"I can tell you nothing now, James, so pray do not ask. I will send you my address when I am gone, and you can write to me; and if anything should happen to me, James, will you promise to be a father to my boy?"

"I will, Sophy. I will bring him up as my own child. But all this is really too bad, Sophy. You promised to look upon me as a brother, and now you are going upon some extraordinary business, and don't give me the slightest clue as to what you are going to do; and yet it is so serious that you ask me to take care of your child, if anything happens to you."

"I do look upon you as a brother, James, but not to my own brother would I tell what I am going to do. But at any rate you shall know in six weeks where I am."

More than this James Fielding could not obtain from her, and went away greatly mystified and rather anxious. James Fielding had a shrewd suspicion of how Robert Gregory had met his end. He knew the anticipations of fortune he had under Mr. Harmer's will. He knew—for Robert had spoken to him of it—of the efforts which had been made to find the will. He had read in the papers the account of the burglary at Harmer Place, and that one of the robbers was supposed to have been wounded. When therefore he heard of Robert's death, and that it had resulted from an accident, without any particulars of the how or where being given, the idea had struck him that he had fallen in the attempt to recover the will. All these thoughts forgotten for many years now came back to him, and he could not help fancying that in some way Sophy's new resolution was connected with the same end. However, it was no use guessing on the subject; it was evident that time alone would show, for Sophy would tell him nothing.

The next day James Fielding paid £2,000 in to Sophy's account, and a week afterwards went down into Leicestershire to fetch his bride.

CHAPTER IV.

AN ODD WOOING.

We had not much society at Putney—that is, not much ladies' society. Putney is too near to London for people to call upon new comers; so the only acquaintances we made were the wives and sisters of the "Metropolitan" men who resided there. There were only four or five of them—that is only that number of married men; but that gave us as much quiet evening visiting as we cared for. We were all very sociable, and very frequently met at each other's houses to tea, and then, after a little music, the gentlemen sat down to whist, while we talked and looked on. It was a great 

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