hut in among the Surrey hills, a young girl was waiting one winter night. Every now and then

tepped out into the shadow of the roadway, a

n coming rapidly towards her. She gave a nervous glance towards the lodge-window, then darted out into the roadway, and, walking in the shadow of

g rapidly, soon

up into his face, questione

is head so

said. 'I must leave

y, and, taking the man's

mercy. I told him all. He heard what I had to say, and then tur

ge-he is yo

I'm no son of his. So be it. He's no father of m

ng be done

up to town, and trust to luck. I'm young and strong, and if I

-a handsome brunette-this lodge-keeper's daughter, and many a village swain had laid his heart at her feet, but she had laughed their love away, and kept her heart for one who was far ab

ld have won George Heritage's heart. She was a strong-minded, pure-hearted,

one. There was enough romance in it to redeem it fr

love with a lodge-keeper's daughter as he accepted the fact that he had got heavily into debt. He couldn't

day he supposed he would marry Bess. 'Some day' was a mo

ight he had to begin a new life. He

iew with his father. The old squire was the last ma

t age-a steady young fellow, contented to ride about his father's estate, talk with the old men, and spend his days about the land and his evenings in the library. H

he lad was fifteen and at school, and he saw but little of his father. In due course he went to Oxford, and

, and told him he need not go back to Oxford again; that w

looked out for something to amuse him, and two things happened which influenced the whole after-course of his life. He

of his attention, and he broke

a 'cropper.' He got his name on stamped paper which had an awkward habit of coming due, and let things go on i

hat moment there was an estrangement. George resented the severity of the lectu

. His son avoided his society,

of debt came upon the scapegrace, and the young man went h

onestly indignant, a

gh words that evening in the little library, and t

he squire wouldn't be too hard on Master George, as was a bit wild, perhaps, as was but natural, but he'd s

plentiful crop of oats Master George had sown, neither had they had to d

one penny more should George have. He was a reprobate and a vagabond. He was wa

imself and had had his pleasure and seen life, he had no sympathy with young men. George wasn't going to turn goody-goody and take to psalm-singing and dryasdust books for a

reproach, and so the wordy war

son as an unprincipled rascal, and s

marched out of his father's presence, vo

t. From this moment I renounce my name. I have no father-you have no son. Leave your money to the mis

nd send them up to Waterloo Station the next day, as he was going on a journey; and then he walked hastily down the Avenue

t will you do?'

nd kissing her. 'I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll marry you, and we'll settle down into a h

hem with a burning crimson, for George's sudden proposition had turned her first giddy and then faint; but,

there is no doubt he was in

,' he went on, in repl

t drift on to the rocks. You'll keep me stra

, think of y

shall be Mrs. Smith. I'll get something to do in the City, a

magination bringing home his golden salary o

it all was that he went off to town to look for quiet furnished apartments in

d half mad with delight, to cry on her father's neck an

him and wondered what he would do when she

ust not know they were married-'Not f

the faithful old servant would not be ab

Marks, but he couldn't quite screw his courage up

t off to '

ing to her father, answering at random, and dropping furtive little tears on to her needlework, George

sical societies, religious families, new babies on each floor, and high rents and low ceilings, he came to a little house in a str

r, certainly, for a bedroom and sitting-room; and though the landlady seemed a litt

informed him that she'd let the first floor-no references, but rent a

re they

artly; 'I've only seen the gentleman

his tea, utterly oblivious of the terrible contempt which spread itself over the features o