'MADGE HOPGOOD.'


Another letter did come, but Madge was true to her word, and it was
returned unopened.

For a long time Frank was almost incapable of reflection. He dwelt
on an event which might happen, but which he dared not name; and if
it should happen! Pictures of his father, his home his father's
friends, Fenmarket, the Hopgood household, passed before him with
such wild rapidity and intermingled complexity that it seemed as if
the reins had dropped out of his hands and he was being hurried away
to madness.

He resisted with all his might this dreadful sweep of the
imagination, tried to bring himself back into sanity and to devise
schemes by which, although he was prohibited from writing to Madge,
he might obtain news of her. Her injunction might not be final.
There was but one hope for him, one possibility of extrication, one
necessity--their marriage. It MUST be. He dared not think of what
might be the consequences if they did not marry.

Hitherto Madge had given no explanation to her mother or sister of
the rupture, but one morning--nearly two months had now passed--Clara
did not appear at breakfast.

'Clara is not here,' said Mrs Hopgood; 'she was very tired last
night, perhaps it is better not to disturb her.'

'Oh, no! please let her alone. I will see if she still sleeps.'