This was with the information that that there trapezing chap, Drake, had fetched off poor Fanny in his van. He had been in trouble himself, having been in custody for some misdemeanour when she was thrown down; but as soon as he was released, he had come in search of her, and though at first he seemed willing to leave her to be nursed at home, he had no sooner heard of the visitors of that morning than he had sworn he would have no parson meddling with his poor gal! she was good enough for him, and he would not have a pack of nonsense put in her head to set her against him.

"He's good to her, sir," said Mrs. Reynolds, "I think he be; but he is a very ignorant man. He tell'd us once as he was born in one of they vans, and hadn't never been to school nor nothin', nor heard tell of God, save in the way of bad words: he've done nothin' but go from one races and fairs to another, just like the gipsies, though he bain't a gipsy neither; but he's right down attacted to poor Fanny, and good to her."

"Another product of the system," said Raymond.

"Like the gleeman, whom we see through a picturesque medium," said Julius; "but who could not have been pleasant to the mediaeval clergyman. I have hopes of poor Fanny yet. She will drift home one of these days, and we shall get hold of her."

"What a fellow you are for hoping!" returned Raymond, a little impatiently.

"Why not?" said Julius.

"Why! I should say--" replied Raymond, setting out to walk home, where he presided over his friend's breakfast and departure, and received a little banter over his solicitude for the precious infant. Cecil was still in bed, and Frank was looking ghastly, and moved and spoke like one in a dream, Raymond was relieved to hear him pleading with Susan for to his mother's room much earlier than usual.

Susan took pity and let him in; when at once he flung himself into a chair, with his face hidden on the bed, and exclaimed, "Mother, it is all over with me!"

"My dear boy, what can have happened?"

"Mother, you remember those two red pebbles. Could you believe that she has sold hers?"

"Are you sure she has? I heard that they had a collection of such things from the lapidary at Rockpier."

"No, mother, that is no explanation. When I found that I should be able to come down, I sent a card to Lady Tyrrell, saying I would meet them on the race-ground--a post-card, so that Lena might see it. When I came there was no Lena, only some excuse about resting for the ball--lying down with a bad headache, and so forth--making it plain that I need not go on to Sirenwood. By and by there was some mild betting with the ladies, and Lady Tyrrell said, 'There's a chance for you, Bee; don't I see the very fellow to Conny's charm?'

Whereupon that girl Conny pulled out the very stone I gave Lena three years ago at Rockpier. I asked; yes, I asked--Lena had sold it; Lena, at the bazaar; Lena, who--"

"Stay, Frank, is this trusting Lena as she bade you trust her? How do you know that there were no other such pebbles?"

"You have not seen her as I have done. There has been a gradual alienation--holding aloof from us, and throwing herself into the arms of those Strangeways. It is no fault of her sister's. She has lamented it to me."

"Or pointed it out. Did she know the history of these pebbles?"

"No one did. Lena was above all reserved with her."

"Camilla Tyrrell knows a good deal more than she is told. Where's your pebble? You did not stake that?"

"Those who had one were welcome to the other."

"O, my poor foolish Frank! May it not be gone to tell the same tale of you that you think was told of her? Is this all?"

"Would that it were!"

"Well, go on, my dear. Was she at the ball?"

"Surrounded by all that set. I was long in getting near her, and then she said her card was full; and when I made some desperate entreaty, she said, in an undertone that stabbed me by its very calmness, 'After what has passed to-day, the less we meet the better.' And she moved away, so as to cut me off from another word."

"After what had passed! Was it the parting with the stone?"

"Not only. I got a few words with Lady Tyrrell. She told me that early impressions had given Lena a kind of fanatical horror of betting, and that she had long ago made a sort of vow against a betting man. Lady Tyrrell said she had laughed at it, but had no notion it was seriously meant; and I--I never even heard of it!"

"Nor are you a betting man, my Frank."

"Ay! mother, you have not heard all."

"You are not in a scrape, my boy?"

"Yes, I am. You see I lost my head after the pebble transaction. I couldn't stand small talk, or bear to go near Raymond, so I got among some other fellows with Sir Harry--"

"And excitement and distress led you on?"

"I don't know what came over me. I could not stand still for fear I should feel. I must be mad on something. Then, that mare of Duncombe's, poor fellow, seemed a personal affair to us all; and Sir Harry, and a few other knowing old hands, went working one up, till betting higher and higher seemed the only way of supporting Duncombe, besides relieving one's feelings. I know it was being no end of a fool; but you haven't felt it, mother!"

"And Sir Harry took your bets?"

"One must fare and fare alike," said Frank.

"How much have you lost?"

"I've lost Lena, that's all I know," said the poor boy; but he produced his book, and the sum appalled him. "Mother," he said in a broken voice, "there's no fear of its happening again. I can never feel like this again. I know it is the first time one of your sons has served you so, and I can't even talk of sorrow, it seems all swallowed up in the other matter. But if you will help me to meet it, I will pay you back ten or twenty pounds every quarter."

"I think I can, Frankie. I had something in hand towards my own possible flitting. Here is the key of my desk. Bring me my banker's book and my cheque book."

"Mother! mother!" he cried, catching her hand and kissing it, "what a mother you are!"

"You understand," she said, "that it is because I believe you were not master of yourself, and that this is the exception, not the habit, that I am willing to do all I can for you."

"The habit! No, indeed! I never staked more than a box of gloves before; but what's the good, if she has made a vow against me?"

Mrs. Poynsett was silent for a few moments, then she said, "My poor boy, I believe you are both victims of a plot. I suspect that Camilla Tyrrell purposely let you see that pebble-token and be goaded into gambling, that she might have a story to tell her sister, when she had failed to shake her constancy and principle in any other way."

"Mother, that would make her out a fiend. She has been my good and candid friend all along. You don't know her."

"What would a friend have done by you yesterday?"

"She neither saw nor heard my madness. No, mother, Lenore's heart has been going from me for months past, and she is glad of this plea for release, believing me unworthy. Oh! that stern face of hers!

set like a head of Justice with not a shade of pity--so beautiful-- so terrible! It will never cease to haunt me."

He sat in deep despondency, while Mrs. Poynsett overlooked her resources; but presently he started up, saying, "There's one shadow of a hope. I'll go over to Sirenwood, insist on seeing one her and having an explanation. I have a right, whatever I did yesterday; and you have forgiven me for that, mother!"

"I think it is the most hopeful way. If you can see her without interposition, you will at least come to an understanding. Here, you had better take this cheque for Sir Harry."

When he was gone, she wondered whether she had been justified in encouraging him in defending Eleonora. Was this not too like another form of the treatment Raymond had experienced? Her heart bled for her boy, and she was ready to cry aloud, "Must that woman always be the destroyer of my sons' peace?"

When Frank returned, it was with a face that appalled her by its blank despair, as he again flung himself down beside her.

"She is gone," he said.

"Gone!"

"Gone, and with the Strangeways. I saw her."