take a dark pleasure in offering to view the dark side of life—but I questioned Mr. Yorke on the subject, and he said,—'Shirley, my woman, if you want to know aught about yond' James Helstone, I can only say he was a man-tiger. He was handsome, dissolute, soft, treacherous, courteous, cruel——' Don't cry, Cary; we'll say no more about it."

"I am not crying, Shirley; or if I am, it is nothing—go on: you are no friend if you withhold from me the truth: I hate that false plan of disguising, mutilating the truth."

"Fortunately, I have said pretty nearly all that I have to say, except that your uncle himself confirmed Mr. Yorke's words: for he too scorns a lie, and deals in none of those conventional subterfuges that are shabbier than lies."

"But papa is dead: they should let him alone now."

"They should—and we will let him alone. Cry away, Cary, it will do you good: it is wrong to check natural tears; besides, I choose to please myself by sharing an idea that at this moment beams in your mother's eye while she looks at you: every drop blots out a sin. Weep—your tears have the virtue which the rivers of Damascus lacked: like Jordan, they can cleanse a leprous memory."

"Madam," she continued, addressing Mrs. Pryor, "did you think I could be daily in the habit of seeing you and your daughter together—marking your marvellous similarity in many points—observing,