, he felt, as we said, peculiarly gratified with his prospects.  Still, it cannot be denied that an occasional shadow, not proceeding from any consciousness of guilt, but from an apprehension of disappointment, would cast its deep gloom across his spirit.  With such terrible states of feeling the machinations of guilt, no matter how successful its progress may be, are from time to time attended; and even in his case the torments of the damned were little short of what he suffered, from a dread of failure, and its natural consequences—­an exposure which would bar him out of society.  Still, his earnest expectation was that the intelligence of the fate of her lover would, considering her feeble state of health, effectually accomplish his wishes, and with this consoling reflection he rode home.

His great anxiety now was, his alarm lest his brother should recover.  On reaching Rathfillan House he proceeded to his bedroom, where he found his sister watching.

“My dear Maria,” said he, in a low and most affectionate voice, “is he better?”

“I hope so,” she replied, in a voice equally low; “this is the first sleep he has got, and I hope it will remove the fever.”

“Well, I will not stop,” said he, “but do you watch him carefully, Maria, and see that he is not disturbed.”

“O, indeed, Harry, you may rest assured that I shall do so.  Poor, dear Charles, what would become of us all if we lost him—­and Alice Goodwin, too—­O, she would die.  Now, go, dear Harry, and leave him to me.”