and accomplishments which the most exacting lover could desire in his betrothed. I am infinitely proud of having won her."
He met the General's eyes, and the steady light in his own was the light of truth. General Harborough doubted him no longer. If he had ever loved Valeria, that passion was extinct, dead as the flames of Dido's funeral pyre. The man who sat face to face with General Harborough to-day was a happy lover, his countenance radiant with the light of a pure and authorised love.
"When are you going to be married?" asked the General, after a longish pause.
"As soon as I can set my house in order and induce Hilda to name the day," answered Bothwell frankly. "My dear girl has to be submissive to her brother's will in this matter, and he is now in Paris. Nothing can be finally settled till he comes back. I am stealing a march upon him to-day in going to see the lady—who has been sent to Dawlish to be out of my way."
"O, she is at Dawlish, is she?"
"Yes; she is staying there with her nieces and their governess. I am going to consult her about our house."
"Our house!" What pride there was in the utterance! The General's doubts were gradually melting away. He could not believe that a man who was so obviously in love with his betrothed could have ever cared much for Valeria. To have loved her, and to have exchanged her love for that of any other woman living, seemed to the General an impossibility. He began to think that his wife had exaggerated the situation the other night, in the overwrought state of her nerves, stung to madness by Varney's insolent speech, excited by her husband's retaliation. He began to think that there had been only the mildest flirtation between Bothwell and his wife—the ordinary up-country sentimentality, meaningless, puerile.
He tried to comfort himself with this view of the case. His natural kindness of heart prompted him to help Bothwell if he could. He wanted to respect the wife he loved, to think well of the man who had saved his life.
"My dear Bothwell," he said, "you have come to a crisis in life which most men find as costly as it is delightful. If by any chance you happen to be what our young people call 'short,' I hope you will allow me to be your banker."
"You are too good," faltered Bothwell, strongly moved. "You have always been too good to me—ever so much better than I deserved. No, I am wonderfully well off. My cousin has advanced me a sum of money which she wishes me to take as a gift, but which I intend to treat as a loan."
"That is generally a distinction without a difference—when the transaction is between relations," said the General, smiling.
"O, but in this case I hope the loan will be repaid, for the
