on going from pole to pole without encumbrance, and who will be behoved to no one for the carriage of their luggage. To him, as he was alone in the street, Forrest addressed himself. ‘Gorloch,’ said he. ‘Gorloch: are you a friend of his?’

‘A friend of mine is so,’ said Forrest.

‘Ah, indeed; yes,’ said the other. And then he hesitated. ‘Sir,’ he then said, ‘Mr. Gorloch died at Callao, just seven days before the ship sailed. You had better see Mr. Cox.’ And then the elderly man passed in with his little bag.

Mr. Gorloch was dead. ‘Dead!’ said Forrest, to himself, as he leaned back against the wall of the hotel still standing on the street pavement. ‘She has come out here; and now he is gone!’ And then a thousand thoughts crowded on him. Who should tell her? And how would she bear it? Would it in truth be a relief to her to find that that liberty for which she had sighed had come to her? Or now that the testing of her feelings had come to her, would she regret the loss of home and wealth, and such position as life in Peru would give her? And above all would this sudden death of one who was to have been so near to her, strike her to the heart?

But what was he to do? How was he now to show his friendship? He was returning slowly in at the hotel door, where crowds of men and women were now thronging, when he was addressed by a middle- aged, good-looking gentleman, who asked him whether his name was Forrest. ‘I am told,’ said the gentleman, when Forrest had answered him, ‘that you are a friend of Miss Viner’s. Have you heard the sad tidings from Callao?’ It then appeared that this gentleman had been a stranger to Mr. Gorloch, but had undertaken to bring a letter up to Miss Viner. This letter was handed to Mr. Forrest, and he found himself burdened with the task of breaking the news to his poor friend. Whatever he did do, he must do at once, for all those who had come up by the Pacific steamer knew the story, and it was incumbent on him that Miss Viner should not hear the tidings in a sudden manner and from a stranger’s mouth.

He went up into the drawing-room, and found Miss Viner seated there in the midst of a crew of women. He went up to her, and taking her hand, asked her in a whisper whether she would come out with him for a moment.

‘Where is he?’ said she. ‘I know that something is the matter. What is it?’

‘There is such a crowd here. Step out for a moment.’ And he led her away to her own room.

‘Where is he?’ said she. ‘What is the matter? He has sent to say that he no longer wants me. Tell me; am I free from him?’

‘Miss Viner, you are free.’

Though she had asked the question herself, she was astounded by the answer; but, nevertheless, no idea of the truth had yet come upon her. ‘It is so,’ she said. ‘Well, what else? Has he written? He has bought me, as he would a beast of burden, and has, I suppose, a right to treat me as he pleases.’

‘I have a letter; but, dear Miss Viner—’

‘Well, tell me all,—out at once. Tell me everything.’

‘You are free, Miss Viner; but you will be cut to the heart when you learn the meaning of your freedom.’

‘He has lost everything in trade. He is ruined.’

‘Miss Viner, he is dead!’