Diana Carew

"Here comes Diana of the Ephesians! Ask her what the thinks!"

I, Diana Carew, am the person thus apostrophized. The speaker is my only brother, Wyndham—commonly called Curly—Carew. The third person is my father,—God bless him! A dearer, kinder father never breathed.

He smiles, and lays his hand on my shoulder, as having deposited my burden—a jet-black kitten and a creamy-white one—one on each of Curly's shoulders, I seat myself on his knee.

"Read that, Di," he says, putting into my hand a heavily-crested and monogramed envelope, directed in a lady-like hand to Wyndham Carew, Esq.

With eager curiosity I take out the note it contains, and read as follows:

"DEAR MR. CAREW,—

"We really cannot allow you to condemn your pretty daughter"—(I feel flattered, and blush a little: it is not often I have that adjective applied to me.)

"Aha, Miss Vanity!" cries Curly, "I see the rose come to your damask cheek at the soft impeachment. Proceed, pretty daughter."

"Don't interrupt her, Curly."

—"To the hermit's life," I read on, "you persist in leading yourself,—much to the regret and disappointment of your neighbors."

"Who is this polite lady?" I inquire, referring to the end of the note. "Oh, Mrs. Warrington!"

"We have some friends coming to us on New Year's Day, and if you, with your son and daughter, will spend a few days here, we shall be delighted to see you all. We hope to prevail upon you to join us; but, if you are as resolute as usual in declining all invitations, do not deprive us of the pleasure of seeing your young people. Mr. Warrington has still some fair shooting left, if that will be any inducement to you personally; and he bids me say he will mount your son as often as he likes. Tell Miss Carew we shall have a little dancing, and, I hope, some other amusements for the young ladies. I warn you I do not intend to take any refusal as far as she is concerned; and if you do not yield at once to my request, I shall come over and press it personally.

"Mr. Warrington joins me in kindest regards, and believe me, dear Mr. Carew,

"Very sincerely yours,
        "GEORGIANA WARRINGTON."

My eyes glisten, the color deepens in my face as I read, and when I have finished I look up eagerly in my father's face.

"Well, my dear" (his kind eyes shining tenderly upon me), "what do you say?"

"Oh, papa, could we go?"

"I suppose you would like it very much?"

"Oh!" (with a great sigh, which, if it expresses what I feel, must speak volumes).

"If you do not, people will think I am a tyrannical old ogre, who keeps you shut up like the fathers in story-books."

"Oh, dad, do let us go!" cries Curly, with enthusiasm. "It will be such glorious fun!—and old Warrington has such splendid horses. I'll show them the way!" (his blue eyes flashing with delight at the bare thought of hunting on one of Mr. Warrington's mounts).

"My dear fellow, suppose you staked or broke the back or threw one of his two-hundred-guinea hunters! How would you feel?"

"Never fear, dad: I'll be as steady as old Time."

"Well," says papa, thoughtfully, "if you are both so anxious, I do not see any very important objection to your going."

"But you will go too?" we both cry, in a breath.

He shakes his head, and sighs a little.

"No, children, my visiting days are over, and you know I do not care to accept kindnesses I cannot return."

"Then I shall not go,—that is very certain," I say, decisively, but with a little swelling of disappointment in my throat.

"Nor I," adds Curly, in a dejected tone.

Our father looks at us both with a fond smile.

"What! do you think I am not to be trusted by myself for a few days?" he asks, putting a hand on each of our shoulders. "Mrs. Warrington is quite right. I must not keep Di shut up forever. It is time she came out; and I do not know any one under whose auspices I should better like her to do so than Mrs. Warrington's. Why, how old are you, Di? Seventeen?"

"Eighteen last month, papa, you know," I answer, reproachfully. "But I shall not go without you. I shouldn't care the least for it. And, besides," as a sudden and most important reflection occurs to me, "I have nothing to go in."

"Beauty unadorned's adorned the most," spouts Curly. "Thank Heaven!" (grandly), "those considerations don't affect me!"

"Ah!" says my father, ruefully, "I forgot that. To be sure, that is a very important point. And I suppose" (looking at me inquiringly) "ladies' dress is a tremendous business in the present day."

"Oh, yes," I reply, cheerfully, having quite made up my mind now to the impossibility of going. "Miss Pratt told me that when she was at Lady Gwyneth Desborough's for three days, the ladies changed their dresses four times a day, and had different ones every day."

"Indeed!" says papa, smiling. "But I do not suppose you would be expected to dress like Lady Gwyneth, though I hardly fancy she had many more dresses than you have, before she married poor little Desborough."

"Well," I reply, with more emphasis than elegance, "I would rather go about in a cotton gown all my life than have married him!"

"Oh, he isn't a bad little chap," remarks Curly, "if he wasn't so dreadfully ashamed of the shop, and so fond of talking about his father-in-law the earl."

"But, Di," puts in my father, "you must have one or two dresses, I suppose. You always seem to me" (doubtfully) "to look very nice."

I shake my head.

"Only this," pointing to my well-worn serge, "and an old black silk for Sundays, that has been turned twice, and a white muslin, so shrunk that the body wouldn't meet last time it came from the wash. No" (with mournful emphasis), "it is very certain I cannot go to Mrs. Warrington's."

"Oh, dear!" cries Curly, ruefully, "what a selfish beggar I have been, running the Dad up such tailors' bills at Eton, and all the time poor little Di has had to do without."

"Why, Curly," I respond, quickly, "what in the world do I want with clothes here? And if you were different from the other boys—I mean fellows—at Eton, it would never do."

"Come," says my father, "it's not too late now. Gay and you must lay your heads together and see what can be done. I think I have a ten-pound note somewhere, and I suppose if you had a dress for the day, and another for the evening, that would do just for a few days."

"Ten pounds!" I cry. The idea of spending such a sum all at once upon my dress seems preposterous. "But I am not going. Curly can go; you and I will stop at home together, papa, and be as happy as—as——"

"As what?" asks papa, smiling.

"As anything," I respond, lamely, not finding a suitable, comparison.

"Now, I have made up my mind that you shall both go," says my father, "so I shall proceed to my room and write to Mrs. Warrington that you and Curly will be there on New Year's Day. And you, Di, go and consult with Gay; you have a fortnight before you to prepare."

"Papa," I say, obstinately, "I will not go. I do not care about it; indeed I do not."

"You will be a good, obedient little daughter, and do as I tell you," he answers, going off to write the letter, and leaving me irresolute and uncomfortable in my mind.

"Curly," I say, appealing distressedly to my brother, "I can't—I won't go, and leave papa."

"Nonsense, Di! the Dad will be happy enough. You'll have to leave him some day, when you get married."

"Get married!" I retort, in exceeding scorn. "Yes, a great deal of chance of that! Why" (reflecting), "I don't suppose I've spoken to a man—a gentleman, at least—since I was grown up."

"What, not old Stiggins?"

"Don't speak disrespectfully of your spiritual pastors and masters, sir; but I don't call him a man."

"Ho, ho! I wonder which he would call the most disrespectful?—you or I?"

"Well" (sighing), "I will go and talk to Gay. Oh, Curly! don't pull Othello's tail."

Othello is the black kitten; the white one rejoices in the name of Desdemona.

"I'll come too." And he marches off to the housekeeper's room, by courtesy, where Gay, our faithful old nurse and general factotum, sits darning stockings for the million.

Curly throws open the door.

"Her Majesty the Queen and His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales," he commences, in a loud and important voice, "having for some time past remarked a dearth of beauty about the court, and hearing that, in the wilds of Blankshire, there blooms unseen an exquisite creature of the name of Diana Carew, hereby intimate that her presence is forthwith commanded at Buckingham Palace; which being interpreted, my dear old Susannah, means that Di is going to pay a swell visit, and that you have to set about providing her with a suitable wardrobe."

"What ever does the boy mean?" cries Gay, bewildered, looking up at us over her spectacles.

"What I say, O unbelieving Jewess," dragging her work from her surprised hands and shying it to the farther corner of the room. "Away with melancholy!—away with worsted stockings! From henceforth Diana will walk in silk attire,—will captivate the heart of some lord of high degree, and restore the shattered fortunes of the house of Carew." And Curly, in the blitheness of his young heart, hugs his old nurse, to the great detriment of her cap-strings.

She tries to look angry and to expostulate, but who can be angry with Curly? Of all the cheery faces, of all the beaming blue eyes brimful of laughter, of all the curly golden locks whence he gets his sobriquet, there are none to equal those of my young brother; and, more than that, he has the sweetest disposition and the kindest heart in the world. If he is a little aggravating sometimes, I should like to know what a boy is worth whose animal spirits do not run away with him now and then.

"Now, Miss Di, my dear, do you tell me what it's all to do with," says Gay, apostrophizing me in despair of getting any rational answer out of her pet,—for Curly is her pet without a shadow of doubt, and I don't know that I am very jealous of her preference. Don't we all pet and adore him?

"We are invited to Warrington Hall," I answer, "and papa wishes us to go; he won't go himself."

"Oh, my dear, what will you do for clothes?" cries practical Gay, at once closing with the obstacle that had only been an after-thought with me.

"Papa has offered to give me ten pounds; but what is the use of wasting all that money in clothes?" I say, lugubriously. "After all, I don't suppose I should enjoy going to Warrington very much. I think I'll run down and ask papa to decline for me."

"Rash girl, forbear!" cries Curly, catching me by the arm, and striking a tragic attitude. "I've made up my mind you shall go, and I prophesy you will meet my future brother-in-law, who will be rich, and who will mount me and give me shooting, pay my debts, and, in short, make himself a convenience to me generally. You know, Di" (holding me at arm's length and looking critically at me), "though I say it who shouldn't, you're not altogether what one would call an ugly girl; rather the other way.

Your hair is like the raven's wing,
Your brown eyes flash like anything.

Hold on I till I get two more lines to rhyme.

Your pearly teeth and coral lip,
And nose just turned up at the tip,

I end, laughing.

"By jingo, that makes a complete portrait: don't it, Susannah, my dear?"

"Well, Master Curly, I don't see that her nose turns up at the tip. I'm sure a straighter one——"

"Now, Gay," I cry, rudely breaking in upon her defense of my appearance, "never mind my nose, but let's think of what I am to wear, if I do go after all."

"I suppose ten pounds wouldn't buy a velvet gown, would it?" asks Curly, doubtfully.

"A velvet gown!" I laugh. "A nice matronly old person you would make of me!"

"Indeed," he retorts, "I can tell you Archdale's sisters both have velvet gowns, and they are younger than you,—at least, one of them is; but," dropping his voice, "he told me they cost five-and-twenty guineas each."

"Well," I return, with some contempt, "I am not Archdale's sister, and if I had twenty-five guineas I think I could employ them better."

"Di," says Curly, laying a hand on my shoulder, "I don't think you'll find ten pounds go quite so far as you think, and" (blushing a little) "if you should want any more I have a fiver that I've been saving up and haven't any very particular use for."

For answer I throw my arms round his neck and give him a fervent hug, whilst Gay contemplates us both with an expression of beatitude, murmuring,—

"Lord bless the dear children!"

The house of Carew is not in a flourishing state at the present time; far from it. Gay has wild legends about the days of the old squire, when the Carews were great people in the county, of the grand doings, the entertainments, the carriages and horses, the powdered footmen, and all the apanages of wealth and distinction. She has told us a score of times, as we have sat round the nursery fire, of the ox roasted whole, the barrels of beer, the dancing and feasting that took place when our father came of age, and the gay doings five years later, when he brought our mother home, and the people took the horses out of the carriage and dragged the bride and bridegroom home.

That is only twenty years ago. Whence, then, this sudden and rapid decline in the fortunes of our house? Alas! I scarcely know. My father has never entered into any explanation of the causes of our poverty, though he occasionally recurs, with mingled sorrow and bitterness, to the fact. As for Gay, she cannot give us absolute information, but thinks that at our grandfather's death his affairs were found in an unsatisfactory state, and that papa, in the hope of setting matters straight, speculated, and thereby brought the ruin to a climax. Well, it cannot be helped. One thing I am quite satisfied of,—whatever papa did, he did for the best, and the very cleverest people may be misled sometimes. I know this, that his life has been one long self-abnegation for Curly's sake, that somewhere in the future he may be able to hold up his head and take his own place in the county. We have often talked the dear fellow's prospects over, papa and I, and we are both agreed that at any rate every sacrifice must be made for him. What does it matter about a girl? but a boy, the heir to a good property, the head of an old house, how he is brought up is everything! He must go to Eton, if papa and I live on rabbits and pork all the year round, and have new clothes once in three years.

And how we sit in the twilight, the dear Dad and I, talking over our darling's future, and of his sayings and doings when he was last at home! Sometimes papa says, stroking my hair as I sit at his feet,—

"Di, my dear, I don't think it's quite fair on you: you ought to go to school, or have masters at home, or do something for your education."

"Oh, papa," I answer, deprecatingly, "I am sure I know as much as most girls of my age. I have kept up everything I used to learn with Miss Carter, except" (sighing) "geography and arithmetic. I always did hate those. I speak pretty good grammar, don't I, dear? I write a decent hand. I know enough French to get on abroad, if I ever went there,—which I don't suppose I shall. I can play pretty well on the piano, and I think" (a smile of conscious vanity parting my lips)—"I think I can sing a little."

"Ay," says papa, smiling, "you can that; and" (patting me on the shoulder) "I don't think all the Italian masters in the world could make my little nightingale's voice sweeter."

I blush with pleasure: no praise comes so sweet to me as my father's. My voice is my one little possession, my ewe-lamb, the great delight of my life. For hours I am wont to sit at our old-fashioned piano, that has been a good one once, and, like all good things, bears to the end the trace of its better days. I sit and sing the daylight into twilight, the twilight into evening,—sometimes jocund melodies, but oftener plaintive ones, until I am carried out of myself into sweet dreams and happy trances and shadowy griefs, that have as yet no form, but only guess at sorrow. For I have never been unhappy in my life.

My mother died when I was too young to remember her; and papa and Curly and I have always been so happy together, Of course I have had my troubles; for instance, when Curly first went to school, and once when Gay was ill; and when my pet cat was shot by the keeper, I thought my heart was broken. Our poverty has never made me unhappy. Sometimes I have longed very much for things,—most of all for a horse to ride; but I always consoled myself by thinking that it was no good wishing for what one could not have, so my desires melted back into contentment with my lot. I have papa and Curly and Gay,—the three very dearest creatures in the world; I have the handsomest and faithfulest pug ever known; and a tabby cat lined with apricot, as Curly describes its tawny bosom, that I would not change for any other living cat.

Que voulez-vous? One cannot have everything. I am poor. I have no fine clothes to wear, no horses to ride, no lovers to flatter me, but I am happy, and Lady Gwyneth, who has all that money can buy, is, by her own confession, I have heard, the most miserable woman alive.

Apropos of lovers, I am ashamed almost to say it, but I should, oh, I should like to have a lover; only I have done so long without that I am afraid I shall never get one to please me now. Literally and truthfully, I don't think I have spoken to a man except the clergyman and the doctor since I was grown up,—not even a boy, one of Curly's school-fellows, for naturally enough he does not care to ask them home; and I am sure it would put us all out very much to entertain them.

Our home is a fine handsome old place, but more than two-thirds of it is shut up, and we only live in the smaller rooms, with the exception of the dining-room, full of splendid old carved oak, and family portraits, where we always take our meals. It is a fine room. We have a great screen put halfway across, to make it less cold and vast in the winter. But there are curious contrasts in it. There is the grand carved chimney-piece that reaches the ceiling, and the old brass dogs on the hearth; there are the numerous portraits of former Carews; there is the splendid old sideboard and bookcase, and the fine pair of bronzes which have always filled my youthful soul with admiration. But in contrast there is the poor threadbare old Turkey carpet, that Gay has so often repaired on her knees with colored worsteds, until she has declared her back was fain to break; there are the old curtains, which tradition says were once magnificent crimson velvet, but which have now assumed the yellowish-brown hue one sees sometimes in the hangings of a very old pulpit in a very old church; the gilding of most of the frames is very dingy, and the ceiling, and what little is visible of the walls, sadly requires paint and whitewash. The leather on the handsome old chairs is in a melancholy condition: age and the vagaries of numerous kittens have done their fell work upon them, and now nothing but the backs of them are really respectable. The room is certainly a wreck, if you come to think of it; but we are all so used to it, I don't believe we ever do think of it. And then we don't sit there, but in a much snugger room that used to be the morning-room, and where, though the furniture and the carpet and the curtains are old too, they look more comfortable and homely. I think papa would have let the house long ago,—the rent of it would have made us comparatively rich,—only there is a clause somewhere forbidding it; and I do verily believe we would all rather be poor and live there ourselves than feel it was in the hands of strangers.

We have the greatest veneration for the family heirlooms, the old oak and pictures, and plate and china, of which there is great store, and which once now and again Gay allows us to feast our eyes upon. I suppose papa does feel being poor dreadfully. Gay thinks he does: she was under-nurse to him when he was a baby, and has lived in the family ever since. But he nearly always seems cheerful, and goes about with his gun, or works in the garden, where we both help him, or sits in his study, reading and writing. He hardly ever alludes to our poverty: when he does, it is with such bitter sadness, it makes my heart bleed for him. Dear, darling father! I do believe he blames himself, and thinks that we are suffering from his fault; and I long sometimes to throw my arms round his neck and tell him how satisfied we are, Curly and I; that all he has done was for the very best, only I would not have him think there had ever been even question of it in our minds. Why should he feel so dreadfully for us, when I am sure we do not for ourselves? Curly is as happy as the day is long; what boy is not at Eton?—and he is always thoroughly delighted to come home,—poor though home may be. He knows there are no hearts elsewhere that beat so lovingly and tenderly for him. As for me, I am never idle a moment, so I cannot be unhappy; what with my household cares,—and really a good deal of contriving is required to make ends meet, to provide not only for our own small household, but for the sick and poor who often stand in need of our help, and rather than send whom empty away, papa would go dinnerless himself.

Then there are all my pets to be looked after,—my cat and kittens, the two retrievers, my pug, Curly's ferrets to be taken for their daily airing. They are as friendly and affectionate as the kittens, and I might like them better if their coats did not exhale such a very pungent odor. Then there is my old pony Tommy, whom I ride and drive, and make a general convenience of, and my devotion to whom is not one whit lessened by my contempt for his powers and appearance. Poor old fellow! he is twenty-one,—just of age, we laugh and say, and he is more often turned out than not. What can you expect? Our establishment consists of Gay, the cook, and a very young housemaid and parlor-maid combined, who is a thorn in Gay's side, and more plague to her, as she is wont irritably to aver, than if she had to do the whole of the work herself. It is a come-down for the Carews, I suppose; but I do not remember anything different: so it troubles me but very little. I have my ideas of love, riches, and grandeur, but they are mostly derived from historical novels and Gay's old stories, certainly not from any experience I have had of any one of them.

I am not going to pretend for an instant that I never think about my personal appearance, nor speculate upon my looks, nor what effect they are likely to produce upon the other sex, when they are blessed with a sight of me. I do not believe there is a girl living who is utterly devoid of the instinct of vanity. Often and often I have sat before the glass and arranged my hair in different fashions, and tried on the old brocaded gowns of my grandmother, which I have coaxed Gay to lend me for an afternoon; and once I was so well satisfied with my appearance that I could not resist the impulse of running down to show myself to papa, though I fully expected to be called a vain puss for my pains. There is a portrait in the dining-room of one Diana Carew (I know not exactly what ancestress of mine), gorgeously attired in blue and white brocade, with pearls twisted in her dark hair.

It was one wet autumn afternoon, and I was sitting at Gay's feet as she darned the eternal stockings, and she was regaling me with stories of our departed glories.

"I've got the very gownd put away up-stairs as Miss Diana, that was your great—no, it must have been great-great—well, I'm not certain, so I'll say your great-grand-aunt—was painted in."

"What!" I cry, rising excitedly to my feet. "You wicked, unkind, good-for-nothing old creature!—and you have never shown it to me all this time! I have a great mind to shake you" (standing threateningly over her).

"Well" (with a benevolent smile, and no appearance of fear on her kind old face), "I always thought I would keep it as a treat; so now, if you like" (taking her hand out of the foot of the stocking), "I'll get my keys, and you shall have the treat, my dear."

So, preceded by my impatient footsteps, with the pug following excitedly at my heels, she ascends the broad staircase, traverses the long gallery, and unlocks the door of one of the principal bedrooms.

"Faugh!" I say, holding my nose, "how fusty it smells!"

"Ah!" responds Gay, who always has a reminiscence for every disparaging remark of mine, "it wasn't fusty when the Duke and Duchess of Blankshire slept here the night of your papa's coming of age. Well I mind saying, as I went in to look at it before their Graces arrived, I'd be bound they didn't sleep in a handsomer room at home."

"Hm!" I say, with a doubtful glance around me, as she undoes a shutter and lets in the daylight.

It is a vast and lofty room. An enormous oak bedstead, with lions couchant at the foot, stands in the centre; a gigantic wardrobe lines nearly one side; all the furniture gives one an idea of having been made for a larger race of men. There is no carpet OH the polished floor, the old, heavy-framed mirrors are dim and lustreless, and altogether the room, in spite of its gloomy grandeur, has a wreck-like appearance. My voice sounds preternaturally loud and hollow as I make unflattering comments upon the furniture generally and particularly.

I wait with breathless eagerness as Gay unlocks the wide door of the wardrobe, pulls out the heavy drawers, and proceeds to unfold from its numerous wrappings the treasure my eyes desire to behold.

"There," she says, triumphantly, as, having taken off the last fold of silver paper, she holds it before my longing eyes.

"It's very scanty," I remark, disparagingly.

"Well, my dear" (tartly), "when gownds was made of such splendid material, they didn't want to cover them all over with flounces and furbelows. It'll stand by itself, this will."

"Nearly," I assent. "It is handsome, certainly" (regarding the stiff brocade with my head on one side). "Nurse, I shall try it on."

But Gay regards my proposition almost in the light of sacrilege. However, after infinite coaxing, I get not only her permission but her help. Rapture! It fits me as if it had been made for me. I rush off to my own room, Gay loudly expostulating at my heels. There I build my hair up on high after the manner of Miss Diana below-stairs, twist a string of mock pearls I possess among other treasures through it, and, this done, survey myself with extreme content in the long glass which hangs on the wall of my room.

"Well, to be sure!" says Gay, in a voice wherein surprise and admiration contend for mastery. "Any one might think you'd just stepped out of the picture!"

"Would not they?" I exclaim, in great glee, parading up and down in my creamy train and sky-blue bunched-up tunic, not at all so unlike the fashion of to-day. "I shall go and show myself to papa."

"No, don't you, now, Miss Di! don't you!" entreats Gay. "Your papa might be displeased with me."

"Did you ever know him displeased in your life, you old goose?" I cry, gayly, eluding her grasp, and rushing off as well as my train will permit, the pug in full pursuit.

"You'll sile the bottom on those stairs!" cries Gay after me, in an agonized tone. "That Sally never half does them down."

But I am already outside the study door. It is getting dusk, twilight is creeping on at least half an hour before its time this dull afternoon, and I quietly open the door, and with a low step, and somewhat beating heart, advance to my father. He looks up with a bewildered glance; then a curious look comes into his face, a proud, fond, tender kind of smile, then he puts his hand before his eyes, and, rising abruptly, turns to the window.

I grow red and pale by turns. What have I done? Why is he so moved? A thousand thoughts flash through my mind in an instant. Have I reminded him of my mother? But no; Curly is like her. I take after him.

"Oh, papa," I cry, running towards him, "I am so sorry! Have I vexed you?"

"Vexed me!" he answers, turning and stretching out his arms, to which I fly. "No, indeed, child. But when I see" (his voice trembling) "how well fine clothes become my little girl, it makes me grieve to think that but for my folly she would have had them to wear always."

"Oh, papa, why do you say such things? I hate fine clothes!" I cry, passionately. "Horrid, uncomfortable, stiff, ugly things! I should be very sorry to wear them often. I will run and get out of them as quickly as I can."

As I go crestfallenly up-stairs, I hate myself for my stupid, unseemly joke; my vanity has melted into shame and regret. Probably my feelings are depicted on my face, for, as I enter my bedroom, Gay, who is awaiting me, says, reproachfully,—

"There, now, Miss Di! I told you your papa wouldn't like it."

I tear off my finery in a rage, and fling it on the bed, where Gay pats and pulls it out apologetically. Then I bury my face in my pillow and cry bitterly.

The eventful day arrives. All obstacles have been surmounted, even the important one of my dress, though I must confess the ten pounds did not go nearly so far as I had expected. However, I am equipped so that no one can carp very much at my attire, and the reflection that gives me the greatest satisfaction is, that my clothes are undeniably well made, and fit to perfection. Elise herself could not have done more for my figure. It so happens that the daughter of an old servant, who lived with the family in its palmy days, is home for her holiday. She is lady's maid in what her mother is pleased to term a very grand family, and, as we have always kept up friendly relations, Hester has most good-naturedly offered, on hearing of my projected visit, to make my dresses. When she brings them home I am so dazzled with the magnitude of my possessions that Hester is obliged to give me a good-natured hint not to be too much elated until I have seen the splendor of the other guests.

Warrington Hall is ten miles distant, and we have post horses from the neighboring town put to our old brougham (another dreadful expense, I think, lugubriously).

Curly is in tremendous spirits, which I cannot say I altogether share. I feel rather frightened, and a little sad, for I have never left papa before. My eyes are so dim I can hardly see his dear, kind face, as he comes to see us off, and wishes us a cheery good-by and a pleasant visit.

"Oh, Curly, how dull papa will be without us!" I say, in a melancholy voice, as we turn away from the door.

"Not he; he is delighted we are going. It is just the very thing he wished for you: he told me so this morning. I say, Di, let's look at you. What a swell you are!"

"Am I not?" (proudly glancing down at myself with considerable satisfaction). "But I dare say," I add, mindful of Hester's warning,—"I dare say I shall not think much of myself when I see the others."

"Oh," replies Curly, patronizingly, "girls can't be expected to dress like married women, which I expect they'll mostly be; and you look like a lady, and that's the great thing."

"Curly," I hazard, presently, as, though he is nearly two years my junior, I look up to him in compliment to his having seen a great deal more of the world, "do you feel at all nervous?"

"Nervous!" (with considerable scorn). "What about?"

"Of course" (apologetically) "you've stayed in big houses before, but I haven't; and, Curly, dear" (blushing), "if you should see me do anything awkward, or not quite right, you'll be sure and tell me, won't you?"

"Of course I will; but you've only got to be natural," responds my young brother, oracularly, "and do just as you would at home."

I feel rather doubtful about the last part of the sentence, remembering how I am wont to scamper about the house, race upstairs two and three at a time, sing at the top of my voice, and give my opinion freely and unhesitatingly upon every subject.

"I wonder who will be there," I say.

"Oh, the Desboroughs, most likely, and perhaps some of the Montagus; or they may not have any county people at all. I don't know, I should think Lady Gwyneth will be there. She and old Warrington are great allies."

"I hope she will. I want to see her," I reply.

We have arrived. From the cold and darkness we are ushered into a blaze of warmth and light. My shyness prevents me from mastering any details at first. I only know that my dazzled senses are filled with new ideas of luxury, comfort, costliness. A soft, rose-colored light pervades the room, there is a delicate scent of hothouse flowers, and round the blazing fire is a large group of people, talking with considerable animation. Out from the group, from behind a shining silver tea-service, a tall, gracious-looking woman comes towards me,—not young, but still handsome, and with an unmistakable air of grande dame, that even unsophisticated I recognize at once. She greets us with kindly warmth, draws me forward to the circle round the fire, utters a few words of presentation to the rest of the company, which I am too nervous to gather, and seats herself beside me on a sofa.

"I am so disappointed you have not brought your father," she whispers, kindly. "You must entice him out a little by degrees: we cannot have Carew Court made into a hermitage, such a gay, pleasant house as it used to be." And then she asks me about the journey, and in a few minutes I begin to feel at home, and my first agony of shyness subsides. The rest of the party have relapsed into their cheery talk; the charmed circle has another addition in Curly, who is perfectly at his ease. "Hector," says Mrs. Warrington, presently, "will you pour Miss Carew out a cup of tea?"

A tall dark man separates himself from the rest and obeys Mrs. Warrington's behest. When he brings it I am introduced to him. "My dear, let me introduce Mr. Montagu to you. Hector, this is a neighbor of yours as well as ours. Miss Carew."

Mr. Montagu sits down on the other side of me. He has a distinguished face, though not exactly a handsome one; but there is something awe-inspiring about him. I feel afraid of him. He wears a cold, almost contemptuous expression, and yet now he smiles it is not an unpleasant face, rather the reverse; but I do not feel at ease with him. He utters a few cold, civil words to me, and, to my chagrin, Mrs. Warrington leaves us and goes out of the room. Is it possible that my face betrays my feelings? Mr. Montagu fixes his keen eyes upon me, and his mouth curves with a smile that is by no means a genial one.

"Do not be afraid," he says, in a low voice; "I dare say Mrs. Warrington will soon return."

To say that I am embarrassed is to give but poor and inadequate expression to the confusion that covers me. Seeing it, he adds, hastily,—

"I was only joking; but indeed you did look frightened. People are rather by way of being afraid of me at first, but really and truly" (laughing) "I am not so awful as I look."

"Mr. Montagu," says a dark, imperious-looking woman at this moment, "as Mrs. Warrington has delegated the duty of pouring out tea to you, perhaps you will come and attend to my wants."

There is another man at her elbow, doing nothing; but I am very glad to have Mr. Montagu's attention distracted from me. He rises, not very graciously, and I, being left to myself, take the opportunity of making a closer inspection of my entourage. The pleasant, becoming light issues from two rose-shaded lamps, the delicate odors from a profusion of choice flowers scattered liberally about the frequent tables, the hearth is piled with blazing logs, every object glows with rich warm tints. The thick carpet, that feels like a well-kept lawn to my unaccustomed feet, is crimson, the hangings and furniture are a lovely shade of blue, the doors and cornices are black and gold, of which there are also quaint-shaped tables and ornaments. You can scarcely see the creamy walls for the little gems of pictures in heavy gold frames, the mirrors, velvet brackets, china plates, vases, cups and saucers that cover them. An immense tiger-skin rug lies in front of the fire, and there are draped velvet curtains to the mantel-piece.

Incidentally I observe the rest of the party. The small fair woman in a riding-habit, talking volubly and laughing rather loudly, is of course Lady Gwyneth Desborough. She has fair hair, cut short like a boy's, a retroussé nose, and scarcely that aristocratic air and tone I should have expected from an earl's daughter.

At this period of my life, utterly untaught by experience, my ideas savor somewhat of foregone conclusions. I imagine that all people of noble birth must have distinguished manners and perfect breeding; just as I am persuaded all clergymen must be pious, all women modest, all servants respectful, and so on. I do not particularly admire Lady Gwyneth, nor does she seem to me very lady-like, in spite of her birth. It may be difficult to manage a habit gracefully in the room, but she need not sit cross-legged, and lean back, with one arm thrown over the sofa: indeed, she looks more like a very small man than a woman. She is talking with the utmost animation to two or three men, and employing, to say the least of it, very technical terms: the subject is the day's run.

I feel rather glad papa is not here. I think I should feel a little ashamed if he were. The lady who has summoned Mr. Montagu from my side is dark and handsome, though very slight and thin. She is magnificently dressed in dark-green velvet and fur, which well becomes her imperial air. Her dark brows nearly meet over her large eyes, giving a dissatisfied, almost angry look to the face that wellnigh amounts to a scowl. Then there is a pretty, fair girl, who has been engaged in deepest conversation with a long-moustached man ever since I came in. They are sitting rather apart from the rest: it occurs to me that they must be engaged.

There are five men present; I do not know who they are, in spite of Mrs. Warrington's introduction. There is only one in whom I feel much interest. He is talking to Lady Gwyneth; and once or twice our eyes have met,—such kind, pleasant eyes, though I cannot see the color. The rest of the face is not exactly handsome, but it is the face of a thorough gentleman. Behind him is an insignificant little man, whom I take to be Mr. Desborough, from the contemptuous looks and words that Lady Gwyneth now and again throws at him when he presumes to join in her conversation. He is at this moment making some remark about his prowess in the hunting-field; she breaks in in a rasping, contemptuous voice:

"You as near as possible brought Lady-love to grief to-day; if you had quite, I should have discharged Stevens without a character, for putting you upon her with that bit."

Involuntarily my eyes open and my mouth falls. Is that the way women in society talk to their husbands? I expect him to make some furious reply,—her tone has made even my neutral blood boil,—but he only turns away with a cowed, uneasy laugh. Involuntarily I look at my friend with the kind eyes (I don't know why I should call him my friend, though, since we have not yet exchanged one word): they meet mine with a half-amused, half-disgusted smile,—the former, I suppose, called forth by the expression of amazement on my face, which I hastily endeavor to modify.

Mr. Montagu, having performed the duties required of him, returns to my side.

"A nice civil little speech that of Lady Gwyneth's to her lord, was it not?" he whispers. "Is that the way you will treat the victim of your bow and spear?"

I look up at him.

"You seem to have the gift of reading my face," I answer, with rather an injured air. "Do you think I shall? Do I look as if I should?"

He smiles; it is not a sneer this time.

"I don't think you would, though your eyes look quite capable of holding their own. Lady Gwyneth does not look like a vixen; we are all very much creatures of circumstance, and Desborough is irritating."

"Why did she marry him?—she could never have liked him," I say, and then am overtaken with a horror lest I have been indiscreet.

"At your age of course you think all marriages should be love-matches," he says, eying me with a certain curiosity.

"Yes—no—I do not know!" I stammer.

"Well, there is a couple of whom you will quite approve" (indicating with his eyes the pair whom I have already speculated upon): "they are very much in love, and will not have five hundred a year between them."

This sum does not seem so appallingly small to me as it evidently does to him. Realizing this by a glance at my face, he continues, hastily:

"What do you think of Mrs. Huntingdon?"

"The lady in green velvet?"

"Is it green? I thought it was black. She is handsome, is she not?"

"Yes," I answer, trying to keep my voice under control this time, "very."

"Rather a hard face?"

"She is very handsome," I say, resolved not to give an opinion adverse to any of the party.

"That is her husband, Major Huntingdon, just going to stir the fire. They are another attached couple."

"Who is that talking to Lady Gwyneth?" I ask, plucking up courage to ask the question I have been dying to put for the last ten minutes.

"The best fellow living,—a very old friend of mine,—Fane,—Colonel Rochester Fane. His sister is coming to-morrow,—the nicest woman in the world. I am very glad for your sake she is coming, for I hardly know whom you would have to fraternize with else. Nelly Gore is too wrapped up in her soldier; and I don't think you will take much to Lady Gwyneth or Mrs. Huntingdon."

"Nor they to me," I hazard.

"Nor they to you," he acquiesces. "I should be rather sorry" (looking at me kindly) "if they did."

"My dear, will you not like to see your room?" says Mrs. Warrington, coming up to me. And, I assenting, she carries me off to a charming little room, all white lace and pink ribbons, with pretty pictures hung upon the walls, and a hundred elegant nicknacks disposed about.

I cannot but give vent to my hearty admiration.

"Do you like it, my dear? I am very glad," she says, kindly. And then she draws me to her and kisses me, and a mist comes across my eyes. "Your brother's room is next door," she tells me; "I thought you would like to be together."

When she is gone, I sit down by the fire and begin to think. How strange, how refined, how luxurious this new life to which I am suddenly introduced seems! I look around me, and then summon up the vision of my own bare room at home, with its strips of faded carpet, its old though clean dimity hangings, and its ponderous furniture.

"Never mind, dear, darling old home," I say to myself, as if it were feeling a pang at my comparison, "I love you ten times better than any other place, though the walls were gold and it was paved with diamonds. You hold all I love."

But all the same I busy my brain to think whether I cannot take a few hints away from Warrington for the beautifying and improving of our house.

My reflections are disturbed by Curly coming into the adjoining room. I try the door of communication between us.

"Who's there?" he shouts.

"It's me,—Di," I answer.

"Hooray! Wait a minute; there's a key on this side."

And in a moment we are comparing notes on the magnificence of our respective apartments.

Curly's room is very much like mine, except that his walls are adorned with pictures of horses and dogs.

"This is fine!—isn't it?" he cries, delightedly, giving me a hug. "How do you feel, Di? Aren't you enjoying yourself immensely?"

"Well, not exactly" (doubtfully). "You see, I have hardly spoken to any one but Mrs. Warrington yet. I love her, but I don't think I shall care much about the other women."

"Oh, Lady Gwyneth is awfully jolly."

"Is she?" I answer, dryly. "I shouldn't have thought she was an earl's daughter."

"What!" he says, laughing, "did you suppose earl's daughters talked blank verse in the bosoms of their families? My dear little Di, you'll find them very much like other people" (with an air of superiority).

"Rather more vulgar, perhaps?" I suggest.

"Vulgar!—not a bit of it. You don't know anything about society. People always talk in that sort of way."

"Do they? Well, I must dress, or I shall be late," I say, shutting the door. "Curly, be sure you don't go down without me."

"All right. I say" (through the door) "shall I part my hair down the middle, or on one side?"

"Down the middle," I reply, promptly.

"You don't think I shall look too much like a girl?" (anxiously).

"I think you will look more like a girl than Lady Gwyneth," I say, maliciously. "She wears hers on one side, you know."

I do not catch Curly's rejoinder, but the tone sounds rather cross.

"Never mind, dear boy," I say, humbly, opening the door again. "I did not mean to vex you."

"Of course not," he rejoins, heartily. "Look alive, Di, or you'll be late."

I feel a very small individual when we are all assembled in the handsome amber drawing-room and I see the toilettes of the other women. Lady Gwyneth looks very different from what she did an hour ago, and I must confess there is a little something of the grande dame about her. She is dressed entirely in white,—the softest, finest muslin and lace. I know very little about lace, except that this is Valenciennes, and from the quantity and quality must be very costly. It is quite the loveliest dress I have ever seen. Mrs. Huntingdon is simply gorgeous. She wears a pale greenish-blue satin trimmed with humming-birds' breasts and beetles' wings. Miss Gore, too, is elegant. But, though my dress is plain compared with the others, thanks to Hester, I do not feel dowdy I am introduced to my host. He is a loud-voiced, jolly-looking man,—quite in the English squire style, or, rather, what I imagine it to be. He greets us both very kindly and cordially, particularly Curly, whom he has seen before.

Dinner is announced, and I am taken in by Major Huntingdon. Here new surprises await me. It seems like a series of enchantments. I feel as Aladdin must have done in the magician's cave. So occupied am I with looking and wondering at all I see, that I scarcely hear my neighbor's civil little remarks, and reply no doubt in a very mal à propos manner. But as soon as he is served with soup he gives me up, and I may make my observations at my leisure. The table gives me at least ten minutes' occupation,—the lovely flowers and exquisite glass ornaments, the glistening gold and silver plate. I think of papa sitting down alone to his meagre, unbeautiful meal in our dull, bare dining-room. I will have flowers on the table, I say to myself. We have plenty of handsome china vases, and I might have our little homely dessert decorated with pretty leaves and berries. The warmth, the light, the laughter, all seem wonderfully pleasant to me; most of all I love to catch Curly's ringing voice. He is sitting by Lady Gwyneth. I heard her ask Mr. Warrington to put him next her, and, though I feel a sort of instinctive dislike to her, I am glad that she is kind to him, since it makes him happy.

The pictures on the wall, the rich draperies, the numerous servants in their handsome liveries, all come in for my observation and admiration; as for the butler, I firmly believe, from his distinguished manners, that he is a gentleman in reduced circumstances. I should not be surprised to hear he had been a clergyman: he pours out the wine very much as though he were performing some sacred rite. Major Huntingdon has quite given me up: he is absorbed in his dinner. Most of the men, I notice, take a kindly interest in the business on hand; some of the ladies, also, are not wholly indifferent to or disdainful of it.

Presently I am aware that the squeaky little voice of my other neighbor, Mr. Desborough, is addressing me. His conversation is by no means entertaining; it consists solely and entirely of the sayings and doings of the Upper Ten, with which the humblest village girl could not be less acquainted than myself. He gives me a considerable amount of information about various members of the aristocracy,—what the Duke of this said, how his father-in-law the earl did so and so, and a good deal about his sisters-in-law, Lady Bell, Lady Hyacinth, and Lady Audrey. I am quite ignorant of the ways of society, but it does not strike me as particularly well-bred to bore a person with pointless anecdotes about people they never saw or heard of, nor do I imagine a constant interlarding of the conversation with people's titles to be a proof of blue blood. Mr. Desborough's antecedents are unknown to me, but, whatever they may be, I think him a snob all the same. He has got to royalty now.

"The Prince of Wales was saying—" he begins, in his mean, swaggering voice.

"Do you know the Prince of Wales?" I interrupt, so astonished at the idea of his having acquaintance with royalty that I rather forget my own manners. For I am only a little country-girl, and in my rustic mind royalty is elevated on such a pedestal that to think of commonplace people being on speaking-terms with it takes my breath away.

In my surprise, I speak in rather a loud key. Unfortunately, at this moment there is a lull in the conversation, and my question is heard by every one at the table. There is a general titter. Lady Gwyneth laughs aloud, and her unfortunate little husband crimsons with mortification as he stammers,—

"Not exactly,—not personally."

I am quite as confused as he is. I hate making people uncomfortable, and feel dreadfully ashamed of my gaucherie. Mr. Desborough does not trouble me with any more of his conversation, and I believe from that moment hates me cordially. I hear him say something to his next neighbor in an aggressive voice about bread-and-butter school-girls, which of course is meant for me. I really am very sorry for him. I did not mean to hurt his feelings as I think he does mine.

"That was one for Desborough," remarks Major Huntingdon, in an amused undertone.

"What have I said?" I ask, hastily. "I am sure I am very sorry."

"It is worse than you think for," he whispers, laughing. "Three years ago his old father, who is the biggest snob out, gave a tremendous entertainment, and moved heaven and earth to get the Prince there; but he did not go. It was a dreadful mortification."

"How sorry I am!" I murmur, not a bit amused, and longing, if it would not be adding insult to injury, to apologize to Mr. Desborough.

"You need not be" (laughing): "he wants taking down, with his insufferable snobbish airs; he would not be tolerated but for Lady Gwyneth."

Here Major Huntingdon's attention is taken off by the arrival of a snipe, and I am left to continue my wistful stare at the clock's broad gold face, round which the hands appear to travel so slowly. We have already been an hour and five minutes at dinner, and it does not seem near its end yet.

"Good heavens!" I think, "do they have all these dishes every day, and can these people always eat and drink as they are doing to-night?"

I am getting very tired of watching them, for, though I have an excellent appetite, I cannot go on eating forever, and after soup, fish, and one entrée, I came to a stand-still. The room is getting warm, most faces are flushed, the mirth sounds rather boisterous in my unaccustomed ears, and I am longing devoutly for dinner to be over. I glance furtively at the menu. Macedoine de Fruit. Soufflé glace à l'Abricot. Ramequins, I read. What are ramequins, I wonder? And after that there will be dessert, I suppose, glancing at the pine, grapes, and various fruits and sweetmeats which decorate the table.

I wearily resume my contemplation of the company. Mrs. Huntingdon sits opposite, and next her is a young, fair, good-looking man, whom I hear people call Sir George. They have been whispering together all dinner-time: apparently they do not find it long. The scowl has gone from her handsome face, but I do not altogether admire the expression that has replaced it. I am young and ignorant, but I know that even I, who am so humble a personage compared with her, should feel indignant if any man looked at me in the way he does at her; and how can she have so little command over her eyes, with her husband sitting opposite. What is he made of? Does he not see? Is he not burning, raging with jealousy? I glance furtively at him. At this very moment his eyes, which are traveling round the table, rest on them, and pass on, evidently without seeing anything that causes him a moment's uneasiness. I begin to wonder whether there is anything wrong with my own mind.

At last dinner comes to an end. When the elaborate hands have laboriously worked themselves round to twenty minutes to ten, Mrs. Warrington inclines her head to Lady Gwyneth, and we are released. If I yielded to my natural impulse, I should jump up, probably oversetting my chair, and skip nimbly across the broad hall; but, as it is, I march demurely after Miss Gore, hoping she will think fit to take some little notice of me. But being engaged seems very preoccupying. She seats herself listlessly in a corner, and is soon buried in thought. (I suppose, of her soldier, whom she has not left two minutes.) So I betake myself to the conservatory at the farther end of the room, and luxuriate in the sight and smell of the sweet rare flowers. When I return to the fire, Mrs. Huntingdon and Lady Gwyneth are sitting on two low chairs, talking, Mrs. Warrington is indulging in a gentle doze, and Miss Gore still maintains her pensive attitude.

"Charlie Montagu is coming to-morrow," Mrs. Huntingdon is saying, in her cold, languid voice, as I approach. "Do you know him?"

"Brother of the man who is here?" asks Lady Gwyneth.

"Yes. Do you not know him?"

"No. What is he like?"

"The handsomest man in England."

"Really!" (indifferently). "I do not care for handsome men. What can he do?"

"Smoke, drink champagne, play écarté, and allow himself to be adored."

Lady Gwyneth utters an expression of contempt, in which I must say I concur.

"Doesn't he ride, or shoot, or do anything?"

"Oh, yes, he can, but I don't know that he distinguishes himself particularly in any sport. It is too much trouble. But when a man is so good to look at, he can dispense with accomplishments."

Lady Gwyneth takes no pains to repress the hearty scorn she feels at this remark.

"Why don't they show him about in a caravan?" she says. "I suppose he is poor, with expensive tastes, like most younger sons; and possibly women who expect nothing more of a man than that he should be good-looking would not mind paying their guineas for the pleasure of contemplating him. He might smoke and drink champagne, you know, at the same time."

Mrs. Huntingdon looks supremely indifferent to Lady Gwyneth's sneer.

"I wonder you never met him in London," she remarks.

"I never was in London for the season before my marriage last year."

"Really!" (elevating her eyebrows a little). "What a dreadful waste of life!"

"Rather what a dreadful waste of life to be there!" retorts Lady Gwyneth. "I never spent a stupider time in my life,—ambling up and down the Row, or driving one's ponies half a mile an hour down the drive in the afternoon. I cannot conceive what pleasure people find in it."

"I have no Amazon proclivities myself," says Mrs. Huntingdon, with a slight yawn; "and I think it the only place to live in. I merely exist out of it."

I am rather glad that at this juncture a man appears in the doorway. Neither of the ladies are looking very amiable, but at the sight of broadcloth their faces undergo a transformation. Mrs. Warrington wakes up briskly, and Miss Gore's eyes kindle with eager expectation as she looks towards the door through which all the black coats are entering, some briskly, some languidly, some as if they were glad to join the ladies, others as if they were sorry to leave the wine. Miss Gore is asked to sing, and her soldier bends tenderly over her while she executes rather an elaborate Italian song. I hope they won't ask me, in an agony of shyness; but no sooner has Mrs. Warrington thanked and complimented Miss Gore than she makes straight for me.

"Do you sing, Miss Carew? I am sure you do. Let me send for your music."

Here my anguish is so great that I do think I might have been tempted into telling a falsehood, had not Curly, whom I never felt so near hating in my life, interposed.

"Sing!—I should rather think she does. You must hear her, Mrs. Warrington." I dart an angry glance at him, to which he responds by the sweetest of smiles. I am led off like a lamb to the slaughter. The room swims before me, my hands shake as if I had the palsy, my teeth verily chatter in my head: how can one sing under such circumstances? I begin miserably, get from bad to worse, and come to a lame and impotent conclusion.

It may be very kind of the audience to applaud me so heartily, no doubt it is intended to be very reassuring, but it only makes me tenfold more ashamed of myself: indeed, I have not even courage to leave the piano, and long to turn myself, like Hezekiah, with my face to the wall.

"Why, Miss Carew," cries my host, in his jolly voice, "we had no idea we had such a star down here in the provinces." Star, indeed! he might have said sun, looking at my flaming face. I evidently was not meant for society; at home I do not blush once in six months, but since my arrival at Warrington I have done nothing else. Why was blushing invented, or why cannot it be properly controlled for suitable occasions, or left altogether to the mock modest who would set great value on the acquirement? To add to my pleasurable sensations, Curly comes up with a flushed, cross face.

"I say, Di, what an awful mess you made of it!" he ejaculates, reassuringly. "Do show them you can do something better than that!"

"Eh? What!" cries Mr. Warrington, catching him by the shoulder, and giving it a friendly shake. "You critical young jackanapes! What do you know about it, I should like to know? Stick to your football and cricket, and don't pretend to come the singing-master over us."

"Well, sir, I should just like you to hear what she can do," responds Curly, who, I am glad to see, in spite of his acquaintance with society, hangs out the same tokens of distress in his cheeks that I do. Perhaps it runs in the family.

"Come, Di" (with a frown and a wink), "sing 'Old Robin Gray,' or one of those."

"Oh, do, do!" cry half a dozen voices.

I look round me, as I have seen my cat do in the yard when two or three strange dogs came in. If there were any way of escape, I would flee incontinently there and then; but there is not. So, with the courage of despair, I say to myself, I will do better this time, and, thank Heaven, I do. And when I have got half-way through that fine old song, that, hackneyed as it is, will always be sweet and touching, I forget my audience, and sing it as I do to myself, feeling all the while just as heart-broken as if I were tied to Auld Robin and my Jamie had just taken his one kiss and torn himself away. There is no applause this time; people are regarding me curiously, and I am utterly surprised as I rise to see Lady Gwyneth sitting near me with tears in her eyes, and her small nose pink with suppressed emotion. Mr. Desborough is not old, I think to myself, but it occurs to me that there may perhaps be young Robins as well as old ones.

I sink shyly down on the nearest couch, and at this moment Mrs. Warrington comes up with my friend. Yes, I know he is going to be my friend by that inexplicable feeling of attraction that once or twice in a life-time draws two strangers together, before they have had time to know or even to speculate about each other.

"My dear, Colonel Fane wishes to be introduced to you. Miss Carew, Colonel Rochester Fane."

Having performed this ceremony, she goes, and he seats himself beside me.

"I want your advice, Miss Carew," he says, in an easy, off-hand manner, as though we had known each other for years.

"Mine?" I say, looking and feeling very much surprised.

"Yes. How is one to make sufficient distinction in one's voice when one desires to express extreme gratitude, or has to pronounce a mere formal compliment, when precisely the same words are given one to do it in?"

"I don't think I quite understand," I answer, regarding him doubtfully.

"For instance" (bending a little nearer, and speaking in a lower key), "Miss Gore's singing gave me no pleasure at all, but I was obliged to say, 'Thank you;' yours gave me the greatest pleasure I have had for a long time, and yet I can find nothing more to say for it than, 'Thank you.'"

"Oh," I answer, a little puzzled how to reply to what I imagine to be the polite jargon of society, "'Thank you' is quite enough; and I did not sing it very well. You know" (speaking with as much confidence as if I had known him for years instead of minutes) "I have never been out before, and I was so dreadfully nervous."

"And how do you like your first glimpse of the world?"

"I like Mrs. Warrington immensely!" I reply; "and the house is beautiful!"

He laughs.

"Is that all you can say?"

"The fact is" (apologetically), "I had never been to a dinner-party before, and dinner seemed so very long. Is it always as long?"

"Sometimes longer," he answers, laughing. "We got through in pretty good time to-night, I thought. Why, we joined you at five minutes past ten."

"Two hours!" I exclaim. "What a waste of time!"

"You don't care about eating, I suppose," he continues, still with the same friendly, inquisitorial look in his handsome eyes. "What will you think of me when I tell you that I not only enjoy my dinner, but look forward to it?"

"Oh, so do I," I answer, not at all wishing to feign a delicate appetite, having a very healthy and excellent one. "Perhaps I should not have found it so long if I had had some one pleasant to talk to."

I stop awkwardly, thinking I have been impolitely frank.

"Why, you had Desborough" (with a smile); "was not his talk very entertaining and instructive? Did he not put you through your Catechism about the nobility and landed gentry of Great Britain and Ireland?"

"Yes; but when he discovered my utter and total ignorance on the subject he desisted. I wonder what made Lady Gwyneth marry him?"

"I suppose you never heard of such a thing as a mariage de convenance?"

"Yes, I have,—in France," I cry, eagerly, wishing to show that I am not ignorant upon every subject.

He laughs his pleasant laugh again.

"You will be surprised, perhaps, if I tell you that they sometimes take place in our own country. Lady Gwyneth's was one. She had rank and—well, I won't say beauty, but a fair amount of good looks, and he had money. Do you know his antecedents?"

"No."

"His father was a draper, by the name of Puggins; he speculated as well, and made a tremendous fortune; changed his name to Desborough, christened his son Harold de Courcy, and sent him to Eton to get licked into shape. They did all they could for him there; but I dare say you know a homely proverb about a silk purse?"

I nod my head.

"A draper!" I say; for I am afraid in my ignorance I am far behind my age, and am imbued with rather a contempt for trade.

"Suppose I were to tell you," says Colonel Fane, gravely, remarking no doubt the expression of my countenance, "that my father was in the same line?"

"I should not believe you," I say, without a moment's hesitation.

"Well, if he had been," he says, laughing, "I hope I should not be so ashamed of him as poor little Desborough is of his. If any one breathes the word trade, he is ready to sink through the earth. I don't suppose he has got the yard-measure or the golden sheep in the quarterings of his splendid coat of arms."

"I think," I utter, reflectively, "that I should feel rather ashamed if my father were a draper. Fancy papa a draper!" I say, laughing heartily at the bare notion.

"No, you would not," he answers, eagerly. "Bon sang ne peut mentir!"

"But in that case it probably would not be bon sang," I return. And then I laugh again to myself.

"Are you trying to fancy your father serving out a yard of ribbon?" he asks.

"Yes" (laughing still); "but" (presuming my gravity, as the proud blood rushes to my heart), "if I saw my father serving ribbon, or" (with great energy) "sweeping a crossing, he would still be the finest gentleman in the land to me!"

"I am afraid that is the signal for retiring," says Colonel Fane, as we see Mrs. Warrington make a move. "You will be going to bed now."

"Yes," I answer, looking at the clock. "It is very late,—ten minutes past eleven."

"Pray" (smiling), "what time do you go to bed at home?"

"Oh, generally between half-past nine and ten."

"Really! You must get a good deal of beauty sleep. I have heard it is only to be obtained before twelve o'clock. Do you know that saying?"

"Yes. Nurse always tells it me when I am late."

"Oh! you have a nurse, have you?" (looking amused). "By the way, though, so had Juliet."

"And I am older than Juliet by three years," I add, slyly. "Must not I be a baby to want a nurse at my age?"

"And yet," he says, musingly, replying to the first part of my sentence, "I fancy Juliet must have been very much more of a woman than you are."

I feel slightly offended. It is rather ignominious to be thought young. I rise to wish him good-night.

"Good-night," he says, holding my hand rather longer than necessary.

The next day it pours in torrents. There is a meet three miles off, and most of the party had intended hunting. A few adventurous spirits appear in pink, but after they have stood a few minutes at the window, dismally contemplating the project, having each and every of them tapped the glass, and looked out at the hall-door, to observe the weather from a fresh point of view, they for the most part make up their minds that it is hopeless, and fifty to one against the hounds meeting.

"Shall I go, or stay?" whispers Colonel Fane, who has found his way to my side at the breakfast-table.

"You will get very wet if you go," I reply, demurely.

At this moment Lady Gwyneth enters, fully equipped.

"You don't mean to say you are going, Lady Gwyneth!" cry half a dozen voices, in various accents of surprise.

"Isn't everybody going?" she asks, coolly taking her seat.

"Look at the weather!" "The hounds won't meet!" "What's the use of getting wet through?" say voices, again.

"Oh, if you are afraid of a little rain, no doubt you are all better at home," she retorts, contemptuously.

"I'll go if you do, Lady Gwyneth," cries Curly, flushing up, and looking very eager.

"Oh, Curly!" I utter, involuntarily.

"Bravo!—so you shall," she answers, taking no notice of me. "And you shall ride Mr. Desborough's mare. I think" (contemptuously) "I can answer for his not being of the party."

Her husband looks up, not very well pleased, but too much afraid of her to offer any but the mildest opposition.

"I am sure the earl, your father—" he begins.

"Pray leave the earl, my father, out of the question" (looking daggers at him). "I am not always bringing up your father, the—dear me, I am afraid I was going to say the draper!" (with a short and very unpleasant laugh). "'Mais nous avons changé tout cela.'"

I do not think any one present thinks any the more of Lady Gwyneth for this outrageous speech; indeed, I fancy she is rather ashamed of it herself, for she says, hastily,—

"Come, Mr. Warrington, the weather won't keep you, I know. If the hounds don't meet, we can turn tail and come back: at all events, we shall have had a ride. I never take off my habit when I have once put it on."

"All right, Lady Gwyn!" cries the jolly voice of our host, "I'm your man.

"'If you will, you will, we may depend on 't,'

I suppose. How soon shall I order the horses?"

"Curly," I say, in a small voice, my anxiety overcoming my shyness, "if Mr. Warrington is going, there is no necessity for you to go. You know you have rather a cough."

"Oh, yes, stop at home, and put your feet in mustard-and-water, and let your sister give you gruel," sneers Lady Gwyneth; and, I think for the first time in his life, my brother darts an angry glance at me.

"Pray mind your own business, Di," he says, crossly.

At this moment I hate Lady Gwyneth.

"My dear fellow," interposes Colonel Fane, quietly, "you ought to be tremendously obliged to your sister for being so anxious about you. You see" (with a little flash in his eyes), "it is a matter of utter indifference to Lady Gwyneth whether you lay in consumption or a cough for the winter, as long as you do her bidding when she wants you."

"Thank you, Colonel Fane," says Lady Gwyneth, coloring a little. "You give me a charming character."

"I shall be delighted if you prove that it is undeserved," he answers, with a little smile.

"No one shall accuse me of helping to make a milksop of a boy," she replies, defiantly. "Come, Mr. Carew, are you ready?"

Curly jumps up with flattered alacrity, and I feel discomfited.

"Never mind," says Colonel Fane, encouragingly, "I dare say he has had many a good wetting before now; and I cannot say he looks at all delicate."

"Oh, no!" I answer, hastily, "not a bit! But one hears such stories, you know; and papa and I are frightened to death if he ails the least thing."

"What a devoted family you seem!"

"Yes," I answer, simply; "we all think there is no one like each other."

The sentence is not a very well-turned one, but it expresses my meaning, and he seems to understand it.

"Have you any brothers and sisters?" I ask.

"One sister. The only relation—the only near one, at least—I have in the world. She is coming to-day."

"I am very glad," I say, taking it as a matter of course that I shall like her. "Is she like you?"

"Why?—would you wish her to be?" (a little curiously).

"Yes," I say, frankly, for somehow I do not feel at all shy with him.

"No," he says, with a sigh, "she is not much like me, or rather I am not much like her. I wish I were. She is, I verily believe, the best woman in the world."

"Then I suppose she is not very young or pretty." I remark, with a naïveté of which I am unconscious for the moment.

"Don't the two go together?" he asks, smiling; then, looking earnestly at me, "I am sure they do sometimes."

I blush, and am furiously angry with myself for doing so. Of course it looks as though I take his speech to myself; and how on earth can he know whether I am good or not? I, alas! know how far short I fall of meriting that desirable adjective.

"She is not what you would call young," Colonel Fane proceeds. "I believe" (with a smile) "young girls think every member of their own sex over five-and-twenty uninterestingly old; and she is thirty; but pretty she certainly is, if I am to believe the world's unanimous verdict."

"I hope she will like me," I say, diffidently, "for I have not spoken two words to any lady but Mrs. Warrington since I entered the house."

"Well," he says, smiling, "Miss Gore must be excused for being preoccupied; and as for Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon, they never think of speaking to one of their own sex as long as there is a man present."

There is a general move.

"Can you play billiards?" he asks me.

I answer in the affirmative, being tolerably proficient from constant practice.

"Then come into the billiard-room."

I shake my head.

"I had rather not."

"Why? Mrs. Huntingdon will keep you in countenance. She always goes into the billiard-room after breakfast."

"Does she play?"

"No; but, as she says, she loathes doing needle-work with a parcel of women in a boudoir. She never does anything, as far as I know, but recline, magnificently dressed, in a lounging-chair, with her hands in her lap, covered with diamonds—and—flirt," he adds.

I suppose I look rather surprised, for he says, quickly,—

"No doubt you think it rather strange for a married woman to flirt, and it slipped out unawares" (looking rather vexed with himself); "only you cannot very well be in the house very long with her and not find it out."

"But her husband?" I say, opening my eyes: "does he not mind?"

"Not in the least, I think. I am not sure he is even aware of it."

"How dreadful!" I ejaculate, in so serious a voice that he laughs.

"Come," he says, "let us go into the billiard-room. How many will you give me?"

The morning passes away very quickly and pleasantly. After billiards we take to battledore and shuttlecock,—a game provocative of much laughter when one is not very proficient, as neither Colonel Fane nor I are. Mrs. Huntingdon perfectly carries out the programme allotted to her.

"Di," says my brother through the keyhole, as I am arranging my ruffled locks before luncheon,—"Di, open the door."

I comply, and, the door being opened, he gives me a hearty embrace.

"I'm awfully sorry I spoke so crossly to you this morning, dear old Di!"

"I don't think you ever said a harsh word hardly to me in your life before," I reply, the tears starting to my eyes; "and to think she should be the cause!"

I suppose there is a ring of the contempt I feel in my voice, for he says, quickly,—

"Don't abuse her, Di. She's an awfully kind, jolly little woman, and she has asked me over there to stay; and, by jingo! can't she just ride!"

My face falls,—I don't know why; but, independently of losing his society, I hate the thought of his going to her. I feel a desire to disparage her that I never felt for any one before; but then I have hardly ever seen any of my own sex but the rector's wife and daughters, and the doctor's sister.

"I suppose you think everything she does nice?" I say. "I suppose" (raising my voice a little) "you think it was nice of her to say what she did to her husband at breakfast?"

"No, I don't; but you have no idea" (earnestly) "what a miserable life hers is. He is such a sickening little cad!"

My lip curls in scorn. My opinion of Lady Gwyneth is in no way heightened by the thought that she has been confiding her troubles to a boy of sixteen, whose acquaintance she has not had twenty-four hours.

"Never mind," I say, kissing him, as the gong sounds. "At all events, never let her make you unkind to me, dear." And we proceed down-stairs together amicably.

Whilst we are sitting at lunch, the clouds break, the sun comes out in all his glory, and every one begins to make plans for spending the afternoon out of doors. Mrs. Warrington invites Mrs. Huntingdon to drive with her in the barouche, and that lady accedes. Then our hostess, turning to me, kindly asks me to be of the party. I do not want to go in the least, but, not knowing how to excuse myself, thank her, and accept.

"Quite wrong, Miss Carew," says Colonel Fane, who is again next to me: "it would do you ten times more good to go for a good walk."

"I like walking," I answer, eagerly.

"So do I. Let us make up a party: may we, Mrs. Warrington? Who is for a walk?"

"We are," cries Miss Gore. Then, correcting herself, with a blush,—"At least, I am."

"And I," says her soldier, tenderly.

No one else volunteers. Mr. Warrington is going to drive Lady Gwyneth and two or three of the men on his coach, since it is too wet to shoot.

"You will come too, Curly?" says Lady Gwyneth; and for the world I cannot help an angry flash coming into my eyes at this increase of intimacy.

Half an hour later we four are starting for our walk. The air is delicious, the sun as bright and hot as it can be in January; such birds as there are are singing, whistling, twittering; the bright rain-drops stand on every leaf and twig, like unset diamonds; little rivulets of rain run and sparkle;

"From the green rivage, many a fall
Of diamond rillets musical"

work on their way to the brook below. It is such a day as one sometimes gets in midwinter, giving one a heavenly foretaste of the spring.

"How glad I am you thought of a walk!" I say, joyously. "I hate driving,—or, rather, being driven. But I wish we had some dogs to take; that is half the fun of a walk."

"We had better get ahead of the other couple," he whispers.

"Why?"

"Why, because," he answers, laughing, "we should make a point of following them religiously, which they would think a great nuisance; and I don't suppose they will have the same scruples with regard to us."

"I see; but really I do not know why lovers should require to be left alone in such a public thing as a walk."

"My dear fellow," cries Colonel Fane, as, stepping out briskly, we pass them, "what a snail's pace you are going! Miss Carew and I cannot curb our impatient feet, so we will show you the way."

And on we go, nor ever cast a glance behind for a couple of miles, when Colonel Fane looks over his shoulder, and says, with a laugh,—

"I thought as much. Miss Gore and her soldier are nowhere in sight."

I feel as if I had known my companion all my life, and talk away to him about my father, Curly, home, and most things that concern us; and he listens as if I were telling him the most amusing, interesting stories in the world.

"Dear me," I say, with sudden compunction, as after a walk of about an hour and a half we are drawing homewards again, "how I must have been boring you all this time! I am nearly as bad as Mr. Desborough, only in a different line."

"You cannot think how interested I have been," he answers, eagerly. "I quite long to see you at home. I wonder if your father would consider it a liberty if I were to call upon him?"

"Oh no," I begin, quickly, and then pause, remembering Papa's aversion for any society.

"I shall ride over one day," he says, not remarking my hesitation: "you know I live only eleven miles from you, and my father and your grandfather used to know each other very well. After all you have told me, I should like immensely to see Mr. Carew. I wish he were here!"

"So do I," I respond, with a big sigh. "I do miss him so. I did not want to come at all, but he insisted upon it."

"Quite right, too," says Colonel Fane, approvingly: "you ought to leave him sometimes, to get him accustomed to it against the time when you leave him altogether."

"You mean when I get married?" I say, not pretending to misunderstand him.

"Exactly" (smiling).

"But," I return, triumphantly, "I shall not get married! I never see a man."

"Thank you" (taking off his hat).

"This is the first time I have ever been out, and I do not suppose I shall ever go anywhere again, unless Mrs. Warrington invites me next year, if I behave properly this time."

"Then you don't look forward to getting married, as most girls do."

"No" (shaking my head), "not at all."

"Have you never" (very earnestly) "thought it would be pleasant to have some one to love and care for you intensely, in a different way from a father or mother?"

"Yes," I answer, reluctantly, blushing a little, "I have. I have been desperately in love, too, with men in books; but" (smiling), "after those heroes, I do not think I should find an ordinary man to come up to my expectations. One would have to be so very fond of a man to marry him, would not one?" (looking up earnestly at him).

"Vide Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon," he says, laughing, but as quickly becoming grave again.

"God forbid that you should ever marry except for love!" he adds, locking at me very kindly.

There is to be a dance to-night, and more visitors have arrived at the Hall. We are to dine an hour earlier, that we may be ready to dance when we are piped to. Now we are all sitting over five-o'clock tea. I begin to feel quite at home. Most of the men in the house have been introduced to and have talked to me; some have even invited me to dance,—rather a risky thing to do to a little country-girl who has never been out. Well, thanks and Curly be praised, I can dance, for Archdale's sisters, who are renowned waltzers, took his education in hand last summer, and he has extended his knowledge to me. Many a waltz have he and I had on the polished floor of our big bare drawing-room, whilst good-natured Miss Cross has played unweariedly for us on the old piano. Curly says I dance as well and better than Archdale's sisters; but I take that "with a grain of salt," as papa says. I have never danced with any one except my brother; but I cannot imagine anything more graceful or buoyant than his step; and, although he is two years my junior, he is half a head taller, and I am not short. I hear him now supplicating Lady Gwyneth to promise him a waltz.

"Don't promise him anything of the sort, Lady Gwyneth," says a good-looking young cornet who has come over from the neighboring town to dine and dance. "He will tear your dress, stamp on your toes, and probably throw you down. Boys are so lungeous."

The cornet is hanging over Lady Gwyneth's chair, and speaks in a lazy, good-natured, chaffing tone.

Curly looks at him for a moment with a stare of well-bred impertinence that startles me. Where on earth did he learn it?

"I shall be very happy to match my performance with yours either in the ball-room or the hunting-field," he remarks.

If I had been surprised at his look, his speech and the coolness with which he makes it nearly take my breath away.

There is a general shout from the bystanders. "Bravo, young un!" cries our host. "Spoken like a man!" And Lady Gwyneth, laughing, heartily says, "I'll give you two waltzes for that, Curly. I'm sure you would not swagger about a thing you could not do; and if you dance as well as you ride I should not mind waltzing all night with you."

"What a surprising infant it must be!" sneers the discomfited cornet. "Quite a phenomenon!"

"There's something I think I could surpass you in," says Curly, flushing a little.

"No doubt a hundred; but what might the particular one be?"

"Manners!" replies Curly, calmly, turning on his heel.

"What a dear boy that is!" cries Lady Gwyneth. "I declare I am positively in love with him."

"Are you?" I think, grimly. "I am very sorry to hear it."

The door is flung open, and Captain Montagu is announced. I look up expectantly to see the man whom Mrs. Huntingdon has pronounced "the handsomest in England."

"How are you, Charlie?" resounds on all sides; he is evidently popular. It is a minute or two before I can get a glimpse of him, surrounded as he is by people shaking hands and asking questions. I gather from the conversation that he has just come from a house where royalty was being entertained.

He is coming towards the fire. I can see him now. I suppose my nature must be rather a contradictory one, for when Mrs. Huntingdon praised him I made up my mind that I should not admire him. I was wrong. I do admire him with that profound love of beauty, in whatever form, that was born and I believe will die in me. Handsome! yes, handsome as my ideal heroes and fairy princes,—handsomer than anything real I believed possible. He is good to look at as he stands by the fireplace in a careless, easy posture, that becomes him admirably. I know nothing of the fashion of men's clothes, have always thought them hideous, but the traveling-suit he wears is faultless and looks as if it must have grown upon him. I need not stop to chronicle his features: they are engraven on my heart, and I dare say the outside world can do without an inventory of them.

I am sitting away from the light and fire, for my brisk walk in the winter air has made my cheeks all aglow, and I can feast my eyes unobserved, I think, upon this face whose contemplation gives me infinite pleasure.

I am mistaken, and acknowledge it with a violent start, as a low voice behind me says,—

"What is the result of your very minute investigation?"

I am reassured when I find my interlocutor is only Colonel Fane, and answer, simply, with that strong instinct of confidence with which he inspires me,—

"I never in my life saw any one so handsome before."

"Really!" and I fancy his voice sounds a little cold and disappointed. "I suppose he is a good-looking fellow: at least most women seem to think so."

"How could any one think otherwise?" I say, warmly. "Do you know" (with a confidence which I am not at the time aware displays great want of tact), "he is handsomer even than the ideal heroes of my youth."

"Is he?" (coldly). "You seem to set an enormous value on looks."

"I think I do" (reflectively). "I am sure I do" (positively). "You cannot think what pleasure it is to me to feast my eyes on anything that is good to look at."

"And I suppose you do not stop to consider whether there may be any sterling qualities behind the exterior that pleases you?"

"Well, you know," I reply, argumentatively, beginning with a favorite form of speech papa constantly finds fault with, "generally speaking if things are good-looking they are good.—for instance, a dog or a horse."

"And do you think the same applies to the human animal?" (smiling).

"I do not know that I have ever seen any one very good-looking,—except papa and Curly."

"At all events, you are very faithful to them. Still" (after a moment's silence), "I should have thought you would have looked for a little more mind than Charlie Montagu's face indicates."

"I don't think I care for clever men," I say, with some shame. "My heroes were never particularly clever. They were brave as lions, and handsome as—as——" I pause for a metaphor.

"Beautiful, evil-hearted Paris," he suggests.

"Why will you have it a man cannot be good if he is handsome?" I say, rather vexed.

"Why did you conclude this morning," he asks, slyly, "that as my sister was good she could neither be young nor pretty?"

"Oh, that was different," I say, discomfited.

"I think it was deduced from the same kind of reasoning," he says, laughing; and I go away to dress.

On this evening Colonel Fane takes me in to dinner. Why should I not be delighted? I know and like him ten times better than any one else here. I wonder what sort of foolish vague unacknowledged hope that by a fortuitous concourse of atoms Captain Montagu might fall to my lot, or rather I to his, entered my foolish brain.

"I asked Mrs. Warrington to let me take you to dinner," says Colonel Fane, triumphantly, as we wend our way through the velvet-carpeted, antler- and banner-hung hall to the dining-room.

"Did you?" I respond, trying to look pleased.

"She was a little difficult at first, said she had destined you for some one else; but I persuaded her in the end."

"Who was it?—do you know?" I ask, looking into my soup and trying to speak naturally.

"Montagu," he replies, between two spoonfuls of soup.

The flame shoots from brow to neck; so hot the flush is, it brings the tears to my eyes. How thankful I am that my neighbor's head is bent over his plate! And yet I am not sure it escapes him, for he says, dryly, without looking up,—

"Not Charlie; his elder brother, who will have the title and the money. You prefer the younger one, perhaps?"

"Hyperion to a Satyr," I say, briefly.

"You seem well up in Shakspeare," he says, looking rather amused. "But why don't you like Hector?"

"He has a cold sarcastic manner that I dislike. I am afraid of him."

"He will have twelve thousand a year when his father dies."

"Does that make him any nicer?"

"It would in most women's eyes."

I glance down the table; between the ferns and gold plate I get a glimpse of the Greek head. At this moment it is bending towards Mrs. Huntingdon, who is employing the same blandishments upon him she used upon Sir George last night. He is on her other side, and evidently resents the diversion of her attention from him. I feel a slight pang of jealousy. Is it not too ridiculous! My memory supplies me with another quotation from my favorite Shakspeare:

"What am I to Hecuba, or what is Hecuba to me?"

What, indeed? and, thinking thus, I resolutely turn from contemplation of him.

"I wonder if it will be a pleasant dance to-night?" I say, forcibly diverting the channel of my thoughts.

"I should think it would for you" (kindly). "You have everything to make it pleasant."

"How so?" I ask.

"Youth and health to enjoy, good looks to get you partners, and, beyond all, the charm of novelty."

"Fancy!" I remark, thoughtfully; "I am eighteen years old, and I have never been to a dance!"

"Delightful!" he says. "I wish I was eighteen again, and an ensign; though, by the way, I don't think I was doing much dancing at that age."

"No?" (inquisitively). "What were you doing?"

"Spending my evenings very agreeably in the trenches."

"Were you in the Crimea? Did you fight? Were you wounded?" I ask, eagerly.

"I was not killed, at all events," he replies, smiling; "but, before it is too late, I want you to promise me a dance. May I have the first one?"

"That will be a square one," I say, with a freedom which surprises myself. "I suppose" (with a touch of pique) "you think I can't waltz?"

"On the contrary" (looking amused), "I would make a very heavy wager on your capabilities in that respect. But I do not waltz."

"Do you not?" (rather disappointed). "Why not?"

"In the first place, I am getting old."

"Very," I remark, derisively.

"And in the second——"

"Yes, in the second?"

"Well" (looking hard at me), "I do not think I ever told any one but my sister the second reason."

I am silent, though curious.

"I don't mind telling you," he says, suddenly.

"Do!" I say, having the feminine (by the way, why feminine?) instinct of curiosity strongly developed.

"Five years ago" (balancing a fork on the edge of the table rather nervously) "I was engaged to be married."

"Yes."

"I am rather a jealous sort of fellow, and I hated to see any other man's arm round the waist of my intended wife."

"Did you?" I say, with reluctant disapproval.

"Yes, I did" (with a little flash of the eyes); "and I think I should do the same now."

"Should you?" I say, again, with more pronounced disapproval.

"I see you disagree with me" (a little impatiently): "most women would, I suppose. However, I promised her that if she would leave off dancing round dances, I would never dance one again."

"You did not care for waltzing, I suppose?"

"On the contrary" (coldly), "I was passionately fond of it. She promised, but some time after that the marriage was broken off: she broke it off, and I dare say" (bitterly) "has danced to her heart's content ever since."

"But surely that absolved you also?" I say, in a surprised voice.

"I dare say. It was a Quixotic idea of mine, was it not? But, as I had given my word, I did not feel I could take it back again because she was untrue to hers; and, to tell the truth, I was

'In half disgust of life, love, all things,'

as Tennyson says. But you have not answered me yet. Will you dance the first dance with me?"

"Yes, with pleasure."

"And perhaps one or two more, if I don't bore you very much?"

"I can answer for your not doing that," I reply, heartily.

"Can you? I wish I could——"

"There is Mrs. Warrington making signals already," I interrupt. "Dinner has not been half so long to-night."

"I am sorry to contradict you, but, for my vanity's sake, I must tell you it has been exactly seven minutes longer."

I follow the trailing robes of the lady in front of me to the drawing-room, where Colonel Fane's sister at once comes up to me.

Looking back the years (they are not many, though they have been so full of joy and pain to me they seem many) since that evening, I can still distinctly remember the impression she made upon me. She was quite different from any other woman I had ever seen. She seemed of the world but yet not worldly; there was something so genial, so kind, and yet so dignified about her. She was almost the only good person I have ever known who, being really good, neither felt nor claimed superiority on that account, but I verily believe, in her true pure heart thought herself, what we all so often and glibly confess ourselves without even thinking of its meaning, a sinner. I never remember to have heard her condemn another human being. Many things were wrong, faulty, sinful in herself, but for others whose faults (as they mostly could not help but be) were a thousand times more glaring, more condemnable, there were always extenuating circumstances. She had indeed

"Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign
The summer calm of golden charity."

Handsome, spirited, full of life and gayety, she mixed freely in society, dressed well, talked well, was admired; her influence was not a compelling one, but something subtle, that made people in her presence instinctively desire to be and seem something better than they had been content to be and seem before.

I cannot help remarking even on this first evening that I meet her, as she stands by the fireplace drawing the conversation gradually to be a general one (which it had certainly never been before), how Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon seem pleasanter and less fast and rude (I confess to that having been my mental verdict on their manners) than before. She enters with great interest upon the subject of the dance, though she dances but little herself.

"I can't conceive why you don't dance round dances," Mrs. Huntingdon remarks, with more of affability in her tone than I imagined her capable of. "I suppose you think it wrong?"

"Not at all; it is a very nice, healthy amusement. Really, I hardly know why I do not. I don't think I should care much about it. And now I am getting too old,—I am thirty."

"I hope I shall look as well at thirty," says Mrs. Huntingdon, who I am sure looks years older than Miss Fane. "Tell me: how have you managed to preserve yourself so wonderfully?"

"A light heart, and not too much brains, I suppose," she returns, gayly.

"Come, my dear," says kind Mrs. Warrington, "I cannot have you disparaging yourself. You will get no one to agree with you. Come; it is time we adjourned to the ball-room."

"Will you come with me?" Miss Fane asks me; and I give a glad assent. I take an early opportunity of putting a question that has been on my mind ever since dinner.

"Colonel Fane was in the Crimea, was he not? Was he wounded? Did he distinguish himself?"

"Yes, both; but nothing will induce him to speak of his exploits. He was quite a boy; but he did some very gallant things, and I know we were all very proud of him. There is no one to be proud of him but me now," she says, rather sally: "he is the dearest, kindest fellow in the world."

At this moment there is a scraping of strings, a tuning of instruments, the trumpet sounds to battle, and Colonel Fane comes to bid me join the fray. My heart beats with excitement, my hand trembles violently upon his arm. I can scarcely hear the gay pleasant words he is whispering in my ear. The feet-inspiring music, the lights, the sight of other women airily, daintily dressed, the hum of voices and low laughter steal across my senses, and I feel fairly intoxicated with pleasure. I cannot restrain the smiles which will beam and broaden across my happy face. I dare not look at any one, for fear they should think I am laughing at them. Never, no, never in all my life have I felt so radiantly, excitedly happy as when the band strikes up, and I seem to swim across the waxed floor to meet another ethereal being who floats towards me. At this moment I catch sight of Curly's handsome face, flushed with pleasure, his eyes dancing with excitement, and I see Colonel Fane look from one to the other of us.

"You are envying us," I cry, joyously.

"No," he answers, smiling, "to envy is to wish to take something from another. I would not rob you of a tithe of your pleasure, either of you, for all the world."

I am engaged for the first four dances: my second partner is Mr. Montagu, the elder brother. Although I do not feel particularly drawn to him, I am in such a happy humor that I can sow pleasant looks and words broadcast for every one; and really he waxes pleasanter on acquaintance. I am sure he intends to be very kind and civil, but long habit, I suppose, has so confirmed the cold proud expression of his face, that he cannot alter it now, even at will. His words are kind, and he dances well, but I am not altogether sorry when our dance is done and he hands me over to the cornet whom Curly so successfully sat upon. I do not bear him the slightest malice, since he got the worst of the encounter. He is a good-looking, good-natured young fellow, inordinately proud of his profession and regiment, and at an age (as I know by later experience) when young men give as much consideration to their clothes and appearance as any vain woman. But he has not shaken off college and country life at home long enough not to be thoroughly full of spirits and boyish pranks. We get on tremendously well. He dances perfectly: we seem to swim away together, our pleasure and confidence in each other waxing greater every moment.

"I say," he remarks, confidentially, as after a long time we pause for sheer want of breath, "what an awful lot of practice you must have had to waltz so well!"

"I have never been at a dance before," I say, gleefully, looking up at him.

"By Jove!" in a voice expressive of as much astonishment as though I had announced to him that I had discovered the eighth wonder of the world. "By Jove!" (a second time, even more expressive).

"I have never waltzed before, except with Curly," (triumphantly).

"Curly again!" he says, rather discontentedly,—"the universally accomplished Curly. So you know him too, do you?"

"Yes," (with a malicious smile). "I know him."

"And I suppose you think him a paragon too?" (a little sulkily).

"Indeed I do."

"As great a paragon as Lady Gwyneth does?"

"A great deal more of one," (indignantly).

"Well, there's no accounting for tastes," he returns, pulling his incipient moustache. "Now, I think he's a self-sufficient——"

"Stop!" I cry, breathlessly; "he's my brother."

"By Jove!" and until this moment I could not have conceived any one being able to put so much expression into two words. He blushes, and says, "I am sure I beg you ten thousand pardons. I did not catch your name when I was introduced to you; and" (looking hard at me) "you are so very unlike each other."

"I forgive you," I say, laughing; "and when you know him, you'll like him as much as every one else does."

"I dare say," (politely). "I suppose I had left Eton before he went there. But it's an awful shame to be losing this delicious waltz." And off we go again, uttering simultaneously a grievous "Oh!" as it very soon after comes to an abrupt conclusion.

"We must have another," cries Mr. Tempest.

I am no way loath, but when I see him continue to make hieroglyphics down my card, I am forced to remonstrate. What vain, foolish, unacknowledged hope makes me desire to keep two or three waltzes free? At the beginning of the last dance, the languid Mrs. Huntingdon, marvelously elegant in clouds of tulle, had floated before me in the arms of Captain Montagu. I could not imagine anything more graceful than their dancing. Other couples were stopping to watch them too. What would I not give to be chosen as a partner by him! As at last I divert my rapt gaze from the pair, I find Colonel Fane's eyes fixed upon me, and a little later I see him approach Captain Montagu, who is leaning against the wall, and whisper to him. I see Captain Montagu glance at me, shrug his shoulders slightly, and move languidly across the room towards me in the wake of Colonel Fane. I cannot tell why, but in a moment my heart gives a throb of indignant, outraged pride; a wild instinct of flight seizes upon me, and in a moment, before I even know what I am doing, I slip my hand from my partner's arm, and, rushing through the door that is near, fly across the hall and up the stairs, as Cinderella might have fled when she found herself in her rags among the brilliant company. I will vouch for it she was not filled with more biting, stinging shame than I,—feeling that out of kindness Colonel Fane has asked him to be introduced to me, and that he has felt, as I read in his face, unmistakably bored. I sit on the edge of my bed, blushing burning blushes both in my face and in my heart. Never have I felt so mortified before. For in the tranquil life at home, if there are no great pleasures and excitements, neither are there any heart-burnings or wounded vanities. I feel very small. I am already ashamed of having yielded to my impulse: with the ignorance of people unaccustomed to the ways of the world, I imagine every one must be commenting upon my strange behavior. I even half expect some one to come in search of me. But ten minutes elapse, I am still sitting on the edge of my bed, and I begin to think I may as well go down again. So, shame-facedly, I creep down the broad staircase, and there at the bottom stands my disconsolate partner, waiting for me.

"I could not think what on earth had become of you!" he exclaims at the sight of me. "Did you tear your dress, or were you taken ill, or" (with a smile which evidently mocks the extreme improbability of his suggestion) "did you want to get out of dancing with me?"

I have no answer ready to his remark. I have not yet learned the necessity and propriety of white lies in society, so am silent.

"I must conclude the last, I suppose," he says, looking at me with an expression that infers a doubt whether I am quite right in my mind.

"Oh, no!" I reply, feebly. "Let us begin now, shall we?"

"Considering that one galop is over and they are now forming for the Lancers, that would be difficult," he says provoked. "I am certainly not going to be put off with them."

"And I am engaged to some one else," I say.

At this moment Mr. Montagu, who is to be my partner, claims me, and, having promised another galop to my indignant partner, we go to join our set.

The Lancers are over. Mercifully, I have encountered neither Colonel Fane or Captain Montagu. His brother takes me into the conservatory, and we are bending over a lovely tea-rose, when a voice that makes me start and tremble says softly behind us,—

"Hector, will you introduce me to Miss Carew?"

Mr. Montagu scowls at his brother, but performs the ceremony in a frigid voice.

He is asking me to dance, in those low pleasant tones; his glance is caressing me. For a moment I feel an impulse to refuse rudely, but there is something stronger than I, and I give him my card. He writes his name for the eleventh dance,—my first disengaged one,—thanks me, and turns away. Somehow I feel radiantly happy. I keep saying to myself, "I am going to dance with him; it is a long way off, but I am going to dance with him." I seem to tread on air; I am so bright and full of laughter that even his stern brother catches the contagion and laughs without a sneer. I feel like a child who has put its bonne bouche on the side of its plate, and is looking at it all the time it eats its less delicious morsels.

The tenth dance is over; the dowagers have gone off to supper, and the room is deliciously cool and clear. I am waiting in eager, delightful expectation to be claimed. The strains of one of Gung'l's entrancing waltzes are wafted towards me. He is not yet here. Oh, how grievous to lose one bar of it! Two or three men, seeing me sit partnerless, come and ask me to dance.

"I am engaged," I answer to each; but still he does not come.

It seems utterly ridiculous, when I look back, to think I could feel such intense pain as I did sitting there, waiting feverishly as the delicious music poured on, trying to wreathe my features into a smile when I was ready to cry with passionate disappointment.

Curly comes up to me.

"Hullo, Di!—not dancing? I'll find you a partner: shall I?"

"I am engaged," I answer, trying to make my voice sound indifferent, "to Captain Montagu."

"Montagu! I saw him not a moment since, sitting in the conservatory with Mrs. Huntingdon. I'll tell him you are waiting: shall I?"

"Not for the world!" I cry, hastily. "There is Colonel Fane: ask him to come to me."

Curly obeys; and Colonel Fane comes up at once.

"Will you take me in to supper?" I say, hastily. "I am so hungry!" And, without even waiting for his answer, I rise and take his arm.

We go into the dining-room, and he places me on a low velvet couch in a window.

"What shall I get you?"

"I do not think I am hungry, after all," I say; for I am so nervous and excited, the very sight of food gives me a nausea.

"I see you exert your woman's privilege of changing your mind," he remarks, smiling. "Shall I get you a glass of champagne?"

"Please," I answer; and when he is gone, remembering that I never drink wine, it occurs to me that it may get into my head. So when he returns I say,—

"If you do not mind, I would rather have a glass of lemonade or water," (for my lips are burning with thirst).

Without a word, he takes it away, and fetches what I have asked for.

"You must think me troublesome," I say, apologetically.

"I think you are qualifying for a woman of fashion," he returns.

I do not know whether he intends it as a rebuke, but I take it as such, and feel rather ashamed.

"Tell me," he says, sitting down by me, "what made you fly off in such hot haste when I was bringing Montagu over to introduce to you?"

Colonel Fane's is certainly a most truth-compelling gaze. I do not want to tell him why I fled, and I look down at the floor, round the room, back at my fan, from none of which do I receive inspiration or courage.

"Because," I say, at last, hanging my head, to hide, if might be, the hot shame that dyes my cheeks, "I thought you were introducing him to me because you fancied I was anxious to know him, and he—he—did not seem equally desirous of the honor of my acquaintance."

"How sensitive you are!" he says, looking at me compassionately. "Besides, that is only Montagu's way of doing everything, just as if it were a bore. He would probably have done just the same if I had proposed to introduce him lo the greatest lady in the land."

"Then," I retort, warmly, "had I been the greatest lady in the land, I should have refused to be introduced to him."

"Oh! then you have made up your mind not to know him?"

I am silent. Not for anything in the world can I tell him how Captain Montagu has been introduced to and how he has insulted me.

At this very moment, the man in question enters the room and comes towards me.

"This is our dance, I think," he says, standing before me; and as soon as the words are spoken, Colonel Fane, rising, moves away. As for me, I am bewildered: my mind is equally full of doubt, surprise, and wrath. I look up at him, and answer, coldly,—

"No. You asked me for the last."

"Impossible!" with well-feigned (if it is feigned) surprise. "Allow me to see your card."

"You had better refer to yours."

"Unfortunately, I have dropped it," (looking concerned). "I am afraid that is how the mistake occurred. But" (persuasively) "will you not forgive me and dance this one instead?"

"I am engaged."

"Cannot you throw the other fellow over?" he says, calmly; and I reply, indignantly,—

"No."

"Because," he murmurs, looking caressingly at me, "I should so awfully like to waltz with you. I am afraid I shall not have another chance to-night."

Could any one believe—could I have believed myself—that I was capable of being so mean, so weak-minded? I feel very small and ashamed of myself; but, as a matter of fact, after a little more persuasion I yield.

Trembling lest I should meet Mr. Tempest, my bona fide partner, I walk, supported on Captain Montagu's arm, back to the ball-room. The music has commenced: in the distance I see my cornet making for me, and whisper, desperately,—

"Let us begin!"

A few moments of the most intense felicity I have ever tasted in my life,—the enchantment of the delicious music, the airy floating motion, the touch of the man I love. What have I said! the man I love? Well, let it stand. I believe I already loved him then. Heaven knows whether I have loved him since.

A few moments, then, of sweet intoxication, and I am again leaning on his arm, with such a beating heart, such exultation in my eyes, when my Nemesis arrives. It takes the form of Georgy Tempest, who, standing in front of me and looking very black and dignified, says, "If you will refer to your card, Miss Carew, I think you will find you are engaged to me for this dance."

I stand convicted, and acknowledge it by silence. Already, even, I am reluctantly drawing my hand away from Captain Montagu's arm; but, pressing it tighter, he holds it there, and says,—

"Some mistake. Yours was the last: this is mine."

If he expects me to aid and abet his falsehood by another, he must be disappointed in me, for I still stand silent between them. An older man than Mr. Tempest would probably read in my expressive face what bent my inclinations take, and would leave me, however annoyed at heart, with an acquiescent bow; but Mr. Tempest is only bent on one thing,—which is, to have his own way and not to be outdone by another man.

"May I see your card?" he says, with angry persistence.

"Don't show it him, Miss Carew," interposes Captain Montagu, languidly. "He ought to be satisfied with your word."

"I shall be perfectly satisfied with Miss Carew's word if she gives it," replies the cornet, looking unutterable things at him.

"It is no use," I say, dragging my hand away, and with it hope, delight, ecstasy: "I am engaged to Mr. Tempest."

Captain Montagu drops my hand, makes me a cold bow, and retires. I may safely vary the charming words of Œnone—

"All my heart went out to meet him, coming as he came,"

By

"All my heart went after him, going as he went."

Mr. Tempest puts his arm round me, and we join the waltzers. Did I say he danced well? He seems awkward and clumsy now. But then all my heart has gone out of it, and is standing leaning against the door with a somewhat sulky expression, in the person of Captain Charles Montagu.

"It was awfully good of you to confess the truth," says my partner, radiantly. "One doesn't often get a rise out of that fellow Montagu. You don't regret it, do you?" (eagerly). "I don't dance much worse than he does, do I?"

The words with which I answer him are polite, but I am conscious that my candid face is very long and doleful. I try to widen it by a smile, but I have an idea that the result is about as truthful and becoming as one's reflection in the bowl of a spoon. Every time we pause in the dance, I glance shyly and wistfully towards that happy portion of the wall which is supporting the languid figure of Captain Montagu. I cannot catch his eye or he might read how genuinely afflicted I am; but he seems to look everywhere except at me.

The ball is over. I am sitting by my bedroom fire in maiden meditation, but not fancy free,—oh, no! not fancy free! Twelve hours ago I had not seen the man who occupies all my thoughts now. "I do not occupy many of his," think I, forlornly, for he has taken no smallest notice of me since I drew my reluctant hand from his arm, but has devoted himself entirely to Mrs. Huntingdon, of whom I feel wildly, bitterly jealous. My first ball! Well, there has been more of pain than pleasure in it, though at first it seemed to promise so fair.

The next or, more correctly speaking, the same day, the gentlemen of the party go out shooting, all with one exception. Captain Montagu has not yet made his appearance: it is rumored indeed that, like a woman of fashion, he generally takes tea and toast in his room, and does not appear until the day has been thoroughly aired for him. Hearing this, I ought naturally to be smitten with a supreme scorn of my handsome ideal, but am not. I am a very staunch friend: for me "the King can do no wrong," and whosoever may be king or friend of mine is safe from my caviling.

Lady Gwyneth has gone with the shooting-party. She, like Mrs. Huntingdon, "cannot stand doing needlework with a parcel of women in a boudoir," and is so far more fortunate than the other in that she can join in most manly sports. She copies men to the best of her ability, since, to her infinite and constantly-expressed regret, she has not been born one of them. This morning she wears a home-spun Norfolk jacket over a short narrow velvet petticoat; her feet are incased in laced boots of stoutest make, and gaiters; a wide-awake, adorned with woodcock's feathers shot by herself, crowns her head; and she shoulders resolutely her own light gun, disdaining to have it carried either by keeper or friend.

She patronizes Curly more than ever this morning, to my infinite disgust, calls him "dear boy," and pets him with what I consider ostentatiously bad taste. I, who have heard and read that modesty, delicacy, and womanliness are most highly commended and desired in our sex by the other, am at some pains to reconcile the statement with the evident popularity Lady Gwyneth enjoys with men. True, they treat her with a camaraderie which savors more of familiarity than respect; but that they are amused in her company, and seek it, is a fact too patent to be controverted.

At this period of my life I am not aware that a woman who is young, rich, and well-born, who has a pleasant house and entertains hospitably, can follow, with the world's toleration if not admiration, her own sweet will, be it never so opposed to the rules laid down for less fortunate mortals. But is she fortunate? I think not. I am inexperienced in the world, and have never had any opportunity of judging character, but I fancy I read in her constant restlessness, in the troubled expression which now and again flits over her face, that she is dissatisfied with and disapproves of herself.

Luncheon is to be sent to the shooting-party at two o'clock, and it is ordained that Miss Gore and I shall join it at a kind of summer-house in the wood. Mrs. Warrington can make no arrangement for herself until she has ascertained Mrs. Huntingdon's pleasure, and that lady does not make her appearance until after the sportsmen have started. My hostess takes me all round her conservatories and hothouses,—a real treat, for I love flowers passionately; then she leaves me to go and see Claire Fane, who is suffering from a severe headache, and bids me go to her boudoir and amuse myself until she joins me there. We part in the hall, and I bound up-stairs very much as is my wont at home, throw open the boudoir door, and am in the middle of the floor before the fact flashes upon me that I have rudely broken up a tète-à-tète. Mrs. Huntingdon is reclining in a low chair by the fire, and Captain Montagu, handsomer, more fascinating than ever this morning, leans against the mantel-shelf close beside her. She scowls; he smiles; I—need it be said?—I do what I have hardly ceased to do since I entered the house,—blush until the water stands in my eyes. I know not how to act; it would surely look too pointed to go out again, as though they were lovers,—she a married woman! So I stand where I am, and blurt out,—

"Oh, Mrs. Warrington is wanting to see you, to know whether you will go up to the wood to lunch?"

"Thank you," she returns, icily. "Captain Montagu has promised to drive me there in the pony-carriage. Would you kindly shut the door?"

"I—I will go and tell her," I stammer, feeling very much as though a door had been shut in my face.

"Pray don't go away, Miss Carew," says Captain Montagu, coming forward. "You look the very incarnation of spring. You bring in a volume of fresh air and a scent of violets and primroses and a host of sweet things!"

Bewildered, flattered by his pleasant words, I hesitate on the threshold, my hand still on the handle of the door, unmindful of Mrs. Huntingdon's imperious command. She gives a shiver, rises, pulls her rich draperies about her, and, with a frown that reminds me of

"Great Here's angry eyes,"

sweeps past me out of the room. I feel and probably look crestfallen, for Captain Montagu laughs lightly, and says,—

"Don't look so frightened! Looks don't kill, you know! Come in, won't you?"

I shut the door, and go forward, as I am bidden.

"And how did you like the dance last night?" he asks, in a tone the patronage of which I might resent from any one else.

"Very much," I say, taking off my hat and looking fixedly at it, to prevent my eyes straying, as they long to do, to his face. "It was the first I ever was at."

"Really!" (with languid curiosity). "Oh, then you must have enjoyed it intensely!"

"Must I?" I say, still not looking at him. "Why?"

"Because I believe it is delightful to do anything for the first time,—anything pleasant, at least. At all events, it can't bore you; and being bored is the curse of most people's lives."

"Are you often bored?" I ask, looking at him with a great desire and curiosity to know something of his real feelings.

"Very often" (smiling). "I was bored last night when you forsook me for the cornet."

"Were you?" I say, eagerly. "So was I." And then, smitten with shame at my youthful sincerity, I bury my face in a book of photographs.

"It would have been so easy," says the seductive voice, which has come a little nearer,—"so easy to say you were engaged to me."

"But it would not have been true," I answer, contemplating fixedly the portrait of a grizzly warrior with

"An eye like Jove to threaten and command."

"But you don't mean to say" (persuasively) "that you think there would be any harm in a little perversion of truth like that?"

"Yes, I do," I respond, stoutly. "And even if I had said it, my face would have betrayed me. And—and he would have felt mortified. I hate to be mortified myself. It wouldn't have been doing as you would be done by."

Charlie Montagu languidly bestrides the chair in front of me. I feel his laughing eyes (are they gray or blue?—I long to look, but dare not) straying over my face as he says,—

"I was young once. They taught me all those nice moral little sentiments; but I'm afraid I wasn't a good boy: I didn't act upon them. Good heavens!" (with a wicked little laugh), "if people had done to me what I've many a time done to them, I shouldn't have liked it a bit!"

"Of course it's impossible for any of us always to do right," I say, anxious to defend him even against himself.

"But I am always doing what is wrong," he answers (maliciously making the worst of himself to vex me, I believe). "Somehow I seem to fall into it naturally. Ask my brother. He would tell you I wasn't at all fit company for such a good, well-brought-up little lady as you."

"I should not believe him," I say, with some warmth. "I do not believe you; you only say it to tease me."

I stop, horribly ashamed of my naïveté. Oh, why was I suddenly let loose from my rustic life upon society without any preparation?

"No?" he says, softly. "Would it really tease you to think I was a miserable sinner?" And all this time he has never once taken his eyes off me.

"I should be sorry to think anybody was a miserable sinner," I answer, confusedly.

"Oh!" (in a disappointed tone,—probably feigned); "then you are only a general missionary? you don't take any particular interest in me? You would be as sorry for the footman or the gardener if they were in a similarly unconverted state!"

"Don't laugh at me, please," I say, looking imploringly at him. "You know I am only a little country-girl; and I do so hate to be made fun of."

"I assure you——" he protests; but just then the door opens, and Mrs. Huntingdon sweeps in again, equipped all in gray velvet and fur, only wanting a pleasant expression to make her exceedingly handsome.

"Come, Charlie," she says (whereat my heart gives an indignant throb), "get ready: the ponies will be round in five minutes."

"But it is only twelve yet" (looking at the clock), "and it is not ten minutes' drive."

"We shall take a drive first," she returns, imperiously. "I want some fresh air, and so must you, unless" (with an indefinable sneer) "you have imbibed sufficient from Miss Carew."

I feel so angry, I would I had the wit to rejoin with some polished sneer; but the world has not yet armed me with its subtle weapons, so I look more earnestly still at the photographs.

"Tu es ravissante, ma belle," murmurs Captain Montagu, addressing Mrs. Huntingdon, and I cannot but concur reluctantly in my own mind. I have never seen so elegant-looking a woman. "But such a toilette is worthy of something better than to-day's occupation," he resumes. "Faugh! I know the whole horrid programme. A damp worm-eaten summer-house, and lukewarm Irish stew out of a tin pan, and wedges of plum-cake,—that's the invariable menu of old Warrington's shooting-lunches. Much better take a drive and return to lunch here, where we are sure of having something fit to eat."

I hold my breath with fear lest she should accept a proposal which would not have cost me a moment's reflection. Mrs. Huntingdon, to my infinite relief, shakes her head.

"I must go: I promised."

"Raison de plus," he laughs, going towards the door. "I did not know a woman's promise was ever considered binding."

Mrs. Huntingdon sinks into her chair by the fire, holding to it alternately either small and delicately-shod foot. Not one word or a look does she condescend to fling to me, and I glance furtively at her with a forlorn conviction of how little chance a poor untutored rustic like myself has against her. But I recover myself when I remember a fact that I have forgotten for the moment,—she has a husband! Blessed thought! It restores peace to my mind.

Her fish has come out of the sea; she has hooked, devoured him; he purveys her with rich garments, with much store of worldly wealth, for which she requites him with frowns and sulks; but my fish is still in his native ocean. I have not even baited my hook yet. I may angle for a triton or a minnow, and catch—who knows?

They are starting; I watch them jealously from behind the curtain, such a pair as limner might desire to paint or poet to immortalize in love-songs. The frown has gone from her brow; nay, she smiles as she looks up at him. Yes, she is very handsome, I tell myself reluctantly.

The day seems dull and blank, now they are gone and the sound of their laughing voices has died away. And this time yesterday I had not seen him. I lean my arms on the table, resting my face between my hands. Whence comes this blank feeling that spreads a chill over all my being, that makes the day seem cheerless even in the noonday sun, that makes my heart void because the sound of one voice has ceased, that makes space vacant because one form is no longer within my horizon? Is it love? Oh, unmaidenly, immodest thought! My very ears tingle with the shame of it. Love for a man who has scarce spoken half a dozen words to me, a man on whose mind I shall not cast one faint reflection. No! no! no!—it is my ignorance of the world. I have scarcely ever seen a man,—certainly not one like Captain Montagu,—and my foolish eyes are dazzled. As I see more of society, I shall not be so easily impressed. See more of society! I repeat blankly to myself: small chance of that! And then somehow a sort of pain comes across me, a pain I stifle quickly as ungrateful, to think I shall go back to the old quiet life with its round of simple pleasures and duties that have always been enough for me until now.

Miss Gore disturbs my unsatisfactory soliloquy, and we start together for the wood. She is very bright and pleasant this morning, and chatters away gayly. True, her conversation has mostly reference to her soldier, but she has a sympathizing if slightly envious auditor in me. To love, to have your love fully returned, to be able to show, to speak of, to be proud of it! And yet, ignorant as I am in love-lore, I think I would prefer to invest it with sacredness into which the outer world should not intrude.

The shooting-party comes up just as we reach our destination. Lady Gwyneth is "in great form," as Curly would say: she has slain five pheasants to her own gun. I am sometimes called absurdly tender-hearted; may I ever remain so! To see poor animals suffer has always caused me intense pain. It seems to me if I were a man I could not love or regard a woman who was callous to the suffering of dumb creatures, far less one who would delight to cause it. But men—at all events the men here—do not seem to be of my way of thinking, for they flatter and congratulate Lady Gwyneth with every appearance of sincerity. As for Curly, his admiration for her has evidently increased fourfold. Even Colonel Fane makes her a compliment. Why does he avoid me to-day? Have I offended him? He does not offer to join me, nor did he take his accustomed seat next me at breakfast this morning. I suppose he is already weary of me, despite his protestations yesterday. No doubt it was not very entertaining to hear my simple gossip about our humdrum life at home, only, as a man of the world, politeness forbade him to show that he was bored. Mr. Montagu has taken his place at my side. I am sure I wish him anywhere else; he is repugnant to me, somehow,—I know not why. I could give no better reason than the one assigned by the person who immortalized the unfortunate Dr. Fell; but few reasons are more cogent or un-get-over-able.

"You are not a sportsman, or rather sportswoman?" he says, as he joins me.

"No, indeed," I answer.

"You say that very heartily," he rejoins, with a smile. "Your tone almost implies a censure of sport altogether."

"Yes, I hate sport," I confess, frankly: "it always entails misery and suffering upon something. But" (apologetically) "I suppose men must be amused, and if they had not something to expend their energies upon they would get very effeminate."

"But confess, now, you think us horrible barbarians for always wanting something to torture," he says. "I don't suppose it is very manly to set dogs on a poor timid hare, or shoot pigeons out of a trap, or even set on terriers to kill a barnful of rats; and yet do you know several of your fair sex whom I have the honor to be acquainted with take supreme delight in a rat-hunt, and enjoy nothing more than to sit for a whole afternoon exquisitely dressed and watch hundreds of poor birds cruelly maimed and torn?"

"I hate a cruel woman!" I say, vindictively. "I could not, no, I could not care for one if I were a man,—not if she were as beautiful as——"

"As what?"

"As an angel," I return, feeling the extreme difficulty of finding a comparison that people who make hasty and impusive remarks are wont to do.

"An angel! I never saw one; but their style of beauty as depicted by the limner's art has always struck me as peculiarly insipid. By the way, I never remember to have seen a dark angel; and I do not admire fair women. Then, according to your idea, I suppose, all women should be tender-hearted, religious, modest, retiring,—in short, everything that we are not?"

Is he sneering at me? and why does he look so intently at me? I wish he would not: his eyes always embarrass me.

I laugh rather uneasily.

"It is not for me to say what women ought to be. Besides, if I set up a standard I should be expected to act up to it: should I not?"

"And I have no doubt you would," he answers. Now of course I know he is laughing at me: so I say, coldly,—-

"I can at all events tell you what I think about sport. Sport ought to mean equal risk on both sides: hunting lions or tigers, wild boars or grizzly bears,—that," I say, emphatically, "must be something like sport."

"I am afraid," he answers, laughing, "that according to your ideas sport must remain unattainable for nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand; but, talking about risk, I think we get a tolerable chance of breaking our necks out hunting, and I really know few things more perilous to life and limb than the present fashion of battue-shooting."

Mr. Warrington's hearty voice here summons us to lunch, and at this moment I see Captain Montagu and Mrs. Huntingdon coming slowly up the glade. The sun gleams upon them through the branches of the leafless trees, making the thick-strewn leaves of many years into a ruddy carpet for their feet: they are in truth a goodly pair, I think, looking at them wistfully.

"Do you know I am a thought-reader?" says the cold voice of the elder brother beside me; and I start, feeling a positive terror of him. My speaking countenance probably betrays me, for he turns his eyes away, and says, lightly,—

"You were thinking what a charming toilette Mrs. Huntingdon wears. She has perfect taste in dress."

But I know that was not what he was going to say. I feel afraid of him. I almost dislike him.

We are seated at lunch,—we four ladies, and as many men as the little summer-house can accommodate, partaking of the fare which Captain Montagu so contemptuously predicted; only it is not lukewarm, but very hot and good. It is by no means despised, if we may judge by the zest with which the party fall to, Captain Montagu included. He throws me a little comic smile across the table.

"L'appétit vient en mangeant," he says.

"Mine came before," I answer, in the same tone.

"What is the joke?" asks the elder brother, who is leaning against the doorpost, eating his lunch under difficulties.

"My dear fellow, don't be inquisitive. Let Miss Carew and I have our little secrets."

"By all means," returns Mr. Montagu, coldly, looking anything but pleased.

For my part, he may frown as much as he likes, as long as his brother smiles upon me.

I am delighted to notice that Captain Montagu has left Mrs. Huntingdon, even though he is devoting himself to Lady Gwyneth, whom of the two perhaps I dislike the more.

"Have you heard of my prowess?" she asks him, with great glee. "Two brace and a half of pheasants, and all rocketers!"

"Delightful!" he utters, in his lazy, pleasant voice. "How charming to have a wife who does all the hard work! I hope Desborough appreciates it."

"If I were only a man, I wouldn't mind any amount of hard work," she rejoins. "I should be no carpet-knight, I promise you."

"Like me, for instance!" (smiling).

"Yes, like you. You would make a lovely woman, and could dawdle about all day choicely appareled. While I—if I were you—would catch big salmon, hunt six days a week in the season, shoot when there was a frost, and—and—I'd go to Mexico and shoot a grizzly. Oh to have had the immeasurable privilege of being born a man and to abuse it so shamefully!"

"You might retaliate, I think, Charlie," interposes Mrs. Huntingdon, maliciously. She calls him Charlie before her husband, and no one looks surprised. Perhaps, though, they are very old friends.

"I never argue with a lady," he answers, with lazy good nature. "With my deplorable want of energy, I should be sure to get the worst of it."

At this moment I happen to glance at Hector Montagu, and see him cast a look of supreme scorn upon his handsome brother. Yes, I positively dislike him. Lady Gwyneth takes no notice of Mrs. Huntingdon's remark, but continues, petulantly:

"Men have everything, we have nothing."

"I think we have a great many privileges," drawls Mrs. Huntingdon.

"What may they be?" flashes out Lady Gwyneth.

"We always have everything done for us. We don't have to interview bailiffs, or pay bills, or buy horses, or look after any horrid details. We have the best places everywhere. We sit comfortably at the opera, whilst unhappy men have to stand behind us on one leg."

"Pshaw!" utters Lady Gwyneth, contemptuously. "I always interview the bailiff and pay the bills; and as to letting Harold buy a horse, I should as soon think of flinging the money out of window at once. And as for having the best seats everywhere, I'd rather stand than sit, any day,—yes, and stand on one leg all my life, for the inestimable privilege of being a man. Men can always do something, always go somewhere, when they are bored; while we have to sit at home and curse our fate."

"Lady Gwyneth," interposes Captain Montagu, laughing, "you are astonishing Miss Carew. See how shocked she looks."

Oh, how could he be so unkind? If I am silly and ignorant enough to show what I think in my unmanageable face, surely he need not be the one to call down retribution upon me.

"Girls should be kept in the school-room till they know how to behave in society," says Lady Gwyneth, with aggressive rudeness.

I feel so angry,—I never knew until this moment that I had so hot a temper. Reply is on my lips, but ere I have time to unclose them a champion is at hand.

"I quite agree with you, Lady Gwyneth," utters Colonel Fane's quiet voice. "I do not think innocent minds are likely to derive much benefit from listening to the conversation of men and women of the world."

"Hear! hear!" says Mr. Montagu.

It is Lady Gwyneth's turn to redden with anger. Mrs. Huntingdon knits her dark brows closer together, but, before either has time to say anything, Mr. Warrington's jolly face appears in the doorway, and he calls out,—

"Come, it's time to be off again!"

But some of the sportsmen show signs of defection. Sir George has made up his mind to go back with Mrs. Huntingdon; Miss Gore has evidently tampered with her soldier; and Mr. Montagu says in an undertone to me,—

"I would much rather walk with you. I've had quite shooting enough for to-day."

But I answer, quickly, "I think Mr. Warrington will not like to have his party broken up;" and he says no more.

Keepers and dogs are waiting at a respectful distance; the men who mean shooting are shouldering their guns; I am reflecting that I shall be left to the pleasure of my own company,—when Captain Montagu turns towards me and says,—

"Miss Carew, shall we console each other?—we seem to stand a fair chance of being deserted by our cruel friends, like the babes in the wood."

Probably the pleasure I feel at this proposal shines from my eyes. Hector Montagu looks sharply at me, and turns to go.

"Take my gun, Charlie!" cries Sir George over his shoulder (with questionable taste, I think); "exchange is no robbery."

"Thank you," says Mrs. Huntingdon, haughtily.

"Something better than his gun, a little dearer than his dog,"

laughs Captain Montagu, maliciously, paraphrasing the poet-laureate.

I suppose poor little Sir George meant to be funny, and, like many other people, did not know until he was told that he had been rude. At all events, I see him doing his best to make the amende as they stroll down the glade together. I wonder at, though I bless, the taste that has made Mrs. Huntingdon give up one escort for the other.

"Is not this the way home?" I say, as Captain Montagu turns his steps in the opposite direction from that by which we came.

"You are not thinking of going home, surely," he answers. "Why" (yawning), "what on earth will you do with yourself all the afternoon?—it is an eternity to dinner-time. Let's do the 'truly rural,' and get rid of the odious souvenir of Irish stew. Faugh! it's a barbarous dish, though it seemed pleasant for the moment."

Taking him at his word, I start at a good round pace for a constitutional.

"My dear Miss Carew," he cries, plaintively, in about a minute, "have you borrowed the seven-league boots? Have mercy on a miserable victim to patent leather and corns!"

"Corns!" I repeat (desperately discomfited by the thought of a hero with corns). "Corns!" (looking down involuntarily at his shapely feet); then, with the triumph of faith and sight too, "I don't believe you!"

"Well," he rejoins, laughing, "it isn't my fault if I haven't, but please consider that I have, and suit your pace to the idea."

So we saunter on, side by side, in the pleasant afternoon sun, across the crackling leaves, out into the open. He talks away in a merry half-ironic vein, and if my sense does not approve of all he says, woman-like, since the speaker pleases me, my heart finds no fault. I do not—I will not—believe that he is as selfish as he seems to take pleasure in painting himself: surely nature would not delight to cheat one by making such beautiful windows as his eyes to a soul, to find when one looked through them only something worse than nothingness. Even irrational, inconsequent mortals do not put stained-glass windows into a barn; and should the fair goddess, who does all things well, be more foolish and capricious than they?

We have arrived at a stile; he, petitioning me to rest, leans against a post beside it, whilst I, sitting perched upon it, hearken unto his discourse.

"Your charming sex," he is saying, "always get cherished and taken care of, but what's to become of poor fellows like me if we don't look after ourselves? And you have no idea what selfish, crotchety old brutes fathers are. Now, don't look indignant. I know you adore yours. I mean men's fathers. Sometimes I make a feeble attempt to get mine to see reason, but he won't. I know lots of fellows who've got the same sort of fathers. I begin by saying to him, suavely, 'Pray, sir, did I come into the world for my pleasure or yours?' To which he replies, with asperity, 'Not for mine, begad, or I'd have had something better than a confounded puppy like you!'"

I laugh, not, I think, because his story is very amusing, but because, standing there, the winter sun shining warmly on his face, as though it loved him, his eyes shine, his lips curve in smiles, and he looks so radiantly full of spirits I cannot help but smile too for sympathy. I am sure there was never a more sincere adorer of good looks than I. Be it man, woman, child, dog, horse, picture, scene, statue, if it is beautiful my heart goes out to it for its mere beauty's sake. It is an instinct implanted in me by nature. I cannot alter it; I would not if I could.

"To which I reply," he proceeds, laughing, "that granted we are neither of us responsible for my existence, still, as I am, in the world, I require to be clothed, fed, and lodged like my fellow-men, and that, as he has the onus of being my progenitor, he is bound to provide me with the means."

"I would work for my living," I say, energetically, with a forlorn hope of stimulating him to independence.

"Work! my dear Miss Carew, work! but I positively slave! You little dream of the frightful fatigue and exposure I incur in the service of an ungrateful country. Could you but conceive the toil of field-days in the Park in a July sun, of going the rounds on winter nights, of marches, reviews, guards of honor, above all barrack duty. Fancy being dragged out of bed at half-past seven in the morning to go and inspect slaughtered carcases, followed by a minute examination of the men's rooms, to see if they've hidden their boots in their beds, spilt grease on the table or floors, or committed any other atrocity; from there into the kitchen, to be poisoned by the smell of onions—faugh! that reminds me of that horrible Irish stew we had for lunch."

"No?" I say, inquisitively; "do you really have to do such things? I thought the Guards had nothing to do but to wear fine clothes, look magnificent, and allow themselves to be admired."

He laughs.

"That is the popular superstition. There is no class of men so fatally misunderstood as we poor Guardsmen. We ought to have a chapter devoted to us in that book called 'Things not generally known.' Why, there are lots of people, in spite of that sweet thing in memorials in Waterloo Place, who firmly believe we never go to war."

"Well," I say, pleased to find he does not live altogether the self-indulgent and sybaritic life I had imagined, "I had no idea, really, that you had to work so hard."

"Oh, I haven't half finished yet. After the onions I go to the tailor's and shoemaker's shops, where the bouquet of leather is most refreshing; then I go round the messes to see if the men have any complaints to make about their dinner, then, for a little agreeable diversion, to the hospital,—after which it is quite on the cards that I may have the delightful amusement of drilling defaulters for an hour in a blazing sun. Now, then" (looking at me with a triumphant smile), "have I vindicated my character, and do you still wonder that I take every opportunity of recruiting my shattered forces?"

"And does your father know all this?" I ask.

"Oh, yes. I constantly remind him of it, and he says, pish! and pshaw! and pooh! By the way, Miss Carew, you are the latest from school,—what part of speech are pish and pshaw and pooh?'

"Interjections?" I hazard, timidly, not being great in the rules of grammar.

"Interjections," he repeats, with more assurance. "Yes, I've no doubt that's it. My father's tremendously fond of interjections. Now, to let you into more family secrets, that unreasonable old gentleman is always making a deuce of a row because I spend double what he allows me, sometimes more. Now, I put it to you, do you think a father has any right to send you into an expensive regiment, where most of the fellows are or will be well off, and not allow you enough to live decently and comfortably on?"

"No," I respond, warmly, "I don't. I think it is very unfair."

"Of course it is, my dear Miss Carew! I knew you would say so. I saw from the first that you were sympathique. As a rule, you can't conceive how frightened I am of—of unmarried ladies."

"Frightened?" (with an incredulous laugh).

"Yes, frightened, positively. But, as I was telling you, my father has twelve thousand a year, and no expenses but keeping up the place. Hector is not extravagant, and there are no girls, thank Heaven, to want dowries, and yet he has the indecency, I can call it nothing less, to think I can live on six hundred a year."

"Six hundred a year!" I echo. "Why, papa and I and Curly have not more than that to live upon."

"Wonderful!" he says, not really looking surprised, for I suppose he as well as everybody else knows how poor we are. "It is extraordinary how some people can do everything upon nothing, and do it better, too, very often, than their richer neighbors."

"But," I say, looking at him very doubtfully, "do you really mean to say that you don't think six hundred a year enough to live upon?"

"Not half!" shaking his head; "honestly and truly, not half."

Seeing that I am still incredulous, still unconvinced, he says, laughing,—

"Ah, it is very evident you don't know much about the great Babylon, nor the wants of the dwellers therein. But, take my word for it, six hundred a year is only a drop in the ocean, even if one were not a careless felloe like me, with refined, not to say expensive, tastes. Don't look so horrified! I don't cheat anybody. My father is the only sufferer, and it is a capital thing for his liver to have a little genuine excitement now and then. I'm so desperately unlucky, too, in my attempts to turn an honest penny: if I back a horse it is certain to go wrong, and at cards I hardly ever know the sensation of holding a trump."

I cannot help sighing,—it seems so sad to think of him frittering away his life on such vanity and frivolity, when he looks like a hero, and ought to "ride abroad, redressing human wrongs." I have no right to preach to him: it is impertinent, presumptuous. What do I know of life, that I should advise or warn? And yet I feel such an intense admiration for him, I want him to be good and noble inwardly as he is outwardly.

"Don't you think," I say, coloring deeply, but putting all the earnestness I feel into my voice,—"don't you think there's something better and nobler in the world than just merely to live for one's own pleasure and gratification? Oh, if you saw, like I do, people so poor, so hungry, so wanting every bare necessary, I know you would not feel happy to think of squandering away money on things you don't want and that can't give you any real pleasure."

Thinking over it afterwards, I could not in the least realize how I found boldness to say such things to him, a stranger, a man of fashion, one of the world's spoiled darlings. I wonder if any other girl or woman ever ventured to speak such truths to him. Ah, I think they would have done so if they had desired his good as earnestly as I did.

When I have finished my sentence, I feel abashed, and quite expect him to resent my rudeness; but he does not. He looks a little surprised, a pleasant smile curves his handsome mouth, and he says,—

"What a charming little priest it is! I shouldn't wonder if I became quite a converted and respectable character if I had you to talk to me often. You would soon be able to show me about in a caravan, as a tamed heathen."

I cannot help smiling as I remember the conversation be tween Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon.

"I am not such a very wicked fellow, after all," he goes on, plaintively. "Now, if you want a sinner it would be a real credit to convert, you'll have a chance to-night. Rexborough is coming. Do you know him? You must have heard of him."

"I dare say not to know him argues myself unknown," I make answer, "but I have never even heard his name. Who is he?"

"He is Lord Rexborough, a wicked nobleman, like the heroes of some fashionable novels, with a cruel jaw and a columnar throat, deep-chested and thin-flanked, and all that sort of thing, you know."

"Why does Mrs. Warrington invite him?" I ask, innocently.

"Oh" (laughing), "he is not so wicked as to be out of the pale of good society, and he is very popular. He isn't a carpet-knight like me: he hunts lions and tigers and bears, and Heaven knows what! I dare say you will be enormously taken with him,—won't look at me afterwards, I shouldn't wonder."

I laugh a low small laugh to myself. Then I say, descending from my perch before he has time to proffer assistance.—

"We must be going home."

I find it a very unwelcome exchange when, an hour or so later, the party being all assembled at five o'clock tea, I have to listen to and answer his elder brother. He came up to me as soon as I entered the room, looking half displeased and yet as though he were trying to conquer the feeling.

"Well, did you have a very delightful walk?" he asks, in that cold, rather sneering voice which always chills me.

"Yes," I reply, stoutly, "it was very pleasant. The sun was quite warm. We sat on a stile for a long time."

"Indeed!" (knitting his brows with evident displeasure), "A delightful occupation for a January afternoon!"

"It was quite warm," I answer, a little maliciously (what right has he to question my actions?), "and we were talking."

"Conversations at second-hand are not generally amusing," he says, in his most objectionable tone, "but might I be privileged to ask what was the subject of a discourse so enchaining as to make you oblivious of cold?"

"Your brother was talking to me about London and describing his life there."

"Really?" (raising his eyebrows about half an inch): "that must have been a very improving conversation for you!"

"It was very improving for me, I can tell you," breaks in the voice of his brother, who has been standing a little way off with his back to us, and now turns round. "Miss Carew thinks me a shocking bad fellow, and has taken my conversion in hand. She began this afternoon."

Oh that the earth would open and swallow me! I feel as if I should like never to see or speak to him again.

"Miss Carew seems to think she has a general vocation for remodeling society," sneers Lady Gwyneth.

"Oh, Lady Gwyn!" cries Curly, flushing a little, "you mustn't be down on Di, please. You know she has never been out before."

Poor dear fellow! he meant to champion me, but of the two I think Lady Gwyneth's speech was the less crushing. I bury my face in a book, utterly, thoroughly discomfited. Mr. Montagu is evidently sorry for me, and tries to say something encouraging; but I do not even reply.

At this juncture Lord Rexborough is announced. I look up, prepared to adore the man who has diverted attention from me. His big frame looms in the doorway. Now he is the centre of a group over which he towers by a head. No! I am grateful to him, but I shall not like him! Mr. Montagu goes forward, so I am at leisure to contemplate the new arrival. His hair and beard are coal-black (I have a rooted dislike to very dark men); his face is bronzed, the features large and coarse, particularly the mouth, which protrudes from under the heavy moustache. I suppose he is at his best now, responding cordially to cordial greetings, but his smile, to my mind, is anything but pleasant,—it is bold and familiar.—and his voice is loud, his manner boisterous.

"I see the new-comer has not displaced yesterday's arrival!" whispers Colonel Fane, who has come up to me.

"I hope no one will ever ask me out again," I retort, pettishly; "everything I say is wrong, and when I am silent, people seem to know what I am thinking about. It is very evident I am not fit for society, and it will be a good thing when I am back with my pigs and chickens."

He looks at me in some surprise.

"Now I know what you are thinking," I say, laughing in spite of myself. "You had no idea I had such a temper."

"It is quite right to have a spirit," he answers, "and you have been bullied shamefully. Please forgive me my share."

"I forgive you," I say, and then, reddening a little, "I cannot help thinking you have something to forgive me too."

"I?" he rejoins, looking surprised. "I?"

"I thought," I murmur, a good deal confused, "you were a little offended at supper last night. I—I gave you so much trouble, and you went away and did not speak to me again, and you have not spoken to me all to-day."

He laughs.

"I have been doing penance in keeping away," he says. "I have a great mind to tell you why."

"Oh, do!" I cry, eagerly.

"Do you promise not to betray me?" he whispers, looking round cautiously.

"Yes, faithfully."

"Mrs. Warrington told me I had monopolized you too much, and that I might be standing in your light."

"How?" I ask, and yet with an uneasy suspicion of what he means.

"As I told you, Hector Montagu is the heir to a fine property, and Mrs. Warrington, who, like all good women, is a matchmaker, has selected you for him, or, I should say him for you."

My breath comes quickly, and I answer, in an eager whisper,—

"I do not like him; I quite dislike him; and please don't believe I am so conceited as to fancy he thinks anything of me, but promise me, oh, do promise me, Colonel Fane, that if ever you see him talking to me you will come up and join in the conversation."

"And the same with his brother?" asks Colonel Fane, with a slight smile.

I hang my head, and he continues:

"Do you know Hector Montagu is really a good fellow at heart? it is only his look and manner that are against him and that really belie him. He is worth a dozen of Charlie."

My heart gives an indignant throb.

"I dare say," I answer, coldly. "I know so little of either."

There is a moment's pause, and then Colonel Fane says, a little nervously,—

"I am going to say something to you that I know you won't thank me for. Charlie Montagu is fascinating, and women are very apt to fall in love with him. I think him a very nice fellow; he has a charming manner, in spite of that affectation of languor and effeminacy; but" (looking keenly at me) "he is almost the last man I should like to see a sister of mine give her affections to, unless she had a fortune."

Before I can make any answer, he has left me, and is talking to Mrs. Warrington. He is right. I do not thank him for what he has said,—all the more, perhaps, because dimly, remotely in my heart I know he is right. But what then? Captain Montagu is not likely to bestow a thought on me, and I (and I sigh), I, when I no longer see him shall forget him. "I will forget him," I say, resolutely, as I rise to go to my room. Captain Montagu, seeing my movement, moves to the door to open it for me. I intend to pass through without even looking at him, but he lingers a moment before turning the handle, and says, in his most caressing tone,—

"Don't be angry with me." I look up, irresistibly fascinated, and smile. Woe is me! that look scatters to the wind all the resolves Colonel Fane's words have sown in my bosom. Light is my heart and swift my feet as I ascend the stairs to my room, where I fling myself into a low chair, smiling happy smiles at the bare recollection of his look and words. Oh, women who have grown old! who have lived and loved and suffered! do you, I wonder, lose all memory of that ardent spring-time when a look, a voice, could translate you into a seventh heaven? I am still dreaming when, after a vigorous rap, Curly puts his head in.

"Oh, Di!" he says, enthusiastically, "isn't it awfully jolly being here? I never enjoyed myself so much in my life before. I wish it could last forever: don't you?"

"I don't think I should mind," I return, "if we had papa and Gay and all the animals here. Poor papa! how dull he must be without us!"

"Yes, the Dad, of course. But I say, Di," (regretfully), "isn't it an awful bore being poor? Only fancy if we could have swell parties and ask everybody to our place and put 'em up and entertain them in this sort of way, wouldn't it be fine?"

"Yes," I respond, heartily, "it would. But you know, dear boy," I add, with a qualm of conscience, "it's no use repining about what can't be helped; and we have a great deal to be thankful for. And after all," I continue, thinking of Mrs. Warrington's guests in general and one in particular, "these people who are accustomed to so much society don't seem very contented, and things don't amuse them like they do you and me."

"Bosh!" retorts Curly: "that's only because it's the fashion for people to seem bored with everything. You should have seen Lady Gwyn to-day—why, she was as keen and pleased as I was."

"Oh," I remark, dryly, "it has got to 'Lady Gwyn' and 'dear boy' now, has it?" Whereat Curly blushes furiously.

"Well," he says, defiantly, "you seem to be amusing yourself too: you walked off very coolly with Captain Montagu after lunch to-day."

It is my turn to blush now.

"If I had not gone with him, I should have had the pleasure of walking home alone."

"He's an awfully nice fellow, but Lady Gwyneth says you are only wasting your time with him; he's a detrimental, and, besides, he wants a woman with money. She said I was to be sure and not let you fall in love with him, which she could see you were beginning to."

I am too wroth for speech. I cross the room and adjust something on the toilet-table, and Curly, unaware of my feelings, continues his oration.

"By jingo, Di! I wish you could catch the other one! he isn't half a bad fellow, though he don't look so nice as Charlie. He was awfully civil to me to-day, and said something about his mother going over to call on you when you get back. I say, only fancy you being My Lady with twelve thousand a year!"

I am still contending with my indignation, and Curly rattles on:

"It's awful hard lines: if a fellow hasn't got money he has to work for or wait for it, and here a girl has only to be pretty and liked, and plump she drops into any quantity of thousands a year."

"Oh!" I say, with some bitterness; "then you only look upon your sister as a marketable object, and don't think her inclinations are to be consulted."

"Oh, that's all stuff. Lady Gwyneth says——"

"Now, Curly," I cry, within an ace of losing my temper, "please not to tell me any more of Lady Gwyn's delightful theories. Her practice is quite enough warning for me. And as for Hector Montagu" (raising my voice), "I would not have him if he had twenty-four or forty-eight thousand a year, or—or double that sum," I say, not being, as I have before hinted, very good at arithmetic, and unable at a moment's notice to calculate what double forty-eight amounts to. "Besides" (calming down), "it is about as likely he will ask me as that" (I pause, as usual, for a simile)——

"As that plum-puddings will grow on a gooseberry-bush," says Curly, kindly coming to my rescue. "But a truce to marrying and giving in marriage," he continues, declamatorily. "Know, O Diana, that the festivities of the evening are to comprise a dance, and that——"

"A dance!" I cry, rapturously, as the thought of dancing with him (he surely will ask me) flashes across my brain. "Oh, Curly!"

"Quite true, O goddess! Lady Gwyneth's doing: perhaps for once" (with slight sarcasm) "she will have done what seemeth good in your eyes."

"It seemeth very good," I answer, laughing, and shutting the door upon him previous to commencing my toilette. Never before have I been so anxious about my personal appearance, never so diffident. How shall I look my best? A sudden inspiration comes to me: I will wear white, spotless white, all white, unrelieved by the smallest dash of color. When I am thus equipped, I present myself to the eyes of my brother, who is in the agonies of parting his hair down the middle. He sees my reflection in the glass, and turns sharply round.

"I say!" he exclaims, as he contemplates me with deliberation, "you've done it this time! By jingo! you only want the parson and the right man, and a what-you-may-call-it over your head, a veil, and you might be married off the reel. I say, Di" (coming nearer, while his face widens into a smile of satisfaction), "you'll take the shine out of some of 'em to-night."

His words are homely, but a compliment turned by Lord Chesterfield and delivered by Sir Charles Grandison would give me less pleasure. One may always rely on the sincerity at least of a brother's compliment.

Mr. Montagu takes me in to dinner. To-night two daughters of a neighboring baronet are dining,—pretty, stylish-looking girls. Captain Montagu takes one of them, Colonel Fane the other. My neighbor does his best to be agreeable to me: he has dropped his sarcastic tone, and tries to draw me out about my home life; but, though I could gossip so volubly about it to Colonel Fane, the confidences Mr. Montagu invites will not flow, but are strangled into monosyllabic replies to his questions. He might listen with a polite, even kind, show of interest, but somehow I do not feel that he would care to hear the insignificant details of our humdrum life, would not care to know about the accomplishments and abilities of my four-footed friends, nor the vicissitudes of their lives, nor the homely sayings and doings of Gay. Least of all do I feel inclined to talk to him about papa. In his presence I seem weighed down by a crushing sense of inferiority: nothing surprises me more than that he should seek my society or care to talk to me: to save my life I don't think I could originate a remark.

There has been a pause of a few minutes, when he turns rather suddenly towards me, and says, in a low voice,—

"What is there in me that repels you so intensely?"

Taken thus at unawares, I am covered with confusion, and have not the presence of mind to utter even a faint denegation. He hardly waits for it, but goes on:

"I admire that exceeding honesty and truthfulness in you that at this very moment forbids you to utter a civil falsehood, as ninety-nine out of a hundred of your sex would do. I am afraid I am rather a disagreeable sort of fellow, at least I seem so; but if I only knew how to conquer that sort of—of repugnance (but I hope that is too harsh a name) I inspire in you, believe me I would make a very great effort."

I am quite touched by his tone. Is it possible that so insignificant a person as myself can have given pain to this apparently hard, callous man of the world?

"Indeed——" I begin, hastily.

"You need not attempt a disclaimer," he says, gently. "I watched you all through dinner last night, when Fane sat next you: you were bright and laughing the whole time; he did not do all the talking, as I am doing to-night. If you could only see the difference in your face,—yesterday so gay and animated, to-night" (with a forced smile) "so dull and dejected."

I feel a little indignant at this open criticism.

"If you like the truth, then," I say, bridling up, "I am afraid of you. I have never been in society, I have been shut up in the country all my life: if I talked to you about my dogs and cats, my pigs and chickens, how you would sneer at me! If I say nothing, you can at the most think me stupid."

He laughs, quite a genial laugh.

"At all events, I have roused you into saying something," he says; then, lowering his voice, "and if you think I do not take an interest in homely country pursuits, that is because my face is always, unlike yours, expressing what I do not think. Now, there is my brother," he goes on, bitterly: "the moment he enters a room, every one says, 'What a charming fellow!' just because he had the luck to be born with a pleasing expression, and I always get credit for exactly the reverse. It's all humbug the face being an index to the mind. I have the bad luck to take after my father,—only in feature, though, I trust," he adds, devoutly, "and Charlie resembles my mother's family."

Sir Hector cannot be a very nice old gentleman, I reflect if both his sons speak so undutifully of him.

"I should like you to know my mother," continues Mr. Montagu, warmly. "You would love her, and she you, I know,—she is so sweet and good and gentle, and, poor soul! she leads such a life with my father. By Heaven!" (with suppressed fire), "if I thought I should ever treat a woman like that, I think I would hang myself before I got the chance."

"Or not marry at all," I suggest, slyly.

"Ah!" he replies, gloomily, "I see you think a woman wouldn't have much of a time with me. But you are wrong," he goes on, bending towards me, and speaking eagerly: "if a woman loved me you don't know how good I would be to her,—you don't know——"

I am destined not to know, for at this moment the ladies rise to retire. Part of the ball-room has been screened off for our Terpsichorean rites to-night, and a priestess, in the shape of a lady who plays the piano, has been convened from the neighboring town. I am tremulous with excitement: will he ask me? No, Mrs. Huntingdon is on his arm, and I am fain to accept Sir George (I don't yet know his surname), who invites me. My envious eyes scan the splendid pair as they glide down the room. My partner is evidently as ill pleased to watch them as I am; we do not say very much to each other. I walk through a quadrille with Colonel Fane. Then comes another waltz. My heart beats faster than ever: will he ask me now? No! he is inviting the girl he took in to dinner, and his brother is my partner. The waltz is to be followed by a galop. Mrs. Warrington brings up Lord Rexborough and introduces him to me, and I am obliged to accept his invitation to dance. No sooner have I done so than Captain Montagu approaches.

"Miss Carew, I have been impatiently awaiting this blissful opportunity: this dance must be ours."

"Too late, my boy!" says my lord, laying a heavy hand on the other's shoulder. "Gad, Charlie!" (with his coarse laugh), "it isn't often one gets a pull over you."

"Don't have anything to do with him, Miss Carew!" laughs the other, gayly linking his arm in Lord Rexborough's. In my prejudiced eyes they look like the Archangel Michael and Apollyon, only that I never saw the two depicted on such friendly terms. "He's a mighty hunter, and all that sort of thing,—

"'A terror to the Umbrian, a terror to the Gaul,'

but he isn't a bit of good at dancing. He'll probably tear that pretty gown of yours to ribbons, tread on your toes and lame you for life, or bring you to unutterable grief of some kind or other."

"He only wants to make you appreciate me all the more when you see what I can do," says my lord, with a look which, if intended to fascinate me, has precisely the opposite effect. "You had better go and do your duty by the lovely H., Master Charlie. I see her looking daggers this way."

I cast an appealing glance at Captain Montagu: not only do I want to dance with him, but I most emphatically do not want to dance with the other.

He responds to my look, and, drawing Lord Rexborough a little aside, whispers something to him which escapes my ear. Not so the answer.

"Exception proves the rule. I like the look of this filly, clean-limbed and thorough-bred. You can have the next turn."

In my disgust, I feel inclined to turn and flee, but something stronger chains me to my seat and makes me try to look as if I had not heard.

"This fellow is quite impracticable," says Captain Montagu, turning to me, "and perhaps" (bending down and smiling) "I ought to give him a chance. You know what I told you this afternoon."

"Come, get out, Charlie!" observes my lord, with his charming, polished manner: "you always were a most infernal poacher, and Miss Carew is mine, for the next fifteen minutes at all events."

"Keep the next waltz for me," whispers Captain Montagu, going.

"Don't you waste your time on him!" says my partner, facetiously: "he's no good to girls on their promotion. Wait till you've got a husband with money, and then you can take a turn at Charlie, like all the other pretty married women."

I am glad for once that my face is expressive. I do not attempt this time to control the disgust and disapprobation his remark calls up on it. Lord Rexborough evidently sees and enjoys it.

"Haw haw!" he laughs. "I suppose I've put my foot in it. Fact is, I hardly ever talk to a girl, and hang me if I know what to say to them!"

Mercifully, the music begins. I say mercifully; but whether of the two is less disgusting—to be stared at by his bold eyes and talked to in a style such as I should imagine a commercial traveler might adopt to a bar-maid, or to be encircled by his odious arm with his hot breath streaming on my neck, I am somewhat at a loss to pronounce. He does not dance badly, and he is pleased to compliment me, in his delicate, subtle manner, on my performance.

"By George! we must have another!" he says, when it is over. "I know it's no use asking for Charlie's waltz, eh?" (looking down in my face with his most satanic look) "I saw how you frowned when I insisted on my rights, by George I did, but I like to see a pretty woman frown—hanged if I don't! I like a horse and a woman with a spirit: shows they've got go in 'em. Let's take a turn in the conservatory, eh?"

"I had rather not, thank you," I reply, stiffly.

"Do you good, a little fresh air," he rejoins. "I'll bring you back in time for Charlie." And he continues his march towards the door, with my hand cramped like a vice between his arm and side, so that without positively stopping and struggling I could not get away from him. That would be ignominious: so I yield, solacing my indignant heart with the thought that no human power shall make me dance with him again.

"Rattling good place to spoon!" he says, when we have arrived there. "Come and sit down!" (pointing to a lounge at the farther end).

"No, thank you," I answer, curtly.

"Nonsense! you can't catch cold: hot-water pipes all round. I'll send for a shawl, if you like. I want to talk to you."

"I can talk quite as well standing," I say, coldly.

"No, you can't,—it's so unsociable; and I'm awfully tired,—been traveling all day."

Without being downright rude and running the risk of offending Mrs. Warrington through her guest, I cannot well refuse: so reluctantly I seat myself, and he brings down his ponderous frame so close to me that he sits half on my dress. He evidently enjoys my embarrassment, and leans towards me so near that I feel his breath upon my face.

"Now," he says, gloating upon me with his hateful dark eyes, "I am going to give you a little advice about Charlie Montagu."

"I think you are rather premature," I remark, flashing an indignant look upon him.

"Hot a bit," he answers, composedly. "I'm uncommon quick at jumping at conclusions. I saw the young gentleman open the door for you just after I came, and how you looked up at him. I watched you when the dancing began, and he asked Mrs. Huntingdon, and then the other, and——"

But, before he can proceed any further, I have wrenched my skirts from him and fled. In my hot haste I run into the arms of some one: it is Captain Montagu.

"Why, Miss Carew!" he utters in his laughing voice; "where are you rushing to like a small whirlwind? Do you know you all but knocked me down?" Then, as he sees my agitation, he draws my hand gently through his arm.

I hear a heavy footstep in the distance.

"Oh, come away," I whisper, excitedly; "please come away."

He complies with my request, and takes me across the hall into Mr. Warrington's room, which is empty and lighted only by a single lamp. Without a word he leads me gently to a sofa. I am ashamed to chronicle such incredible foolishness, but I actually begin to cry.

"What is it?" says Captain Montagu, soothingly stroking my hand as one might a child's in trouble. "What has that brute Rexborough been doing or saying to you?"

"Nothing," I say, making a great effort to recover myself.

"But you would not be so distressed if it were nothing, you would not have been flying away as I found you. Tell me" (caressingly), "and I will go to him and——"

"Not for the world!" I cry, apprehensively. "Do not, please do not mention my name to him!" I repeat, in an agony lest the wretch should tell him what was the source of his offense; "but I dislike him, I cannot bear him. I hope he will never speak to me again."

"He shall not," says Captain Montagu, very softly; and my mourning is turned into joy as I look up with courage regained, and see his handsome face stooped tenderly towards me. He still holds my hand, and blushingly I re-take possession of it, saying,—

"The waltz will be nearly over."

"Then you will give me the next as well, will not you?" he says, caressingly.

When, an hour later, the party breaks up, I chronicle this evening as the happiest of my life. I have forgotten that such a person as Lord Rexborough exists, until Curly, coming in, says,—

"What a splendid fellow Lord Rexborough is!"

"Splendid!" I echo, with wide-open eyes.

"He has been telling us all about his tiger-hunts; and he was so awfully kind to me, and has asked me to go and breakfast with him at Windsor some day."

I sigh, but say nothing. Curly with such friends as Lady Gwyneth and Lord Rexborough!

"What do you look so glum for, Di?"

"Nothing, dear boy," I answer, not wanting to spoil his pleasure by moralizing. "I am sleepy. Good-night."

We kiss and part, and I fall to wondering whether is better, our own homely healthy life, or that world's life into which we are just getting initiated.

Lord Rexborough is rather astonished at Diana's flight.

"What the deuce did I say to make her start off like that?" he wonders to himself. "I only meant to give her a friendly word of caution because she seemed a nice fresh innocent little thing, and it's no more use her thinking of Charlie than the Emperor of China. And then she cuts up rough and flies off like a young deer. Nothing so silly as trying to do any one a good turn, particularly a woman when she's sweet on a man! Well, I've done with her!" And Lord Rexborough rises and saunters along the conservatory into the hall. Lady Gwyneth is crossing it, alone. They both pause: a pink flush crosses her face, he looks a shade embarrassed.

"Will you come into the conservatory?" he asks her, in a low voice.

She shakes her head.

"No, not there: in the billiard-room,—it would seem more natural to find me there." And she forces a laugh that is hardly mirthful.

He follows her down the corridor to the billiard-room, which is, as they probably expect to find it, untenanted. Lady Gwyneth takes up a cue and begins to knock the balls about. Curiously enough, she, who is an exceptionally good player, misses more than once. After about a minute she desists, and faces him, leaning on her cue. His eyes are fixed upon her, have been, as she knows, ever since they entered the room. A curious contrast, these two,—she so mignonne, white-faced, fair-haired, he so dark and big.

"Well?" she says, at last; but the inflexion of her voice is softer than it is wont to be, and he, looking at her with a searching glance, asks,—

"Is it well?"

She utters a little scornful laugh.

"Of course it is well. Am I not rich? and when you saw me last I was poor, poor as a church mouse. Am I not heart-whole? and when you saw me last" (her voice trembling a little) "I was heart-broken. I shall never break my heart for love again: diamonds, not willows, for me. And you" (turning upon him), "I've never had an opportunity of congratulating you since that tremendous piece of good luck befell you a year ago. Odd, our happening to meet here! I suppose Mrs. Warrington never heard of that little episode in the wilds of Ireland. What a good thing for you your uncle and cousin did not die a fortnight sooner! I might have been Lady Rexborough now, or" (looking keenly at him) "perhaps your love would not have survived your sudden honors."

"Gwyneth!" he says, in a low tone of reproach. He does not look like the same man for whom willful Miss Diana took such a violent disgust; there is nothing coarse or harsh about him now: the dark eyes that are looking down upon Lady Gwyneth's quivering, excited face are very sad and soft. As they stand there together, their thoughts go back to a time, not so very long ago,—something under two years,—when both their fates had seemed as different from what they are as the mind could well conceive. She was a penniless, free-hearted, frank-mannered hoyden, the daughter of an Irish peer, and he was Jack Blount, with no expectations, not particularly celebrated for morals or manners, "a bear," most women pronounced, "not a bad fellow," men said, "and a sportsman to the backbone." The two met and fell in love. It happened on this wise:

The Earl of Mallow, Lady Gwyneth's father, was as poor as a peer well could be. He had, what many poor men have, a large family. The sons went into the army, and the daughters ran wild at home. There was no going up to London for the season, important as it was that the girls should make good matches. Lady Gwyneth, the only one old enough, was presented in Dublin, and now and then got invited to London for a few weeks, to stay with friends. One May her brother brought home Jack Blount for salmon-fishing (Lord Mallow had some of the best fishing on the Blackwater), and Jack was a noted angler. The invitation was given in this way:

"If you like fishing, and don't mind roughing it, come down home with me. I can promise you any quantity of salmon; and you won't be bothered with women. My sisters are more like boys than girls; in fact, you'd be puzzled to know which they were! They can ride, shoot, and fish as well as any of us boys."

Colonel Blount rather liked the idea. He did not care for ladies, he did not believe in them, and thought it a stupid farce to have to treat them as if he did. Poor Jack's experience of women had been an unfortunate one. His own mother had been the subject of one of the most notorious scandals of the day, and from his father, whom he adored, he never heard anything but curses and invectives against the sex. He was brought up religiously to love sport and to distrust women, to look upon them as enemies, to be got the best of if possible, and to give no quarter to when they fell into his hands. So Jack had always been used to steer clear of ladies. But when he came to Ireland and saw this intrepid little maiden, who would have alarmed most men, he had a new sensation. A fine lady, who wanted to be waited upon and made love to, if she had the loveliest face in the world, would have made no impression upon him, steeled as he was against these subtle wiles; but a girl who could bear any amount of hardship and fatigue, who could throw a fly and play a twenty-pound salmon as well as himself, who would ride any horse they put her on, and not funk a big jump in cold blood,—that was a very different specimen of womanhood from any it had been his lot to encounter, and his rough, rude, but withal honest heart went out to her at once. And to her he was the very beau-idéal of what a man should be,—utterly manly and fearless, an adept at every sport. She would have thought a polished, courtly-mannered man a fool; but Jack's brusque rough-and-ready ways just suited her. She was eminently un-Desdemona like, but that fair and weak-minded damsel never listened with more rapt attention to the Moor than Lady Gwyneth to Jack's adventures in flood and field,—some of them thrilling enough, though told with due modesty. For sport had filled up the crevices of Jack Blount's life, much as love-making does other men's: his blood had been stirred quicker by danger than love; the conquest of a lion or a grizzly had filled his head with more passionate delight than the winning of the fairest of women could have done hitherto. But three weeks in the constant society of this little Amazon had given him fresh thoughts about womankind: he who had scoffed with many a bitter, unseemly joke at marriage woke up one morning and found himself filled with one great desire,—to have this little pale girl for company during the rest of his pilgrimage through life. And before nightfall, as they wandered home together from their fishing expedition, lagging, by mutual though unspoken consent, behind the rest of the party, there, in the dim wood, the trees making canopy above their heads, and the dark river swirling round the big rocks below, he told his "plain, unvarnished tale."

There was not much romance or sentiment about them, but their hearts were none the less honest or steadfast of purpose one to the other for that. And so they gave their tryst, and he took the thick gold ring from his strong hand and gave it to her until he should replace it by another. To this day Lady Gwyneth wears it, not in the shape in which he gave it, but beaten out into a heart; and she wears it next her own.

It was arranged between them that he should speak to Lord Mallow next day. He felt diffident about it,—he had so little, so very little, to offer any woman, much less an earl's daughter. But that same night, when all the household had retired, and he and Lady Gwyneth's brother smoked their nocturnal pipe together, he heard his fate in this wise. There had been silence for some minutes, and Lord Vayn had fidgeted about uneasily. It was lost upon Jack: he was following the smoke-wreaths up in the air where his castles were, little thinking, poor fellow, how a few minutes would see them toppling down into ruined fragments at his feet.

Lord Vayn, having thought over one or two modes of attack, and not liking either, ended by blurting out his mind pell-mell without much consideration for his hearer's feelings, only anxious to get his own share of the unpleasant business over.

"Look here, Jack, old fellow! I've got something deuced disagreeable to say to you. I may be right, or I may be wrong, I hope to Heaven wrong. I dare say you can guess what it's about."

"About your sister?" asks Jack, a strange nervous feeling creeping over him.

"You know, when I asked you here," proceeds Lord Vayn, rushing at his subject like a horse at a fence he wants to be over, "I thought you were the safest fellow in the world with women: I thought you hated them,—you always swore you did. And my sisters are not soft, spoony sort of girls, Gwyneth least of all. But I can't help seeing that she's getting fond of you, and, as your marrying her is out of the question, it's no use playing the fool any longer, and if you're a gentleman, as I take you to be, I needn't say anything more."

Jack's heavy brows bend together, his teeth clinch. For a minute or more he makes no answer. Then he says, huskily,—

"I know I have very little to offer a girl,—nothing, indeed; and what you say about my hating women has been true enough up to the present moment; but I swear, if you let me have her, neither she nor any of you shall ever repent it, and I don't think she is a girl who cares much for money and luxury."

"I dare say you think," returns Lord Vayn, with some heat, "that because we are poor, as you see we are, the girls are not to look for much in their husbands; but you're wrong. Because they've nothing themselves they've got to marry men who have. My dear Blount" (in a quieter voice), "it's useless your thinking about it. My father and mother would not hear of it for an instant: they are furious already, and I have had the pleasant task delegated to me of—of—well, of giving you your congé."

Jack's face grows dark and angry.

"It is rather late in the day," he says. "You should have spoken sooner."

"Spoken sooner!" retorts the other, angrily. "Why, until three days ago it never entered our brains that you could—could——"

"Presume to aspire to Lady Gwyneth's hand!" finishes Jack, grimly.

"Something like that," returns Lord Vayn. "Hang it, Blount! it's not a very pleasant thing to have to say to a fellow, but you must know that though you're a very good fellow in some ways, and a sportsman, you're hardly the sort of man in any respect that one would care to give one's daughter or sister to, even if you had anything to keep her on."

Jack listens in silence to the words whose bitter truth goes well home: he does not feel any anger against the man who speaks them, only a chill pain creeps into his heart. He begins to see the folly of which he has been guilty, and the thought that pains him most is that she will suffer for it. Poor little girl! He heaves a bitter sigh.

"Can't I do anything?" he says, almost humbly. "If I waited——"

"My good fellow," retorts the other, angrily, "you are a man of the world. You know that if you waited forever it would be as impossible as it is now. And I am commissioned by my father and mother both, to say that under no circumstances would they hear of you as a husband for Gwyneth, Don't make my task any harder than you can help."

"That is enough," says poor Jack. "You need say no more. I will pack my things to-night, and to-morrow you will have seen the last of me."

So saying, he goes, leaving Lord Vayn savage with himself for his own roughness, savage with his sister for her folly, most savage of all with his parents, who have thrust this hateful office upon him and lost him a friend. Somehow he feels that even rough, downright Jack Blount would have acquitted himself more tenderly had the ungracious task been his. Jack goes to his room, and begins to pack, with a heavier heart than he has known since his father died. Four weeks ago how little he dreamed

"His heart would ever ache or break
                                    For love's sake,"

He had some poor consolation in feeling that he had but to speak the word and she would go to him anywhere; she was not a girl to be daunted by parents' vetoes; but that word he did not mean to speak. No! now it was put before him, he saw how poor and untempting was the fate he had to offer her: parting from her friends with only him to depend upon (and poor Jack's opinion of himself was the very humblest), she would have a hard time of it, poor little girl! he told himself. One thing he bitterly regretted,—having spoken to her: he blamed himself: he had meant to speak to her father first, but it had slipped out unawares.

The next morning Lord and Lady Mallow met him at breakfast with serene faces, as though unconscious of what had passed the night before. They made no allusion to his departure, though the dog-cart was ordered for ten o'clock. Lady Gwyneth was not present, neither was Lord Vayn. Breakfast over, the two other girls went out. Jack brought his courage to the sticking-point.

"Lady Mallow," he said, quietly, "will you allow me to wish your daughter good-by before I go?"

Lady Mallow looked at her husband.

"Better not," he uttered, suavely.

"I ask it as a great favor," says Jack, huskily. "I can see her in your presence, if you wish it so."

"Under those circumstances, I think, my dear," remarks Lord Mallow to his wife, "we need not object to grant Colonel Blount's last request. Will you fetch Gwyneth?"

Lady Mallow goes out, and returns, after a short absence, with her daughter.

Lady Gwyneth is pale, heavy-eyed: it is easy to see she too has heard her fate. Poor Jack's honest heart goes out to her: something in his throat chokes him, a mist gathers before his eyes.

He goes up to her and takes her hand in his.

"Good-by!" he says, huskily. "I was wrong in speaking to you without Lord Mallow's consent. I forgot I was poor and had no right to think of you, but I know I could have made you happy if they would have let me."

"Colonel Blount!" interrupts Lady Mallow.

"Good-by," he says, once more, taking both her hands in his; and, looking up through a mist of tears, she sees his stalwart form towering above her, meets his dark, sad, honest eyes, and then he is gone. Mechanically she stands until she hears the dog-cart drive away, and then she goes away silently to her room. If he had only said to her, "Come to me, and you and I will face the world together," she would have gone to him, would have defied parents, poverty, anything, everything, for his sake; but he had acquiesced; he had bidden her good-by: what was there left for her to do? So, silently, with all the more in her heart because she bore a brave face, she went away to her own room and fought it out alone. Somehow she did not believe he would give her up tamely. She buoyed herself up with the hope that she would hear from him. She did not know that the strongest argument he used against the impulse to see or write to her was herself. He was giving her up for her own sake, and that lent him courage.

But in time she gave up hope, and when some months afterwards she was in London, and Mr. Desborough proposed to her, she accepted him. She did it with characteristic frankness.

"I do not care for you," she said. "I will marry you if you like, but I shall expect to have everything my own way, and to do just as I like."

Mr. Desborough, who was not in love with her either, but who was particularly anxious to have a lady of title for his wife, assented with the best grace he might.

"I hope time——" he murmured.

"No," she answered, brusquely, "time will do nothing more for you; but if you like to marry me without expecting anything of me, it makes very little difference to me."

So Mr. Desborough married her, and, by one of the strange ironies in which fate delights, on the very day that she became his wife, Lord Rexborough and his son were upset from a boat and drowned, and Jack Blount was sent for from Mexico to reign in their stead.

This is what lies between them and the past. He looks at her with a curious emotion. The time that severs them from their last meeting seems doubly long from all that has happened between; life is changed for him as her; he is no longer poor Jack Blount with an indifferent reputation and "that unfortunate story of his mother" attached to him,—he is my lord, whom mothers and chaperons receive with open arms, whose free manners and coarse jokes they smile indulgently at, as proofs of "delightful eccentricity." With a certain grim humor since his accession to title and fortune, he enjoys making the worst of himself before ladies, and seeing how much they will not only tolerate but take from him with a good grace. He rarely meets with a rebuff. Diana's is the first for many a long day; and he likes her none the less for it. But he is not improved since he was Jack Blount. And Lady Gwyneth? She is not improved either; from a frank, merry hoyden, she has become a fast, brusque woman, careless of the world's opinion, and only bent on finding opium in excitement, to still the voice that reminds her of her spoiled life.

And thus they meet. Neither has a guilty thought in their heart of ever being aught again to the other, and yet, however hopeless, it is sweet to be together once again, together and alone.

"I watched you all this evening," he says, in a low voice. "I wanted to find out if you were happy. You laughed and talked."

"Is it only happy people who laugh and talk?" she interrupts him. "Oh, if so, what a voiceless, mirthless world it would be! Laugh and talk! I do all day and half the night; and yet——"

"Who is happy?" he answers. "Once now and then, perhaps. It is happiness to kill a wild beast that has been within an ace of killing you; it is happiness to land a big salmon you have played for an hour,—you know that; it is happiness to be well up in a good run on a good horse. But those things don't last. If I knew what the hereafter was, if there is one, or, better still, if there is none, I should say it was happiest of all to be lying fathoms deep under the sea, or on a battle-field with your foe under you, and a bullet through your heart."

The speech was eminently characteristic of the man. Lady Gwyneth recognized the old Jack Blount in it, and smiled a little sadly to herself.

"You used to talk to me like that long ago," she says. "I did not understand you then; I thought life a happy thing; but I can understand you well enough now."

"Are you really unhappy?" he asks, anxiously.

"Have you seen my husband?" she says, briefly. "Well, you know what I was, frank, high-spirited, outspoken. What do you think the effect would be on me of being tied to a man whom I despise" (with a gesture of loathing), "despise, oh, more than any words can tell! All my nature is changed; I hate myself too; I treat him shamefully, yes! I know it quite as well as other people can tell me; and yet something in me won't let me alter myself,—I can't. Why does he not turn round upon me? I should respect him far more if he flew into a passion with me or bullied me; but he is afraid of me—afraid of me!"

"You are a very little woman," says Lord Rexborough, smiling, "but I expect you can be rather terrible."

"Do you think so?" she asks, lifting her eyes to his face. "Then" (sighing) "I suppose I have become rather a vixen."

The door opens: Mr. Warrington and Colonel Fane come in. Neither knows the story of these two, or dreams of interrupting a tête-à-tête. Mr. Warrington challenges Lady Gwyneth to a game of billiards, and, as she plays, Lord Rexborough, whilst carrying on a conversation with Colonel Fane, watches her, and thinks somehow that the cotton gown in which she used to trip round the worn old billiard-table at home became her better than the costly lace and diamonds of to-night; anyhow, it seemed more appropriate.

Presently Mrs. Huntingdon comes in with Captain Montagu.

"Charlie," cries Lord Rexborough, "I'm afraid I frightened that pretty little friend of yours. I'm too rough for her: she won't have me at any price."

"Really," utters Mrs. Huntingdon, impatiently, "I am getting perfectly sick of that girl. Her virtuous airs are quite insufferable!"

"I don't think they are airs," interposes Colonel Fane. "I fancy the virtue is quite natural."

"How down you women always are upon each other!" says Lord Rexborough. "You can never forgive each other for being pretty."

"Pretty!" interrupts Lady Gwyneth: "I should hardly call her that: she has the beauté de diable, freshness."

"Really, Lady Gwyneth," says Captain Montagu, "I think you must allow that she is pretty."

"Decidedly pretty!" the other men agree.

Mrs. Huntingdon lifts her handsome eyes scornfully.

"I never knew a more striking instance of beauty being 'in the eye of the beholder,'" she says, throwing herself into a low chair.

"Hush! here is the boy!" whispers Colonel Fane.

The days go swiftly by: every morning I say to myself, "I am a day nearer to papa and Gay and the animals;" and yet, it is no unfaith or treachery to them, there is something so fascinating and desirable in this unaccustomed life that I cannot think of leaving it without a pang. After the luxury, the flattery and laughter, the old home will seem quiet and dull and sombre; but it is not that,—oh, not that! I do not think I should ever be one of those who think meanly of a friend because he wears a shabby coat. It is not the dullness or the poverty of home that frightens me: it is the thought that I shall lose the sight of one face, the sound of one voice, that my poor foolish eyes and ears have grown to feast on. A cold chill strikes my heart every time I remember that a few days, such a few days hence, he will have gone forever out of my life. And I am nothing to him! he will go on with his gay pleasant life, which no faintest recollection of the little country-bred girl will cross.

One evening again I sing: he does not come near me, nor thank me, as the others do. But later he comes and whispers to me,—

"I want you to do me a great favor. Will you?"

My eyes glisten. What would I not do to favor him?

"I have a passion for singing,—some singing,—like yours. The Opera, as a rule, bores me to death, except a few of those lovely, plaintive solos. After all, I would rather hear Patti sing 'Home, Sweet Home,' than all the operas in creation. I'm awfully fond of hymn-tunes, those lovely ones they sing at Wells Street (ah! I forget you don't know London). I go there nearly every Sunday afternoon. But best of all I love to sit in an arm-chair and listen to those dear old-fashioned ballads sung by a voice like yours. Not that I often get the chance: I have not heard many such. The only time I ever feel as if I had a soul is when I listen to sweet singing. I think" (smiling) "you might quite convert me with your voice: you know Orpheus charmed the wild beasts with his lyre, and I don't suppose you think me far removed from them."

I laugh from sheer happiness at his praise.

"But the favor!" I say, interrogatively.

"I want" (bending still nearer)—"I want you to sing to me alone."

"Alone?" I repeat; "but how can I? Do you mean to ask all the other people to go out of the room?"

"I want you to make a rendezvous with me for to-morrow. Every one goes out in the afternoon. Say you have a headache and stop at home."

"But I never had a headache in my life."

"No? I thought ladies always had headaches as often as they liked. What is your particular complaint when you want an excuse?"

"I never do want one. I have only to say to papa 'I wish to go out;' or, 'I wish to stay at home,' and he never questions it."

"I wish my papa was like that!" laughs Captain Montagu. "Unfortunately, he is the exact opposite of yours. But come" (persuasively), "do manage it for me somehow, and I shall be ever so grateful to you."

I should dearly like to do what he asks me,—there could be no harm in singing to him; but to scheme to be alone with him, even for so innocent a purpose! No: impossible.

"I would sing to you for hours, and welcome," I say, "but we must take our chance of there being some one else present who might object."

"I tell you how we'll manage it: we'll start for a walk with Miss Gore and Irvine: they always walk,—I suppose" (laughing) "because it's the only chance they have of getting away from their kind here. They are sure to lose us, or we them, and then we will come back and have it all to ourselves. Shall we?"

A guilty joy steals across me as I smile consent, and then he leaves me, and his brother, who has been scowling at us from the other side of the room, takes his place.

"What has my brother been imparting to you that makes you look so happy?" he asks, in his cold voice.

"If I look happy," I retort, rather indignantly, "it is because I reflect the faces of the people I talk to. Your brother smiles and looks pleasant, so I do the same."

"And you are reflecting my face now, I suppose," he says, with slight sarcasm. "Your expression is quite different from what it was a moment ago."

"Probably," I reply, for I am considerably nettled by his constant personalities.

He gnaws his lip for a moment, and then says, much more softly,—

"I wish I had the knack of pleasing you! Do you know I long sometimes to play eavesdropper and hear what these fellows say who make you smile and look so bright?"

"You would not hear much wit or wisdom," I respond, relaxing into a smile: "the subject of our mirth would probably cause you to embrace us all in one supreme and infinite contempt."

"Why will you persist in thinking me such a prig?" he says, impatiently. "Do you think I cannot laugh and be gay and amused too?"

I look askance at him, and answer, doubtfully, "I don't know: I dare say."

He laughs in spite of himself.

"I suppose you think I never was a boy and trundled a hoop or played marbles."

For once he succeeds in making me laugh, as my vivid imagination pictures the grave and dignified individual before me occupied with such youthful pastimes.

"You see," I say, when I recover myself, "what a small thing it takes to amuse me."

"Anyhow, I am fortunate to have done so once," he observes, quite good-temperedly; and, having so far broken the ice, we continue quite friendly for the short time that remains before the party breaks up for the night.

I go to my room exuberantly happy at the thought of to-morrow's programme, but trembling, too, for fear something may interfere with it. But it comes to pass as he has decreed. Most of the gentlemen are shooting,—-all, indeed, except Captain Montagu, Miss Gore's lover, and Lord Rexborough, who has gone hunting with Lady Gwyneth. We start for our walk, and in due course lose our companions; and little more than half an hour later we are back in Mrs. Warrington's boudoir, I at the piano, Captain Montagu a little distance off, buried in the easiest chair in the room. His eyes are shut, and his face slightly averted from me.

"I am not asleep," he says, "but I cannot use my eyes and ears both; and the prettiest woman in the world looks less pretty with her mouth open, singing. I shall not say, 'Thank you;' and please not to stop for a long time."

So I sing on and on, more anxious to give him pleasure than I could feel to win the approbation of a thousand other folk. Once now and then I let my eyes steal over his face with secret delight, and still I sing on.

It begins to grow dusk,—the days are at their shortest. I look at the clock: it is a whole hour since I sat down. I close the piano softly, not altogether sure that my voice has not had the soothing though unflattering effect of sending him to sleep; but no sooner have I done so than he opens his eyes, and, rising, comes towards me.

"Do you know," he says, softly, bending down to me, "do you know that you have given me more pleasure than I have felt for years? I can't tell you how I have enjoyed this afternoon. You are not tired, are you?" (tenderly). "I am such a selfish brute,—I am afraid I never think of any one but myself."

"I am glad if I have pleased you," I say, looking at him, but turning my eyes as quickly away again, feeling, I know not why, unable to meet his gaze. There is a moment's pause, and then he stretches out his hand and takes one of mine which lies on the closed piano. His touch thrills me like an electric flame,—I scarce know if it be pain or pleasure At this moment I hear two laughs, one loud, one shrill. Burning with shame, I essay to tear my hand away, but Captain Montagu holds it tightly. He is not one whit embarrassed.

"I am giving Miss Carew a lesson in palmistry," he says, coolly. "Do you understand the science, Lady Gwyneth?"

"I think I do, as practiced by you," she answers, with a burst of merriment, in which Lord Rexborough's voice joins.

Captain Montagu opens my reluctant palm with gentle force.

"She has a very long line of life," he remarks, imperturbably gazing into it.

"How about the line of the heart, eh, Charlie?" roars my lord, approaching: "let's have a look."

As he approaches, I tear my hand away and put both behind my back.

"What a timid little dove it is!" he cries. "Lady Gwyneth, now is it that I scare Miss Carew so horribly?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," she returns, in the same tone. "I should not have given Miss Carew credit for being shy. Evidently Captain Montagu does not inspire her with similar terror."

"You're such a great hulking fellow, you know, Jack," laughs Captain Montagu, putting his hand on the other's shoulder; "and you look so frightfully fierce; and then, with your reputation as a lion-slayer and your sojourn in wild parts, I shouldn't wonder if Miss Carew thinks you eat human flesh, and is rather in terror of her life when you come too near."

"Of the two I don't suppose I'm as dangerous to the young lady as you are," replies my lord. "Come, Miss Carew, won't you give us another of those sweet songs you were favoring this lucky fellow with just now."

"Do," says Lady Gwyn, imperiously. "Sing 'Auld Robin Gray.'"

But my voice feels choked; I could not sing now to please any one: so I rise and walk away from the piano, saying, "I am afraid I have no voice left."

"What a charming, good-natured girl!" says Lady Gwyn, sotto voce, to her companion, but loud enough for me to hear; and, vexed and indignant, I leave the boudoir and seek my own room. There is always a reverse to every picture. Still, I have pleased him, and that is fifty thousand times more to me than the displeasure of all the lords and ladies in creation.

During the last few days I have seen a great deal of Claire Fane, and every day I like her better. She is so thoroughly kind and good, so pleasant to every one, and somehow seems to have a way of drawing together the most uncongenial materials and of making the best of them. Lord Rexborough seems less loud and coarse in her society, Lady Gwyneth less fast, Mrs. Huntingdon less ill-tempered, Hector Montagu less stiff and formal.

I have an idea,—it may be groundless,—but I fancy she has a great regard for Mr. Montagu: a faint blush comes to her kind pretty face when he addresses her sometimes, she is a little embarrassed now and then in his presence, and she never finds fault with what he says, even when he is most cynical and uncharitable. She rather apologizes to him for what he condemns than blames him as I think she might do for his fault-finding. But is it possible that she can care for him? Indeed I cannot understand his attracting any one,—far less so sweet and amiable a creature as Claire. I hope I shall see more of her when I leave here. I love her already; and I know papa would too if he could only see her; and I think he and Colonel Fane would get on famously.

The last day of our stay has come: to-morrow we are going home. I long to see them all again, but, oh, I wish these few little golden hours that are left would not speed on so swiftly. On this last evening, Captain Montagu takes me in to dinner for the first time. It is only seven nights removed from the dinner that I found so grievously long, but to-night I am inclined to quarrel with the great gold hands that run so swiftly round the clock, and the pendulum that swings to and fro with such ill-natured haste. I feel in boundless spirits: I know that my lips are curved in smiles, that my eyes are eager; I read it in the half-regretful, half-amused expression on Colonel Fane's face, in the angry looks of Mr. Montagu, in the scorn of Mrs. Huntingdon's handsome, discontented face, and the kind smile on Claire's. Our stream of talk ripples on: it is neither wise nor witty, but sweeter to me than any pearls of eloquence that could flow from the lips of any other man. The words that make such music in my ears are commonplace enough, and, were they uttered by another voice, would hold none of their present charm.

"I am so awfully sorry you are going to-morrow," say the mouth and eyes I find so handsome. "I can't forgive myself for having wasted so many hours when I first came. But then you know" (smiling) "I never expected to find an unmarried lady so charming."

I laugh gleefully.

"What shall I do for pretty speeches when I get back to my rustic life?" I ask. "To-morrow" (with a shade of sadness) "I shall have dropped out of fairy-land and be a little Cinderella again."

"I wish I could be your fairy godmother," he says. "I should like to take you to London and show you a little of life: I wouldn't even mind turning into a plumed and turbaned chaperon for one season to attend you everywhere. How tremendously indulgent and long-suffering I should be, and how confoundedly jealous of all your admirers!"

I laugh outright.

"What! if you were a plumed and turbaned dowager!"

"Ah, I am afraid I was mixing up identities," he laughs. "Never mind: to-night, thank Heaven, I am admirer only; and I have persuaded Mrs. Warrington to let us have a dance, and you" (whispering) "are going to waltz with me twice, if Hector shoots me for it to-morrow."

"Never mind your brother!" I exclaim, impatiently.

"I'm afraid your education has been sadly neglected on some important points," says Captain Montagu, with an amused smile. "You don't seem to understand the difference between a parti and a detrimental."

"What is a detrimental?" I ask, curiously.

"A man who cannot marry you himself, and who keeps other men off. I am a detrimental."

My cheeks are aflame in an instant. Fortunately, Mrs. Warrington is just rising to go. Oh, I wish he had not said that! Surely he does not think for one moment that I am so conceited and silly as to need a caution from him that he is only beguiling an idle hour in my society. Why did he poison the cup that was so sweet a moment ago, by giving me foretaste of the dregs?

We are in the hall, and Claire passes her arm through mine.

"I am glad your last evening is such a pleasant one!" she says, kindly; and I answer, "Yes, it is, very,—thanks;" but my tone is not so hearty as it would have been a minute since.

"Rochester is going to drive me over to see you soon," she says. "And I hope we are going to be real neighbors, and to see a great deal of each other."

"Oh, I shall be so glad!" I exclaim, heartily; "we are so very dull and quiet at home, and I dare say I shall feel it more now that I have had all this gayety. It will be delightful having something to look forward to. Only," I continue, reddening a little, yet feeling constrained to tell her, "we live in a very small, quiet way, you know, because——"

"My dear," she says, interrupting me, and giving my hand a kind little squeeze, "I am coming to see you, and the dogs and the kittens and all your other pets."

My last evening is a triumphant one. Every one is kind; every one except Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon tell me they are sorry I am going; but I hear Lady Gwyn, to whom Curly is paying devoted attention, deploring his leaving Warrington, and making him promise (which he does eagerly) to go and stay with her at the Castle. Our kind host and hostess press us to remain, but I feel, and I think Curly does, that papa will be expecting us and might be disappointed.

Half my pleasure is over. I have had one delicious waltz, and forgotten all about the little speech that vexed me. I have danced with kind Colonel Fane, who has been kinder than ever, and with Mr. Montagu, who has struggled very hard to keep down his displeasure and to be genial, and with nearly every one but Lord Rexborough. For one moment I am alone, and he takes the opportunity to come and stretch his huge bulk on the sofa beside me.

"Won't you make it up?" he says, putting his face close to mine with his most satyrish look. "This is your last chance, you know."

"I do not know of anything to make up," I reply, stiffly.

"Oh, yes, you do," he retorts. "You were deuced angry because I warned you about Master Charlie. You'd much better have spent your pleasant looks and smiles on the other brother, or on me for the matter of that" (with a laugh). "I've sworn not to marry; but I don't at all know, if you were to look at me like you do at Charlie, that I shouldn't be capable of breaking my vow. Here he comes,—confound the fellow! always in my way. I say, Charlie, just you leave us together for a minute, will you?—we're making our peace."

But Captain Montagu reads the entreaty in my face too well to comply.

"My time is so short, I am not going to give up a minute of it," he says, laughing. "Why haven't you done it before? It's too late now. L'occasion perdu ne revient jamais."

"What a selfish dog you are! Why don't you stick to the marines and leave the ingénues alone?"

"I hear music. Come, Miss Carew." And in another minute we are floating down the ball-room. I shall never forget that waltz. It is over, and he leads me away into the conservatory, and seats me on the couch from which I once fled in such hot haste from Lord Rexborough.

"And you are really going to-morrow!" he says, regretfully, turning his blue eyes upon me.

"Really," I say, regretfully too.

"So am I, for the matter of that," he continues, "and we are both going home. Your father will be glad to see you. Wall, I can't flatter myself that the sight of me will awaken much joy in the paternal breast. I'm the prodigal who has returned once too often. They've given up killing the fatted calf for me,—which, on the whole," he adds, laughing, "I don't regret; for I hate veal."

"And shall you be long at home?" I ask, with a vague sense that it will be pleasant to think he is still in the same county.

"Only for a day or two; and then I return to those arduous duties about which I once told you. But I shall be down again before long. How should you greet me if I walked suddenly in upon you one day?"

My heart beats faster, my eyes glisten, but I say nothing, for I remember our homely manner of life, and think how uncongenial it would seem to this fine gentleman.

"You do not wish me to come?" he says, softly.

"You would not care to," I answer. "And in a week—in less, I dare say—you will have forgotten you ever met such a humble personage as I."

"No, I shall not," he whispers, taking my hand and holding it so gently that I am fain to leave it there. "I shall never forget you."

It seems like a dream. I half close my eyes with a dread of awaking from so much happiness.

"Darling!" he whispers, and his lips touch mine. I start away, and stand angrily against the trellis-work: the spell is broken.

"How could you?" I say, reproachfully, feeling dreadfully hurt and ashamed.

"Don't be angry!" he entreats. "I could not help it: I am awfully sorry,—no, that is not true," he says, with a little smile, "but I will not offend again."

So we go back to the dancing-room, where every one is saying good-night, and I go up-stairs with light feet but a heavy heart I am going away to-morrow,—to-day, even: in fifteen hours I shall have turned my back on all these new-found delights, and nine of those must be given to dull sleep or duller waking. A tinge of bitterness flavors the cup that would otherwise be so sweet. Does he think lightly of me, and have I given him cause? Is it not some want of maidenly modesty that even now sends a thrill of joy to my heart at the remembrance of the touch of his lips? Red shame dyes my face, my neck, glows even to my finger-tips. Oh, if that one sweet moment should have lost me his esteem!

The next morning is wet. No one goes out, and I am asked to sing. Captain Montagu has not had an opportunity of speaking to me this morning even had he wished it. I do not know if he does. His brother has scarcely left me for a moment, and he,—he has been talking to Mrs. Huntingdon, who for once has come down to breakfast. I feel the keenest pangs of jealousy. I try hard not to let my eyes glance in their direction, but in spite of me they will. His smile, which seems so unutterably sweet when it falls on me,—I hate it now it is bent on another woman. What can he be saying to her?—her dark brows are unbent and wide with smiles; she looks up in his face with that expression which made me wonder once how her husband could bear it. Involuntarily I look round for him. I wish he would see and resent it, but he is there in full sight of her, discoursing most cheerfully to Lady Gwyneth. I feel a contempt for him in my secret heart. But I am going to sing now: it is my one weapon against all hers,—against her handsome face, her exquisite apparel, her jewels, and those other charms unknown to me which seem to harass the souls of men. I am not nervous now: I throw all my heart—that foolish heart which will have no more use after to-day—into my voice. She talks on loudly. He makes a little sign of hush, but her eyes flash angrily and she talks louder still. Then, oh, triumph! he moves softly away and ensconces himself in a low arm-chair with closed eyes and listens. And I sing on to him,—yes, to him, though it may be his brother who thanks and praises me, or Colonel Fane, or Sir George, or Mr. Warrington. And when I have sung my last and my best, he uncloses those long-fringed lids that I have seen all the time, though I seemed not to look, and comes towards me.

"Miss Carew," he says, in the pleasant languid tone which he particularly affects, and which I believe provokes men (that is, the men who are jealous of him) and pleases women, "what an inestimable treasure you will be to some one! Only I hope you won't be like most women and give up singing when you marry."

"I don't know what I may do," I answer, "when anything so improbable occurs."

"Improbable!" echoes his brother, on the other side. "Pray, Miss Carew, do you contemplate taking the veil?"

"I might as well," I answer, laughing: "when I am at home, my life is something like a nun's."

"We'll come over and invade the sanctuary; won't we, Hector?" but the latter only frowns. "I believe we are only about fifteen miles from you," pursues Captain Montagu, "and tradition says that your family and ours were bosom friends once."

"Ah," I reply, coloring, "but it was different then. We——" but here I stop.

"As soon as I get to London," says Captain Montagu, adroitly changing the conversation, "I am going to send you some lovely songs by Gounod and Sullivan, and then if ever I do have the bliss of meeting you again, and" (laughing) "you have not given up your music. I hope I shall have the extreme gratification of hearing you sing them."

Our visit is over: we have gone through all the cordial hand-shakings, and kind regrets, and hopes for future meetings. I have wished all good-by but one. Where is he? My heart sinks with bitter disappointment: we are on the eve of starting,—when a voice cries, "Stop!" and Captain Montagu appears beside me at the window with a lovely bouquet.

"I asked permission first, and then I robbed the greenhouses," he says, putting it in my hand: "it is a little foreign custom which I always took to, sending off your friends with a floral souvenir. Good-by, Curly: I shall see lots of you this summer at Windsor. Adieu, belle déesse—au revoir, I hope." And he presses my hand softly, takes off his hat, and we are rolling down the avenue.

"Oh, Di!" says Curly, regretfully, "what an awfully jolly time we have had! Aren't you dreadfully sorry it is all over?"

But just at the moment I am triumphantly happy; this little episode of the flowers has turned my mourning into joy.

"It has been delightful," I answer; "but we are going to see papa; how glad he will be to see us! and Gay,—I dare say what a state of fuss and expectation she is in at this very moment. It will be very nice telling them all about it."

"Yes," Curly assents, but he is looking out of the window rather blankly. Presently he turns his face to me again: it has lost its usual joyous expression, and wears a shade of mortification.

"Isn't it an awful bore to be poor, Di!" he says, despondingly.

"Perhaps it is, dear boy," I assent, consolingly. "But you know" (with secret conviction) "it does not strike me that all these people we have just left are so particularly happy, and yet I suppose they have everything that money can command. I don't believe they enjoyed themselves half so much as we did. Captain Montagu" (turning a little aside) "told me he was dreadfully bored nearly always."

"Oh, that was his humbug! all those fellows talk in that way. But what I feel is, you know, it's awfully nice getting asked out, and every one being so kind and good-natured, but—but, Di" (coloring a little), "one feels so shabby at not being able to return it."

"Yes, I know, dear," I respond; "but" (putting my arm round his neck) "I don't think you need feel like that. Why, if we were ever so rich, what could we give them more than they are used to have every day of their lives? but you amuse them and make them laugh, and they like to see your bright cheery face; so I consider you make them an ample return, and I am sure they are quite satisfied with that, and would be sorry perhaps if you could make them any other."

"I think our visit was a success. We both got on capitally; didn't we?" he remarks, with returning complacency. "Really, Di, you looked uncommon well; you did, now, indeed. All the fellows liked you. I wish you hadn't snubbed Rexborough so; he's a thundering good fellow, really."

"Is he?" I respond, dryly. "Well, his thunder is as terrible to me as Jove's might have been to the ancients; but it does not follow, dear boy, that we are always to like the same people: indeed, it isn't natural we should. But you may be sure I shall not quarrel with any one for liking you," I add, putting my hand on his crisp gold curls in quite a maternal way. I do feel very motherly towards him, though there is only two years' difference between us. We are drawing near home.

"Curly," I say, with some diffidence,—"don't mind my saying it,—of course I know you won't, but, dear, I should not like you to hint anything before papa about our not being able to make people any return."

"Why, of course not, Di. As if I should! You need not be afraid of my saying anything to hurt the dear old Dad. There he is. Hurrah!" (waving his hat frantically out of the window).

Yes, there he stands waiting for us on the doorstep, looking so glad, and there behind him at a respectful distance are fluttering cap-ribbons, which I know adorn the person of none other than Mrs. Susannah Gay. A minute later, and I have flung myself round papa's neck like a young whirlwind, with an odd swelling in my throat and foolish but happy tears brimming in my eyes. What a goose I must be! And then I turn to Gay, radiant and red from Curly's embrace. The pug is nearly tearing me to pieces with excitement, cook in the distance bobs respectful curtsies, the girl stands with wide grins of welcome, holding Othello and Desdemona under each arm. It is a homely home-coming, but I think it would have given us less pleasure to walk through the old hall if it had been lined with obsequious retainers. There is such a fire in the morning room, such a cake, such hot buttered toast, and "the kettle came to the bile just as the carriage turned into the avenue," says Gay. And while she busies herself with the teapot, Curly and I breathlessly recite our tales of splendor and delight, and papa beams with smiles, and looks happier, I think, than I have ever seen him.

"And we shall be losing Di soon, Dad!" rattles Curly; "I can tell you, she's taken all the fellows by storm, and there'll be duels and rumors of duels, and somebody carrying her off one of these fine days under our very noses."

"Curly, you goose, hold your tongue!" I cry. "Ah, papa, he is afraid of my having the first word. You have no idea what a young Admirable Crichton this boy is, and what a fuss all the lovely ladies make about him!"

"At any rate," says our father, smiling, "you both seem to have enjoyed your visit."

Gay, having poured out the tea, modestly makes a show of retiring, but is not allowed. She is one of the family, and we have no secrets from her. But she is always very shy and respectful in papa's presence, and only looks the "Law's! Well, I never's! Dear bless my heart's!" with which she notes and commentates our stories in private. We spend a delightful evening in the recital of all our fine doings, and somehow I forget to make any disparaging contrasts between our own shabbiness and the luxury from which we have just come. Ah! there is something about home, when it is a happy one, with which the stateliest palace in the world cannot compete.

But next morning, when all our tales are told, when we have visited our pets and all our usual haunts, when papa and Curly have gone off with their guns, I am conscious of a certain sensation of blankness and void that I have never known before: it is the reaction, I suppose. A sort of despair creeps into my heart as I stand looking at the flowers he gave me. This time yesterday I was singing to him, and now perhaps I shall never see him again. I dare say he has already forgotten me.

The flowers grow blurred and dim; their delicate hues are merged mistily in each other for a moment, and then two great tears roll down my cheeks. Alas! I have eaten of the fruit of the tree of knowledge. When I knew of nothing different, I was blithe and happy in my home. "Oh, why, why should I have had this glimpse of Paradise," I cry, passionately, to myself, "if it is only to make me discontented with what sufficed me well enough before?" For, looking back, it all seems to me like Paradise.

Alford Court is one of the oldest places in England. It has not one but many histories, as even the most unpretentious, unromantic house is bound to have after standing a certain number of centuries. It has its venerable oaks, hundreds of years old, with sides riven and branches scathed by many a fierce storm; it has its big lake, full of carp, some of them as old, it is said, as the oaks; it has its grand old gateway, with the ball-room over, in which fair young forms once tripped gayly that are now but as few grains of dust. Inside the house are many silver and brass-bound oaken presses and cabinets; the carved mantel-pieces ascend to the ceilings, the brass dogs still stand, brightly burnished, on the hearths. There is a great store of china; huge bowls and jars filled with pot-pourri as sweet now as when it was confectioned by the dainty fingers of some long-since dead châtelaine. There are long, oaken, picture-hung corridors with mullioned windows looking out over a sea of lawn, broken here and there by some grand old cedar. It is easy to see that emerald velvet turf has never been ruffled by croquet-hoops: only one donkey is ever allowed there, as the host says with grim facetiousness, and that is the leather-booted one which draws the mowing-machine. Sir Hector Montagu, the master of Alford Court and of many adjacent demesnes, has a rooted aversion for croquet,—the cause of more mésalliances, he avers, than any pastime ever invented.

"A parcel of silly women," quoth he, "glad of any excuse for idling away their time and making eyes at somebody,—if it's only the poor little whipper-snapper curate, and ready to pull caps even over him; then one fine day your daughter (thank God, my lady, you never blessed me with one), your daughter comes to you in hysterics and informs you she never can love anybody but the Reverend Jones, whose income if probably something under a hundred a year." So Sir Hector, though he has no daughter, still declines to encourage folly in those of other men; and, although no young lady ever comes to the place without exclaiming "What a heavenly lawn for croquet!" (this being in the days before it was superseded by lawn tennis and Badminton), Sir Hector's fiat having once gone forth was unalterable as the laws of the Medes and Persians.

The master of Alford Court was an autocrat: de tout ce qu'il y a de plus autocrœte,—not even the Emperor of all the Russias could be more absolute than Sir Hector in his own domain. If he had been a Turkish pacha in the good old times, how he would have had his wretched subjects bowstrung and bastinadoed! if a Chinese potentate, what rows of grinning heads would have chronicled his attacks of liver! if a West Indian planter, what scourgings would have testified to the disagreeing of last night's banquet! Living in the highly civilized nineteenth century, when moral scourging and the laceration of our friends' hearts and our foes' feelings are the only cruelties tolerated in polite society, and being also one of the most highly cultivated and polished gentlemen of his time (in company), Sir Hector had still a victim whom he was wont habitually to bowstring and bastinado, to decapitate and to whip,—a victim perpetually at hand, too, a great convenience, and who was—need I say it?—his wife. Poor lady! what a time she had with her remorseless old tyrant! It was not alone her own shortcomings she suffered for, but for those of the whole household and neighborhood. Sons, butler, men-servants and maid-servants, grooms and gardeners, tenants and laborers, on the slim shoulders of poor Lady Montagu fell all the weight of their frequent misdoings. Was the soup too hot or too cold, a sarcastic compliment to my lady on her cook and her own housewifely proclivities testified to his displeasure; if Charlie got into debt, his mother of course was alone responsible; so from the most trivial to the greatest incident that vexed him, my lady was the fetish he banged and battered incessantly. Sir Hector affected the old school; his creed forbade him to bluster or bully: sarcasm was the weapon on which he transfixed the luckless ones who came under his sovereign displeasure, and, as a natural consequence, was the one he was himself totally unable to bear. Only one member of the household could and dared meet the autocrat upon his own ground,—his heir; and he rarely, but in defense of his mother or some other oppressed mortal. Before the world, Sir Hector had a grand, stately demeanor: it impressed strangers immensely. Towards women especially he comported himself with a delightful mixture of old-fashioned courtesy and bland protection: on first acquaintance they always pronounced him "a charming old man," though their enthusiasm generally abated on closer acquaintance. "Finish the prologue and draw up the curtain!" says the reader.

Tinkle goes the bell, up rolls the curtain and discloses—Sir Hector and Lady Montagu with their two sons seated at dinner, in a magnificent banqueting-hall, each with a gorgeous liveried servant behind his chair. This is one of Sir Hector's whims, and one that is a peculiar abomination to his sons. Sir Hector will dine in state,—company or no company. There is a charming cosy little dining-room close by, perfection for a small party, where the other three members of the family would fain dine, waited on by one servant, or two at the most. Sir Hector wills it otherwise; he likes to dine in the vast hall,—the only concession to whose vastness is a great screen placed half-way across; and he likes to eat his dinner with ten watchful eyes obsequiously observant of every morsel that he transfers from his plate to his mouth. For if he and my lady are dining tête-à-tête he will have the butler and four footmen in the room, though they do nothing but stand at attention in front of or at ease behind him all through dinner.

"Gad!" says poor Charlie to his mother, "I don't know how you stand this sort of thing night after night, my poor dear Mater. Don't you long and pray for the old man's death?"

"Oh, Charlie dear, pray hush!" cries his mother, in a terrified whisper, looking over her shoulder. "Pray, pray don't say such dreadful things."

"Why, mother," laughs her scapegrace son, "you look as terrified as if you had the real old gentleman behind you. Don't be alarmed: his prototype is ten miles off at this moment, and there is no fear of that steady-going old cob of his doing anything indiscreet,—worse luck! But to return to our mutton, served up on the family plate with that old raven and his four paroquets staring down our throats as if they begrudged us every morsel. Gad! it takes every bit of my appetite away, and makes me so confoundedly nervous I spill something down the front of my shirt nearly every night. And all this swagger for a little trumpery country baronet!"

"Charlie! Charlie!" interposes his mother, quite shocked.

"Have as much state as you like when you are entertaining,—twenty servants, thirty, in all the colors of the rainbow; but, when we're alone, for Heaven's sake let's be comfortable. Why, when I was staying with Simplicitas, we had the Prince there, and nothing could have been more regal than the way everything was done; and the night they all left, the duke and duchess and I dined in a little nutshell of a room, with two maid-servants to wait upon us. I haven't told the governor that yet, but I will to-night."

"Now, my dear hoy, what is the use of vexing your father?" pleads Lady Montagu. "You know nothing will alter him."

"I hate the very sight of those long-legged cringing fools," pursues Captain Montagu, disgustedly. "I've done my best to make them enlist. I've tried to inspire them with a desire for martial glory. I've dimly hinted at the becomingness of a scarlet coat and its attractions in the eyes of the fair. I've tried to shame them out of their present ignoble life; but not a bit of it! The governor caught me at it one day.

"'And pray, sir,' he remarked, in that agreeable tone which he has made peculiarly his own,—'and pray, sir' (mimicking the baronet's pompous, sneering voice), 'what the devil do you mean by trying to corrupt my servants?'

"'Surely, sir,' I replied, meekly, 'you don't call it corruption to wish to make them defenders of their country. We're very badly off for recruits.'

"'Country be hanged, sir! and pray what the deuce are the old county families to do for footmen? Make them soldiers, indeed! A parcel of dissolute, lazy, good-for-nothing fellows,—that's what you Guardsmen are! I'll trouble you, sir, to seek recruits elsewhere, and not tamper with my household!'

"Poor little mother!" says Charlie, resuming his own lazy caressing tones and looking at his mother, "what a time you must have had of it all these years! Tell me" (confidentially), "what on earth made you marry the governor?"

Lady Montagu looks back in her son's face with that idolatrous expression with which mothers are wont to regard their handsome offspring. "I don't know, my dear: we have always got on very well together. It is only your father's way, and, besides" (smiling), "if I had not married him you would not be here now."

"And that would have been a great loss, little mother, wouldn't it?" he says, kissing her hand. "Thank Heaven,

Hector inherited all the governor's amiable qualities and left none for me. 'Pon my soul, mother, he'll be the old gentleman's very duplicate; and the next Lady Montagu, unless she has plenty of spirit, will share your fate."

"But, my dear, you see I have survived it," is the answer; and the pair stroll out together into the garden, Lady Montagu supremely happy as she leans on the arm of her handsome son. After all, there is compensation in almost everything.

But to come back from our wandering. It is the day of the two sons' return from Warrington Hall, and they are dining with their parents in the usual state. Dinner over, the conversation falls on their visit, and the party staying in the house.

"Mr. Carew's son and daughter were there," says Hector after having enumerated the rest of the company.

"Is it possible," remarks Lady Montagu, "that those children can be grown up? Why, it seems only the other day——"

"Everything seems only the other day with you, my lady," interrupts Sir Hector's cold snarl. "I should have thought your looking-glass might occasionally remind you of the flight of time."

"The boy is still at Eton," says Hector, "and Miss Carew is just eighteen, and a very charming girl," he adds, a slight flush deepening his bronzed cheek. "I think, mother, it would be kind of you to call upon her."

"Indeed I will," she responds, "if" (looking diffidently at her tyrant), "if your father——"

Sir Hector sips his port and pretends not to hear.

"I have heard that our family and the Carews were on the most intimate terms,—before their misfortunes," pursues Hector, in a tone that has some faint, though very faint, resemblance to his father's.

"It is high time intimacy should cease when people forget their position and make infernal fools of themselves," says the baronet, agreeably. "However, it was Carew who dropped his friends in this case, as it happens, not they who dropped him."

"And is she pretty?" asks my lady, appealing to her younger son.

"Yes, she is," he replies, meditatively, "decidedly pretty, quite unformed, of course."

"Fortunately," interposes Hector, with emphasis.

"C'est selon!" retorts Captain Montagu; (then, mischievously) "it's quite on the cards, mother, that you may have the fair Diana for a daughter-in-law."

"What!" cries Sir Hector, whilst my lady looks from one to the other of her sons. Hector darts an angry glance at his brother, who, nothing daunted, proceeds, laughing, "He is of age: ask him; let him speak for himself."

"H'm!" says the baronet, "I thought you were speaking for yourself. A man without a shilling but his debts generally selects a penniless bride. I am not at all afraid of Hector making an ass of himself."

There is a slight working of Hector's features as he remarks, very coldly,—

"It is taking a great liberty with Miss Carew's name to couple it with any man's at present. At the same time" (looking steadily at his father), "if I ever do marry, the last thing I shall look for in my wife will be a fortune."

"Do you already, then, fancy yourself in my shoes?" sneers Sir Hector.

"My income is quite sufficient to share with a woman who has not extravagant tastes," retorts Hector, in a cold, defiant tone.

"Oh, in that case, my lady," says the baronet, with bland sarcasm, "pray lose no time in calling on the young lady and introducing her as your successor."

Sir Hector has the best of it: his heir loses his temper, and, for fear of showing it, beats a hasty retreat.

"Were you really serious, Charlie?" asks his mother, anxiously.

"Yes,—no,—I don't know, I'm sure," he answers, yawning: "it's such a confounded bore to have to weigh every word. I think Mrs. Warrington was trying to work it."

"Very good of her, I'm sure!" says Sir Hector, dryly.

"I cannot think how people can be so officious," exclaims his wife, with more show of resentment than is habitual to her. "It is not kind of Mrs. Warrington."

"My dear mother, pray don't agitate yourself. Mrs. Warrington did nothing: what could she do?—what could any one do with Hector if he did not choose? Besides, the Carews are as good as we are, and she is quite a charming girl; but, entre nous, whatever Hector may feel for her, I do not fancy she reciprocates in the very least."

"Indeed, Charlie," says his mother, bridling a little, "I think Hector is not at all likely to meet with a rebuff in any quarter where he offered his attentions."

"I should be sorry for him to ask her on the chance of her refusing," snarls Sir Hector; and there the conversation drops.

The next morning Lady Montagu received a visit from her eldest son in her boudoir.

"Mother," he commenced, abruptly, "I was very much annoyed at what Charlie said last night about Miss Carew, but all the same I shall be very glad indeed if you will go and call on her; and, mother" (taking a turn up and down the room), "could you not ask her over here to stay?"

If Charlie is her favorite, Lady Montagu has a very sincere affection for her elder son; so she replies, looking anxiously at him,—

"Certainly, my dear; I will do anything you wish (if your father does not object). But have you really, seriously any idea of Miss Carew?"

"My dear mother" (impatiently), "why want to jump to conclusions? She is a very charming, unaffected, lady-like girl, and I should like to see more of her. Besides" (lowering his voice), "there are two parties to a contract, and though I might be ever so much in love with her, it does not follow that she should care for me; rather the other way. Mother" (stopping suddenly in his walk and confronting her), "I'm afraid I'm not a very taking sort of fellow: am I? I frighten people even when I want to be most kind; even you, poor mother" (taking her hand), "are not quite at ease with me. There's Charlie," he continues, dropping her hand gently, and resuming his walk up and down: "he has only to smile at you women in his sweet languid way" (with rising passion), "and you all adore him and would do anything for him, and we, we miserable dogs who haven't had the luck to be born with pretty faces and soft manners,—we who would lay down our lives for you and sacrifice anything on earth to make you happy,—we only inspire you with fear and shrinking! Poor mother!" (stopping suddenly, his voice subsiding from the harshness of violent emotion to extreme tenderness, as though he were talking to some little child); "why, I have quite scared you. You didn't think I was such a violent, blustering fellow: did you? Come; it's over now. I don't know what possessed me. Well, you will do as I ask you, won't you? And now I must go over to Willington about that stupid business of Cartwright's. Good-by, mother dear!" And he goes.

Lady Montagu sighs as the door closes; she has a vague feeling that she ought to understand her eldest son better,—that there is, after all, something behind that chill surface that a mother's heart ought to read; but the momentary intelligence soon slumbers again. It leaves one strong impression, though, and that is, that Miss Carew is something more to him than any other daughter of Eve has been before.

As Hector Montagu drove his handsome brown mare into Willington, his thoughts ran very little on "that stupid business of Cartwright's." He could not help wondering to himself at the emotion into which he had been betrayed before his mother, and the remembrance of it vexed him. But after the mare had trotted two or three miles along the road to Willington that memory began to fade from his mind, and another to take its place. The picture of Diana rose before him. What a witchery she was beginning to exercise over him! Diana, with great eyes, a soft voice, rippling brown hair, and red lips, was as clear in his mental vision as though she stood there before him: he could see her face flashing with laughter or petulance, and the honest love shining in her eyes when they rested even for a moment on her brother. She was the incarnation of his idea of what a girl should be—pure, modest, bright, affectionate, full of sweet sympathy and kindliness. He was not one of the men who "went in for married women," whom "girls bored." Compare her with Lady Gwyneth or Mrs. Huntingdon! as well put side by side an angel with the heroine of a bad French novel! They dare to sneer at her and call her forward and mock-modest! Involuntarily Hector gave the reins such a grip that the mare started off with an indignant bound.

"Soho! gently, old lady: what's the matter?" he said, soothingly; and, as she settled down again, his thoughts flew back to Diana. She ever become a fashionable woman! She marry for money! She be false to her husband, her pure mind come down to find immoral plays piquant and impure romances stimulating! "Never! never!" he muttered, half aloud, in his energetic defense of her, again forgetting the brown mare's mettle. Decidedly there must be some very potent influence at work to rouse Hector Montagu after this fashion. "What I would give to make that girl love me!" he cried to himself, passionately. "If I could but win her, I would make her love me!" he told himself, with that stupid reasoning, or rather unreasoning, which men always use at such times. He saw her bright face about the old Court,—saw her lovable tender ways with his mother,—saw even his father relax and soften under her dear influence,—saw a thousand sweet things such as men picture to themselves; nay, he even felt her soft arms about his neck; and his heart beat and his breath came quicker. Then the sound of the horse's hoofs on the pavement brought him back with a rude shock to earth, and he remembered that he was in Willington, and had to see to "that business of Cartwright's."

Hector had certain notions about women, notions that are considered curious and old-fashioned by most of the world nowadays. He was not particularly virtuous or moral himself: if he had been, want of knowledge might perhaps have made his idea of what a lady ought to be less rigid: he insisted upon the widest line of demarkation between a virtuous woman and her frailer sisters; "there must be both," he said, "but let it not be in the power of any human being to mistake one for the other." He did not scruple to make his views public: so, although he was an undeniable parti, there were not found many damsels enterprising enough to aspire to the châtelaineship of Alford Court.

"Figure-toi, ma chère," cried little Lady Georgy Wild to her sister the Countess of Newmarket. "I devoted all yesterday afternoon at Holland House to that bear Montagu; I tried to draw him out; and what do you think he said? He had the impertinence to tell me that this was a most unfortunate age for girls to live in; that the atmosphere of society was frightfully unwholesome,—the haute société in particular; that if we only knew what really pleased men, and wished for their respect, we should adopt a very different course from our present style and behavior; und so weiter. What a heavenly time the future Lady Montagu will have! She is not to go to races, nor drive ponies in London, nor see French plays, nor read French novels,—oh, and fifty other things. Don't you pity her, Gwen?"

"He must marry the rector's daughter and keep her shut up in the country. From all I've heard, though, he isn't such a saint himself."

"So I told him!" laughed Georgy. "Oh, my dear! if you could only have seen his face! I was bent on shocking him, for the fun of the thing: so I told him that the very first place I meant to go to after I was married was Cremorne."

"Well, and what did he say?"

"He made me a polite bow, and remarked that, with my proclivities, it must be very contrariant for me to have been born in my present sphere."

"I think, my dear, you had rather the worst of that encounter," observed Lady Newmarket, dryly.

"That business of Cartwright's" brought Mr. Montagu down from the ideal to the real, and, as he drove homewards, his thoughts took a more practical turn. Did Diana like him?—was there any ground for hoping that she ever would? He could not answer this at the same time satisfactorily and truthfully. But then circumstances had been against him. She was out for the first time, was a little dazzled by the silly, superficial attentions of men who meant nothing (he could not bear to think of his brother individually in connection with Diana). When he had her to himself (as he would have if she came to the Court, for he did not mean his mother to ask her until Charlie was gone back to town), when he could lavish all his kindness and care upon her undeterred by the presence of others, uninfluenced by the feelings of jealousy that had made his manner seem cold and severe to her,—when she saw all the desirable things at Alford,—yes, in spite of his refusing a little while since to believe in her being influenced by sordid views, he was not above appreciating the aid of these auxiliary circumstances in his own case: things would be different. Why should he not win her? he was not repulsive; if he was stiff and severe to others, he would be tender and gentle with her. She had few opportunities of seeing other men; why should he not win her! As he drove under the grand old gateway on reaching home, he told himself between his clinched teeth that he would.

It has been the fate of few people to be more misunderstood than Hector Montagu. People said he was "so like his father." He knew they said so, and it drove him wild: moreover, it was not true. Like in feature he certainly was; some likeness there was too in manner; but his cold proud demeanor was caused by the workings of a shy sensitive nature thrown back upon itself, not the haughty domineering spirit of Sir Hector. His cynicism was in reality but skin-deep, though the world, with its usual want of discernment, believed it of far deeper root.

        "Nay, the world, the world,
All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart
To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue
To blare its own interpretation."

Oh, what a difference in life does that outer shell make to us which we are constantly reminded is so perishable! A winsome face, a pleasant trick of speech and manner, and the world's favorable verdict is ours at once, an accepted bill payable at sight; but lacking these happy attributes how must we struggle up-hill into its favor! Hector's greatest misfortune was his resemblance to his father; because he had the same features, the same voice, and something of the same manner, he was accredited with his father's disposition. Even his own mother did not understand him. She never guessed how the partiality she had unconsciously shown the younger from childhood had rankled in the elder's breast. Charlie rushed to her arms with his bright joyous face, trampling her gown, tearing her lace, to ask for some toy or treat only too readily accorded; whilst Hector stood aloof, shy, proud, hurt, craving nothing but to feel his mother's arms round him and to be quite sure she loved him, even him also. Charlie's glib tongue could ask for sweets and kisses. Hector, shy and yearning, waited until they were offered him, and often waited in vain.

So he grew up, always seeing his brother preferred before him, and always uttering in his heart an indignant protest against the injustice dealt him. Small wonder that, child, boy, man, perpetually feeling his birthright wrested from him, he should become bitter and disappointed. His features lent themselves more naturally to a grave than a gay expression; he could not even assume at will the genial smile his father wore in society when he chose to unbend. Perhaps he would not: he hated that lying semblance of bonhomie more than Sir Hector's direst frown. He did not fear his father: if he yielded him the outward respect which his own sense of propriety told him was due from son to father, he despised him in his heart. His soul revolted against petty tyrannies exercised on the weak, against the selfish overbearing spirit that delighted to crush every independent thought in the breasts of those over whom he ruled. He heard his father once flattering described as a fine specimen of the old Tory school; upon which he reflected to himself, "I always thought my principles were Conservative; but, if he is a fine specimen of my party, I would rather yell with the mob and help pull down the Park railings."

Mr. Montagu had a fine scorn for meanness and time-servingness, and poured it unsparingly on those who to his mind deserved it. He was true, honest, straightforward; but these qualities did not atone in the eyes of the world for his want of tact and his cold manner.

And yet there was one woman who understood and felt for and had kind thoughts of him,—a woman, too, who was all that his stern code required of her sex. Nay, in her gentle heart Claire Fane loved and esteemed him as she had never, would never do another man. And he might have been so happy with her. But Hector did not see this; perhaps he would not.

Once his mother said to him, "Why do you not marry Claire? I should love to have her for a daughter, and she is all even you could desire in a wife."

Hector raised his eyebrows.

"I marry Claire? What an idea, mother! Do men ever marry the woman they have grown up from childhood with? We look upon each other as brother and sister. I shall never marry."

He thought so then. But now it was different.

Two days passed. Hector felt strangely irritable and unsettled,—Hector, who was usually so cold and quiet, never in a hurry about anything. He longed for his brother to go; he could do nothing towards seeing Diana again until Charlie was out of the way: though he would not acknowledge it to himself, he was bitterly jealous of him.

On the evening of the second day Mr. Montagu had an inspiration. He would drive over the next day and bring Curly back to Alford for a day's hunting; he did not care much for boys as a rule, but this one seemed a nice sort of lad, and he could talk to him about his sister, and then of course he should see Diana when he drove over. He would ask his father about it next morning at breakfast, and be off before Charlie was down. Sir Hector always chose to be asked if any one might be invited, or took good care to show the guest that he had not come by his invitation.

The baronet was in anything but an amiable humor in the morning: the post had brought him rather an impertinent letter from a tenant, with whom, however, he did not care to quarrel.

Remarkable to relate, cool, collected Hector was a little nervous.

"I'm going over to call on the Carews this morning, sir," he said, as he came in (having conned his words all the time he was dressing, and trying to assume an off-hand manner which was not natural to him, and therefore enough in itself to excite suspicion). "I suppose you have no objection to my bringing the boy back with me?"

"Hey! what?" cried Sir Hector, snappishly, bending his brows; "what do you want with boys here? Not much in your line, I should say."

"Do you mean that you object to my asking him?" said Hector, looking rather dark.

"Ask the devil if you like, sir," retorted the baronet, angrily; "but just tell him to leave his d——d tops and marbles at home. My lady" (turning furiously upon his unhappy spouse), "this tea is no better than hog's-wash, the toast is as hard as a brick-bat, and the kidneys tough as leather. If you think I pay your fine lady of a cook sixty guineas a year to send me up a breakfast that would be a disgrace to the scullery-maid, I can tell you you're very much mistaken. And I'll thank you to tell her so this very morning."

"Shall I have some more made?" says Lady Montagu, submissively.

"Two makings of tea for three persons!" growls her lord, furiously: "there's no end to the extravagance in this house. You seem to think, my lady, that I have the fortune of a retired iron-master or linen-draper, and that the servants may be allowed to waste things just as they like. If you looked after things a little, instead of loitering about with a parcel of trashy worsted-work all day long, I might have a little more comfort perhaps in my home. As it is, I have had an infernal bad breakfast, and I'm very much indebted to you for it."

Saying which, Sir Hector rises angrily, and goes out, slamming the door after him. The tears stand in poor Lady Montagu's eyes.

"Dear me!" she says, nervously, "now your father is vexed again. I don't really notice much the matter with the breakfast: do you, Hector? And if the kidneys are tough, there are plenty of other things on the table."

"Why, mother," answers Hector, "don't you Know the signs of the times yet? The tea is capital; so are the kidneys; but he has had a letter he does not like, and you are the scapegoat, as usual."

"So you are going over to the Carews? Had you not better take a message from me?"

"Thanks," says her son, taking her hand,—an unusual demonstration for him; "or, mother, would you mind writing a line to say you hope to go over and call when the days are a little longer?"

Lady Montagu does as she is told obediently, and half an hour later Hector is on the way to Carew Court. It is a crisp, frosty morning; the roads are dry and hard, and the horse's hoofs make a sharp ringing sound as they beat the ground with a quick regular tread. The January sun shines with what force he can this wintry month, and to Hector everything seems cheery and exhilarating. He has liked women before to-day, has even fancied himself in love; but never, never until now has he felt that keen longing for the sight of a face that has possessed him these three days. It is not likely she will be absent from home, but, if she should be, he feels the disappointment will be almost greater than he can bear. Probably he conveys his impatience through his finger-tips to the brown mare's sensitive mouth, for, nothing loath, she flies over the crisp road, and when Hector draws rein at Carew Court he finds it is only an hour and thirty-five minutes since he started. His groom, who wears the mask of stolid impenetrability which becomes a good servant, has nevertheless been speculating as to the cause of this hot and unusual haste of his master; but when he sees a pretty young lady with a blushing face and smiling brown eyes come forward, measure in hand from which she is feeding her poultry, and welcome Mr. Montagu, who jumps down with a glad bright look such as is seldom seen on his stern face, Jim thinks he sees his way to it.

"Oh, how d'ye do, Mr. Montagu? How good of you to come and see us!" cries Diana, looking, as she really feels, very glad to see him. "How hot your poor horse is! What a shame to drive him so fast! You must put him up, and I'll get some hay and corn for him." And at this juncture Curly, who has heard the sound of wheels, comes rushing out and does the honors of the stables. Neither of them had cared very much about their present visitor at Warrington, but they have both, though they kept it bravely to themselves, felt a little bit moped and dull since their return home, and Mr. Montagu seems a link of that pleasant past which they look back to so fondly. There is another reason, too, why blushing Miss Diana feels so glad to see him; but, oh, if it could only have been his brother!

Hector—poor fellow!—cannot fathom the reason of her gladness, but he can see that she is glad, and takes it all joyfully and eagerly to himself. He is quite genial; he laughs, he shows the greatest interest in all her pets, insists on being introduced to the dogs and cats and ferrets, and seems charmed, as he is for her sake, with everything that he sees.

"How could I think he was not nice?" Diana says to herself, reproachfully. He has given her his mother's note, the kindest one imaginable: it opens a vista of undreamed joys before her, and she looks upon him as a benefactor. But he is not the fairy-prince: he is only the beneficent genius come to conduct her to him. Poor Hector!

Then he is taken into the house and introduced to Mr. Carew. He sees a dark, handsome man, of erect and stately bearing, in the prime of life, though with many gray hairs, and a worn look about the mouth and eyes. His manner is polished and kindly, if a shade stiff at first, but Hector goes forward in his most genial manner, and the two men take to each other at once. Hector chronicled that morning afterwards as the happiest he had ever spent. He had only intended putting the mare up for an hour and taking Curly back with him to lunch, but father and daughter both pressed him so hospitably to stay that he retracted his faint excuse and consented, nothing loath, though he stoutly averred that he never ate lunch. Miss Diana ran to Gay, on hospitable thoughts intent.

"Gay," she cried, bursting into the housekeeper's room, "Mr. Montagu is going to stay to lunch."

"Oh, my dear, what ever will you do?" cries Gay, dismayed.

"He won't expect much," returns Diana, "and, if he does, he must be disappointed."

"But, my dear," remonstrates Gay, "I'm sure if things isn't nice your pa will feel hurt."

"Well, then, he sha'n't feel hurt. We have a chicken in the house,—isn't it lucky I had it killed!—and some neck of mutton,—you make lovely cutlets, you know, Gay, and—and a milk pudding; and there's a lunch fit for a king."

"Well that might do," says Gay, taking a more hopeful view of things; "but there's that Sally: she'll go and spile all,—drop all the things, I shouldn't wonder, and make a clatter with the plates which is sure to vex your pa."

"She shall not come in at all," answers Diana, promptly. "Curly says it is the proper thing to wait upon yourselves at lunch. And, Gay, give me out that big Dresden vase: I will fill it with flowers and put it in the middle of the table, and we shall be quite smart."

Hector, talking to Mr. Carew, looks out of the window and sees a slight form flitting to and fro, basket in hand, snipping off chrysanthemums with a ruthless hand.

"I think Miss Carew want's a little help," he says, dreadfully disconcerted to find the color mounting to his face. Miss Carew's father takes the hint.

"Perhaps you would like to go into the garden," he remarks, rising, and opening the window. After Hector has gone out, he looks thoughtfully at the pair in the distance.

"I suppose I cannot expect to keep her forever, poor little girl!" he is thinking, "and Montagu seems a good sort of fellow."

"Do let me help you: may I?" says Hector, when he reaches Diana, as if he was asking some great favor.

"You may hold the basket," she answers, beaming a friendly look upon him out of her brown eyes as she hands him the basket. "I don't care a bit for chrysanthemums: do you?" she proceeds, snipping off another: "they are so dull and sober-looking. Oh!" (with enthusiasm) "how happy I should be if I could have a hot-house full of roses and geraniums and lovely rare flowers like Mrs. Warrington! I love flowers in the summer, but I love them ten times more in the winter."

Hector thinks of the hot-houses at home, thinks how easily they may be hers, with all other desirable things that he possesses or will possess, if she only deigns to accept them: he longs to tell her so, but feels it is too soon yet. So he only says, eagerly,—

"We have plenty at home. I will bring you over baskets full. May I, sometimes?"

"May you?" asks Diana, archly; "indeed you may. But what would Lady Montagu say?"

"She would be delighted, of course. I do so want you to know her. I am sure you will like her. She is so kind and gentle. And I know she will love you."

"It is very rash for a man to answer for women liking each other," laughs Diana; "at least I have heard so."

"How can they help it when they are both sweet and kind and good?" answers Hector, warmly.

"How do you know I am kind and good?" asks Diana, with laughing eyes. "I think you found me anything but that at Warrington: we used to quarrel rather."

"But we never shall again," he says, with an eagerness that rather abashes her. "I am not really such a disagreeable fellow as you thought me, am I?"

"I think you are very nice," answers Diana, a little confused, but wishing to be polite.

"You will come and stay with my mother, will you not?" he continues. "And then I hope I shall make you think better of me than you did at Warrington. I don't think I shine very much in society,—particularly" (his face darkening) "when my brother is there."

Diana stoops to gather a flower. She wants to hide her face for fear it should betray her disappointment. Going to Alford does not seem very tempting if Captain Montagu is not to be there.

Curly is radiant with delight at the thought of his visit: he is to hunt one day, shoot the next, and Mr. Montagu is to bring him back on the third. He was not quite sure at first if it was right to leave his father and Diana now that he would so soon be going back to Eton; but they will not hear of his refusing.

Diana and her father stand at the door, watching them off. The last adieux have been waved, they are out of sight now, and the two turn to go into the house.

"What a fine thing it is to be young and to have life before one!" says Mr. Carew, with a smile that is yet very sad.

Diana puts her hand through her father's arm, and rubs her cheek against his shoulder. She does not feel very blithe, somehow, although whilst their visitor was with them she had been quite gay and cheerful. Curly had asked the question she longed yet dared not to put: Was Captain Montagu at Alford? And Hector had answered in the affirmative and changed the subject at once. Poor Diana's heart has gone after Curly, who is to have the unutterable bliss of seeing him so soon: he is scarcely gone, and she is longing for him to be back, that she may ask him a thousand questions about her love. She cannot get him out of her poor little head, nor home nor father nor pug nor kittens can fill that void which has lately crept into her heart. What though she knows her love is hopeless?

"One cannot take back love at will."

She has gone with her father into his study, and is sitting looking dreamily out of window, whilst her hands lie idle in her lap.

"Montagu seems a sterling good fellow," says her father, breaking in upon her reverie.

"Yes," she assents, not warmly, nor coldly, but in the same sort of tone that she would have used in answer to the proposition that it was a fine day.

"I am glad he has taken to Curly," proceeds Mr. Carew. "I am glad both you children seem to be making friends. If Lady Montagu invites you to Alford, you must go, Di. I don't intend to keep you shut up here forever."

"What, leave you again, papa?" says Diana, blushing a little, and feeling rather guilty as in her secret heart she cannot help acknowledging to herself that she longs to go there.

"I cannot expect you to stay with me always," says her father, smiling, "and it will be good for me to get broken in to losing you by degrees."

Mr. Carew had taken an idea into his head,—a wrong one, such as is the wont of fathers with regard to their daughters. He has seen that Mr. Montagu has a great regard for her, and he thinks he sees that it is reciprocated. Was she not evidently glad to see him, and is she not dull now he is gone? The Montagus are a good old family; it would be an excellent match for Diana, and he thinks Hector a gentleman and a very nice right-minded sort of fellow. Many an anxious thought has he had about Di's future; he fancies he sees his way to it now, and feels happier than he has done for many a long day.

The appointed days of Curly's visit dawdle away; on the third he comes back, radiant, but alone. Just as Hector was stepping into the dog-cart to drive him home, a telegram came which obliged him to go to London by the two-o'clock train. "So I drove myself," cries Curly, with enthusiasm; "and, by jingo! didn't we come along at a spanking rate just! She is a clipper, and no mistake, that brown mare of his. And I've brought no end of game, and a great bouquet for you, Di, and Lady Montagu is coming over next week, and she wants you and the Dad to go and stay as soon as I get back to Eton. And I'm to go over just whenever I like, and they'll always send a trap for me. And Charlie's battalion is going to Windsor this summer, and I'm to go and breakfast with him, and we're going to have an awful lark on the fourth of June."

So Curly pours forth his flood of news with a radiant face, and his audience listen eagerly.

"And is it a nice place, Curly?" asks Diana.

"I should think it is, just," he responds, "and kept in such apple-pie order. He's an awful old Tartar the old fellow, though he was wonderfully civil to me; but she is the dearest, sweetest, kindest, prettiest old lady I ever saw. Charlie's just like her."

"Is Captain Montagu still there?" says his sister, trying very hard to speak unconcernedly.

"He goes up to London to-night; and precious glad he is to go; he can't stand home for long at a time, he says; it's too grand for him. The old fellow will have such a lot of state kept up, and all the others hate it. By jingo! how he does bully 'em all round, except Hector, and he won't stand it. He can't get a rise out of Charlie, neither, for he does the languid dodge just to aggravate the old fellow; and it just does, too. Then he turns round upon 'My lady,' and abuses her for everything that goes wrong, in a nasty, sneering tone, though pretending to be very polite all the time."

"Did you have good sport?" asks Mr. Carew; and Curly forthwith launches into a long account of the day's hunt and his splendid mount, followed by the fullest details of the next day's shooting. Diana waits patiently until she can get him to herself, that she may put certain questions on a subject of particular interest. As she is dressing for dinner, a knock comes at the door.

"Di," says Curly, putting his head in, "here's a note from the captain I forgot to give you."

Diana's hand trembles so she can scarcely take it from his outstretched hand. Luckily for her, he is in a tremendous hurry and does not wait. In her excitement and haste, she can scarcely open it: she has a strange fluttering at her heart, and is obliged to sit down before she can read it. It runs thus:

"MY DEAR MISS CAREW,—

"Why did you not come over with that nice brother of yours? I have done nothing but wish you were here; rather selfish on my part, for it is about the slowest house to stop in I know of. Having had a great deal of leisure for reflection, I've been thinking over all the good advice you gave me (by the way, you really ought to have given Rexborough a chance, too), and the result is that I have made no end of good resolutions. Among others, I intend to retrench in some of my little extravagances, so I send you in advance some of my contemplated savings for your poor protégés you told me about who have to dine off dry bread and all that sort of thing. It was too bad of that solemn brother of mine to steal a march upon me and go off in the gray of early dawn to call at Carew Court; but I shall be even with him some day. If you ever should be induced to visit Fogy Hall, pray send me a line to the Guards' Club, Pall Mall. Meanwhile, give an occasional pitying thought to the hapless victim who is sacrificing all to the love of his country.

    "Yours ever,
                "C. E. MONTAGU."

It is May, and I am at Alford. My visit, which was to have been made in January, had to be deferred in consequence of Lady Montagu's illness: she has had bronchitis, and is only just returned from Hastings. At Easter, papa, Curly and I spent a week with the Fanes. A wonderful event,—papa being beguiled from home: however, I think he enjoyed the change thoroughly, and it did him all the good in the world. I was glad he went; he seemed quite to come out of his shell, and was so bright, so genial and delightful, that I am sure if I had been any one but his daughter I should have fallen in love with him. He took an immense fancy to Claire, and, but that she is so dear and sweet and good, I could almost have found it in my heart to be jealous of her. It was a charming week. Colonel Fane was kinder than ever; we were the only visitors, and they made us thoroughly happy and at home. I have grown to like Hector Montagu, though I shall never quite get over my awe of him. All through the winter he used to come over frequently, always bringing me lovely flowers or books and music,—anything he thought I should like. Papa has taken wonderfully to Mr. Montagu, and seems to like to speak of him and always in his praise. I wonder if he would like—the other one. I am afraid he would think him frivolous. But, oh, I believe in my heart that he is capable of better things, and it is the useless idle life of pleasure he lives that makes him seem what he does: how could he Lave those kind pleasant ways if he were not really good at heart? How nice of him to send me all that money for my poor people! I took care to tell them it came from a good, kind gentleman, and they blessed him with tears in their eyes. Those blessings must do him some good: at all events, I like to think so.

Papa was most anxious about my visit to Alford. Here I am at last. They pressed him very hard to come, but he excused himself. So I arrived alone the day before yesterday Mr. Montagu was on the steps to receive me, and gave me such a hearty welcome that I felt at home at once. Then he carried me off to his mother's boudoir, and as I entered she rose, and, taking both my hands, kissed me, and said, so sweetly and kindly, how glad she was that I had come at last, and I fell in love with her on the spot. My eyes grew quite dim: for the first time in my life, I was conscious of the wish that I had a mother. Presently Sir Hector came in, and greeted me very kindly, and I thought to myself that he had been very unduly abused, but changed my mind no later than that very evening. It is a grand old place, but there is more state than comfort about it, except in Lady Montagu's boudoir, which is the essence of cosiness. Sir Hector said contemptuously that it was nothing but "a litter of untidy trash;" but I do not agree with him. I take care, though, to be very meek and modest with him, and not to venture an opinion unless I know it will be well received. I am terribly afraid of him: my awe of his son disappears completely in his presence, and I look upon him as a friendly power. I vexed him quite unintentionally the day I arrived. I can understand it now, though I did not then. It was soon after my arrival. Sir Hector, having had a little pleasant chat with me, asking kindly after papa, and regretting that he had not come, went out.

"How like you are to your father!" I remarked, innocently, thinking rather that I was paying him a compliment, for Sir Hector is a very fine old man.

The color flushed into his face, and he said, looking dreadfully hurt,—

"Do not you, of all people, say that!" Then, as I looked and felt horribly confused, he went on, trying to smile, "I dare say you think it rather a compliment now; but you will soon understand why I do not consider it one."

"Hector! my dear Hector!" cried his mother, reproachfully; but he laughed, and said,—

"My mother, like all good women, loves her tyrant, and hugs her chains. I dare say you would too" (looking at me keenly), "only let us hope a better fate is in store for you."

"You must not let my son give you any wrong impressions," says Lady Montagu, nervously: "indeed, he should not say such things. Sir Hector is——"

"I was wrong, mother," he answered. "I ought to have left Miss Carew to draw her own conclusions, unprejudiced. I should have done so if she had not greeted me with the remark that never fails to get a rise out of me, as Curly would say" (looking at me and laughing).

"I quite fell in love with your brother," utters Lady Montagu, gently, "he is so frank and open, and so handsome. He reminds me very much of what dear Charlie was at his age."

"Will you not like to see your room?" Hector breaks in, abruptly, much to my chagrin, just as the dear name I am longing to hear is uttered.

A tinge of pink comes into his mother's pale cheeks, and she darts a little nervous glance at him, evidently thinking she has been indiscreet.

"Yes, you will like to take your hat off, will you not? I ought to have asked you before. Hector, please ring the bell and tell them to send Ford to Miss Carew's room."

So I go, feeling a little bit indignant with Mr. Montagu.

"The second bell rings five minutes before dinner," he whispers: "be sure you are in the small drawing-room three minutes after it sounds. We live by clock-work here."

I do not fail to take his hint: to the moment indicated I make my appearance. Sir Hector is there, standing pompously in front of the fire; his son is reading the "Times" by the window. There is still faint daylight. Sir Hector nods approvingly at me as I enter.

"I am glad to see you possess the virtue of punctuality," he says, looking at me over his big white neck-cloth with a patronizing smile. "Nothing to be done without it. It is the one thing I insist upon."

The clock chimes the half-hour: simultaneously the gong sounds; simultaneously the door opens, and the butler, entering, announces,—

"Dinner is served, Sir Hector."

My host extends his arm to me. I half hesitate; Lady Montagu is not there.

"I never wait for any one," says Sir Hector, sternly, and forthwith conveys me to the dining-hall.

On the way we meet Lady Montagu hastening to the drawing-room, and clasping a bracelet as she goes.

"I had no idea I was late," she says, nervously.

"Lady Montagu," says her husband, addressing me in a voice audible to the servants as well as to herself,—"Lady Montagu has brought unpunctuality to a science. She would undoubtedly have been one of the five foolish virgins of the parable. For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful! I only trust to-day" (speaking to me as he consults his menu) "that there may be something for which we may have cause to be grateful. Our cook, thanks to my lady, is anything but a cordon bleu. As usual" (tasting his soup), "the cayenne-box has been upset into the soup. Simkins, take it away" (addressing the butler savagely, and proceeding to write something on a porcelain slate with a pencil).

I quite understand now why he is not popular, and why Hector was vexed at my innocently-meant speech. I feel dreadfully uncomfortable. This is my first taste of the stalled ox with strife. Oh for my dinner of herbs! Presently I take courage to look round me. We four people are dining in a banqueting-room big enough for a hundred guests, and, although a long screen of gold-stamped leather divides it in half, it still feels out of all proportion to the party. It does not look bare, for it is magnificently decorated throughout. Our table is lighted by mediæval lamps from above; there is a great show of silver and gold plate, with many flowers, on the table and the grand old oaken side-board. Through the great mullioned windows opposite me I can see in the waning light a sea of velvet turf shaded by dark cedars, and the last red streaks of a gorgeous sunset. Inside there is so much to be seen that I can only at present get a confused general idea of all the beautiful things crowded together; but next morning I get Mr. Montagu, after breakfast, to show and explain everything to me. Then I am fairly astonished by all the treasures. The carved chimney-piece, a gem in itself, ascends to the ceiling. On either side of it are quaint brass sconces. Oak chests and cabinets, curious marqueterie cupboards abound, with antique side-boards and chiffoniers, covered with Nankin and Majolica ware, with Venice, Dutch, and German glass. Scarce an inch of the wall that is not covered with paintings, china plaques, vast round dishes, sconces, brass shields, brackets, carving. Dutch scenes here, old-fashioned portraits there, quaint carvings on wood, ivory, mother-of-pearl. There is a magnificent old Amsterdam clock, with sweet ringing chimes, that tells you all sorts of things about the sun, moon, stars, days, weeks, months, and I know not what. Mr. Montagu is greatly amused at my childish delight in pretty things, and does cicerone very pleasantly.

I am very glad when dinner is over; it has not been a cheerful meal; for, although Sir Hector has been all that is kind and polite to me, he has quite destroyed any pleasant impression he might have made by his frequent and savage invectives against the dinner and servants, and the sneers directed to his wife. Glad am I when Lady Montagu gives me the signal to retire.

"We shall not be long," says Mr. Montagu, smiling as I pass through the door which he holds open for us. I return his smile. I am not one whit afraid of him since I have seen his father. As I follow my hostess to the drawing-room, I am conscious of a hope that we are going to have some pleasant chat wherein I shall hear mention of her younger son; but it soon becomes evident to me that my lady is sleepily inclined. She indeed makes two or three attempts to talk, but I see her head begin to droop and her eyelids to close, and, that I may not interrupt her doze, I retire to a distant sofa with a book. She wakes up for a moment to decline the coffee that is brought her, and when her husband and son enter, but relapses again into a sweet and gentle slumber. Sir Hector comes up to me, asks blandly what my book is, passes a sweeping and comprehensive censure upon modern literature in general and lady novelists in particular, and then, retiring to an arm-chair near the fire, follows suit most audibly to my lady. Portentous snores issue from his aristocratic nose, but they have only the effect of lulling his wife into a sounder though soft-breathed slumber.

"We are rather a cheerful family of an evening," says Hector, sitting down beside me. "I have a sort of guilty feeling that I ought to have prepared you for this."

"I suppose you are not going to do the same," I answer, in a whisper.

"Don't be afraid to speak out!" he remarks, laughing: "nothing short of an earthquake would rouse him for the next half-hour. My mother" (with a softer inflection of his voice) "sleeps so badly, I am always glad to see her dozing. Tell me," he goes on, speaking eagerly,—"I have been burning to ask you for the last hour,—do you still think me like my father?"

"Not a bit," I answer, emphatically; "not a little bit."

"But do you think," he proceeds, earnestly,—"do you think I have the making of what he is in me? I don't want you to flatter me; you are sincere, I know: tell me the honest truth. Do you think if I had a sweet amiable wife, who gave in to me as my poor mother has done to him all her life,—do you think I might end by becoming selfish and hard and tyrannical like he is? Sometimes I have a horrid misgiving about myself. I am oppressed with a sort of nightmare that I really am like him, and it makes me wretched."

"I will tell you what I think," I answer, with the candor for which he has asked with such apparent sincerity. "I don't think you are a bit like him really, but some—times—sometimes" (I hesitate).

"Well?" he says, eagerly, fixing his dark eyes on my face.

"I think," I proceed, timidly, "you try to make one afraid of you; you look rather stern and terrible. You did at Warrington. I used to feel rather in awe of you there."

"But you don't now?" he whispers, looking almost beseechingly at me. His eyes have a strange expression: if eyes could look fierce and yet soft at the same time (I know it sounds paradoxical), I should say his looked so.

"No," I answer, confidently, "not now."

"Promise me you never will again," he says, hurriedly. "I may have, I believe I have, a trick of looking stern and sneering. I don't care a straw what most people think of me, but it would hurt me to know you could feel fear or repugnance towards me,—you who——"

He checks himself, seeing perhaps some wonder in my eyes. Why should he be concerned about my thoughts of him?

"Do you play chess?" he asks, with rather a rapid change of subject.

I answer in the affirmative.

"Then I must prepare you," he says, smiling. "My father will wake up in precisely twenty minutes: he will then ask you if you play chess. By the way, are you a good loser? does it vex you to be beaten?"

"Not in the very least," I answer, truthfully.

"Well, I must warn you, if you play indifferently, my father will make genial little sneers at you; if you play well and beat him, he will be furious, although he will endeavor not to vent his anger upon you; if you play well and he beats you, he will simply adore you, and be radiantly good-humored."

"Forewarned is forearmed," I whisper, laughing.

"I am afraid," he says, in a vexed tone, "you will conceive a most odious impression of us as a family. Confess, now, you will go to bed to-night with anything but pleasant thoughts of us: you will be longing for that happy home of yours, where you are all so bright and loving and unselfish. Do you know" (looking intently at me) "I feel a different being when I escape from the atmosphere of this place and get over to Carew Court? that is" (very softly) "why I longed to have your sweet presence here to bring sunshine. I feel like Pluto did when he carried off Proserpine, only that I should want to make you eat all the pomegranate."

What he has predicted of Sir Hector comes true to the letter: as the clock chimes half-past nine he awakes, and, turning his head in my direction, inquires if I play chess.

I make the proper answer under the circumstances:

"A little."

"Let us have a game!" he exclaims, rising briskly. "Hector, oblige me by getting the board."

"You play with white men, of course: ladies always do," he remarks, when we are seated,—which, being interpreted, means that he plays with red. I am a tolerable player: papa and I spend many an evening over the game; and I dare safely say that never yet did one of us take umbrage at the other winning. Mindful of Hector's warning, I play my best, but take care, after a protracted contest, to lose. The result is as he predicted; Sir Hector is radiant, and pays me a thousand compliments.

"Ah, my dear, you will win next time," he says, with cheerful patronage. "You play an excellent game. I have rarely, if ever, met so accomplished a chess-player at your age. Twenty minutes to eleven: you must be quite tired. Be good enough to ring for candles, Hector. Come, my lady, wake up. No wonder you cannot sleep at night."

Lady Montagu rouses herself.

"My dear," she says, kindly, as she bids me good-night, "I have been very rude. But I am a very stupid person in the evening. To-morrow I hope we shall have a nice long chat. Meantime, promise me to ask for everything you want. I do hope you will sleep well." She draws me to her and kisses me gently on the cheek. Again the thought comes across me that I should like to have a mother. I say as much to Hector as he walks beside me along the corridor.

"I wish my mother were yours," he says, softly.

"So do I," I answer, without any arrière-pensée.

"Do you?" he whispers. "I wonder if you wish it in the same way that I do."

A vexed blush mounts to my forehead.

"Good-night," I say, rather shortly, giving him my hand, without looking up.

"Good-night," he answers, lingeringly, holding it until I am forced to look at him. "Do not be vexed with me. I shall never offend you intentionally."

I have been three days at Alford Court. I love Lady Montagu; and no one could be kinder than her son. I can hardly realize that he is the same man who used to frighten and bore me at Warrington. After breakfast we always go out together, sometimes riding, sometimes walking. He occupies himself a great deal about the property, and always has some business on hand.

One thing I remark which surprises me not a little: it is his pleasant manner with his inferiors. As we pass the cottages he always has a kind word for the women and children: he seems quite unostentatiously to know about, and take an interest in, their personal affairs. I notice, too, that they all brighten up and look very pleased and cheerful when he speaks to them. His manner to servants and laborers is just my idea of what a gentleman's manner should be,—oh, such a contrast from Sir Hector's! it is kind and dignified, it commands respect, and, I can see, affection as well. I have never once heard him speak harshly to or of any one, excepting perhaps his father; and I really cannot wonder at that. One morning he has to go to Willington on business, and I occupy my leisure in visiting some of his mother's poor. My first visit is made to one of her special protégées, a woman dying of consumption.

I find the poor patient by the fire, though it is a warm May morning, in a room beautifully clean and neat, and with many comforts which I am surprised to see, but which she explains to me presently by pointing them out as gifts from my lady or Mr. Montagu. She is propped on soft pillows in an easy-chair, but she looks terribly haggard and worn: there is a bright spot on either cheek; her voice is faint and low, and seems to come with an effort. She is immensely interested in hearing about Lady Montagu, and, when I have told her all I know, she goes on to tell me, in her feeble voice, of my lady's goodness to her.

"We should all ha' been in the House, or starving, if it hadn't ha' been for her. Sir Hector's a hard man, miss: he don't seem to think us poor folks is made of the same flesh and blood as him. I don't say as we are, miss, altogether like" (in an apologetic tone which makes me smile): "still, we are flesh and blood, an' we hev our feelings, an' when the gentry is good to us, like my lady and Mr. Montagu, we're ready to fall down an' worship 'em. I've heard tell as poor people's so ongrateful, but I never see it so, nor I don't believe it. I know there's hardly one in this village as wouldn't lay down their lives for my lady if so be as they was called upon to do it. And I'm sure I wouldn't wish harm to no one, standing as you may say with one foot in the grave myself, but it'll be a blessed day for Alford when Mr. Montagu steps into Sir Hector's shoes. He's all for doin' everything for the poor, an' buildin' new cottages, an' raisin' wages, an' encouragin' poor folks to take a pride in themselves; an' I have heard tell that he an' Sir Hector do quarrel dreadful at times about it. I know he does a deal out of his own pocket, for Sir Hector is one of those as 'ud skin a flint, as the sayin' is, although he keeps up such a deal o' grandeur at the Court."

I have more talk with her, and then I go on to pay a few more visits in the parish. All the cottages I go into are very clean. Most of them boast some present from my lady or Mr. Montagu, which is shown me with great pride.

I come away from my round of visits with a greatly heightened opinion of Hector and a certain sense of shame at having so misjudged him. Of his sweet kind mother I had been prepared to hear only praise.

"Where have you been?" cries the object of my thoughts, reining up beside me, and looking, I think (feeling as I do excellently disposed towards him), stalwart and handsome on his fine gray horse.

"I have been making calls," I reply, laughing.

"Calls?" he echoes, surprised. "Alone? Oh, at the rectory, I suppose."

"No; guess again."

"But there is no one else to guess."

"I have been to see Mrs. Seward, and poor old Brown, and Mrs. Banks, and Janet Hill,—quite a round of morning calls."

"Have you really?" he says, eagerly.

"Yes, and I heard a great deal of news," I continue, nodding my head wisely,—"about you too."

"What did you hear?"

"Never mind: I am not going to make you conceited."

He laughs lightly.

"That's the worst of poor people," he says: "they do chatter so dreadfully. Of course they would be sure to say everything that was civil about us, as you come from the Court."

"Ah," I remark, mysteriously, "but they did not say everything that was civil about everybody. And" (laughing) "they did not say, as I did, that you were 'so like your father.'"

"Thank God for that!" he says, laughing too. "What are we going to do this afternoon? Does my mother think of driving?"

"No, the wind is easterly, although it is so fine, and she is afraid."

"I wonder——" begins Hector, musingly, and then pauses.

"What do you wonder?"

"I wonder if I put the horses in the mail-phaeton if you would let me drive you out?"

"Oh, I should like it," I cry, eagerly. The proprieties have never been impressed upon my young mind, probably because I have never had the least chance of infringing them.

"I must not be selfish," he says. "I would not for the world let you do anything that is not quite en règle. Tell me" (hesitating), "do you think Mr. Carew would object in any way?"

"Object!" I exclaim, wonderingly: "why should he? You can drive, can't you?"

He looks amused.

"My misgivings are not on that head. Let us go in and ask my mother."

We have reached the stables: the groom takes his horse, and we saunter towards the house.

Lady Montagu, when appealed to, does not see any objection, thinks it will be a nice change for me, will not find it dull alone, has a most interesting book she is anxious to finish.

Very blithe and glad I feel that afternoon when Hector, having helped me in, jumps up beside me. It is a heavenly afternoon: the sun is hot and bright, the sweet spring scents come balmily across us from the hedgerows, and the keen cool wind plays in our face as we cleave it swiftly. Perched high up behind a dashing pair of horses with proud tossed heads and foam-flecked bits, sitting beside a man who is pleasant company and who cares to please me, I feel life such a good thing: a delicious exhilaration floats through every sense. I feel happy; I look happy; glad laughter bubbles from my lips. It is contagious: he sees it, he laughs too. There is not one unkind or sneering curve about his lips to-day. He looks at me ever so kindly.

"Are you pleased?" he asks me. "I think you are. As for me, I feel like a school-boy out for a holiday after the long term. And to think I was so near not going to Warrington! If I had not, you would not be here now; I might never have known you."

"What a loss!" I laugh.

"It would have been a loss," he says, gravely; "perhaps, though" (with a sigh), "it might have been better for me."

"It would not have better for me," I answer, feeling too happy and insouciante to weigh my words.

He turns towards me, as if to say something; then, checking himself abruptly, he points with his whip to the hedge.

"Is not that hawthorn delicious?" he says.

"Yes," I answer; "but that is not what you were going to say."

I feel a delicious little sense of coquetry: something in the sunshine, the keen air, the May odors, inspires me: I long to hear soft and pleasant words; if I knew what the sensation was, I could almost fancy I feel inclined to flirt with my companion. He looks at me with a grave smile that seems to penetrate my sensuous enjoyment of the moment.

"You are right," he says: "I was going to say something else; but I will not say it now. You are full of impulse; you are a child; but I am a man, and I ought to be superior to the temptations of sudden emotion."

"Now," said I, pettishly, "you remind me of what you were at Warrington. In another moment I shall be afraid of you again——"

"Do not," he says, quickly. "Why, child" (with a pleasant smile), "how could you fear me? Have you not learned yet that you are everything I most admire and reverence,—young, pure, sweet, unselfish, modest, charitable?" He speaks in a whisper, but there is a ring of subdued feeling in it. "When I was at Warrington you saw me stern and cold, because one or other of those women (you know whom I mean) chafed and angered me every moment: I could not even bear you to come in contact with them. I felt half disposed to quarrel with Mrs. Warrington, for the first time in my life, because she had asked an innocent child like you to meet them. And then, too" (sinking his voice still lower), "though I hate confessing it, I did feel a little jealous when I saw you so gay and merry with others, and I seemed only to have a sort of wet-blanket effect upon you."

"Well, you have not that effect now," I laugh. "I shall always like you and feel at home with you in future."

"How can you tell?" he says, rather grimly. "I have no one to stand in my way; there is no other man here except my father" (laughing), "and I do not think he is dangerous. Suppose, now" (his face darkening suddenly)——

"Do not let us suppose anything," I interrupt quickly, with an uneasy intuition of his thought. "Let us enjoy this lovely afternoon and be happy."

"Let us!" he echoes, brightening up. "You are quite right. Sufficient for the day let the good thereof be, and don't let us spoil it by anticipating evil for to-morrow. I think if the text had been worded in that way it would have been even more applicable than it is."

So we drive along the smooth white roads, up hills where we get lovely little glimpses of green valleys and winding shimmering waters, and down again into sweet-smelling, hedge-bound lanes, past cottages, with thin blue streaks of smoke curling from their chimneys, and trim gardens sown with red and white daisies, with wallflowers, and hedges of sweet-brier, scenting the air around, past farms with their neat rows of golden stacks, past green meadows ablaze with buttercups, where the sleek cattle stand almost knee-deep, past village churches with their quaint old towers, their grass-grown mounds and moss-covered tombstones. It seems sad to think of the dead this fair spring day, when only to live is so glad a thing. A little shudder creeps through me at the bare thought that I too some day shall be with those that sleep.

"Of lips full of love and laughter,
Fair brows and radiant eyes,
There is left but a grinning skull,
And perhaps a headstone that lies."

We have passed. The thought is gone again. We are looking in at the village blacksmith's, where the great fire roars and blazes up, while the smith stands in the ruddy light, beating a thousand sparks from his anvil, and the big patient horses wait until their turn comes. We pass some tumbledown-looking cottages, and our talk falls on our poorer neighbors.

"Ah," I say, with some enthusiasm, "I know that when Alford is yours, you will be a model landlord: you will try to make your people better off; you will encourage them to respect themselves, and that they cannot do until they are put in the way of it by having tidy, clean, convenient homes."

"It does not do to count upon dead men's shoes, you know," he answers, with a grave smile; "and property is, after all, a very serious responsibility, if one looks upon it as one ought to do, not as a vehicle for selfish indulgence, but as a means to benefit those about one. Then it is so difficult to know how really to do good to one's fellow-creatures: it isn't enough to have the will, or even the means, but one must have a practical head and a certain familiarity with the working of their minds. You have only to take up the newspapers every day to see how the most benevolent intentions come to grief, and how hundreds of thousands of pounds are subscribed yearly that hardly do one iota of good. It won't do to insist upon benefiting people in your own particular way: you have to find out what their way is, and then set to work. And you want," he goes on, his voice deepening and his eyes flashing, "help and sympathy more than anything in this world; because there is nothing so heart-wearing, so bitterly disappointing, as having a keen desire to help your brother-man, and finding all your strivings, as they are half the time, dead failures. Look at my mother, what a sweet, kind, sympathetic, loving nature she has,—what a helpmate would she have been for a man in my father's position if he had ever tried to do any good, or thought of anything or any one but himself,—and see how he has crushed everything out of her but her sweet goodness of heart and pity, which nothing could destroy. Can you wonder" (with suppressed passion) "that I hate and despise him, as, God forgive me, I do sometimes? I dare say, though" (changing his voice), "if ever I do come into Alford I shall not do a quarter that I think and believe I should now: 'a liberal-minded heir often makes a stingy lord,' they say. But I should love to think," he whispers, "that, if ever I am master here, I shall have a loving, tender-hearted woman for my wife, who would help and influence me to do what was right."

He fixes his dark eyes upon my face. His words seem to thrill through me: the quick crimson dyes my face. What does he mean? At this moment we drive under the splendid gateway of Alford, and a minute later stop at the house door.

"How provoking!" exclaims Mr. Montagu next morning at breakfast, looking really vexed as he puts down the letter he has been reading.

"What is provoking?" I ask.

"I suppose there is nothing for it but to go" (sotto voce to himself). Then, aloud, in answer to me, "I am obliged to go to London, and I cannot by any possibility get back before to-morrow afternoon."

"What a pity!" I say, reflecting that it will be rather dull in his absence.

"If I had only had this yesterday" (crumpling it in his hands), "writing would have done as well; but now I am bound to go,—confound the fellow!"

He rings the bell with some impatience, and Simkins appears.

"Tell Gibbs to put the mare in the dog-cart and be round in half an hour, sharp."

"May I go with you to the station?" I whisper.

Sir Hector, with his head out of window, is withering up the head-gardener with one of his genial sarcasms.

"Will you?" he says, looking pleased. "Won't it be hurrying you too much over your breakfast?"

"Not a bit. I shall love a drive this heavenly morning. I only wish it was ten miles instead of three."

"So do I," he answers, laughing: "on this occasion only, though."

It is the heavenliest May morning the mind of man can conceive, or his heart desire. There has been a shower in the morning, and now every leaf is a shining, radiant green, every flower exhales its sweetest odors, every bird is shouting its triumphant song of joy and welcome to the new day.

"Hark! there is the nightingale!" I say to Hector, as we bowl swiftly along through the park. "Do you remember the lines in Enid?"

"No," he answers: "I am not good at poetry. Tell me them."

"When first the liquid note, beloved of man,
Comes flying over many a windy wave
To Britain, and in April suddenly
Breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red,
And he suspends his converse with a friend
To think or say, 'There is the nightingale.'"

And Hector says, looking at me kindly,—

"I should soon get to like poetry if you said and read it to me."

"It strikes me," I remark, evading the compliment, "that reading would be dull work if there were no poetry."

"And life would be dull work if there were no love," he says, gently.

"There is the station already," I exclaim, in a tone of disappointment: "it cannot possibly be three miles."

"Three and a quarter exactly," he answers. "I am glad you found it so short. Good-by," giving me the reins, and holding my hand for a moment in a strong, kind clasp. "Think of me once or twice while I am away!" I smile assent.

"Drive home very carefully," he says to the groom. "Jump up."

As we drive gently back to Alford, I feel sorry that he is gone: the day will not be so pleasant or so short without him. I am obeying his request, and thinking of him all the way home. What shall I do? it is only half-past ten, and Lady Montagu will not be down for at least an hour. One cannot sit in-doors this heavenly morning. All at once I bethink me of the boat on the lake, and thither I betake myself. One of the gardeners unlocks the padlock, brings out the cushions, and asks if I will have some one to row me. I decline. I want freedom to enjoy all the sweets of this May morning; I will have it all to myself. So, when he has loosed the boat from its moorings, I lie luxuriously back on the cushions and let it drift lazily where it will. Sometimes a little current carries us into midwater, sometimes a puff of wind blows us back under the deep shade of the low-hanging branches. Shoals of big carp, unmindful of me, are lying atop of the water, their burnished brazen sides gleaming like cuirasses in the broad sunshine: they come so near the boat I can almost put out my hand and touch them. The big green lily-leaves are spreading over the water; now and then we catch in them until a little gust blows us off again. The warm rain that fell in the morning has brought out a thousand new buds and flowers. Yon hawthorn that was green last night is white with fairy-blossoms this morning; the laburnums are dropping their lavish golden showers; the lilacs fling up their heads proudly above the evergreens; a rich scent rises from the moist earth. Through the branches the cool, soft wind makes a tender soughing sound, swelling and falling in a plaintive cadence like waves plashing on a distant shore. The blackbird's joyous whistle pierces the clear air; just above me where I lie, a thrush's bright eye looks down suspiciously upon me from her nest; a wren flits into her neat-thatched hole in the bank; a tom-tit flies into his house in the pear-tree; a tiny robin sits on a yew-branch close to my head, and trills me a little song with his head on one side, whilst a thousand of his full-throated fellows are shouting their pæan to the sun. In the fir-trees yonder the wood-pigeons are cooing their tender little love-song, and in the distance the cuckoo chants the only two notes he knows.

An indolent sense of bien-être fills me. "I am quite happy!" I murmur to myself.

                "And, ev'n in saying this,
Her memory, from old habit of the mind,
Went slipping back upon the golden days
In which she saw him first."

"If he were here!" I think, and a slight pang thrills through me. I hear my name called by a gentle voice. It is Lady Montagu, who is standing on the bank.

"Is it you?" I cry, springing up, and punting myself shorewards. "Do come in and let me row you." She shakes her head.

"I am afraid of the water, and the sun is so hot," she answers, smiling. "Come and walk in the shade with me;" and I obey. "I have just had such delightful news," she continues, as I set foot on the bank; "Charlie is coming to-day."

My heart gives a great bound, the treacherous riotous blood springs into my face, and I stoop quickly and pretend to busy myself in arranging the cushions.

"The telegram came half an hour ago," she proceeds, unaware of my confusion; "he will be here in time for dinner to-night."

My heart beats tumultuously, exultantly; in vain I say to myself, "He is nothing to you,—he cares nothing for you;" it will not be repressed.

Lady Montagu places her hand upon my arm, I take charge of her camp-stool, and we pace up and down under the fragrant firs.

"You have met him, have you not?" she asks of me; and I try to say "yes" indifferently.

"He is a dear fellow," she goes on, all the mother's love shining in her beautiful gray eyes. "It is a great trial to me seeing so little of him; but" (sighing) "of course his profession takes him away a great deal, and then this is not a very lively place for a man who loves pleasant society and has as much of it as he does. I am glad you are here; it will make it less dull for him."

As she speaks, a little sudden flush comes into her face, and I know quite well what thought has brought it there.

"I want him to marry," she says, after a slight pause. "You know" (looking at me) "he is not like Hector; he is only a younger son, and must marry a woman with money. It seems almost a pity their positions cannot be reversed. Hector is not in the least extravagant, and poor dear Charlie,—well, it is very natural with his disposition that he should value luxury and elegance." That is how the fond mother puts it. "My sons were always so different," she continues. "Hector is so high-minded and good, he will make an excellent husband; people are sometimes a little afraid of him at first, but you, my dear" (with a little pressure of her arm on mine), "you seem quite to understand him."

"I was a little afraid of Mr. Montagu at first," I answer, "but I see now how really good he is, and I—I admire and respect him very much." In spite of myself, my voice sounds cold and constrained.

"He has a very great admiration for you," she says, kindly, "and you have a wonderful effect upon him. I never saw him so bright and lively before; he is of a very sedate disposition. Now, Charlie" (warming with her subject)—"Charlie is so very cheerful and amusing, in spite of that little indolent manner he affects. It is really not natural to him. I cannot think why he does it."

I long to burst forth into eager praise of him, but do not dare, lest I should betray myself. I have no fortune. I am not for him, even (I think, sighing) if he had a thought to bestow upon me. So I content myself with listening whilst the fond mother talks gladly on upon the theme which has of all others the most charm for me. And all that happy afternoon, as we drive along the scented lanes, or sit together over our needle-work, or I read aloud, a triumphant voice is shouting in my ear, "He is coming!"

And when he does come at last, and his cheery voice sounds in the hall, I am almost afraid at the wild rush of joy that flies to my heart. The door opens; his mother runs towards it; she is in his arms, and he is bending over her, looking handsomer than ever, and kissing her affectionately. Then, lifting his eyes, they meet mine, that are trying ever so hard not to look glad and eager.

"What! Miss Carew! By Jove!"

That is all he says; but he looks pleased, and, coming forward, takes my hand with the warmest, friendliest clasp, as if he had known me a lifetime.

"This is a surprise!" he ejaculates. "Why, mother, you did not tell me when you wrote that you were expecting such a charming guest. Where is Hector?"

"So unfortunate!" says Lady Montagu, looking as if she could not take her smiling eyes from her son's face. "He had a letter this morning that obliged him to go up to London immediately."

"So unfortunate!" echoes Charlie, looking at me with eyes brimful of laughter. "I wonder now whether I shall be able to take his place for the next four-and-twenty hours. By Jove! how glad I am to find you here! I shall write for extension of leave, and you and I between us will turn the house out of windows, and drive the old gentleman to the verge of madness."

"Diana will not aid and abet you," returns his mother. "I can answer for her."

"You don't know, my dear," he retorts, gayly, "what Miss Carew's capabilities are. I suppose she has felt so sat upon here, between the governor and Hector, that she hasn't dared call her soul her own."

"Indeed I have been very happy," I hasten to interpose.

"Not a doubt" (his eyes laughing more than ever); "and now that I have arrived you are going to be happier still."

I forget all about my promise to Hector to think of him, or, if I do, it is to be secretly glad, ungrateful as it seems, that he is away. I fancied I was happy and contented yesterday; to-night my heart is full of joy: it was the difference between negative and positive happiness. What care I bestow upon my toilette! how anxiously I consult my mirror! how I long to know what is his favorite color! Oh, if some fairy godmother would but step in for once and make me passing fair for my Prince Charming! Yet all the time an uneasy mocking voice within me keeps saying, Foolish one! what can you hope to be to him? You are at best but a pis-aller: when he goes back to the lovely high-bred women of his society, what chance have you of being remembered by him? Any more than you remember Hector? adds a reproachful Mentor within. But I heed no warning to-night: my only thought is for the present, and "let what will come after," I say, recklessly.

When I take my final glance in the cheval glass, I am satisfied and yet not satisfied. I look as well, I think, as I can look: but, oh, how much fairer I must be before I could be worthy to please him! It wants still ten minutes to dinner-time. Shall I go down? He will not be there, of course; he is always late; but—— But still I go. He is there, after all,—a little guilty blush steals into my cheeks,—there, and alone.

"Fancy my being ready in time!" he says, gayly, coming forward.

"Wonders will never cease,'" I answer, laughing rather constrainedly.

"I was determined everything should go off harmoniously this evening," he says. "Tell me" (eying me with some curiosity), "what sort of time have you had of it here? Has my father d——d the servants much, and visited everybody's short-comings upon my poor mother?"

"Much the same as usual," I reply, in a half-whisper, stealing a backward glance over my shoulder, to make sure Sir Hector is not within earshot.

"Awfully jolly house to stay in! Jolly is just the right word, isn't it?" he goes on, seating himself in front of me, and contemplating me with perfect deliberation. "I see that already a great deal of spirit has gone out of you: you have lost that mischievous sparkle in the eyes you had at Warrington. I shall devote myself to the agreeable task of bringing it back. I feel ready for any enormity, if you will only back me up. With your help and countenance, I believe I am capable of making the old gentleman an apple-pie bed, hiding his brushes, tying a string to the bedclothes, or practicing any other witty little joke of the kind."

The idea, in conjunction with the autocrat of Alford, is so irreverently comic, and he enunciates it with such perfect gravity, that I burst into a peal of laughter.

"That is right," he says, approvingly: "let us laugh and be merry for once. Hector" (with a wry face) "is coming back to-morrow. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. I suppose my father lapses into his usual musical slumber after dinner, unrestrained by your presence?"

"Until half-past nine," I answer. "As the clock chimes he wakes up, and then we play chess until bedtime."

"Chess! Angels and ministers of grace defend us! And has it come to this?" cries Captain Montagu, so tragically that I laugh again. "Never mind: he shall go without to-night. As soon as he is off to sleep, we will steal out into the garden: it will be a heavenly night. I will smoke, and you shall talk to me." And for the first time he puts on the languid caressing voice I remember so well.

"Not for worlds!" I cry. "I have played myself steadily into Sir Hector's good graces, and in one evening I should undo the work of a week."

A frown ruffles his smooth forehead.

"Too bad!" he says. "Why cannot he snore on as usual until bedtime, and let us enjoy ourselves? Never mind" (whispering): "I will bring him out early from dinner, and then we will slip out. I have set my heart" (smiling) "on seeing the moon to-night, and with you too."

A guilty throb of joy goes through me. At this moment the baronet comes in. He greets his younger son with some show of warmth: even he, I can see, is under the influence of that winning face and manner.

"Charlie in time for dinner!" he exclaims, blandly, addressing me. "We must be indebted to you for this, I think."

"I have been doing a great deal of duty lately," says Captain Montagu: "give that some of the credit, if possible, without detracting from Miss Carew's share of it."

My lady comes in at this moment. She, too, has bestowed unusual care on her toilette, and looks like some rare piece of delicate porcelain. The pale silvery satin of her dress shimmers through soft lace, her fingers glitter with diamonds, there is a faint tinge like the heart of a shell in her cheeks.

"Mother, you look positively lovely!" says her son, going up to her. "I must kiss you, to see that you are real and have not stepped out of a picture."

As they stand together, the delicate high-bred mother, her fond humid eyes turned upwards, and the handsome son, his face bent down to her, his golden moustache brushing her cheek, it seems to me a fairer picture than any I ever saw framed.

"Pshaw!" sneers Sir Hector: "I never saw such a fellow! he must make love to his own mother if there is no other woman by."

"That is a compliment to you," laughs Charlie, looking at me.

"Oh, Miss Carew is Hector's property," says his father.

His tone is half joking, half authoritative, I do not like it; the indignant protest rises in my cheek; but at this moment the clock chimes, the gong sounds, and Simkins appears in the doorway.

The solemn rite of the day is over. Dinner is never a gregarious meal at Alford, although to-day, thanks to Captain Montagu, it is far more cheerful than usual. I am longing for it to be over, thinking, with a certain guilty secret pleasure, of the stroll in the moonlight that is to come presently. Daylight is almost gone; the faint silvery light is rising behind the dark trees: in half an hour more we shall be out together in the dewy fragrant night. A feeling almost akin to fear comes over me: I tremble at what I am going to do. Why, I wonder? If on any of the preceding evenings Hector had asked me to go out with him, I should have gone at once, without the shadow of an arrière-pensée; but to-night I feel as if I were about to commit a great indiscretion. Nevertheless, I mean to commit it, if the Fates are propitious. Captain Montagu, holding the door open for us, whispers softly, as I pass, "Remember!"

"Remember!" As if there was the very smallest faintest chance of my forgetting! I take a book into my favorite corner; but I cannot read: every moment I glance nervously at the clock, which ticks so slowly to night. Lady Montagu is unusually wakeful: she even takes a book. I give myself up miserably to disappointment,—this half-hour that I have longed for as I have never longed for anything in my life before. Tears are rising in my eyes; I feel my mouth quivering. To hide my face I put my book before it, and then I say dismally to myself, "It is not to be!" A soft thud rouses me. I glance from behind my screen. The book has fallen from Lady Montagu's hands; her head is leaning gently back, her eyes are closed, and there is hope again. It is twenty minutes since we left the dinner-table; the door opens, and the gentlemen appear.

"I am not going to give you so easy a victory to-night, I promise you," says Sir Hector, approaching me, for I am obliged to win a game occasionally, in order not to betray my tactics.

I smile as pleasantly as I can, and make some answering remark, and he goes to his accustomed chair.

Captain Montagu comes up to me and whispers,—

"I am going now. I will wait for you at the front door. Do not be long."

He is gone, and I am holding my breath to listen to the first incipient snore that is to bring my release. Oh, blessed sound!—welcomer to-night than the sweetest melody ever composed by Rossini or Mozart. If I had not my eyes fixed upon the clock, I should believe half an hour had elapsed before my anxious ear caught the sound; but when it comes, the dial shows it to be four minutes exactly. I wait another minute, until it has settled into a regular prolonged snore, and then, softly, tremblingly, on tiptoe I creep towards the door, as Jack of the Beanstalk did when he went to carry off the giant's harp. Once safely outside the door, I fly along the corridor to the front door. I can hear the beats of my heart as I stand looking out. A slow step crunches the gravel. In another moment he sees me, and quickens his pace.

"But," he says, looking at me, "you must have something more on. Remember it is only May, although it is so warm." And, coming in, he takes his mother's black lace shawl from a peg and puts it round me. He does it so gently, without ruffling a single hair, and I think to myself, with a sort of pang, that he must have had plenty of practice.

"You don't mind my smoking, do you?" he asks.

As if I minded anything that gave him pleasure!

The moon is shining out full now, transmuting everything she looks upon to silver: her fair face is mirrored in the dark water, and lingeringly, Narcissus-like, she seems to dwell on her own loveliness.

"After all," says Captain Montagu, breaking silence at last, as we pace together under the broad trees, through which the silver light is trickling,—"after all, the country is very pleasant, especially" (with a low laugh) "when one has a charming companion,—and a good cigar. Under present circumstances, I think I could exist here a long time."

I do not make any reply, for no appropriate answer occurs to me at the moment.

"The worst of it is, it won't last very long," he continues, with an accent of discontent. "Somehow, pleasant things never do. Hector will be here to-morrow. Tell me" (stopping and looking down at me inquisitively), "what did my father mean when he said that you were Hector's property?"

"I do not know what he meant," I exclaim, the eager crimson mounting to my cheek, "unless it was that he was the means of my being here, which," I add, reluctantly, "of course he was."

"Come and sit down," he says, in a pleasantly authoritative voice, pointing to a seat under a big tree; and I, nothing loath, obey.

"He will be very angry when he comes back to-morrow and finds me here," he remarks, thoughtfully, as, leaning back, he brings the full light of his handsome eyes upon my face, in which I am painfully conscious the color is shifting uneasily. "He is as jealous as Othello. But, upon my soul, I did not know you were here. If I had, I do not think I should have come."

"Thank you," I say, with some indignation.

"I do not, really," he repeats, in his most lazy, most caressing tone, ignoring utterly my displeasure. "You know I never can be ten minutes alone with a pretty woman without wanting to make love to her. I feel it creeping over me now; and I don't think it would be right towards Hector."

For the life of me, I cannot help laughing,—there is something so naïve about his confession, and the way he makes it. "You shouldn't laugh at a fellow when he is battling with his weakness and his scruples," he utters, with an air of comic reproach. "You see, to me it is an every-day occurrence to fall in love, but it's a tremendous affair for Hector."

"I don't know what you mean," I exclaim, impatiently, feeling also a little mortified, and rather inclined to wish I had not come out. "Sir Hector will be waking up soon, and I must go and set the chess-men."

"Do not go," he says, laying a detaining hand on my arm: "it is so delicious here, and I should be so dull if you were to leave me. I should begin to hate the country, and to wish I had not come immediately." (Then, irrelevantly), "Always wear crimson flowers in your hair: you can't think how well they become you."

There is a pause. He is silent, and I do not feel inclined to speak. I am thinking with some bitterness how eagerly I looked forward to this half-hour with him, and how little enjoyment I am deriving from it. Presently he throws away the end of his cigar, and moves nearer to me.

"I want to ask you a question," he says, softly. "I know I have no right to: indeed, I think it is very bad taste on my part; but I am an inquisitive fellow, and have been rather spoiled. Tell me" (taking my hand, and fixing his eyes on mine), "is there any chance of your ever becoming my sister? I always wanted a little sister awfully. Don't look angry" (reading the indignant flush in my face). "I know Hector is in love with you. I know he wants to marry you; my mother told me as much; he will tell you himself very soon, if he has not done so already; and what" (rather eagerly)—"what shall you say?"

An undefined sense of pain steals across me as I withdraw my hand from his.

"Until he tells me so," I answer, drawing myself up coldly, "I think it is quite superfluous for me or any one else to speculate on my reply."

And, drawing my skirts away from him, I rise to go. He springs up and stands in my path.

"No," he says, hurriedly, "upon my soul you shall not go away angry with me."

He looks so handsome, standing before me with a slight flush on his face and an eager look in his eyes,—who could be angry with him? I smile.

"I am not angry," I say; "but I do not think you should have asked me, on your brother's account even more than on mine. You are quite mistaken. We are very good friends, but——"

"But what?"

"Nothing more."

"Nothing more?"

"Nor likely to be."

"Nor likely to be?"

"I wish," he begins, eagerly, then checks himself, and says, almost coldly, "Hector is a good fellow; he is very fond of you, and Alford is not a bad place to be mistress of, is it?"

The stable clock strikes ten.

"Oh," I cry, terrified, "what will Sir Hector say? Do, pray, come in with me!"

"I had much better not, for your sake," he answers. "If we go in together, they will know we have been out together. You may have been in your own room,—anywhere. I suppose, tyrant as he is, he cannot expect his guests to sit in the drawing-room all the evening to listen to his snores."

I sneak in, feeling terribly guilty. After all, how little pleasure I have had out of that stroll which I looked forward to with such delight! For once Fortune favors me. Sir Hector is still asleep, and only wakes up as I enter.

"Bless my soul!" he cries, jumping up with alacrity; "why, I am twenty-two minutes over my time. Why did you not awake me?"

Ten minutes later, Captain Montagu walks in, looking radiantly unconscious, and, sitting down beside his mother, begins a whispered conversation.

"It is utterly impossible," says Sir Hector, irritably, "to concentrate one's mind on the game whilst you and your son are chattering like a couple of magpies, my lady."

"Let us go to your boudoir, mother," I hear Captain Montagu whisper; and rising, they go out, leaving us at our dreary game. It requires no great effort of genius on Sir Hector's part to checkmate me to-night. He wins three games honestly in half an hour.

"Not at all your usual form," he remarks. "I suppose" (jocosely) "your thoughts are a long way off to-night—eh?" and I feel vexed in my soul.

The family have evidently apportioned me to Hector, and do not seem for an instant to contemplate the possibility of my not acquiescing in it.

After his third triumph Sir Hector is good enough to let me go. I wish him good-night, and go slowly and not very cheerfully to my room. Under any other circumstances I should have gone to her boudoir to wish Lady Montagu good-night; but now I cannot. I do not choose her son to think I am running after him. Lingeringly I pass the door with a faint hope that it may open; but they are talking. I catch the smothered sound of their voices; they do not hear me pass, and I go on my lonely way.

"I wish he had not come," I say, petulantly, to myself, as I put my candle down on the dressing-table and throw myself info the big arm-chair beside it. "I was much happier before. This is the end of my eager anticipation and delight in his coming! Of course I am nothing to him; did I not tell myself so all along? And yet—and yet" (unbidden tears rising)—"he need not have said that about falling in love being an every-day occurrence with him, and about his never being ten minutes alone with a woman without wanting to make love to her. Is it possible" (and I blush to the very heart at the bare thought) "that I have betrayed the pleasure I feel in his society, and that he thought it necessary to give me a friendly warning?" For a moment I almost hate him. Hector is not so handsome, but he is much nicer, I say; but all the same though I asseverate it strongly I do not believe myself. Then I begin to think uneasily of what he has said about Hector wanting to marry me. It is not true; I do not believe it; but if it were true he had no right to speak to me about it. I marry Hector!—no, no, no! I cry to myself, hotly. He is very kind and good—I admire and respect him; but to marry him—Never!

I wake in the morning with the same sense of disappointment; it is going to be a lovely day again, but somehow I do not feel the same appreciation of its beauties that I did yesterday.

Sir Hector and I sit down to breakfast together. Of course I knew perfectly well that Captain Montagu would not be down; so it is rather unreasonable of me to feel so chagrined at seeing his empty place. Breakfast is only half over, however, when the door opens, and he comes in, looking as fresh, as crisp, as, clean as only an Englishman can look (this is naturally an opinion derived from a later experience).

"What?" says his father, laying down his knife and fork and looking utterly amazed.

            "Stood still to gaze,
And gazing blessed the scene,"

laughs Captain Montagu, shaking me by the hand, and walking to the side-board to make a selection among the viands displayed. "This is one of the 'queer things of the service,' eh, sir? my appearing in the early dawn before the dew is off the grass. All owing to Miss Carew's charms."

"Wait a bit; wait a bit," says the baronet, smiling grimly. "I doubt very much whether you will turn up this time to-morrow morning."

"Make hay while the sun shines," remarks Captain Montagu, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, as he comes and seats himself on my left hand. "Apropos, sir, how do the hay crops promise this year?"

"Devilish bad! devilish bad!" growls Sir Hector. "This confounded weather is burning it all up; we have hardly had a drop of rain these two months."

I glance furtively at my neighbor from behind the big silver urn; he is busy with his breakfast, and I can take in every detail of his appearance without being detected. How handsome he is! Men always say it is quite immaterial what a man is like, provided he looks like a gentleman. I don't believe they think it, though: the good-looking ones say so in order not to look conscious or conceited, and the plain ones for reasons too obvious to need explanation. My eyes linger on his short, crisp, gold-brown hair, that would curl if it were long enough (I wish men had not such a mania for being cropped), his white smooth forehead and sun-bronzed cheeks, the straight brows, Greek nose, and curved lips shaded by a soft golden moustache. Nothing escapes me,—not even the pattern of his shooting-coat, the snowy shirt striped with blue, the thick gold rings on his shapely hands, the exquisite perfection of his filbert nails. I dare say it sounds very silly to chronicle such things, but these minutiæ do make a difference in a woman's estimate of a man, however small it may make one look to own it. Sir Hector has a little way of stalking out from breakfast the very second he has finished, quite unmindful of the state of progress to which any one else has arrived. Upon this occasion I am rather disposed to bless that little way as the door slams behind him.

"What a jolly thing it must be," says Captain Montagu, glancing at me with eyes brimful of laughter, "to be untrammeled by any sense of decency or civility! By Jove! I can't stand this any longer." And, jumping up before I know what he is about, he lifts the gigantic urn and moves it from between us. "Family plate is respectable" (resuming his seat), "but in this instance decidedly in the way. Now" (suiting the action to the word) "I can look at you. I like to feast all my senses at once."

"Did you ever hear of Rosherville?" asks Captain Montagu.

"No," I answer, rather wondering at his irrelevancy.

"Rosherville," he proceeds, in an explanatory tone, "is 'the place to spend a happy day.' If you had ever been to London you would have seen that fact advertised conspicuously in a great number of prominent situations. It is a place to which the lower orders resort by steamboat in the dog-days, and where they enjoy a singular variety of amusements and a singular want of variety of food. Now, although" he proceeds (still as if he were reading from Murray's handbook,)—"although in this, as in every other respect, Rosherville and Alford are two places about as unlike each other as one could possibly pitch upon, I intend the effect produced by both to be identical: in short, I mean to spend a happy day. Will you help me?"

"That I will," I say, still smiling at his tirade; then, relapsing into gravity, I add, rather wistfully, "It is so nice to be happy."

"A proposition too obvious to be contradicted," he laughs.

"What are you going to do?" I ask.

"What am I going to do? Positively, literally, nothing: it is to be one unclouded day of far niente for me. It is to you I look for the happy day."

"And what am I to do?" I ask, feeling very proud and glad.

"First you are to repair to the small drawing-room, where, when I have finished this" (taking from his case a cigarette), "I shall join you. You will then sing to me the songs that my soul loveth (I see your store has greatly increased since the winter), until you are quite tired."

"Or you are," I suggest, with a smile.

"Until you are quite tired," he repeats. "Then—then we will go and bask in the sunshine, and watch the carp jump, and hear the birds sing; and if we feel inclined we will talk, and if not, we will be silent. We won't argue; we won't have a single word but what is sweet and harmonious. If I choose to tell you pleasant truths, you shall not contradict me; and as for Hector" (gayly), "Hector shall not exist for you and me the whole livelong day until dinner-time."

I go as he has bidden me to the drawing-room and look out all my prettiest songs, thinking a little remorsefully the while that it is to his brother I am indebted for most of them. I lay them one by one on the desk, "Golden Days" on the top.

"Now," he says, coming in and preparing himself the cosiest chair in the room, as he did once on a previous occasion. "By the way, do I at all remind you" (with smiling eyes) "of my father? It just struck me that I had been laying down the law a little bit in his style. Family likeness will crop up in odd ways. Apropos of that, is not Hector a most wonderful counterpart of the old gentleman?"

"No," I say, turning myself round on the music-stool, resolved to be just towards him in his absence, all the more because I am guiltily glad of it. "I do not think he is at all, really."

"All right" (languidly). "You remember the compact. No arguing allowed. Upon my soul" (his lip curving with a suspicion of merriment), "I never saw two people more dissimilar, now I come to think of it. The only wonder is how they ever came to be father and son."

I cannot help laughing.

"Hush!" I say. "I am going to begin."

"What is it to be?"

"'Golden Days.'"

"'Golden Days!' By Jove!" (jumping up) "the very song of all others I love. And what a happy thought for to-day, too! 'Once in the days of golden weather.' This" (stooping over me) "shall be a golden day, shall it not?"

Our eyes meet, a tremulous thrill of pleasure creeps through me, then he turns away abruptly and resumes his seat. I sing on and on, and he listens with closed eyes, as he did that day at Warrington.

"I am tired," I say, at last, getting off my stool.

"Are you?" (jumping up). "What a selfish brute I am! How shall I thank you!" (taking my hand and kissing it in his own gracious, caressing manner). "The first hour of the golden day is gone" (regretfully); "how it has flown!"

"Lady Montagu will be coming down very soon now," I suggest.

"Poor mother! I did not tell you before: I thought it would take the heart out of your singing. She has one of her frightful headaches: while they last she cannot raise her head from the pillow nor bear the sound of a voice."

"Why did you not tell me before?" I cry, remorsefully. "Perhaps she may have been disturbed by my singing."

"Quite impossible, I assure you. Why" (reproachfully), "you don't think I'm such a brute as to run the risk of making her worse for my own selfish gratification, do you?"

I utter a hasty dissent.

"Get your hat and let us go out." And I obey silently, as I did in the matter of the music. "I have had two comfortable chairs taken out," he tells me, as I join him in the hall. "I abhor the abominations called garden-seats. They don't in the least give to the gentle undulations of the figure in repose. I have selected a charming spot near the water and we will be tranquilly oblivious of everything but the moment, like the lotos-eaters."

We stroll gently along until we come to a big chestnut, under which stand two inviting chairs.

I feel as blithe as a bird this morning. All doubt and disappointment have vanished from my heart, like last night's dew before the sun. Life is once again a God-given gift, to be made the most of this fair day. For a little while we are both silent, whilst we drink in lovingly the morning's beauty. The warm west wind breathes tenderly through the branches, wafting towards us the heavy scent of the sweet spring blossoms. Wayward zephyrs play hide-and-seek among the cool green leaves, that, swaying to and fro, fan our faces softly. A whole army of big bees, in their handsome black and orange velvet coats, are dipping into the pink hearts of the chestnut-blossoms, and booming their deep sonorous content in a melodious ear-lulling chorus. On one side the view stretches over a great expanse, half park, half meadow-land, all golden-yellow with buttercups, save where here and there thick-strewn daisies make a galaxy across their green heaven. Clumps of trees of exquisitely-blended shades are dotted about, and afar off is the long belt that skirts the park, rich with every subtle tint of spring, the pale, soft, tender green of budding elm and oak, the chestnut's full rich verdure, the sombre fir, and here and there, scattered between, the bronze of the copper beech. In front of us is the mimic lake, on which a flotilla of white ducks is sailing, looking a little bit like small swans, but lacking the grace and dignity of those majestic birds. I am feeling rather sentimental: the warm air, the heavy odors wafted towards us from yon flaming sea of amber azalea, the deep booming of the bees above our heads,—all these things have an enervating, luxurious effect upon my senses. I glance furtively at my companion, to see if he shares my feelings. He is reclining luxuriously in the low long chair; his hat has fallen off backwards on the grass, and the little sunbeams are glinting in through the broad leaves, making golden streaks across his hair. Through half-closed eyelids he is looking sleepily at the water; his face wears a pensive look: yes, he, like me, feels the warm, sensuous effect )f this May morning. He is about to speak: if he breaks (his golden silence, it must surely be with some poetic thought.

"I would give a great deal at this moment for a pea-shooter and a bag of peas, to aim at those ducks standing on their heads. How surprised they would be!"

This is the sentimental remark for which his lips unclose. My romance is swept away. I laugh. Now he mentions it, there is certainly something very tempting about their position as they stand literally upon their heads, in quest of hidden treasures. We amuse ourselves by watching them, until they scramble awkwardly up on the bank and spread themselves out for a nap in the sunshine.

"By Jove!" exclaims my companion, as a monstrous carp flings a somersault out of the water and splashes back with as much noise as a retriever plunging in off the bank, "the fish seem pretty lively this morning. There goes another!"

There is a great swirling and plashing and bubbling among the lily leaves. Now and then we see gleaming golden sides tossing above the water as the big fish dart through the glassy water in hot pursuit of each other.

Captain Montagu signals a passing gardener. "Bring me a landing-net, will you?" he says.

The man hurries off, and presently returns with one.

"Now I am going to fish," remarks my companion, rising and walking cautiously towards the bank. A moment later he plunges it in, and brings it out again with three monstrous shining fish struggling in it.

"Fishing made easy!" he says, laughing.

"Oh, put them back!" I cry, eagerly, as he lays them panting on the bank; "do put them back: they are not good to eat. Don't let the poor things die out here!"

"What a tender-hearted little soul it is!" he says, looking amused. "Now" (contemplating them), "if our cordon bleu here had only one of the receipts for dressing them that those old monks possessed, I could not possibly grant your prayer, being a tremendous gourmet; but——"

"Let them be happy 'this golden day,'" I plead, looking up at him.

"Here goes!" he says, flinging them back with a great souse; and they dart off, apparently fully aware what a narrow escape they have had. "I can't help thinking," he remarks, reflectively, "that in those days when carp were esteemed such a delicacy, they could not get salmon or mullet."

"I never tasted one," I say.

"Take the advice Punch once gave to intending Benedicts: 'Don't.'"

We have resumed our comfortable chairs under the chestnut-boughs. I suddenly bethink myself that I have omitted to thank him for his munificent donation to my poor people last winter.

"I am afraid," I begin, rather uneasily, "you must have thought me very ungrateful for not thanking you for the ten pounds you sent me. You don't know what good it did, and how the people thanked and blessed you."

I blurt my words out hurriedly and eagerly, whilst he regards me with an expression of comic terror.

"You are positively becoming excited," he says. "Have you forgotten there is to be no emotion this morning,—nothing but the most perfect tranquillity?"

"You may try and turn it off," I say, warmly, "but I shall tell you all the same. I think it is very selfish of people to do kind actions and then refuse to be thanked for them."

"'People' means me, I suppose?" he utters, lazily. "Go on" (with an air of resignation); "tell me all about it,—how many night-caps and flannel petticoats you bought for the old women, and what you laid out on snuff and tobacco for the old men."

"Do be serious," I say, reproachfully. "If you could only dream the good it really did! I should like to tell you one case. Poor Atkins had been out of work for weeks from hurting his hand; two of the children had scarlet fever; and they had not a morsel of food in the house, when——"

"Don't harrow up my feelings!" he interrupts, imploringly, taking out his pocket-handkerchief.

"It is too bad of you to laugh at me!" I cry, feeling vexed.

"A change of air and scene will be good for us both," he says, rising promptly, and stretching out a hand to me. "Come, and I will take you into the wood."

I follow him as he bids me, and say no more about the money. We stroll along past the fir-trees and out through a gate into the wood. Suddenly we pause as we come to a great open space. There, spread like a carpet from some cunning loom, grows a great sea of primroses, of wood-violets and dark hyacinths mingled with rich emerald green.

            "Groves that looked a Paradise
Of blossom, and sheets of hyacinth
That seemed the heavens, upbreaking through the earth."

He points to a felled tree, and we sit down and let our eyes range feastingly around.

"After all," says my companion, thoughtfully, with an air of conviction, "the country has its pleasures even out of the hunting and shooting seasons. Do you know" (solemnly, looking at me impressively, as though he is not sure I shall believe him without a great deal of asseveration) "I do not think I ever spent a happier morning than this in my life?"

"I am sure I never did;" I say, truthfully, but sighing a little as I remember how short-lived our happiness is doomed to be. I fancy I hear him sigh too. He takes out his watch.

"It is half-past twelve," he remarks, with an accent of disgust, "and they lunch at one. How the time has flown!"

Silence reigns for a few minutes; then he stretches out his hand towards me, and brings the full light of his dark-blue eyes to bear on mine. I endure it for a moment, and then mine droop, but my hand still lies in the clasp of his. I feel no strength or will to move it.

"I told you," he says, presently, "that we were not to have any explanations to-day, did I not? nothing but harmonious tranquillity. I ought not to break my own rules, ought I? But tell me" (in a pleading voice), "you are not angry with me now. If I vexed you last night, you have forgiven me, have you not?"

"There is nothing to forgive," I answer, trying to withdraw my hand, and vexed because I feel the tell-tale color mantling over cheek and brow.

"If you forgive me, you will let me keep your hand," he says, softly; and all this time I feel that he has never once taken his eyes from my face. It is dangerous to look at him; my heart is throbbing wildly even now; but I cannot resist the charm: some unknown force compels my reluctant eyelids upwards.

"'Tears in the radiant eyes,'" he whispers, quoting from our favorite song. "Oh" (drawing me towards him), "what a perverse world this is! Why do we always covet just those things we cannot have!"

There is a strange ring in his voice; he has risen, and is standing with one arm round me. For one ecstatic moment I droop my head on his shoulder, his warm breath hovers over my cheek and ear; then I break away from him, and stand abashed, trembling, leaning with downcast eyes against the trunk of a big tree. He follows me swiftly, with flushed face and eager eyes.

"No, no," I say, putting out my hands with a gesture of repulsion, whilst my heart beats with furious shame.

He stops.

"I beg your pardon," he utters, in a contrite voice. "Don't be afraid! you do not think for one moment I would say or do anything to displease you. I lost my head a little for a moment. Come, let us go towards the house."

We walk on side by side until we come to the gate that separates the wood from the park: there he stops.

"I don't know what possessed me," he says, in an apologetic tone; "I suppose it is rather dangerous being long with a young and very pretty woman. Do you know," looking at me with some vexation, "I am half sorry I came? If I stay much longer I shall run the risk of making a fool of myself; and that would be unsatisfactory to myself, as well as unfair to Hector."

I stand staring stupidly before me, ignorant how to reply. Hector! Hector! why will he always drag him into our talk? Hector is nothing to me! I feel a blind unjust repugnance to him. And yet I cannot tell his brother this! it might make him think I entertained hopes——what folly! has he not shown me clearly enough that I can be nothing to him mort than a passing fancy? Seeing that I make no reply, he opens the gate for me, and we pass on silently to the house. Half the golden day is gone: is it golden still? I hardly know,—at this moment it seems so equally made up of sweet and bitter. When I reach the house, there is only just time to smooth my ruffled hair before the gong sounds for lunch. Sir Hector offers a diversion,—not an agreeable one by any means: he is in one of his most vindictive tempers: an "infernal fool of a groom" (luckless wight! how I pity him!) has thrown down one of the horses. I have remarked that when a horse comes to grief it is never his own fault, unless his master is on his back: the grooms always throw them down. What little consolation is to be derived from discharging him with the threat of no character Sir Hector has, but it is all insufficient to appease his wrath. Everybody, everything, is wrong. I ask after my lady's headache. He does not know (snappishly): all he knows is that if women will lie in bed half the day, and take no exercise, and eat and drink just the same, it is no wonder they have headaches. Poor Lady Montagu, who has the smallest, most delicate appetite conceivable! I hazard that it is a lovely day, and he retorts, with a growl, that it may be a lovely day for a parcel of idle people, who have nothing better to do than to lie about in the sunshine like lapdogs, but that to him, with the grass-crops shriveling up to nothing, it is simply heart-breaking. Snubbed savagely for the first time in my life, I retire, feeling much depressed, to the contemplation of lunch. Captain Montagu's eyes are on his plate: he does not come to my rescue, nor does he attempt any original remark on his own account.

"What are you going to do?" Sir Hector asks him presently, in a snappish voice.

"I, sir?" looking up imperturbably. "Nothing."

"Nothing!" with a growl. "I might have guessed as much. Then you had better drive over to Okewood with me."

"Much too hot, sir, thank you all the same for thinking of me" (with a little twitch of his flexible upper lip). "I might get a sunstroke."

"Sunstroke!" retorts Sir Hector, wrathfully. "Pretty fellows you Guardsmen must be, to be afraid of a May sun!—very fit for a campaign!"

Captain Montagu's lip twitches more than ever, and I am filled with nervous dread lest he should actually break into a laugh.

"It is by taking care of ourselves in time of peace," he says, with a wicked glance at me, "that we are able to come to the fore when the country wants us."

Sir Hector pushes away his plate, and mutters something that sounds like "A parcel of blanked puppies!" but his son does not seem to take offense.

"Always dangling after a petticoat!" is the next growling amenity; and with that he flings out of the room.

"Dear old man, bless him!" utters his son, sweetly, as the door closes with a bang. "I think" (with a smile that has some malice in it), "if I remember rightly, I rather shocked you once at Warrington by not going into rhapsodies over the mere delightful fact of having a father. Perhaps you look at the matter rather more from my point of view now."

"I thought all fathers must be like mine," I say, naïvely. "Certainly he is rather" (hesitating)—"rather trying; but I suppose one ought to make allowances for one's father."

"I wish one's father would make one more allowance," ha says, laughing. "Come, let us go up into the state drawing-room: it will be the coolest place to-day. I wish to heaven Alford belonged to me, or was ever likely to: what rattling good parties I would have here!" And he sighs.

We mount the carven stair-case and traverse the long gallery lined with pictures. There are niches in all the embrasured windows which look out upon the green sea of turf without, and big silver-bound oak and marqueterie cabinets stand within them, while quaint carvings and curious pictures look down upon us from above. Eastern figures as large as life, bearing lamps, stand on either side of the five steps that lead to the state drawing-room.

"Those grim faces used to frighten me into fits when I was a child," says Captain Montagu, as he gives me an unneeded hand to help ire up the low easy stairs. "Come and sit in my favorite seat" (opening the door and leading me towards the window).

I am half afraid of another tête-à-tête with him, and yet it is exquisite happiness to be alone with him, to hear his thrilling voice, and to meet the glances of his kind eyes. And it will be over so soon now!

"We shall not have much longer together," he says, softly, as if divining my thought from the half-reluctant manner in which I follow him.

"No," I answer, with a long sigh, which I hope is only audible to myself.

So we seat ourselves on the low couch that fills up the deep mullioned window, and for a little while neither breaks the silence. He is looking out upon the greensward, and I am contemplating the room and it's furniture,—from the dark polished parquet floor to the painted ceiling. The huge carved chimney-piece empanels the portrait of the oldest known ancestor of the Montagus: it is a hideous stiff painting by Holbein, and in the eyelashless eyes and shadowless face I amuse myself by finding a likeness to Sir Hector.

"By Jove, so there is, now you mention it!" laughs Captain Montagu. "Tell him so. If a man could be flattered and unflattered in a breath, I should think such a remark would be calculated to inspire that paradoxical sensation in him."

"I tell him!" I echo, laughing too; "not for the world, I don't think I shall ever venture another remark: my conversation shall be Yea, yea, and Nay, nay. Not even the weather is a safe topic with him to-day. I can see a likeness to you there" (pointing to a full-length portrait, in cavalier dress, of a very handsome man).

"Thanks," he answers, making me a little bow. "That is Sir Rupert, the scapegrace of the family."

"I wonder why scapegraces are always good-looking," I say, reflectively.

Captain Montagu laughs merrily.

"Perhaps they would not have so many temptations if they were not endowed with certain outward advantages."

"That is true," I think, taking him au serieux and heaving a little jealous sigh.

Then he relapses into silence, and I let my eyes wander round again over the portraits, the carved, tapestry-covered couches, the quaint seats of crimson velvet embroidered in gold, the heavily-framed mirrors with beveled edges, the cabinets and stools and sconces. After my eyes have traveled carefully round, they return to the polished parquet.

"What a floor for dancing!" I utter, regretfully, breaking the long silence at last.

"Apropos," he says, jumping up and holding out his arms, "let us have a waltz."

"Without music?" I ask, doubtfully.

"We will sing the 'Blue Danube' until we are out of breath," he answers, gayly.

Our voices mingle in that thrilling air, his arm is round me, and we are floating deliciously over the polished floor. Suddenly we stop as the door is thrown wide open. Hector, black and frowning, is confronting us.

The pair stop dancing, but they are so surprised at Hector's appearance that for a moment Captain Montagu still keeps his arm round Diana's waist. Hector comes forward trying rather unsuccessfully to cover his frown with a smile, and shakes hands coldly with Diana.

"I did not know you were coming," he remarks, pointedly, to his brother.

"Nor did I until yesterday morning. I sent a telegram; but I suppose you had left before it arrived. I had no idea there was such an agreeable surprise in store for me as finding Miss Carew here."

Hector looks aggressively disbelieving, and Diana, feeling a strange unpleasant awkwardness, makes excuse that she will inquire after Lady Montagu's headache. Hector opens the door for her with stiff politeness, but his eyes seek her eagerly. She says "Thank you" without looking at him. He closes the door, and returns to the window where his brother is standing, his face working as though moved by no pleasant emotion. Charlie is drumming imperturbably on the window-pane. Hector stands for a moment looking at him,—the expression in his eyes does not indicate much brotherly affection; then he speaks in a constrained voice and with apparent effort.

"Is it a fact you did not know before you came that Miss Carew was staying here?"

"It is," returns the other, still playing the "Blue Danube" on the glass with much apparent interest in his occupation.

"Oh!" replies Hector, shortly, and relapses into silence.

Charlie carefully finishes his tune, and then turns to confront his brother. He is very good-tempered, he hates quarreling and argument; but there is something so aggressive and dictatorial in his brother's manner that he cannot well pass it over as if he had not remarked it. Moreover, he has a guilty feeling of not having done quite the right thing, and that feeling makes him doubly resentful of Hector's behavior. There is just the least increase of color in his face as he turns to him and says, deliberately,—

"I did not know Miss Carew was here; but, had I done so, I am not aware that it would have been any reason for my staying away."

Hector is silent: in truth, Charlie's remark is not an easy one to reply to.

"Are you engaged to Miss Carew?" he proceeds; "because, if not" (warmly), "it strikes me, my dear fellow, you are giving yourself airs of proprietorship that are rather absurd, and, to say the least, uncalled-for."

Hector's dark brows almost meet, and he clutches angrily at a carved chair-back.

"I know what you are," he exclaims: "you can no more let a woman alone than" (somewhat at a loss for a simile)—"than a dog can help chasing a rabbit. If I had been engaged to her ten times over, it would not have hindered your making love to her the moment my back was turned."

There is just sufficient truth in his remark to make it unpalatable to his hearer.

"Well, but are you engaged to her?" he persists.

"No, I am not" (shortly); "but I dare say our mother has told you that it is my dearest wish to marry her, and that I have only been afraid of asking her for fear of frightening or repelling her by being in too great a hurry."

"Oh," returns Charlie, coolly; "and when you have proposed and she has accepted you, am I to understand that you expect me to keep me away from Alford altogether? And am I to be the only victim? or do you propose to keep every other man under sixty away from the house, for fear of endangering your peace of mind? If so" (Charlie has lashed himself into most unwonted bitterness), "I must say it betrays a singular want of confidence in your own powers of pleasing, and the future Mrs. Montagu seems likely to have rather a lively time of it."

Every word goes home, far more keenly than the speaker has any idea or intention of. Hector turns fiercely away, and walks to the other end of the room, and Captain Montagu resumes the "Blue Danube" where he left off.

Hector is away some five minutes; to judge by his face, an intense struggle is going on within him; then he comes slowly back to the couch on which his brother has thrown himself full length. He takes no notice of Hector: with his hands under his head, he is apparently absorbed in contemplation of a fly that is making frantic efforts to extricate itself from a spider's cunning web. Hector evidently wants to say something, but cannot bring himself to the utterance: he stands for a moment looking at his brother, then takes another hasty turn. This time he plunges desperately into his subject.

"I have something to say to you," he begins, in a harsh tone.

Charlie brings his eyes slowly from the ceiling to his brother's face, and Hector cannot but own in his heart, grudgingly though he does it, what a handsome fellow he is.

"I dare say you know," he proceeds, in a voice quite hoarse from strangled emotion, "that I have never been in love before in my life, not really in love. I have never cared intensely for a woman, never thought much of them except as toys to while away one's idle hours. Well" (pausing, and finding the next words bitterly hard to say), "my whole soul is in this. Of course I know what you think about me: you think I'm a cold, hard sort of fellow without a grain of sentiment. I haven't frittered away my heart" (with some contempt), "and given a thousand bits to a thousand different women; so, now" (dropping his voice) "that I have come to love at last, it goes rather hard with me. My life and soul are in it" (passionately); "if I thought I should lose her, my God!" (wildly), "I don't know what would become of me."

Charlie has risen to a sitting posture, astonished, almost shocked, at his brother's vehemence.

"My dear fellow——" he begins, but Hector cuts him short.

"What I want to say to you is this. She is nothing, can be nothing, to you: you don't want to marry her, you could not if you did: for heaven's sake do not come between us. I know you have some wonderful influence over women, though" (roughly) "God knows what it is except your good-looking face and soft voice; but I ask you, I entreat you, the first favor I ever asked of you in my life, to go away until it is all settled. Then" (hesitatingly), "if she does come to care for me, I need not be afraid of you, nor" (smiling uneasily) "the whole brigade of Guards at your back."

Charlie is very weak and very good-natured. He is vastly taken with Diana; in the wood that morning he had felt himself on the verge of falling in love with her; but now that his brother appeals to him so earnestly, with the conviction also staring him in the face that any idea of marrying her himself would be utterly, ridiculously impossible, he behaves in the gracious pleasant way that is the key to the charm he exercises over people.

"My dear old fellow," he says, holding out his hand, "I did not know it was such a serious business. Of course she likes you; of course she will have you; and if you think, though you greatly overrate my powers, that I am likely to stand in your way, I'll be off to-morrow by the first train. So now" (gayly) "set your mind at rest. I'll go off and have a ride, and next time I see you both I hope to say, 'Bless you, my children!'"

Hector grasps his brother's hand with a warmer clasp than he has done for many a long day; and so they part, Charlie for his ride, Hector with a beating heart to look for Diana. He finds her presently in the small drawing-room. She greets him with a cold, civil little smile as he comes eagerly up to her. In her heart she is thinking very unkindly of him for having spoiled her tête-à-tête with his brother.

"Have you seen my mother?—is she better?" he asks, sitting down in front of her.

"Her head is better, but she wishes to keep very quiet, that she may come down to dinner: so I did not see her."

"You are not going to stay in-doors all the afternoon, are you?" he says. "Won't you come out for a drive?"

"Thanks" (coldly): "I do not care to drive to-day."

She fancies that he wants to take her away from his brother, and resents it.

"I thought you were so fond of driving."

"So I am; but——"

"But what?"

"I do not care to be always driving" (pettishly).

"Come into the garden, then, or let me row you in the boat."

She assents to this, thinking Captain Montagu will join them.

As they cross towards the water, she catches sight of a mounted figure, and her heart gives a little indignant throb.

"We might all have gone out riding," she says, in a tone whose regret is extremely apparent.

"Why not now?" he answers, eagerly: "there is plenty of time. I will go and order the horses."

She pauses, irresolute: her heart has gone after the solitary horseman, but she feels it would be undignified to seem to run after him.

"No," she says (shaking her head): "I do not care for it to-day: it is too hot."

He helps her into the boat, ana rows her about untiringly. She is vexedly conscious that his dark eyes are fixed upon her, and that he scarcely ever averts them. Hector is beginning to love her idolatrously: he feels as if he could never look too long at that sweet face, with its clear soft color, its red, half-parted lips, its lovely fringed eyelids. Anon his eyes travel to the pillar-like throat, so creamily white, and the slender fingers that she holds over the boat's side, that the cool water may trickle through them. He cannot but see that she is a little perverse and pettish this afternoon, but he loves her none the less for it, only it sends a quick pang through his heart as he conjectures the cause. But when he is gone, he tells himself, she will be her own bright self again, as she was yesterday (only yesterday! it seems a week), when she wished him "good-by" at the station.

Captain Montagu is seen no more until dinner. Diana spends nearly an hour in trying to look her fairest. She goes softly down-stairs ten minutes before the bell rings, but has the drawing-room all to herself. Captain Montagu does not join them until the gong has sounded. At dinner he devotes himself to his mother, who is well enough just to sit at the table; and Hector monopolizes Diana entirely. She is miserable: she longs for only one kind glance, but longs in vain. She looks wistfully across at him many a time, but he seems studiously to avoid her.

"He will look at me when I pass him after dinner," she thinks; but, though he rises from his seat, he leaves Hector to open the door. Lady Montagu, after a few kind words, goes back to her bedroom, not being sufficiently recovered to stay up longer, and Diana is left to herself. The tears spring to her eyes: is this the end of "the golden day"? Her poor little heart is quivering with the stabs of Captain Montagu's indifference; she longs agonizingly for one of those looks that he was prodigal enough of this morning. And for one wild foolish moment in the wood she had fancied she might be something to him. She has forgotten the friendly, pleasant liking she had for Hector only yesterday; a passionate anger against him is creeping into her heart; his love for her, which she is forced to see, pleads no excuse for him in her indignant disappointment. She thinks of last night,—of her walk in the moonlight with Captain Montagu. She has forgotten how little pleasure it really gave her, and magnifies the delight of it a thousandfold. She is feverish and restless: she feels she cannot sit and talk to Hector; she will be forced into saying something sharp or rude to him; and as for chess! no, she cannot, will not undergo that torture to-night, let Sir Hector think or say what he will. Let him be angry! her fear of him is swallowed up by a much greater emotion. She will plead indisposition and go to her room. But how will that be better? she thinks, forlornly. She cannot sleep, and will have cut herself off from all chance of seeing him. She goes to the window and looks out. The moon is rising in all her splendor behind the dark trees; her pure cold light is flooding garden, lawn, and lake with silver. A sudden thought makes Diana's heart throb. She will go out, not with any thought of meeting him,—she is too proud for that,—but out in the clear soft stillness of the night she will not feel oppressed as she does here. In a moment she has opened the door and is rushing along the corridor. Many pairs of eyes look down upon her from the carved oaken panels, but the lips that belong to them can tell no tales. She snatches up the lace shawl with a pang, as she remembers how tenderly he wrapped her in it last night, and then she flits hurriedly away out into the hush of the radiant night. Unpremeditatedly, unconsciously almost, she takes the path towards the wood, not pausing until she comes to the gate that leads into it. Stopping, she leans over it, her soul filled full of the bitter sweet of memory. It was here they stopped and leaned together in the morning of the golden day that was to have been. Golden morning, leaden afternoon! she thinks, drearily. Diana has not a very courageous soul, she is not used to lonely night-wanderings, but to-night she feels no fear.

"I will go into the wood," she thinks, "and sit on the felled tree where we sat this morning." And thither she goes.

If the pale primroses were fair in the gold sunshine, they are fairer still steeped in the silver moonbeams, shining out white and virginal from among the dark clumps of hyacinths, too dark to be irradiated by the pure pale light. Diana tries to recall the memory of the morning: closing her eyes, she sees him standing there before her, with arms outstretched to her, his blue eyes looking down upon her full of love.

"Ah! but he is used to look like that," she tells herself, desolately. "Did he not own that he could not be ten minutes in the company of a woman without wanting to make love to her?"

At this bitter thought, all courage and hope forsake her, and she falls to weeping piteously. The distant click of the gate's latch arouses her, and makes her heart beat with wild terror. Who can it be? She is fain to fly, but remembers that she does not know her way. If she goes towards the house, she must meet whoever it is. It may be a poacher: he may murder her, she thinks, in an agony of fear. Her quick, frightened ear catches the sound of a slow, measured footfall: it does not sound like a poacher's tread: it may be Hector come to look for her; but then he would be walking fast. It may be—and her heart beats more wildly still—it may be his brother, bound on the same errand as herself. Another minute solves the doubt, as Captain Montagu, in evening dress, except the coat, which he has exchanged for a shooting-jacket, bareheaded, cigar in mouth, strolls leisurely into view. She jumps up in an ecstasy of mingled joy and shame,—joy at being with him once more, shame at the recollection of her tear-stained face. He sees her, and utters an exclamation of strong surprise.

"Is it really you?" he says, coming quickly towards her. "Can I believe my eyes?"

Diana smiles (it is not hard to smile, looking back into those kindling eyes), and stammers a little lame excuse.

"It was such a lovely night, the room was warm, and—and I don't feel equal to chess to-night."

He has thrown his cigar away, and is looking at her, thinking how fair she is, knowing she has been crying about him, wishing he had not made that promise to Hector. He had fully meant, he does mean, to keep it: has he not come out here on purpose to leave the field clear for his brother? Is he not going away to-morrow morning by the first train (a most awful nuisance, too, getting up in the dead of night) to oblige him?

But Charlie is very weak, especially about women, and Diana is very fair: it is the old, old story.

"And I came out here on purpose to avoid you," he says. The words are not flattering, but they are uttered in a tone which leaves Diana nothing to resent.

"I can go in," she answers, making as if to leave him. He lets her go three paces, and then cries,—

"Do not go."

She turns and stands there half reluctant.

"Let us sit down together where we did this morning," he whispers: "it will be the last time we shall be together."

"The last time?" she echoes, with a startled look. "Why?"

"Because I am going away to-morrow by the first train."

Diana looks away; a great knot rises in her throat, the pale clear primroses are a blurred confused mass of white; for all the shame of it, for all her eager desire to repress them, two great shining tears will gather before her bright eyes, will stand trembling like diamonds on the sweet lids, will fall with a little plash into her lap, and, though her face is half averted, he sees it. Oh, what utter irremediable mischief women's tears have worked since the beginning of time!

A struggle takes place in Captain Montagu's mind: it is short-lived. He has never accustomed himself to conquer self, it has always been so pleasant to act on the impulse of the moment, and very rarely in his life has it been followed by unpleasant consequences for him. It is unfair after his promise to be sitting here now, it is as unfair to Diana as to Hector, and yet on this fair warm night, with the sweet spring scents filling his senses, with the amorous song of the nightingale thrilling through the soft night air, with the proximity of a fair and loving woman, he is morally incapable of jumping up, as he knows he ought to do, and walking off briskly in the opposite direction. The knowledge of its being wrong makes the temptation stronger still. But how could he, he told himself afterwards, when it was too late, see her in distress and not attempt to soothe her! In distress for him, too! It would have been simply brutal.

"Darling," he whispers, stealing one arm round her, and drawing her head on to his shoulder, "don't let me see tears in those dear eyes!" As he sees two more impending, he bends down and kisses them away. She leaves her head where he has laid it; she is very young, very innocent, she has not been brought up with strict cautions about the proprieties; the heroes of her books have always kissed the heroines (at parting from them, or on some supreme occasion like this), and for the most part the heroines have taken it as she is doing now, happily, unresistingly. She is not overtaken by a paroxysm of indignant virtue, as perhaps a well-tutored young lady would have been, because her mind is too pure to think any harm. It would have seemed horrible, loathsome, to her to have been kissed by a man whom she did not love; but here, where all her heart is given, it does not seem wrong,—not even unnatural.

Captain Montagu, having made no resistance to temptation, is, as happens to most of us, swept away by it altogether.

"My darling," he cries, the warm blood stirring in his veins, finding her doubly dear because he knows she cannot be his, "do you think I can give you up without a struggle! Only this time last night I had no more thought of loving you than I had of flying, and now to-night I feel as if parting with you was like parting with my heart's blood." Her lips are so near to his, how can they help but meet? Then she draws herself away from him, and, sitting upright, pushes back her hair with a confused motion. She is silent, but her heart is saying, wildly, "He will not, he cannot leave me now."

But he too has pulled himself together; he has been through scenes something of the kind before, and he feels that he must make an effort, or the witchery of the night and this fair girl may plunge him into an act of folly that will bring a life-long repentance. It is bitterly hard to be practical under present circumstances. If Diana had been town-bred, if she had mixed in society, it would have been unnecessary to attempt any explanation as to the impossibility of their thinking of marriage; but she is a simple unsophisticated girl (however sweet and dear), who knows nothing of the world's ways, and who, worst of all, is accustomed to comparative poverty. Feeling and expediency are equally mixed as he says (hating himself the while for saying it),—"I never in my life cared for a girl before as I do for you. I never dreamed of marrying except as a means of paying my debts and launching me afresh in the world; but I swear to you it gives me the most horrible pain that I cannot ask you to be my wife."

"I know," she answers, hurriedly, though a pang shoots through her breast, but wanting to gave him the pain of a confession,—"I know it is quite impossible. I never thought of anything of that sort. If" (drooping her sweet face in shame), "if I might think you—you liked me a little."

"Liked you!" cries the young man, passionately: "what a poor little miserable cold word! Think and be quite sure that I love you, and that I would give my right hand to make you mine."

Diana looks up into his face with radiant eyes.

"I shall not mind anything now I have heard you say that," she says, innocently: "it will be enough to live on all the rest of my life."

"Oh, darling!" he utters, remorsefully, taking her hand in his, "why do you make me feel such a brute? How can you care for such a miserable, selfish fellow as I am? Why, even now this moment, loving you as I do" (moved to the confession by a worthy sense of shame), "do you not see that I am sacrificing you to my selfishness in the most hateful, cold-blooded way?"

"Hush!" she says, laying her slim fingers on his lips; "do not breathe a word against yourself; it would be the only thing" (with loving emphasis) "you could say that I should not believe."

Her sweetness, her fairness, her love, rise up before him, and overcome all which prudence, worldliness, and selfishness had whispered to him before.

"My sweet!" he cries, catching her in his arms, "I can, I will give up everything in the world for your sake, if you can put up with me as I am."

She yields for one moment to his passionate embrace; then, with a sigh, she withdraws herself gently from his binding arms.

"Do you think," she says, laying one slim white hand on his arm, and fixing her shining eyes upon his passion-wrought face,—"do you think I love you so little as that? No, no, no! it is very generous of you, but it is impossible. I know it even better than you do."

Her words stab him. He generous! he feels intensely, more intensely than he has ever felt anything in his life, how selfish and ignoble his conduct has been. He feels in truth

                "There is no after-pang
Can deal that vengeance on the self-condemned
He deals on his own soul."

Yet, even now, as he dwells upon her fairness and thinks it will be Hector's, not his, he grudges her bitterly to him.

"What unlucky chance brought us out here together to-night?" he says, miserably. "I had resolved not to put myself in the way of temptation again, and" (half to himself) "I had given him my word."

"What?" cries Diana, with kindling eyes, catching the words and understanding them all too well.

"What is the use of mincing matters?" he says, moodily, leaning against the stalwart oak trunk through whose as yet sparsely-filled branches the moonbeams glint on the workings of his face. "You know that Hector loves you, you know he wants to marry you, and" (bitterly) "in time of course you will marry him. He is young enough, he is not bad-looking, he is devoted to you, and all this" (with a little wave of his hand) "will be his."

Speaking, Captain Montagu takes some little credit to himself that, however reluctantly, with however ill a grace, he is still pleading his brother's cause. If it were possible for scorn to creep into so great a love as Diana's, it glances for one moment upon him from her flashing eyes. But as she looks upon that dear face it dies out.

"Do not," she whispers, softly; "you hurt me. If you cared ever so little for me you could not bear to think of my belonging to him. I know nothing of love" (looking at him with clear steadfast eyes), "but, oh, I know, I feel that by a sort of instinct."

"You are right," he says, catching at her hand. "I hate the thought like death. Well" (eagerly), "say the word, take me for worse and for poorer, and then I shall not have to think of giving you up to any one."

She is only a child, a child without experience, but she knows, even if he thinks it for the moment, that he is not in earnest about it, that if she yielded he would regret it even to-night. If the sacrifice, the self-abnegation, had been for her in the future, would she not have consented joyfully, without a fear, without a pang? But it would be on his part; and she knows, without its detracting from her love for him one whit, that he would grudge the sacrifice later, if not now. She laughs to scorn the bare idea that she can be worthy of him: what has she to give him but her love, her poor little worthless love, that is, after all, only an involuntary tribute to his perfection?

The church-clock strikes ten with a slow sonorous sound.

"Your father is awake, and waiting for his game," she says, looking up with an awed face and returning to sudden consciousness of the present.

Captain Montagu cannot help laughing.

"Poor little darling!" he whispers: "how they have cowed you already!"

"He will wake up," says Diana, in a low, prophetic voice; "he will look about for me, and then he will ring and ask for me; they will go to my room and not find me there; then," her voice rising, "they will come out and look for me. Oh," (grasping his arm and looking in his face with a blanched, frightened gaze)—"if they find me here with you I shall die."

"They shall not find you here with me," he says, in a soothing voice, seeing that she is really terrified and that her nerves are over-strung. "Come; we will go towards the house, and then, when we are in the garden, if we hear any one coming we can separate."

"Come!" she cries, making her way swiftly towards the gate, he following her.

At the gate they pause, as they did in the morning.

"Is it to be 'good-by,' then?" he whispers, looking regret fully at her.

"Why need you go to-morrow?" she asks, evasively.

"Because I have promised."

"But," she urges, in an earnest voice, "if he—if Mr. Montagu knows that I can never be anything more to him than" (falteringly) "to you, why should we not all be happy together?"

"Did you ever hear of Cain and Abel? One brother murdered the other because he was jealous; though I never heard that a woman had anything to do with it in that case. But it strikes me that if we were in the same house with you for another week with our present feelings, we should both feel pretty much towards each other as Cain and Abel did; or rather, I should say, as Cain did to Abel."

"Good-by, then," she sighs, with bitter reluctance, stretching out her hand.

"Not yet," he cries. "Oh, little darling, I don't feel as if I could part from you!"

"I must go," she whispers. "They would know it was unnatural for me to be out so late alone. I think your mother would not be pleased. She is the only one I should be really grieved to vex."

"Good-by," she whispers, again, and lifts her sweet face to take one last look at him. He sees the tremulous red mouth, the bright eyes shining through unshed tears, the white, fair face, in which the warm color ebbs and flows; he hears the quiver in the soft voice, and again he thinks remorsefully of all he will lose in parting from her. He draws her back a few paces out of the moonlight into the deep shadow of the tree. Once more his arms are round her, once more he kisses her sweet lips. For a moment she clings to him, as though to part from him were to part with her whole soul; and then she leaves him standing there alone, fighting with a passionate love and regret for her, and goes swiftly towards the house. In front of the door, in the full white light, Hector is standing.

"Miss Carew!" he exclaims, in a voice wherein surprise and anger fight for mastery, and then, with a swift change of voice, speaking very eagerly, "How pale you are! Have you been frightened?"

"I! no," she answers, staring at him, and trembling in every limb. Her nerves are overwrought: a deadly fear and sickness comes across her.

"You look quite ill," he says, anxiously. "Let me get you a glass of wine." And, without waiting for her answer, he draws her unresisting hand through his arm, and leads her away into the house. There is a light in the smoking-room, and he pushes the door open and takes her in and places her in a low chair by the open window. Then he hurries off for wine. Whilst he is gone, she collects herself, and is able to smile upon him when he returns, and to make a pretense even of sipping what he brings her.

"And answered with such craft as women use,
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance
That breaks upon them perilously."

"Were you frightened?" Hector asks her again, pertinatiously.

"No—yes," she stammers. "The moon throws such strange ghostly shadows these bright nights."

"Did you go out alone?" he asks, eying her with stern curiosity.

Diana pauses: she has never told a lie in her life. But a quick thought comes to her rescue; he has asked her if she went alone, and to that she can answer "Yes," truthfully.

"Why did you not wait for me?" he says, with gentle reproach, coming a little nearer to her. "Did you not know how glad I should have been to go with you?"

She shrinks from him imperceptibly, and utters a little forced laugh.

"Thank you," she says. "I felt oppressed by the heat, and thought the fresh air would do me good. What did Sir Hector say?"

"He took it for granted you had gone to bed," answers Mr. Montagu, stiffly. He is still haunted by a vague, horrible suspicion, although he believes firmly in her truthfulness. Certainly she is not the same gay laughing Diana he drove along the hawthorn-bound lanes, and wished good-by to, only yesterday morning, before that hateful journey.

She has relapsed into weary silence, and, glancing at her,

"Right through his manful breast darted the pang
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable."

"I shall steal off to bed," she says, rising, and forcing rather a wan smile. "Do not betray me to your father. Good-night!"

Somehow he has no heart to ask her to linger. He bids her a cold good-night.

"To-morrow!" he whispers to himself, as he looks after her retreating figure; "to-morrow!" But still he sighs, and his heart is heavy within him. Even his cigar affords him but poor consolation to-night.

Diana is awake early next morning: indeed, she has not passed a very tranquil night. A great crisis in her life has come; but what lies beyond? She hardly dares to think: fain would she content herself with the present, but the thought of what is to follow will creep in. She had imagined for the minute, whilst the man she loved was at her side, that she could live for all time on that memory; and yet already she is hankering and longing to see him again, and thinking how blank and void to-day will be without him. She hears the sound of wheels, and springs out of bed. She can just catch a glimpse of the dog-cart, and the horse pawing and scraping the ground. A minute later she hears the sound of Captain Montagu's voice, and cranes her neck eagerly behind the blind to get one more glimpse of him. His face is not pale nor haggard, as, somehow, she half expects to see it, as hers is, unless her mirror tells a false tale; he looks cheery and debonnair, and gives a pleasant farewell smile and nod to Simkins who comes out to wish him God-speed. His portmanteau and bag are in, he lights a cigar, takes the reins, jumps in, and—is gone. Gone! Diana feels acutely at this moment how much of pain one little four-lettered word can hold. She whispers it painfully to herself over and over again, Gone from her forever! Will he remember her? Will he think longingly, lingeringly, as she does, over last night's scene?—or is it only a repetition, with a trifling variation, of scenes that he has gone through many a time before? Why, why did he make that hateful speech?—why tell her he could never be alone with a woman without making love to her? And was it always the same,—the man in play, the woman in earnest? A passage from Madame de Staël will haunt her: "L'amour est l'histoire de la vie des femmes cest un épisode dans celle des hommes." Over and over again it repeats itself as she plaits her long hair and dresses tardily for breakfast,—breakfast that was so cheery yesterday, that will be so dull, she thinks, sighing, to-day. It is a bright, warm day again: she wishes it were stormy and wet; she would rather hear the wind howling dismally in the wide chimney, and the rain pattering against the window-panes: it would be far more in consonance with her feelings.

"I cannot stay here any longer," she says to herself. "I will write to-day and tell papa that he must send for me home."

Sir Hector is short and snappish with her this morning: evidently he is ill pleased at her defalcation the previous evening; but his son tries by every means in his power to make things pleasant.

"Will you ride this morning?" he asks her. "There is a charming ride for a sunny morning that I have not yet taken you,—all through shady lanes and a delicious wood."

Sha shivers a little at the last word, but tries to smile as she assents to his proposal. Yes, she will like to ride very much. Anything for a change; anything to take her out of herself. Hector feels, and is, quite another man this morning: the nightmare of his brother's presence being removed, he can smile and be genial again, and the ugly curves about his mouth shrink away to nothing. It is a morning to make any one blithe who has the faintest, smallest reason for being glad; it is a morning to break the heart of any one who has a secret sorrow gnawing at his breast. When nature is so passing fair and one is at discord with her, at discord with happiness, what is her loveliness but "sweet bells jangled out of tune"?

Is this grave silent maiden, who forces a little pale smile in answer when he speaks to her, the joyous laughing Diana of three days ago? so full of life and spirits that she would have let him make love to her had he willed it, out of sheer high spirits and the pleasure of life? He will be very patient with her, but as they ride along he falls to wondering what charm his brother possesses for winning smiles and gay glad words from every woman he comes across.

"I never in my life heard him say anything that was not utterly commonplace," he thinks. "Are women, even good women, really so shallow as to be caught by a merely handsome face and a trick of manner?"

"What did you do yesterday?" he asks, abruptly,—so abruptly that the quick color rushes uncontrollably through her fair face.

"How you startle one!" she says, with some pettishness.

"Did I?" he replies, penitently. "I am very sorry. I am afraid I am rather a bear."

"Not that," she says, recovering herself; "but you are silent for a long time, and then you burst out suddenly upon one in a way that takes one's breath away."

"Do I?" he exclaims, eagerly. "I am so sorry,—awfully sorry, as the correct phrase is now. But," returning to his former question, "what did you do yesterday?"

"I don't know" (carelessly): "nothing, I think,—pottered about the garden."

"Is that all?"

"Do you insist upon the minutest details?" she asks, with a look he does not quite comprehend.

"I don't insist on anything," he rejoins, with some coldness.

"After breakfast I sang for an hour; then we went into the garden and sat under a tree, and your brother caught three carp."

She does not tell him how; and he chooses to imagine, not being a fisherman, nor knowing the exceeding difficulty of catching those wily fish with fly or worm, that Captain Montagu angled for them in the usual manner, "a worm at one end of the rod, a fool at the other." He reflects to himself with inward satisfaction that fishing and love-making are two things that do not go very well together.

"And after that?"

"After that" (averting her face and pulling leaves off the low-hanging boughs within her reach), "oh, after that we strolled into the wood to look at the primroses and hyacinths. Have you seen them?—they are exquisite. I never saw so many together before."

"Will you show them to me?" he asks, bending a little towards her; but they have emerged into the open, and she puts her horse into a canter without answering. Go there with him! not for worlds! is it not sacred to a memory? Let no unhallowed feet profane its precincts.

When they reach home, Diana finds Lady Montagu in the drawing-room. Is it her fancy, or is the kiss my lady bestows upon her a shade less warm and her manner a little less affectionate than usual?

"She is angry with me because her favorite son has gone," Diana thinks, forlornly. "Why does she not blame the right person for sending him away?—am I not tenfold more grieved than she? As long as she lives, he will always be the same to her, and now" (tears rising at the thought) "he is never to be anything more to me." She takes her embroidery, and the two ladies work assiduously: very little conversation passes between them. After lunch they drive together, but still Diana feels painfully that she is under a cloud. The only thing that could have consoled her would be to hear Captain Montagu's mother speak of him, and she has never even so much as mentioned his name. Well, she will be back at the dear old home soon: why did she ever leave it? She has written to her father telling him that she is home-sick, and that she will positively return home the next day but one following. He must write her by return of post summoning her back, but, if not, why, she will go without; but in any case she will go home. This is an unusual display of willfulness for Miss Diana; but then it is a very unusual occasion. All through the drive she is thinking how she will broach the subject to her hostess (the letter is safely on its way by now); at last she says, rushing at her subject,—

"I fear I must be leaving you very soon, Lady Montagu. I have had a—a delightful visit; but papa will be missing me sadly, and I quite expect a summons" (feeling guilty), "perhaps to-morrow or the next day."

"My dear, you must not think of it," answers my lady, with her old kind manner. "What should we do without you? I, for one, cannot spare you. Sir Hector will be quite lost without his chess; and as for Hector——"

"I think you could all do better without me than papa," interrupts Diana; "though it is very kind of you to say you will miss me."

"But, my dear," says Lady Montagu, with a pleasant smile, "your papa will have to spare you altogether some day; and it is better to accustom him to the idea by degrees."

"He will never have to spare me for long," answers Diana, heaving a great sigh, but speaking in a resolute tone so unusual to her that Lady Montagu looks askance at her.

"Young girls always talk like that," she says, but lets the subject drop. Later in the day she tells Hector what has passed. She has sent for him to her boudoir, and he has answered the summons in haste.

He looks bitterly pained.

"Oh, mother!" he says, at last, "why of all days should you have had a headache on that one unlucky day?"

"My dear," answers Lady Montagu, softly, "I think you take alarm too easily. I do not imagine Diana can be so foolish as to think anything of Charlie. I am sure she is too lady-like and right-minded to care for a man who has not given her any encouragement."

"Encouragement! Grant me patience!" mutters Hector, in a fierce sotto voce, turning sharply to the window.

"What did you say?" asks Lady Montagu, mildly, and he makes the answer that people generally do when they say and mean a good deal. "Nothing!"

"We know," proceeds my lady, gently, all unconscious of the daggers she is planting in the heart of her first-born, "that Charlie has a very winning manner; but no girl, I should hope, would be foolish enough to construe his pleasant little caressing ways into any serious intentions. He is the same to every woman, even to me" (smiling a little), "your father says."

"You remember the old fable of the boys and the frog, mother," Hector interrupts, roughly, unconsciously betraying the fear that he has been chary of acknowledging even to himself. "What is play to you is death to me."

"You do not think, really," says Lady Montagu, incredulously, "that Diana has taken a serious fancy to Charlie?"

"Fancy!" murmurs Hector to himself; "ay, that is a good word to apply to a woman's liking." Then, aloud,—

"I don't know what to think; my heart is so in this matter that I have not the least chance of judging impartially. Mother" (earnestly), "I have not courage to speak to her myself. I love her so much that I am actually afraid of her. Will you not" (pleadingly) "speak for me,—tell her how intensely I love her, and—and" (smiling rather doubtfully) "say the best you can of me, mother? I don't think I am the sort of fellow to take a girl's fancy,—that was the word you used,—and yet we seemed to get on very well before—before I went away. I had great hope of her that morning when she went to the station with me."

"Of course, dear," Lady Montagu replies, nervously, "I will do anything to contribute to your happiness; but" (smiling up in his face) "I hardly think a mother is a good medium for a man's love-making,—in this country, at all events. Why not tell her yourself? Indeed it would come much better from you."

He shakes his head.

"I cannot; but you—at all events you can prepare her mind. Not to-night,—somehow, I do not think she would take it so well to-night,—but to-morrow. Don't refuse me, mother!"

His heart is in his voice, and so his mother consents so the unthankful task. On the following afternoon, when she and Diana have come in from their drive and are sitting together over their work, Lady Montagu, with a little ruffled uncomfortable sensation at her heart, broaches the theme.

"I shall be very lonely this time to-morrow," she says, gently, lifting her sweet gray eyes from the gorgeous silks with which she is embroidering a great damask rose; "that is, if you persist in leaving us."

"You are very, very kind," Diana replies, answering the look with one equally pleasant and affectionate; "and I shall miss you every bit as much,—perhaps more. You know" (most unwittingly giving the very cue that the other wants) "you are the first person who ever made me feel the want of a mother."

"Come and sit by me," says Lady Montagu, holding out her hand; and Diana, rising, crosses over and sits beside her on the sofa.

Lady Montagu takes one of her hands and strokes it softly.

"Let me be your mother in reality," she whispers, softly, looking in Diana's face with kind, humid eyes. "Let me plead my son's cause with you."

Diana's head droops: the tears are welling in her eyes too: what would she ask better than to be daughter to so kind and sweet a mother?—daughter, but not in the way she means. She is silent, but her silence may signify anything, and Lady Montagu takes heart of grace.

"Ever since Hector first saw you," she proceeds, still caressing the slim white hand, "he has loved you,—devotedly. I never thought it possible he could come to care so much for any one." In truth, his worship of Diana has caused his mother much secret wonder. "Let me give him good news: may I?" she urges. "I need not praise him to you; you have seen how good, how noble-minded he is, and I feel sure he would make you a devoted husband."

Diana looks up at last. She has been wanting all the time to stop her friend, but has not known how.

"Don't think me ungrateful," she says, in a low, constrained voice. "I feel deeply the—the honor and the kindness that you and—and Mr. Montagu do me, but indeed" (turning away her head) "it is impossible for me to think of him except as a friend."

"My love," cries Lady Montagu, feeling as if somehow she had fulfilled her mission badly, "do not be in haste to decide. You are such a child,—what are you? only eighteen,—he can afford to wait; and in time—in time, I hope, you will think differently. Only, pray, pray do not say positively that it is impossible: he would take it so to heart. I have been a little too sudden: it is rather shocking to the feelings of a young girl to hear so solemn a subject broached hastily. I remember quite well" (a pink blush rising in her delicate face) "when there was first question of my marrying Sir Hector, I could not bring myself all at once to the idea. Let me tell him that you will think about it."

"No," Diana answers, in a low, firm voice; "it would only be deceiving him. I like, I respect Mr. Montagu very much, but I could not ever care for him enough to be his wife."

Lady Montagu, glancing at her, sees that she is not to be moved. Ever so slight a feeling of anger at the rejection of her son creeps into her kind heart.

"I think," she says, "it would be hardly possible for you to be so decided in your refusal of my son unless there was some one else whom you preferred. Perhaps there is already some one of whom we have not heard, who——"

"No, no, no!" interrupts Diana, hastily, turning her head away to hide the hot blushes that are dyeing her cheek.

"My love," whispers Lady Montagu, urged by a sudden impulse, "I may be wrong—I hope I am, but I do trust" (very earnestly) "that you are not allowing any thought of—of my younger son to interfere with your happiness. It would be utterly impossible for him, with his extravagant habits, to marry any but a rich woman; and—forgive my saying so—that little manner of his which is so charming and caressing does not really mean anything."

Diana rises suddenly and walks to the window, and as suddenly returns and confronts Lady Montagu.

"I should be extremely sorry, Lady Montagu," she says, with great spirit, "for you to labor under any erroneous impressions with regard to my feelings for Captain Montagu. I have as little thought of marrying your younger as your elder son!" And, flying off to her room, she flings herself into a chair in a passion of tears.

Hector, who is reading the "Times" in the library, with the door ajar, sees a slight form flit hurriedly by, and conjectures that his mother has fulfilled her mission. He throws aside the paper, for whose contents indeed he is not much the wiser, and goes with slow steps towards the small drawing-room; with slow steps, not because he is not eager, but because, full-grown man as he is, accredited with the coolest, most perfect self-control, his heart is beating loudly, and he is as nervous as a girl at her first "drawing-room." He pauses, with his hand upon the door, feeling positively sick with apprehension. His life seems to hang upon the fiat of this slim young girl. In another moment he has read his doom in his mother's eyes, even before she has had time to unclose her lips.

"I knew it,—I was quite sure of it," he utters, very calmly, standing in front of her. "Still, I should like to know what she said, what reason she gave."

"She said," replies his mother, slowly, turning over in her mind how best to soften the narration,—"she said she liked you very much as a friend, that she admired and respected you, but——"

"But," says Hector, finishing the sentence for her, "she could never care sufficiently for me to marry me. Was that it?"

"Yes" (reluctantly).

"Did she say" (faltering a little) "that she could not care for me because she—she loved some one else?"

"No, indeed," replies his mother, eagerly; "and I am afraid I have offended her by hinting about Charlie. She sprang up with such spirit,—I could not have fancied it was in her,—and told me that she had as little thought of one of you as the other; and then she rushed out of the room."

"I wish to God," says Hector, bitterly, turning away, "that I had never set eyes on her! Mother" (confronting her again sharply), "you are very good and religious,—do you really and honestly believe, in your heart of hearts, that there is some beneficent purpose in our being denied everything we want and care for here, or do you think it pleases the Almighty to torture us as a cat likes to play with a mouse?"

Then he turns on his heel and goes, before Lady Montagu, who looks deeply shocked, has time to utter a syllable.

Diana appears at dinner with a pale face, but perfectly composed. This is the last evening she will ever spend at Alford, and she musters the best grace she can to go through it. After all, they have meant kindly by her. But she feels dreadfully embarrassed at meeting both Hector and his mother, and devotes her conversation during the dreary ceremony for the most part to Sir Hector, who, unconscious of what has happened, and still looking upon her as his prospective daughter-in-law, is pleased to be very gracious. Little does the proud old autocrat dream that a chit like this, without a half-penny to her fortune, could have the presumption to refuse his heir. He does not even know that she contemplates leaving Alford next day.

"I am going to let you off to-night," he tells her, with a frosty smile. "I have business with my bailiff; so we must forego our game for once."

"For a long time, then, I fear," says Diana, quietly, "as I am going away to-morrow."

"Going to-morrow!" cries the old autocrat. "Pooh! pshaw! nonsense! impossible! not likely we are going to let you run away in such a hurry!" His tone is a curious compound of the imperative, benevolent, and patronizing.

"My father wants me," answers Diana.

"Tell him he must do without you a little longer. There are other people who have claims besides fathers, eh, Hector?" (with a facetious glance at his son).

Being behind the scenes, we may conjecture the agreeable effect produced by this speech upon the other members of the party. But Hector comes swiftly to the rescue.

"We shall all miss Miss Carew very much," he says, "but her father can perhaps spare her even less."

"Heyday!" cries the baronet, raising his eyebrows, "you young men take things very coolly in these days, it seems to me. It was not like that with our generation, eh, my lady?"

Hector looks significantly at his mother, and she, hastily gathering up her fan and scent-bottle, beats a hasty retreat.

Diana passes a dreary half-hour in the drawing-room, looking out of window at the bright moonlight, and wishing she were out in it. Then Hector comes in. He feels embarrassed, and knows that she is feeling the same; he does not want to add to it.

"Would you like to come out?" he asks, politely, seeing her wistful glance out of window; and then, as she hesitates, he adds, quickly, "Not unless you feel inclined."

"Yes," she answers; "let us go."

Since she must be alone with him, for Lady Montagu asleep counts as no one, as well out in the cool, pleasant night as in this warm room, and if he still has anything to say to her. why, let him say it once for all, and understand finally that she can be nothing more to him than a friend. But as they pace up and down the gravel walk together, he makes no sign, his conversation is perfectly commonplace. Suddenly he says,—

"Let us go into the wood and see the primroses you told me of by moonlight."

"No," she answers, resolutely. "There might be snakes," she adds, in answer to his inquiring glance. "I should like to go in the boat."

They take their way across the short green turf to the lake, and stand for a moment by its margin looking into it. Still and clear it lies like a vast burnished mirror, and in it are reflected the trees and tall shrubs; so bright it is they can see in its clear depths the pink May blossoms, the towering lilacs, and the gold showers of laburnum. No wonder the moon loves to see herself mirrored in it. Her pale face looks more radiantly bright there than where she rides aloft in the blue heavens; now and again a rustling little breeze comes rippling along and turns her into a flood of sparkling diamonds.

Hector brings out the boat and lays the cushions in it; then he helps her in. There is some subtle influence in the gliding of a boat through still waters; it has a lulling, dream-compelling effect; one cannot feel actively miserable. Diana leans back among the cushions; she is not unhappy now; young blood runs in her veins, and she is keenly conscious of, and acted upon always by, Nature's beauty. As in a dream she floats along, seeing the dark fir-trees standing out against the clear sky, and the pointed tops of the tall shrubs, the glittering stars and the bright moon, and hearing almost unconsciously the nightingale,

"Shedding his song upon height, upon hollow,
From tawny body and small sweet mouth,
Feeding the heart of the night with fire."

Hector disturbs her by never a word. He has grown strangely humble; he is content that she shall not be unhappy in his presence. And so they glide along together, this strangely silent couple,—the girl with her fair face and star-like eyes turned heavenwards, and the man's dark face shadowed by his hat bent down on her. She cannot see that he is looking at her,—she does not feel it to-night; she is dreamily content with the night's beauty and the pleasant gliding motion. The oars dip steadily in the water and come out flashing and shining with diamonds dropping from them. Hector goes on rowing unweariedly, only dreading the breaking of the spell. After a long time, Diana says, reluctantly,—

"Is it not getting very late?"

"Would you like to go in?" he asks.

"I suppose one ought to." And he rows her to the bank without another word. As she gets out, her foot slips. Hector catches her in his arms and strains her for a moment to his beating heart. She tears herself away from him, and stands trembling on the bank, feeling angry and repellent. He springs after her, and, drawing her unwilling hand through his arm, leads her a few paces to a bench under an old tree whose gnarled and twisted branches overhang the water. He had not meant to say one word to her of his love when he brought her out, but it is too strong for him.

"Can I do nothing to make you care for me?" he says, in a deep, tremulous voice.

Diana is very sorry for him, and she is tender-hearted; she would not willingly give pain to any living thing, much less a man who pays her the compliment of loving her.

"I do like you very much," she urges, softly. "Will you not be content with my friendship?"

"Friendship!" he says, with impatient scorn; "what is friendship? If a dozen men came to you to-morrow and asked for your friendship, you would accord it as kindly and politely as you do to me to-night. How am I, who love you with all my soul, the better for your friendship? Pshaw! it is a thing that cannot exist between men and women until they both have one foot in the grave."

"Oh, indeed it can," Diana answers, earnestly. "Friendship means a great deal: it is" (dropping her voice) "the next thing to love. You have been very kind to me, and I like you, and honor and respect you besides: how could I feel the same towards strangers of whom I know nothing?"

"Honor and respect!" he cries, impatiently, only answering one part of her little speech: "that is what one gives the aged, what one gives one's parents,—at least" (with a grim smile) "some of us do. What satisfaction do you think it can give a man who craves passionately for your love, for something as far removed from mere honor and respect as light is from darkness? Oh, child!" (bitterly), "pray God you may never ask for bread and be given a stone!"

Diana looks sorrowfully at him.

"You do not believe I would pain you willingly," she says; "but how is it possible to compel love? You say you love me: well" (earnestly), "if to-night some other woman came and besought you for your love, could you give it her?"

She speaks all unconscious that she is betraying herself.

"Are the cases analogous?" he says, sharply. "Is it because you have given your love elsewhere that you cannot give it to me?"

Seeing the pit which she has unwittingly digged for herself, and into which she has so untowardly fallen, Diana colors deeply and is silent.

"Is it so?" he asks, more sharply still.

"And if it is!" she says, looking up defiantly from the corner into which he has driven her.

"Then I have no more to say," he answers, feeling the grasp of an icy hand clutching at his heart.

There follows a short, unbroken silence; then he says, almost pathetically,—

"You are very young, child; you have not seen anything of life or the world. Just now you offered me your friendship. Well, let me make use of it this once to say something to you. I am not impartial, you may think and say: I know it; but I know, too, that any real friend would tell you the same. I am not going to mention any name: you need not be angry with me. Suppose you, who are very young and innocent and unworldly, come across a man who is none of the three,—at all events, not the two latter; suppose that he, with his eyes wide open, having no serious thought of you, makes protestations of love to you which you in your guileless heart may believe sincere, but which others know, which he knows himself, mean nothing but his own selfish desire to gratify a pleasant feeling: would your friend advise you to give your pure gold in exchange for his spurious coin?"

Diana is passionately indignant,—indignant as, in her eighteen years of life, she has never been before. Carried away by her anger, she makes him an answer that in her cooler moments she would not have made for all the world.

"You need mention no name!" she cries, passionately; "you are speaking of your brother. At all events, I never heard him breathe a syllable against you. It is very kind of you to try and humble me by saying that he had no thought of me, no intention but to gratify himself, but you are quite wrong. Captain Montagu asked me to marry him, and for his own sake I refused him."

Hector stares stupidly at her.

"When, may I ask?" he says, in a low, smothered voice.

"The night before he went away."

"So," says Hector, between his teeth, "my honorable brother, who went away to leave the field clear for me."

Diana is on her swift way to the house, but he does not attempt to follow her. For the moment his fierce wrath has swallowed up his love.

I am back again at home,—glad, most glad, to be there. Everything pleases me,—even our simplicity and poverty: the absence of that heavy wearisome state which oppressed me at Alford is in itself delightful; but pleasantest change of all is my father's kind, gentle manner, which to my mind has far more of dignity in it than Sir Hector's pompous bluster.

I can scarcely take my eyes off his dear face as we sit tête-à-tête over our roast chicken; very often he looks over at me too, and when our eyes meet we exchange a friendly smile.

"It is good to go away sometimes," I say meditatively, with my elbows on the table, in happy freedom from all restraint (fancy putting one's elbows on Sir Hector's dinner-table!) "It makes one so glad to come back."

"Does it, Di?" remarks papa, looking pleased. "I am very glad to hear you say so. I was afraid it would have quite a contrary effect."

"If you only knew," I say, with a little air of superior wisdom, "how dreadful it is to have three or four immense men standing about, watching every morsel you eat, and snatching up your plate almost before you have put down your knife and fork! It is delightful music to me now to hear Sally clatter the plates and shuffle about in her slip-shod way. And then to hear that dreadful old man bullying and worrying them all the time, it made me so nervous at first I could hardly eat anything."

"The dreadful old man is Sir Hector, I presume?" smiles papa.

"Yes,—Sir Hector. What a capital name for him! It was very thoughtful of his godfather and godmother in his baptism to give him that name; though they could hardly have told at the time how appropriate it would be, could they? He does nothing but hector from morning till night."

"But," says papa, "his son has the same name: is it as appropriate in his case?"

"No, no!" I cry, with energy, more anxious to defend him because I have unwittingly done him wrong; "not in the very least. I never heard any one more courteous to his inferiors."

"I should have thought so," papa answers, with a little air of satisfaction. "I should be much mistaken in him if he were not a gentleman; and a gentleman is always considerate and courteous to those beneath him. And Lady Montagu,—you liked her?"

"I loved her!" I reply, with enthusiasm; "the dearest, sweetest, kindest old lady I ever saw."

"She can hardly come under the denomination of an old lady," remarks papa. "She cannot be more than fifty-one or two."

"Well, no," I assent, "perhaps hardly old; but her hair is silvery, and she is rather an invalid, and altogether she gives one the idea of being—well, not young."

"Sir Hector is a good many years older," says papa. "But I do not think he ever seemed a young man,—never since I remember him; he was always stiff and pompous, and rather bald. She was a very lovely girl when he married her. I remember losing my heart to her when I was a boy in jackets just before they were married. I believe" (laughing) "I had serious thoughts of asking her to fly with me, and of fighting a duel with him afterwards. I suppose he has quite succeeded in crushing all spirit out of her by this time."

"Horrid old wretch!" I exclaim, with vindictive energy. "It would be a very good thing for everybody if he were to break his neck! The people about hate him; and Mr. Montagu, I am sure, would make an excellent landlord."

"I am sure he would," says papa, with approving warmth.

"Papa," I say, looking at him inquisitively, "what makes you so fond of Mr. Montagu?"

"Is it surprising that I should like him?" asks papa. "Do not you?"

"Oh, yes," I answer, indifferently.

There the subject drops, and we fall to talking about Curly.

The following day I observe that papa is preoccupied. He does not talk much, and ever and anon I feel his eyes fixed on me, and I fancy he sighs. It is a wet, cold day, and in the evening we have a fire. I sit down on the hearth in my favorite attitude, with my arm resting on papa's knees. He is silent, and I too am seeing pictures in the live coals, and thinking unprofitable thoughts. Presently I feel his hand upon my head, and hear his voice.

"Di," it says, "what made you refuse Mr. Montagu?"

My heart leaps into my mouth: for the first time it strikes me that I am not the only person whom the matter concerns.

"How do you know that I did?" I ask, evasively, keeping my face, which vies with them, turned towards the glowing coals.

"I had a letter from him this morning,—a most manly, straightforward, and, I must say, touching letter."

"Where is it?" I ask, in a faltering voice, as the dreadful thought crosses me that he will have laid the blame upon his brother. And what account, I think with shame, can I give papa of what has taken place between him and me?

"Here is the letter," says papa gravely, drawing it from his pocket; and with trembling hands and downcast eyes I take it, and read thus:

"DEAR MR. CAREW,—

"When you gave permission for your daughter to visit my mother, you also consented, if there appeared any chance of my suit being successful, to my asking her to become my wife. I have ventured to put my fortune to the test, not, I must frankly own, because Miss Carew gave me any encouragement, but because, being constantly in her presence and seeing how altogether sweet and lovable she is, I could no longer control my impatience. I spoke my heart to her, I fear, without due reflection, and I cannot but blame myself for my haste and warmth, which may perhaps have repelled her. But after what passed between us I no longer dare encourage the hope of being more to her than a friend. It is my own fault, of course,—I am not, I fear, a man calculated to inspire love in a young, high-spirited girl,—and yet not my fault, for God knows if I could change anything in myself to make me more pleasing to one whom I love so devotedly, no effort would seem to me too great. My feeling for Miss Carew will never undergo any change: that need be no matter for speculation: it is a certainty on which I should like her to rely, though not to vex herself with. If it were possible for her ever to entertain a warmer feeling for me, I want her to know that my love for her will always be what it is now. I go abroad to-night: at some future time, when I am better able than I should be now to endure the sight of her, knowing that my love is hopeless, you will, I trust, let me visit your house on the old friendly terms. Meanwhile, believe me always most sincerely yours,          HECTOR MONTAGU.

"P.S.—I have read over the few cold, formal lines that I have written: they must remain what they are, lest I should be unmanned by writing what is in my heart."

I read the letter carefully. It strikes me with a cold chill: to me it does not seem a natural letter from a man who loved passionately, despairingly. I do not even feel sorry for him; my chief sensation is one of thankfulness that he has avoided all mention of his brother, and a slightly aggrieved feeling against papa for having consented to Mr. Montagu's proposal without the slightest hint to me. I understand it all now,—why at Alford they looked upon me as Hector's property. Papa had given consent, so they thought mine was sure to follow: it must be a settled affair. I do not return the letter after reading it, but sit staring at the fire. A mist gathers before my eyes. At last I say, reproachfully,—

"Papa, how could you?"

"How could I do what, Di?"

"Let me go there knowing all the time—Why did you not ask me? I should have told you the truth, that I never could care for him except as a friend. If I had known, nothing would have induced me to go to Alford."

"That is what I felt sure of," answers papa, gravely. "To tell a girl that she is going on a visit with such an end in view is naturally to make her utterly disinclined to it. And yet" (sighing) "that was the end in view. I saw that he was devoted to you; I knew that if you married him it would relieve me of the anxiety that has always tormented me about your future; and I believed firmly that seeing him at home and becoming aware of the good qualities which I know he possesses, and which his natural shyness impels him to hide in society, you would come to care for him. I think still that such would have been the case had he not, as he admits, been in too great a hurry."

"Never!" I cry, emphatically; "never!"

"I wonder," says papa, wearily, "what perverse fate makes girls always go dead against their parents' wishes in these matters?"

"And I wonder," I answer, mournfully, "why parents never think their daughters can have any feeling of their own about the men they are to marry? Papa" (stealing one hand into his), "am I a burden to you?" (tears springing in my eyes). "Do you want to get rid of me?"

"God forbid, child!" says papa, his eyes becoming misty too, as he strokes my head fondly. "It is an unfortunate business, but we will say no more about it."

So the subject drops.

Life wears a changed aspect for me since that visit to Warrington. Before then I was as blithe as a bird,—not a care had I; and now my heart is often heavy and full of strange passionate longings. Sometimes I almost hate my life. I weary so bitterly for the sight of one face, for the sound of one voice; and as yet only one week has passed since I left Alford. My simple home pursuits have lost their interest for me. I go through them as dull, dreary duties. My books, too, no longer have the same charm: now that I have my own romance, all others seem stale and flat.

One afternoon I have been for a long walk. I want to tire my body in order to benumb my mind, and I come in wearied out and fling myself into a chair.

"Why, my dear," exclaims Gay, reproachfully, "what ever's come to you, to make you go tag-ragging about the country, wearing yourself to a shadow? Why, it's my belief you've fell away pounds and pounds since you came back from Alford, only a week since. I misdoubt me" (with a shrewd glance) "as you've left a little bit of your heart behind you there."

"You are an old goose!" I answer. "Get me some tea; I am dying for something to eat. When people are in love, you know," I add, with a somewhat lugubrious smile, "they don't want to eat."

"Don't tell me!" returns Gay, with scorn. "I've seen many a score of folks in love in my time, and I never know'd it to interfere with their appetites yet; that I didn't. But all through your being out tiring yourself for no good, you've gone and missed a grand visitor as wanted most particular to see you."

A pang of expectation goes through my heart; it takes my breath away. Oh, if it should be——

"Who was it?" I ask, in a quivering voice, doing violence to myself not to seem eager.

"Well, it was Mrs. Warrington," returns Gay; and my heart sinks to its proper level.

"Mrs. Warrington," I repeat, musingly. "I am sorry I was out. Did she see papa?"

"Ay, that she did; she was with him the best part of an hour, I reckon."

"Where is he?" I inquire.

"In the study. Now, my dear, do wait until you've had your tea" (seeing that I am hastily about to go).

"I shall be back directly," I answer, with my hand on the door.

"So you have had a visitor!" I cry, breaking in suddenly upon papa.

"Yes," he replies, rather gravely.

"What is the matter?" I ask, quickly, divining by his face that something is wrong.

"She brought rather a shocking piece of news," says papa.

I feel myself turning ghostly white.

Why is it that my first thought is always of him now?

"What is it?" I ask, with a faltering voice.

"Sir Hector Montagu was thrown from his horse the day before yesterday, and is not expected to live. He has not spoken since."

I am intensely shocked, and forget, as one always does on such occasions, how little I had liked him. My only feeling is one of sympathy and distress at his being overtaken by so awful a fate.

"His son," continues papa, not looking at me, "has gone off suddenly abroad, and they do not quite know where to find him. That adds greatly to poor Lady Montagu's distress."

I hang my head and feel guilty,—though indeed I scarcely know why I should.

"The other son was telegraphed for, and has arrived."

To this I make no answer. Although he is so near me, I know there is as little chance of my seeing him as if he were in Kamschatka.

"But," says papa, changing his tone and looking at me with a slight smile, "Mrs. Warrington's errand to-day was of a cheerful nature; though I have hardly prepared you very well to receive it. What do you think she came for, Di?"

I shake my head, not feeling in the humor to guess or be expectant.

"I do not know, unless it was to invite us there," I reply; "and that is not very probable, as Claire told me she was going to London for six weeks almost immediately."

"What do you say to her wanting to take you with her?"

I feel my eyes opening very wide, but my voice fails me for sheer surprise. Then, as one or two important facts occur to me, I return from wonder-land, and remark, calmly,—

"Of course you told her it was impossible?"

"But suppose I thought it was not altogether impossible?" returns papa, looking a little amused: "what then?"

"What then?" I echo, placing myself on his knee and drawing the dark hair lovingly back from his white forehead, "I should think my dearest Dad was qualifying for the County Asylum."

"I should have been inclined to think so myself a few hours ago," he returns; "but Mrs. Warrington has reduced my objections to nothing, and I have almost given consent."

"Mrs. Warrington must be a very wonderful woman," I remark, amazed. "But, papa, you must know quite well when we come to think it over calmly, that it is quite impossible on account of money, if nothing else."

"Listen, and judge for yourself. Mrs. Warrington was going to bring out one of her nieces this year; she had already presented her at court, and was to have been in London now to chaperon her. Three weeks ago the young lady eloped with the curate, much to the indignation of the family, and the aunt's chagrin. 'Now,' said Mrs. Warrington, very pleasantly, 'I am getting an old woman, but sad to say, I am as fond of gayety as ever, though I have sufficient discretion to see that it does not look well for me to be going about to all sorts of gay parties without some apparent excuse. That is why I always undertake every year to bring out some pretty girl of my acquaintance. I won't have a plain one. So,' she finished, 'if you will intrust your daughter to my care, you will be conferring a real favor upon me, and it will be a good thing for her at the same time.'"

I shake my head, feeling mournfully how little pleasure gayety would be capable of giving me now.

"I do not want to leave you, papa; and pray where is the money to come from?"

"That will be all right," says papa, smiling; "and I wish you to go,—more particularly" (looking grave again) "after what has happened lately."

"Let us think about it," I petition. But in the end it is decided that I am to go. I take it very calmly. Somehow things that would have filled me with wonder and delight six months ago make very little impression upon me now.

I suppose it would be utterly impossible to a bred-and-born dweller in cities faintly to conjecture the feelings of the country mouse who for the first time enters a big city, never having seen any larger agglomeration of houses and shops than her own little country town. I was as utterly bewildered the first few days of my stay in London as if I had been suddenly transplanted to another world. The noise, the tumult, the splendor, the misery, the countless crowds of people, the endless stream of carriages, vans, carts, cabs, omnibuses, filled me with a wonder that words are utterly inadequate to express. For the first week, I believe, my mouth never assumed any shape but one round O of astonishment. Mr. Warrington was delighted, and insisted upon taking me everywhere, and telling every one we met, rather to my confusion, what a treat it was to go about with a young lady who had never been in London before, and who was not blasée. The utter change certainly did my spirits good. I had no time to think in the day, and at night I was so tired out that the moment I put my head on the pillow I was asleep.

Before I left home, we heard that Sir Hector Montagu was dead, and that his eldest son had returned. I wrote to poor Lady Montagu. It was a difficult task, as it needs must be when one can truthfully say nothing good of the dead; but I did my best.

One day, when we were driving down St. James Street, we met Captain Montagu coming up. He smiled, bowed, and would have passed on, but Mrs. Warrington stopped the carriage. It was a moment of utter and intense happiness to me, after the first confusion, to hear his voice and meet his eyes once more.

Mrs. Warrington asked after his mother, and he looked grave as he answered that she was really ill, and took his poor father's death most grievously to heart. She had a cousin staying with her, and Hector was at home now.

Mrs. Warrington begged him to call, and to come some evening to dine in a friendly way. He replied that he was not going out at present, but would come some night when they were quite alone. Then he wished us good-by, and as we rolled on our way I felt radiant; everything seemed to take a rosy hue. The days roll by, and he has not called. Every afternoon I look eagerly over the array of cards. Sometimes a black-bordered one raises hope in my breast, but only to dash it to the ground on nearer inspection.

"Does he not care to see me?" I think, grieved in my very heart.

I meet many men, some of whom I like very much; most of them are kind and pleasant to me, but not one in my eyes can be compared with him. Colonel Fane is in town. I am always glad to see him: he seems, by the side of my new acquaintances, quite an old friend.

Nearly a fortnight has elapsed, when one morning Mrs. Warrington, amidst her numerous engagements, remembers that Captain Montagu has not called.

"I will write a line and ask him to dine with us on Sunday," she exclaims. "It is our only disengaged evening for a long time. By the way, Diana" (drawing a sheet of paper before her), "did I not hear that you had been staying at Alford?"

"I was there nearly a fortnight," I answer.

"Was Charlie at home?"

"Only for one day," I say, bending over my work.

"Hector of course was there?"

"Yes."

"And how did you get on with him?" (looking up at me).

"Oh, very well," I stammer.

"Do you like him?"

"Yes," I answer, indifferently.

"How came you to stay there?" Mrs. Warrington is evidently in a very questioning mood.

"Lady Montagu asked me."

"And Hector—Sir Hector now—asked his mother to invite you, I suppose. Ah, my dear, I have great hopes of seeing you Lady Montagu yet!"

I feel a little impatient. "That you never will," I say, briskly. "I do not mean to marry at all."

"Oh, indeed!" she rejoins, looking amused. "Well, time will show. But I thought it was only girls who could not marry the object of their affections who said that; and you have not had any opportunity yet of contracting a hopeless attachment." And she laughs good-humoredly.

Captain Montagu writes to say that he will dine on Sunday, and again my spirits rise. It is seven o'clock on Thursday evening when I hear the joyful intelligence: from that moment I count the hours until I shall see him. As the time draws near, an overpowering anxiety seizes me lest he should be prevented coming; if he is, I feel the disappointment will be greater than I can bear.

I am not called on to bear it. Sunday comes. I attend morning church with Mr. Warrington; we have visitors to lunch, visitors after lunch; we take a stroll in the Park, sit under the trees, greet many acquaintances, and the hours, however slowly they may drag themselves along, do pass somehow to make way for the hours that will gallop furiously as all hours do that are pleasant. And that they will be pleasant it never enters my mind to doubt.

Eight o'clock comes at last, and with it the guest. It seems happiness enough for the present to be in the same room with him, but I have a vague expectation that at some time in the evening he will find means to press my hand or whisper some kind word to me that will give my hungry heart food to live upon until I see him again. During dinner he laughs and talks much in his usual strain; perhaps he is a shade more subdued; now and then he addresses some pleasant remark to me, but there is nothing in his voice or glance that makes me feel as if I were anything more to him than an ordinary acquaintance. After dinner he asks me to sing, and we go together to the piano at the farther end of the room, while Mr. and Mrs. Warrington subside into a pleasant doze.

I feel my heart beating and my hands trembling as I turn over the music. Has he nothing to say to me in memory of that moonlight night in the woods with the silver primroses? Apparently nothing. I try to sing, but something in my throat chokes me,—tears, perhaps. He does not press me to continue, but talks about my visit to London, the sights I have seen, the balls I have been to, the acquaintances I have made.

"I am surprised," he says, laughing, "that you have not been to Madame Tussaud's and the Tower."

"I should like to see the Tower," I answer, "but I do not think Madame Tussaud's would amuse me."

"I will ask Mrs. Warrington to come and lunch with me at the Tower, and we will show you all the wonders, if you like. Mrs. Warrington, will you come? and afterwards you must have tea in my rooms: you have promised me dozens of times, but it has never come off yet."

Mrs. Warrington assents, the day is fixed, and presently Captain Montagu takes his leave. I rush away to my room; my heart feels ready to break; not by one little look or sign has he given me to understand that he even remembers that "golden day" at Alford. I try to pluck up my pride, to bring it to the rescue of my foolish love, but it will not be goaded or urged, however sharp the lash with which I scourge it. "I know—I always knew—I never could be anything to him, but he might have shown some little sign that he remembered," I keep on saying miserably to myself. I lose all hope. I do not even look forward to the luncheon-party at the Tower. "Perhaps," I say indignantly to myself, "he is afraid of my taking in serious earnest what passed that night in the wood, and wishes to convince me that it was only said in haste and repented at leisure. He might have trusted me," I think, bitterly.

"Remember," says Mrs. Warrington, playfully, "I am not going to have you fall in love with Charlie Montagu, both for your sake and his."

She does not dream how much too late her caution comes; that is one mercy to be thankful for. I have tried so hard to feel bitter and angry with him, and yet when he comes out to receive us, looking so handsome and so glad to see us, the little mountain of wrath I have labored to raise crumbles away to dust.

"We are to be a parti carré," he says, gayly, to Mrs. Warrington. "We cannot tax Miss Carew to do third to our flirtation, can we? And she would not do it well. It wants a great deal of experience to make a good third. So I have asked Seldon; you know him, I think."

"Slightly," Mrs. Warrington answers. Then she looks at me and whispers something to Captain Montagu, and they both laugh.

"Here he is," says the latter, as a hansom rattles up. "How are you, Seldon? You know Mrs. Warrington. Miss Carew. Lord Seldon."

The new-comer has a very bright, cheery face. He looks extremely young,—younger, I should think, than he is, or his education would hardly be completed; he is very fair, with light-blue eyes, a large nose, and a good-tempered mouth, shaded by the silkiest down; not handsome, certainly, but perhaps if he were not standing next to Captain Montagu he might be rather good-looking. He reminds me ever such a little bit of Curly. We get on famously together: he makes me laugh as every now and then his natural boyishness peeps through his assumption of manhood. He has brought the sweetest Collie dog with him, which he puts through a variety of performances for my benefit. We look out of window together, and are very much amused by an officer in a blue coat, who is superintending with evident anxiety the trying on of the men's new red coats.

"I wish I was a soldier!—by George I do!" cries my young lord, regretfully. "Isn't it an awful shame they wouldn't let me be one?"

"Why would they not?" I ask.

"My governor's so frightfully nervous; he thinks I should get killed; and I am, unfortunately, the only son. He can't even bear me to go out hunting. It's only a wonder I haven't broken my neck fifty times, for his worrying me makes me do things I shouldn't otherwise, just because I won't be made a molly-coddle of. Talking of hunting,—I suppose you hunt?"

"No," I answer.

"What do you do?" (curiously). "You don't" (looking at me doubtfully)—"surely you don't go about reading to old women and teaching the choir?"

"Why," I ask, laughing, "am I bound to do either one or the other?"

"Well, you know," he answers, explanatorily, "I have two sisters: one is rather—well, not exactly fast—lively, and she is never happy out of the saddle; and the other,—the other is religious, and is always taken up with what she calls parish-work. Parish-work!" he repeats, with an accent of disgust: "doesn't it sound the reverse of tempting? It's dreadful for me being between two fires!—my youngest sister is always making fun of the eldest, and the eldest tries to sit upon the youngest, and you know its rather a bore for me, because I like 'em both. By the way" (with a rapid change of subject), "have you ever seen polo? Of course you've seen polo?"

"Not yet," I say; "we are going one day, but I am not sure I shall like it. I have an idea that it must be cruel."

"Cruel!—not a bit of it!—the ponies love it as much as the men: on my honor they do. I've got the loveliest pony,—bought her of one of the 9th. I give you my word when I go into the stable and say, 'Polo day, old girl!' she pricks up her ears and neighs with delight."

"When you've quite done yarning, Seldon," calls Captain Montagu, "bring Miss Carew to lunch."

Everything goes off pleasantly: that is to say, every one laughs and talks and eats. After lunch, we go over the Tower, Captain Montagu remaining in strict attendance on Mrs. Warrington. It is quite evident he has resolved to have nothing more to say to me than to an ordinary acquaintance; and, however bitterly I may feel it, I am forced outwardly to acquiesce with a smile. My escort is exceedingly lively: he makes fun of everything, and I cannot help laughing at his sallies. It is not that they are very witty or have much point, but his gay spirits are infectious, and I am ready to laugh at anything, for I feel so near crying.

"Remember," says Captain Montagu, when we have seen everything and emerge again into the open air, "the tea-party is still before you. I have ordered it for half-past four. I will send for your carriage, and Seldon and I will follow in a hansom."

But Mrs. Warrington insists upon their accompanying us in the carriage.

How often have I thought about those rooms of which he once told me, and wondered what they were like, and tried to picture him at home in them.

"I feel quite a 'frisky matron,'" laughs good-natured Mrs. Warrington, as he lets us in with his latch-key and then precedes us up-stairs. "Diana, my dear, it is you who have led me into this."

"I wish," whispers young Seldon in my ear from behind, "you would persuade her to come and have tea or lunch in my rooms. They're rattling nice ones; though I don't mean to say for a moment they're furnished like these."

Captain Montagu throws the door open, and we pass in.

"This is charming!" exclaims Mrs. Warrington. "I must really congratulate you. I have heard of your rooms before, but this quite surpasses my expectations."

"I am delighted with your approval," he answers, gayly. "Have I yours too, Miss Carew?" And, without waiting for my answer, he calls his servant and gives some orders in an under-tone. I look round me. The room is not large, but it would take hours, rather than minutes, to inventory all the treasures in it. They seem scattered about in careless profusion, but the carelessness is evidently the result of most artistic study. The furniture is of ebony, covered in richest satin, on which bloom roses embroidered in the land of roses; the luxurious carpet laid down in the centre of the room is of an exquisite shade of blue; the chandelier, sconces, mirror-frames, are of Venetian glass, with raised flowers of rose-color and blue. Every couch, every chair, every stool, is studiously luxurious; the walls are covered with charming pictures; there are bronzes, statuettes, groups of china, cabinets of rare wood, inlaid with Sèvres, and yet the thing that strikes me as the most strange is that the room looks as if it were lived in; there is even, however slight, the faintest soupçon of cigar-smoke. Mrs. Warrington detects it at once.

"You do not mean to say," she says, in a horrified tone, "that you smoke here?"

"Not often," he answers. "Only when I am quite alone; but my smoking-room adjoins, and it will creep through, you know. Come and see my bedroom. I have one or two things I want to show you. I must not ask Miss Carew" (laughing). "Seldon, make yourself very entertaining till we come back."

"Do you think she would come if I asked her?" whispers the latter, indicating the retreating figure of Mrs. Warrington with a gesture of his head.

"I do not know," I answer.

"Do persuade her, some day after the Park. I should be so awfully proud and delighted if you would both lunch with me, and I'd ask Montagu too" (as if catching at a happy thought); "they seem to be so fond of each other. I didn't know" (irreverently) "that he had such a taste for old women."

I half laugh, half sigh, as I think to myself what is the object of all this attention towards my friend.

"Blankshire is your county, is it not?" inquires my vis-à-vis, in an interested tone, and I respond affirmatively.

I think he has had the conversation chiefly to himself all the afternoon, but he seems quite equal to it.

"I don't know many people there, but I shall try and get some invitations this winter. By the way, I dare say Montagu would ask me; he lives not very far from you, doesn't he?"

"About fifteen miles," I say.

"Do you see much of him?"

"Nothing at all,—at least" (correcting myself) "very little."

"By George!" (opening his blue eyes), "I know if I lived within fifteen miles you'd see a good deal of me."

At this very barefaced compliment from my youthful companion I am so inordinately diverted that I laugh outright. He colors up, and begins to trace rather viciously with his stick a rose-blossom that looks as though it had fallen by some happy accident on the couch where it lies.

"That lovely rose," I cry, in terror of seeing the stick go through it: "pray don't spoil it!"

"Why did you laugh?" he asks, desisting as I beg him, but still looking slightly aggrieved.

"I hardly know," I say, trying to compose my features to gravity. "Perhaps because you reminded me rather of Curly."

"Who is Curly?—some very mirth-inspiring fellow?"

"Curly is my brother. By the way, I wonder if he was at Eton with you. I suppose you were at Eton?" (interrogatively).

"When did he go?"

"Three years last January."

Lord Seldon glances at me with rather a disgusted expression.

"Pray, how old do you take me for?" he says, lifting a dainty shell-like cup, wreathed with raised strawberries, and putting it down again with as little care as if it was a mug with "For a good boy" inscribed in gold letters upon it.

"I am a very bad hand at guessing ages," I reply. "Twenty?" (thinking I will give him the benefit of a year's doubt).

"Twenty!" (indignantly). "I came of age last September. I am very nearly twenty-two."

Here we are joined by the other members of the party.

"It is a good thing you have come," I say, trying to assume a gay manner. "Lord Seldon has been very nearly doing a mischief to some of your lovely things."

"No wonder," retorts my lord, with a shade of pique. "Such very young children are not to be trusted with pretty things."

"Come and have tea," interrupts Captain Montagu, "and see what nectar a wretched lonely bachelor can brew."

We follow him as he lifts a heavy portière and opens a door behind it.

"By George, Charlie!" exclaims his friend, in a tone that betrays a mixture of admiration and regret, "what a fellow you are to think of everything!"

The table is strewn with choice flowers; a great bowl of roses stands in the centre; big strawberries peep from exquisitely-shaped china dishes; grapes and flowers hang from Dresden baskets; every kind of fanciful and pretty sweetmeat is heaped in shells and horns, or in tiny baskets on the heads of Watteau-like shepherdesses. There is not a single ornament on the table that is not of some quaint elegant device; the chased silver service is a marvel of elegance, and the jeweled Sèvres, from which we drink our delicious tea, must represent a small fortune.

"You wicked, extravagant boy!" exclaims Mrs. Warrington, after having praised everything with enthusiasm; "how dare you have such a taste for splendor and luxury, with nothing to keep it up on but your younger son's allowance of good looks?"

"That's the worst of these fellows," joins in Lord Seldon, so plaintively that we all laugh: "they are so deuced good-looking and have such taste. They think of things that never enter our brains."

"I must certainly set to work at once to get you a rich wife," says Mrs. Warrington, little guessing what a dagger her playful words are planting in my breast.

"Do!" Captain Montagu says, smiling lazily, and looking as utterly unconscious as if he had never taken me in his arms and asked me to be his wife. "Lots of my friends are looking out. I am quite ready to be knocked down to the highest bidder." The others laugh: how can I join them, when I am suffering the acutest pain that has ever yet fallen to my lot?

"Your face is your fortune, eh, Charlie?" laughs Lord Seldon; then, with a gesture of disgust, "But what a horrid bore to marry a woman you didn't care for! What a horrid bore not to marry the woman you love!"

"My dear fellow," returns Captain Montagu, subsiding from his mirth to unmistakable gravity, "if you marry the woman you love, yours will be a very happy fate, and a very exceptional one."

Mrs. Warrington rises to go. As the young men bid us good-by at the carriage-door, she invites Lord Seldon to call upon her.

"Thanks; I shall be most delighted," he answers, beaming with smiles, and shaking us as cordially by the hand as if we were his oldest friends.

"That is on your account, Diana," says Mrs. Warrington, with a smile, as we drive off. "He is the Duke of Landermere's only son. The duke is a great invalid, and fabulously rich."

My heart is full of grief at the shattering of my idol; for shattered he is, crumbled into dust, this fair fetish, golden with my faith, jeweled with my love. The gold has turned to dross, the jewels are bits of gaudy painted glass that have no worth. With all my wish to shield him, with the humblest consciousness of my own unworthiness, my sense of justice will creep in and whisper to me with relentless iteration that he has not done by me the thing that is right. Did I expect anything from him? Did I in my wildest dreams hope to be anything to him? Would I have permitted him to sacrifice himself to me, even if he had really willed it? No. I had only asked of him that one small boon,—to be allowed to think that he cared a little for me. And it would have been so easy. One meaning pressure of my hand, one look of his eyes into mine, I should have been content, and we would have held to the bargain which he made with me that May night with the nightingales and the pale primroses for witnesses. "And now," I think, bitterly, "I am numbered among those other women in whose society he could not be ten minutes without making love to them." Have any of them, I wonder, with pained curiosity, suffered as I am doing? Who feels any pity for disappointment in love? Pity! nay, rather it is a cause for mirth: it is like a cold in the head,—however uncomfortable for the time, it is not dangerous, the patient will get over it. There is one mighty consolation I can hug to my breast: my secret is in my own keeping: if my life has grown blank, if my cherished illusions are scattered to the four winds if my heart within me is consumed by pain, it is unguessed at by those around me. I talk, laugh, dance, do all that is expected of me, and doubtless am considered very fortunate and enviable. And so I am, I tell myself over and over again,—very fortunate, very enviable: not to think myself so would be rank ingratitude to the friends who are so kind to me. How altogether delightful the life I am leading would be if—if there were no ifs!

Captain Montagu does not come again to the house during our stay in town, although Mrs. Warrington invites him more than once; but his friend is a frequent guest. He has become a great favorite with both Mr. and Mrs. Warrington, he is so bright and cheery, so full of all a boy's pranks and spirits, and he makes himself most perfectly at home. He persuades Mrs. Warrington into the lunch at his rooms; he insists upon a Greenwich dinner for the especial purpose of initiating me into that hitherto unknown delight; he cajoles us into driving down on hot afternoons to witness his prowess at polo; he wins over Mrs. Warrington to let him drive me down to Richmond on his drag, with Mr. Warrington in attendance as chaperon, after considerable demur, I must say, on her part; he goes down to Eton with us to see Curly, and the two become fast friends at once; we meet him constantly at balls, and he is oftener my partner than any one else (for he dances perfectly),—though, counseled by my chaperon, I refuse his appeals when they become too frequent or too importunate. He does me good. I feel ten times more cheerful in his company: he reminds me of Curly grown older and less handsome. One night at a ball, before I have the least idea of what he is going to do, he takes me up to a very stately lady ablaze with diamonds.

"Miss Carew," he says, "I want to introduce you to my mother. Mother, you have often heard me speak of Miss Carew."

In the embarrassment caused by the suddenness and unexpectedness of his movement, I blush and look conscious,—the very last thing I would have elected to do, could I have controlled myself. The duchess receives me with perfect politeness, but in a manner that convinces me the introduction is as unwelcome to her as to me. Her son remarks it too, I think, for he colors uneasily, and very soon leads me away,—to my infinite relief. As we are passing into another room, a handsome woman taps him on the arm with her fan.

"Lord Seldon, how is it we never see you now? You are quite a stranger."

He makes what I consider rather a brusque response, and hurries on.

"That," he whispers, with an accent of disgust, when we are out of earshot,—"that is the woman my mother wants me to marry."

"Why, she must be years older than you!" I remark, betraying my surprise very plainly in my voice; and then I fall to laughing.

"What a ridiculous idea!" I continue, uttering my thoughts aloud, for we are very free of speech to each other.

"I don't know so much about its being ridiculous," he says, rather huffily; "if you said unsuitable, now——"

"I don't mean that," I hasten to explain. "The ridiculousness was the idea of a boy like you thinking of marrying at all." We have sunk upon a couch, and I am still laughing. "I shall expect to hear next that Curly is looking out for a wife."

Lord Seldon, for once, does not join in my mirth; the color mounts to his face, and he looks at me with angry curiosity.

"Is your amusement genuine?" he asks, "or is it put on for the occasion?"

"Do I look as if it were put on?" I say, not quite able, in spite of his evident displeasure, to resume my gravity.

"If I am not a man now," he says, with an air of importance which nearly sets me off again, "I'm afraid I haven't much chance of ever becoming one. I am of age, I can marry to-morrow if I choose, and, what's more, I can marry whom I choose," he adds, looking at me with exultation.

"Very well," I say, smiling. "Ask me to the wedding."

"If you are not there," he says, fixing his eyes on me with an expression I do not quite understand, "I don't know who will be."

At this moment my partner for the waltz claims me, and I go off, leaving my lord sitting, with rather a sulky expression, on the couch.

"Seldon will be getting into disgrace," says the new-comer, as he leads me away. "I see Mrs. Hastings looking daggers at him, and Lady Egidia anything but pleased."

"Why?" I ask.

"Oh, you know he is generally in close attendance upon Mrs. Hastings; and it is popularly supposed that he is to marry Lady Egidia."

"Oh!" I answer, being somewhat puzzled by these rival claims.

"Lady Egidia and Mrs. Hastings don't mind each other," he proceeds, explanatorily, "but they won't stand anybody else in the field, if they can help it."

"Oh!" I say, again, not feeling much enlightened, but not wishing to betray my ignorance by asking further information.

The days pass quickly by. Now there is only a week left, for we are to leave town on the Monday following the Eton and Harrow match.

It is a lovely day, and we are going to a garden-party. It is to be a very grand affair; royalty is expected, and I look forward to it with some pleasure. Lord Seldon, who is lunching with us, asks Mrs. Warrington to drive him down, but, for some reason best known to herself, she refuses his most urgent entreaties.

"Never mind," he says, laughing. "I won't be got rid of in that way. I'll get there first, and hang about the gate until you come."

He is as good as his word. The very first person we see upon entering is his noble self.

"Did I not tell you so?" he whispers, triumphantly, a few minutes later, as he joins me and we all go together to salute our hosts.

To all intents and purposes he might have gone down in the carriage with us. The Duchess of Landermere and Lady Egidia are standing among the group around the hostess; both dart angry glances in Lord Seldon's direction, which that self-willed young gentleman chooses to ignore utterly.

"Ah, mother, got here first, I see! How do, Lady Egidia?" And then the abominable boy turns his back upon them and laughs, and whispers to me in the most pointed manner. I feel rather angry with him.

"Why do you not join the duchess?" I say, in a low voice. "She is evidently displeased, and Lady Egidia is looking daggers."

"Let them: who cares?" he answers, defiantly. "I am going to enjoy myself. Come along; I'll show you all over the grounds. They're awfully pretty,—well worth seeing. Mrs. Warrington, I am going to do cicerone to Miss Carew. You know what a good hand I am at that sort of thing."

"Do not be away long," says Mrs. Warrington, smiling graciously, for by this time we have moved off from the duchess's group, and are mixed up with the general throng of guests.

"I'm in tremendous spirits to-day," says the young fellow, gayly. "Let's get out of the way of all these people, and then we can enjoy ourselves. I've got a new hat on, and the brim will be off presently if I have to take it off much more" (performing as he speaks repeated salutations right and left, in answer to the gracious bows that are being bestowed upon him from many members of my sex). "I only wish to goodness they would invent some new mode of greeting; for instance,—happy thought!—wave your hand to a man and kiss it to a woman. By Jove! I'll get some one to start the idea."

We are getting out of the crowd now,—out of the sunshine, which is rather oppressive, into a shady avenue of fine old trees. We have it all to ourselves. Here and there comfortable garden-chairs are placed in niches at long intervals. My companion flings himself into one, takes off his hat, stretches his arms, and gives vent to a sigh of intense relief.

"This is bliss!" he ejaculates. "Now," turning to me with dancing eyes and the most radiant expression of face, "guess why I have brought you here!" And, before I can utter a word, he seizes both my hands, and cries, "I love you, and I have brought you here, however ridiculous it may be" (a look of triumph belying his words), "to ask you to be my wife."

To say I am astonished would be to give very poor expression to the bewilderment that overpowers my senses. Honestly and truthfully, I had no more idea of such a climax to our merry friendship than—than—oh, why does not some one invent a new set of similes?

"Well?" he says, joyously, looking eagerly in my face as though there was but one answer possible to his appeal, and then again yet more eagerly and with a dash of impatience. "Well?"

I feel as perplexed as I might do if my pug-dog were to become suddenly unmanageable. Then I say, still leaving my hands in his, and looking blankly at him,—

"My dear boy, have you taken leave of your senses?"

"What do you mean?" he cries, drawing back for a moment in angry surprise. "Why do you look so astonished? You knew—you must have known for days past—what was coming; at all events, every one else did."

We are still staring at each other, both acted upon by the same emotion of surprise; but his is marked by angry incredulity, and mine is nothing but the pure, simple, unadulterated feeling.

"Di," he says, appealingly, evidently making an effort over himself, "of course I know it's the correct thing, at least I've always heard so, for girls to pretend to be surprised and get up a little bit of acting, that they mayn't seem to jump at a fellow; but I should have thought you were above that sort of thing; and, besides, you know me so well" (reproachfully), "and that I mean all I say, so there isn't any need for that sort of humbug between us."

If I were not so sorry, I should feel inclined to smile at the boy's unconscious egotism; but I am sorry, and vexed with myself too. Is it possible there can have been anything in his manner I ought to have seen or guessed at if I had not been so blindly taken up with my own unhappy, miserable love?

"Come," I say, coaxingly, laying my hand on his arm, and humoring him, as one might a child one was persuading to something unpleasant; "let us talk calmly and rationally."

"Calmly and rationally!" he says, the angry tears starting to his blue eyes; "calmly and rationally!" (with indignant iteration),—"when I've been thinking and dreaming of nothing but you for days and nights, and last night I never closed my eyes for thinking how happy I was going to be to-day. But" (with a sudden change of manner, bringing his fair young face close to mine, and speaking in a pleading voice) "you are not in earnest, really, darling? You do care a little bit about me. If it's only because you think I'm too young, T shall soon mend of that. After all, I am two years older than you."

All the time that he is pouring out his impetuous words, I am looking regretfully at his bright, young, impassioned face, and wondering what I can say to make him sec reason.

"Lord Seldon," I begin.

"Don't call me that!" he exclaims, impatiently: "call me Hubert, or, better still, Bertie."

"Very well, Bertie," I say. At which he seizes my hand and kisses it. "No," I cry, drawing it away, "you must not do that. Sit farther away, or I cannot talk to you."

He starts up in a rage.

"Oh, of course, if I disgust you," he begins, furiously, "there's an end of everything."

I feel petrified by the airs of manhood he is giving himself. I really do not know how to treat him. Suddenly it occurs to me to meet him on his own ground. Rising, I say,—

"Perhaps you will be so good as to take me back to Mrs. Warrington."

"Certainly," he answers, with bitter politeness.

We walk silently side by side a few yards, then he turns off to the left along a smaller avenue, and, turning once again, we find ourselves in an open space, laid with velvety turf, in the centre of which a fountain plays into a marble basin.

"This is not the way back," I say.

"No," he answers. "Sit down here with me a moment." And, as I sit on the edge of the wide basin, he throws himself down on the sward.

"Now," he says, looking up at me, "it is your turn. You haven't really said anything; it has only been your face that has spoken; but, anyhow, that was plain enough."

And he tilts the brim of his hat over his eyes, that he may look up into my face.

"Don't you know," I cry, regretfully, "how much I like you, and that I would not willingly give you pain" (hesitating), "any more than I would Curly?"

"Curly!" (impatiently)—"a boy of sixteen! Any one would imagine you were an old woman. Why will you persist in thinking of me only as a boy?"

"It's not that," I say, hastily. "I have thought of you in that way; but, even if I were ten years older, I could not look upon you as anything but a friend. Let me be your friend."

As I utter the word, my thoughts fly back to that night at Alford, when Hector Montagu and I sat together under the bent boughs of the old tree beside the glittering water. I can see the angry scorn flashing from his eyes as I proffer him all I have to give,—my friendship.

Such scorn, though differing in intensity as the man's dark face differs from the boy's fair young one, comes into Lord Seldon's eyes.

"Friend!" he says. "Thanks; I have plenty of friends. I don't want your friendship; I ask for your love. And if you won't give me that, I have at all events a right to know" (passionately) "why, after seeming to care for me, you throw me over."

"Won't you believe me," I cry, eagerly, "when I tell you that I no more dreamed of your being—well, in love with me, than" (in my usual strait for a simile)—"than the Prince of Wales?"

"How was it, then, that every one else saw it?" (incredulously). "Mrs. Warrington saw it, Lady Egidia saw it plain enough, my mother saw it. I have heard of nothing else this week past."

I see a loophole of escape in his last words.

"It is very evident," I say, "if the duchess saw it that she did not approve of it. I could not help remarking even this afternoon how vexed she looked to see you with me, and you can hardly say she looked pleased when you introduced me to her that night. However much I might like a man," I add, with dignity, "it is very unlikely I should accept him if his family disapproved of me."

"Is that all?" he cries, eagerly, jumping up and coming to sit beside me on the edge of the fountain. "My darling, don't let a thought of that enter your brain. My mother is a little bit crusty just now because she has set her heart on my marrying Lady Egidia; but she worships me; if she knew that I couldn't live without you,—and I couldn't; I should blow my brains out,—she would come to you on her knees and ask you to marry me. Besides, if it comes to that, your family's an older one than ours."

"That may be," I answer, promptly, "but our position now is not equal to yours, and, if you married me, people would think you had thrown yourself away."

"Let them think, and be hanged to them. Who cares?" he cries, impetuously.

I give vent to a sigh. After all, I am not a whit nearer a satisfactory ending than when I began.

"What am I to say to you?" I cry, in despair. "I cannot marry you, because I do not love you."

He throws himself on his knees before me, regardless of the havoc that the green moss may make with his light trousers, and, whether I will or no, puts both his arms round me and looks up into my face.

"But, darling," he cries, passionately, "you would in time. If you like me as you say you do now, surely I'm not such a beast that you couldn't get to love me. Don't break my heart; for God's sake do try and care for me; there's nothing in this world I won't do if you will only give me some hope!"

He buries his face in my lap, and a horrible suspicion comes across me that he is crying. The fountain sends up its sparkling stream into the sunshine, faintly from afar the notes of the "Blue Danube" are wafted towards us, but nor sunshine nor music can lighten the load that weighs upon my heart. I look down at the fair-haired head and the broad young shoulders, and a sorrowful thought comes across me that some day Curly may be pleading to some woman in vain. What can I say to him? A sudden inspiration comes to me, and I act upon it as suddenly, without a moment's reflection as to whether I may not regret it later.

It is a curious position, that in which I find myself this July afternoon, sitting on the edge of a fountain, with a future duke in tears at my feet, not two hundred yards away from a gay and select crowd, any member or members of whom may at any moment come suddenly upon us without warning. And I, who have all along hugged my bitter secret to my heart of hearts, am about to confide it to this boy, who only one short half-hour ago would have seemed to me the most impossible recipient for such a confidence.

The little white cloudlets are sailing aloft in the blue heaven, a tiny breeze stirs the topmost leaves of the big trees, the fountain sparkles in the sun and comes plashing musically down again into the broad basin, and I, plucking up heart, force out the words that are to console my boy lover and make him see reason.

"I want you to believe," I say, laying my hand on his arm, while the tears spring into my eyes, "that I would not for the world give you pain willingly. I know myself" (and my voice falters) "how bitter it is to love in vain."

"What!" he cries, looking up into my face; "do you mean that you love some one else?"

It is hard, bitterly hard, to say it, but his eager eyes compel the words out of me.

"Yes," I answer.

"Well," he cries, starting up wrathfully, "you have kept it dark very carefully, I must say. Pray" (trying to be sarcastic, but failing utterly), "may I be privileged to know who is my rival?"

"You need not know," I answer, slowly, "since there is no more chance of my marrying him than of my marrying you."

"Is he married, then?"

"Married!" I repeat, shocked; "of course not! How could one care for a married man?"

"I have heard of such things," he remarks, bitterly. "Well, then, if he is not married, what obstacle can there be to his marrying you?"

I avert my face, to hide, if may be, the sudden traitorous color that dyes my cheeks.

"He does not want to."

There is a pause, during which I watch the movements of a stray gold-fish in the water whilst my face recovers its normal tint.

"He does not want to!" echoes Lord Seldon, at last. "Then, in heaven's name" (coming round and seating himself beside me), "are you going to give up everything in life for a man who does not care for you? Why, you can't go on caring about him forever; nobody does: people are bound to get over that sort of thing in time" (unconsciously arguing against his own cause). "Well" (eagerly), "if you have no heart, have you no ambition? Don't you care to be a duchess? I know," he says, his bright face flushing, "it sounds very snobbish to remind you of that, but surely it must go for something."

"What!" I say, looking at him, "would you be content that I should take you without loving you, just because some day you may be a duke?"

"Lots of women would," he answers, glumly. "No, of course I should not be content; but, oh, darling" (looking up at me with honest love in his blue eyes), "I would rather you took me for that than not at all. Give me a month, two months, let me try to make you love me, and then, if I fail, I swear to you upon my honor, I will take all the blame to myself if you find you can't like me."

"It is no use," I cry, feeling the ground slipping away from under me. "Do not pain me by saying any more: be generous, and believe me when I tell you that it is utterly, utterly impossible."

He looks at me with eyes in which anger and incredulity are equally blended.

"Do you mean to say positively," he asks, forcing the words out slowly, "that you refuse me?—refuse me for good and all?"

"Do not put it in that way," I say, rising to go. "Forget that you ever asked me, and believe that I would not for the world have given you pain willingly. Come" (laying my hand on his arm), "let us go back to Mrs. Warrington."

For the first time he thinks of his appearance. He looks down at the faint green stains on his clothes, and passes his hand over his hair.

"I can't go back among those people," he says, with hurt boyish vanity: "it is not pleasant to look as well as to feel that you've made a fool of yourself."

I look rather ruefully at my own pale gown of bleu, Watteau ciel, as the confectioner thereof fancifully called it, and see on it the poor boy's tear-stains.

"How am I to get back?" I say, doubtfully, but not wishing to put him to any pain that I can spare him. "I can hardly go alone."

"Come, then," he utters, brusquely, turning to go.

I feel sorry for him from the bottom of my heart. He has never been used to contradiction, and takes it very badly. I want to make friends with him. I long to restore to him his shattered self-conceit, but am afraid of adding fuel to the fire by anything I may say: so we hurry along in profound silence. As we emerge from the avenue I encounter an old friend.

"There is Colonel Fane!" I exclaim: "he will take me to Mrs. Warrington;" and as he comes towards me Lord Seldon abruptly raises his hat and leaves me.

"How wild that boy looks!" utters Fane, looking fixedly at me. "What have you been doing to him?"

"I?—nothing!" I answer, trying vainly to look unconscious. "Have you seen Mrs. Warrington? She will think I am lost."

"My dear Diana," says that lady, with slight reproach in her voice, as I join her, "where have you been all this immense time?"

A little later we are on our way to the gate. Mrs. Warrington stops to speak to some friends, and I stand listlessly aside until she shall have finished. There are two elegantly-dressed women standing with their backs to me, and, to my surprise, I hear my name mentioned.

"What can she have done to Lord Seldon?" says one.

"I saw him go off half an hour ago looking as wild as a March hare, and not long before that they went up the avenue together. She can't have refused him!"

"My dear," retorts the other, contemptuously, "did the beggar maid refuse King Cophetua?"

Happily, Mrs. Warrington is moving on. As we drive homewards I feel very little inclination to talk, nor, apparently, does my companion. But suddenly, when I am enveloped in a train of thought, she turns to me, and says,—

"Diana, what became of Lord Seldon?"

"I don't know," I stammer. "I think he went away——"

"Was he ill?"

"I do not think so. He did not say so."

There is a moment's pause. Then she says, looking intently at me,—

"It is not possible that he has proposed to you and that you have refused him! It is not possible!" she reiterates, as I turn my head away to conceal my embarrassment. Still I am silent. I will not tell the truth, but I cannot deny it.

"Diana!" whispers my usually placid friend, with vindictive energy, "I should like to shake you!"

For the rest of our drive the silence remains unbroken. But later on there is much conflict of words between us. She insists upon hearing the whole story, and, under the strictest promise of secrecy, I repeat it to her, with one exception: I do not tell her the reason I gave for refusing him; I content myself with saying that I feel it impossible to care sufficiently for him. She treats this reason with hottest scorn and contempt. Not like a bright handsome young fellow like that, the heir to a dukedom and any number of thousands a year! Preposterous! If he were ugly, ill-tempered, sickly, deformed, extraordinarily vicious, one could understand it; but a young fellow with every gift the world values, and devoted to me into the bargain, as every one could see,—it was sheer suicidal folly.

"Why did you not tell me," I say, reproachfully, "if you really saw that he cared for me?"

"Because," Mrs. Warrington returns, with exasperation, "such is the delightful perversity of girls, that if they think a man likes them, or that their friends want them to marry him, they immediately set their faces dead against it and say the y can't love him. Love!" (wrathfully): "I am sick of the very name of love! And what do girls know about it, pray, if they are modest and properly brought up? I am more convinced every day of my life that the French system is the proper one,—don't allow girls to have a voice in the matter. Love-matches indeed! A pretty end they generally come to! It is almost always the case that, if you meet with a married couple who dislike each other and quarrel more than usual, it was a love-match."

I do not believe for a moment that these are my dear Mrs. Warrington's real sentiments; only, for some cause or other, she seems to have set her heart upon my marrying Lord Seldon. Indeed, it is a far harder task to encounter all her arguments, her entreaties, her reasons, her insistance, than it was to repel his. Finally she leaves me in anger. What can I do? I would not for the world displease her willingly; and yet the other alternative is simply impossible. I shut myself up in my room: we were engaged to a ball that evening, but I had no heart to go, and my hostess excused me. Then, as I lay on my couch, chewing the cud of fancies that were, alas! all bitter, a letter was brought to me. I knew the scrawling hand, more scrawling than ever to-night: the inside was blurred and blotted, but you may depend I looked upon it in no unkind spirit of criticism.

"DEAREST" (he wrote),—"I know I behaved like a brute this afternoon. I lost my temper, and it was very presumptuous of me to be so sure of you; but somehow I suppose I have been brought up to think I had only to ask and have, and I dare say it will do me good to have a little of the conceit knocked out of me. Only, darling, don't, for God's sake, make up your mind against me; don't settle anything in a hurry. Perhaps after a time you will see that it's no good thinking about that other fellow (oh, how I wish I could shoot him!—what a dunder-headed ass he must be!), or he may get married, and you know it's simply ridiculous to think that any one so lovely as you could ever be allowed to be an old maid. I can't think why you will persist in thinking me such a boy; lots of women much older than you don't, and, you know, apart from my being a long way past of age, I've seen a great deal of life, and knocking about as I've done puts years on to a fellow. But I can't believe seriously that my being young is really an objection in your eyes. You surely don't want a fellow old enough to be your father; though I have heard of girls taking odd fancies. I'll wait a year, darling, if you like,—two years, if it would make you care for me any more. I could live on hope. All I ask you is, just to let me hope. If you don't, I don't know what will become of me; the very thought, as I write this, drives me nearly mad. I've fancied myself in love before, but I swear to you I never cared for anybody a fiftieth part as I do for you, and if you've heard stories about me don't believe them, because there are always lots of people to tell lies about a fellow. Then you know how fond I am of Curly: I look upon him quite like a brother already, and there isn't anything I won't do for him if you'll only give me the chance. Oh, Di, my darling, don't spurn my heart's devotion and send me to the devil, for to the devil I shall go if you won't have me. Think it over: you may tell Mrs. Warrington, if you like; I know she'll stand my friend, and I have no pride now, for if you don't have me there is nothing more for me in this life, and I don't care who knows it. Montagu has been dining with me; he saw there was something up, and I felt so bad I could not help telling somebody; and he has cheered me up a bit. Good-night, my dearest love. I feel I could go on writing to you all night, only if I wrote forever I couldn't say more than that I love you with all my soul, and that I shall always be your most devoted slave and worshiper.

"SELDON."

I read on until I come nearly to the end, full of kind thoughts and regret for the young fellow whose honest love shines through every line, but when I reach the passage about Captain Montagu a flood of anger rushes to my heart, the indignant tears to my eyes. Great heavens! was it not enough before!—and now he can coolly listen to Lord Seldon's confidences, and "cheer him up." Cheer him up!—that, I suppose, bitterly, was by holding out hopes. I fling the letter from me, and, springing up, race to and fro in my room, in such a storm of passionate anger as I never yet felt, never till this moment imagined I could feel. Presently my rage subsides into grief, and I fling myself on my knees and sob my very heart out. No matter that it is unreasonable, no matter that I have long ago renounced all hope of being anything to him, no matter that I revile him to myself and call him heartless, unfair, dishonorable: the sting of this new cruelty is none the less sharp. An impotent desire for revenge takes possession of me in this first burst of outraged love and pride. I think—yes, I think if it would give him pain I could marry Lord Seldon to-morrow. But it would not: that is the sting of it. He would doubtless come to the wedding, and make the most charming, graceful speech on the occasion, and I should have spoiled my life for nothing. Spoiled my life! I, Diana Carew, who have no prospect of anything but humility and poverty, spoil my life by marrying a man able to give me every pleasure and luxury the world holds! Ay, the world! But then I have never looked there for happiness. I am not ambitious. The first grief that ever came into my simple Paradise came with my first glimpse of the world, the first taste of the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of (worldly) good and evil. The thought of an atmosphere of fashion, of fine company, fine houses, fine clothes, fine jewels, does not warm my heart: it only seems to make more barren and void a future which I should pass in the perpetual society of a man I could not love. I found him pleasant enough as a friend, but when I force myself to regard him in the light of the one being to whom I am to look in the future for love, sympathy, comfort, my whole soul revolts. To marry a man, too, against the wish of his family!—to be looked down upon by them!—in time, perhaps (what more likely ending to a boyish fancy!) to be treated with coldness and neglect by him! No: the prospect of being Lady Seldon might seem fair enough to a girl who had been educated in the world's creeds, who had been faithfully taught the worship of mammon, but not to a simple country-girl, who values not pomp or grandeur one rush when they are divorced from love and truth and faith. To marry a man simply because he has a title or money seems in my eyes the basest degradation. How is it different from standing up in an Eastern market and being knocked down to the highest bidder? But then I am not a well-trained, well-tutored young lady: I am only a little girl who has grown up wild in the country and been allowed the run of a library of old-fashioned romances.

Once more I am at home again, with papa and Gay, with my dogs and cats, leading the quiet peaceful life of yore. I have told the stories of my doings and seeings over and over again, especially the history of the cricket-match in which Eton came off victorious,—of our doubts and fears and ultimate triumph, of Curly's intense excitement, of the words that he said, the looks that he looked. For were they not all chronicled in my heart, to be the subjects of many loving talks with papa and Gay at home?

I fondly hoped papa would not hear of the little episode about Lord Seldon; indeed, I made Mrs. Warrington promise faithfully not to betray me; but he did hear it, and from Curly, of all people in the world. It appeared Lord Seldon met him on the river, and they had a long talk, in which it came out, and Curly was in a state of hot indignation about it.

"Such an awful shame," he wrote, "and he is so awfully cut up, and swears he will never marry anybody else; and he always from the first felt like a brother to me, and I'm sure so I do to him, and he's promised, if it ever does come off, to do I don't know what for me, though of course it isn't for that I want it; but he's such a stunning good fellow, and so devotedly fond of Di. And I didn't think Di could be so heartless; and he will be Duke of Landermere, and his father is a great invalid, and can't last very long; though of course he didn't tell me that. And, dad, I do hope you will persuade her, and make her see reason. Only think of her being a duchess, which she would in time, and he's an earl now."

Thus writes Curly, in hot and incoherent haste; and papa, who usually reads every line aloud to me, having come to a full stop, goes on to himself.

"Well?" I say, looking up at the sudden pause; but papa is reading on with a vexed expression of face. A sudden horror seizes me that our boy has been getting into debt, or some kind of trouble, and I cry, in an impatient, frightened voice, "What is the matter? Is anything wrong?"

Then my father, with a sigh that has an impatient sound, hands me the letter, and I peruse, with what feelings may be better imagined than described, the portion I have just transcribed. I read it through to the end, and lay it down by my plate without daring to look up.

"Is it true?" asks papa, presently.

"Yes," I say, paying particular attention to the toast I am buttering with great elaboration, although I have not the remotest intention of eating it; the letter has taken away my appetite, and left nothing but a choking sensation in my throat.

Then silence falls upon us. It will not last very long, I know: papa is fidgeting about and clearing his throat, with a little nervous trick that he has when he is preparing to say something important or not quite pleasant.

"Di," he breaks out, at last, "what makes you act in such an extraordinary way? You have no earthly prospect but poverty before you, and yet you throw away two such wonderful, such unlooked-for chances of a brilliant future."

I try to laugh the matter off, but my laugh, even in my own ears, sounds most unmirthful.

"You know, papa," I say, "if I had taken the first chance, as you call it, I should never have had the second, which is much greater; and who knows" (flippantly) "but the third may be greater still? I may end by being a princess; and then what a pity it would have been if I had taken the duke."

Papa does not laugh; he looks very grave, even to sternness.

"Upon my soul, I do not understand you, Diana," he says.

At his tone, at the sound of my own name full length, which I have never before heard from his lips, my forced mirth is put to a most sudden and disorderly rout, and I fall to weeping bitterly.

"Di," cries my father, distressed, "my dear child, do not cry! I do not wish to be unkind, only your conduct puzzles me so utterly. You seem to me to be acting like a capricious child. Well, well," as my sobs increase, "perhaps you can make me see things in a different light. Come, Di," drawing near, and putting his hand fondly on my head, "tell me what makes you unhappy. Am I not your father? Have I any care or interest in the world that does not centre in you and Curly?"

It is easy for him to invite my confidence,—Heaven knows there is no other subject in the world on which I would withhold it,—but to confess to one's father one's miserable, foolish, ignominious, hopeless love for a man who is indifferent to it, what woman that was ever created could bring herself to so shameful an utterance?

When I have mastered my sobs, I walk to the window and look out. Papa has resumed his seat, and is waiting patiently until the spirit shall move me to speak. I stand for some time looking out at the great clusters of roses, crimson and pink, red and amber, golden yellow, creamy white, blush-tinted. There is a lovely bud within my reach, and I turn to the table for a knife and proceed to sever it from its native bush. By this time I have recovered myself.

"There is nothing much to be said, papa," I say, in a small voice, leaning my head against the window-frame and contemplating the ceiling, which I observe is becoming exceedingly dingy. "I don't see that it follows one is bound to marry a man simply because he asks one."

That, I comfort myself, is convincingly put. Probably papa thinks so too, for he does not reply immediately.

"No," he answers, presently, "if a man asks a woman to marry him, she is certainly not bound to accept him for that simple reason. But if there is nothing objectionable about him, if indeed she has rather seemed to take pleasure in his society, if he can offer her everything that the world esteems worth having, I think she ought to reflect long and gravely before she makes up her mind to reject him, especially where, as in your ease, she has only the most prospectless future to look forward to."

"I suppose," I say, slowly, looking from the ceiling to the shabby chairs, from the shabby chairs to the shabbier carpet, and round again to the shabbiest curtains, "that the object of fine clothes and houses, diamonds and horses, is to make their possessor happy, is it not?"

"If riches do not make happiness, they undoubtedly add a great deal to one's pleasure in life," remarks my father, tritely.

"This room is very dingy and shabby," I continue, with apparent irrelevancy; "and we have never had much luxury, have we?—at least I have not," I resume.

"No, God knows!" murmurs papa, a pained look coming into his dear kind face.

"Then," I proceed, resuming my contemplation of the ceiling, with my head thrown well back, for I do not want to look him in the face, "I have been brought up without any of these wonderful adjuncts, and I do not believe—indeed, I am quite sure" (emphatically) "that there was never in this world a happier girl than I was."

"Than you were," says papa, taking up my words quickly: "I think that is true. But, Di, can you say truthfully that from the moment you came in contact with the luxuries and pleasures of the world you have been as happy? It is true you have never complained, because you are unselfish, God bless you, and would not pain me; but do you think I have not remarked the change in you since you went to Warrington, how much quieter and less full of spirits you have been?"

"That had nothing to do with it," I cry, with hot eagerness, involuntarily betraying myself.

"Then what had?" asks my father, looking keenly at me.

I turn sharply away to hide my face. Then I resume in haste, looking out at the clusters of blown roses and their fairer buds. "I have never felt the least envious of riches or their possessors; none of the people at Warrington seemed particularly happy to me, though they laughed and talked a good deal. Lady Gwyneth was not happy, nor Mrs. Huntingdon; and even Mrs. Warrington wants perpetual amusement to keep her from feeling dull. And at Alford, neither Sir Hector nor Lady Montagu were the least bit happy; and in London most people seemed to think everything rather a bore,—at least they said so. We are never bored, you and I, papa, are we?" I continue, able now to confront him with a smile.

"This is begging the question," says papa, answering my smile with another. "Come, Di, my dear child, I want you to think and act like a sensible, reasoning woman; do not, I entreat you, throw away such a brilliant prospect without the gravest consideration. I am ambitious for you. I confess it. I think," (fondly)—"there can be no harm in my saying it, since you have no doubt heard it often enough by this time,—I think you are in every way fitted to adorn a high station in life; and it would make me very happy to see you placed in a different sphere from this. Think, too, how much you could do for Curly if you married Lord Seldon."

My eyes fill with tears.

"Papa," I cry, passionately, "you know I love you both; you know I would do anything in the world to make you both happy; it would not seem hard to die to-morrow for either of your sakes; but would you sacrifice all my life just for a few advantages that I do not value in the least?"

"Say no more, Di," answers my father, sighing. "I suppose" (wearily) "Providence orders everything for good." And he takes his paper and goes, leaving me a prey to bitter regrets.

Why do fathers and brothers always think it a matter of course, involving no sacrifice on the part of the girl, that she should give up all her future to a man she neither loves nor respects, if only he happens to be rich or titled? It is a mean, base thing for a man to sell himself, but it is a crown of glory, it seems, to a woman. The same thing has happened to most of my heroines: some of them have weakly yielded, and, of course, been utterly wretched ever after. Then, when it was too late, when they had been driven to madness or an early death, the fathers and brothers had been smitten with a tardy remorse; but what use was that? I am determined that mine shall have no such cause for regret. I will not marry against my inclination. But, though I am resolute, my heart is heavy as I think how, by sacrificing myself, I might make the future brighter for the two beings whom I love most in the world.

I cannot settle to anything this morning: so I take a book from the shelves, call the pug, let out the other dogs, and betake myself to the garden. We have a piece of water in our grounds, though not half the size of the one at Alford: it is situated in the midst of the old-fashioned garden, half vegetable—half flower-garden, planted with the real old-fashioned flowers,—hollyhocks, sweet-williams, Canterbury bells, larkspurs, blueflags, and such like. The banks are green and mossy, and there is shade from a few fine old trees independently of the apple-, pear-, cherry-, and mulberry-trees which combine the useful with the ornamental. The great lily-leaves are spread over most of the lakelet's surface; their proud pure white flowers ride the glossy water triumphantly, meeting and answering back the sun's fervent glances with their golden eyes; there is a hush fallen upon nature; the birds do not sing these blazing July days.

I lie tranquilly on the bank, too indolent even to read, perhaps without the heart; and I try not to think, but to let the drowsy heat creep through my veins and lull me into stupor. No very easy task, though, with that very vivacious young lady the pug bent upon a real good game with her four-footed friends. She is in a restless worrying humor this morning, and the spaniel very kindly enters into her mood, and between them they play a rampant game under the bushes and over my prostrate form, that is not encouraging to soft repose. Even the solemn old retriever joins somewhat in the spirit of the thing, and, lying lazily on his back, opening his shark-like mouth, feigns with low growls to swallow the pug's head. That active and remorseless little beast does not possess the excellent virtue of knowing when her playmates have had enough: the spaniel, tired out at last, lays himself down with lolling tongue and panting sides, and tries to get a little quiet amusement out of gnawing the wing of a dead bird. Not a bit of it! Miss Pug tears it from him tooth and nail, and a general chivy ensues, until the spaniel's attention is arrested by a big red-finned fish leaping out of the water. In he springs with a mighty splash, whilst the pug, filled with envy and admiration, contemplates him from the bank. But when he reaches the centre of the widening circles his prey is gone. Round and round he swims, lost in amazement, and unable to convince himself that it has disappeared from the face of the waters. Again it leaps farther off, and he hurries after it, only to meet the same disappointment.

"Here you are!" exclaims a kind, merry voice behind me, and, starting up, I see Claire Fane, equipped in her neat blue habit, looking down upon me.

"You good fairy!" I cry, joyfully, "to come just at the very moment of all others that you are wanted! I was feeling so dull, and what you fashionable people call désœuvrée."

"That is the penalty you pay for going into the fashionable world," she answers, gayly. "I have come to hear all about your grand doings."

She links her arm in mine, and we go towards the old mulberry-tree that overhangs the water, and under which there is a bench. Claire takes her seat upon it, and I throw myself down at her feet with my arms in her lap, so that I can command a good view of her kind, pretty face. It beams and smiles so sweetly and sympathetically upon me, and I feel so forlorn and miserable, that I yield to the great impulse that besets me to pour out my heart to her.

"I wish," I say, earnestly, "that I had never been into the fashionable world,—never been away from this dull quiet place, where I was always so happy before."

"And you are not happy now,—not quite happy? I can read that in your face," she says, in her sweet, grave voice. "Tell me, dear, how is it?"

For all my answer I bury my face in her lap and cry as if my heart would break. She does not interrupt me with importunate questions; she only lets her hand wander softly over my hair, and waits until the fit is over and I care to speak again.

"Claire," I say, when my sobs have at last died away, "you are so good. Tell me, how is it that we are allowed to think the world such a bright happy place, and when we come to see it nearer and live in it we are to be so miserably disappointed?"

"Indeed, dear, I cannot tell," she answers, softly, still stroking my hair. "But there is one thing I am quite sure of, and that is that we do not really know what is good for us, and that often and often if we had the things we long for so ardently we should come to look on the gratifying of our wishes as our heaviest punishment. Perhaps, indeed, I think" (looking at me earnestly), "that would be your case."

I turn my eyes away from her face and look up the long green vista over which the apple-trees are stretching their crooked arms towards each other.

"Do you know, then," I ask, in a low voice, "what it is that makes me unhappy?"

"I think I do" (pressing my hand). "Will you be vexed if I guess?"

"No," I answer, feeling almost sure of my secret.

"I think, then, that you are unhappy about Charlie Montagu."

No need to speak: my face tells her at once that she has guessed aright.

"How do you know?" I ask, quickly. "Who could have told you?" And then I go on eagerly, wishing to defend him and myself too. "He can never be anything to me. I always knew it from the first. Oh, Claire, do not think for one instant that I have any thought of him. Indeed—in deed, I always knew it was impossible; and" (apologetically) "I had never seen anything of the world; I was not prepared——"

"My dear," she interrupts me, softly, "I do not think that any amount of preparation makes any difference in a case of this kind. But, since you know that it is only wasting your heart to care for Charlie, tell me, why cannot you bring yourself to think of some one who I am sure could and would make you very happy, and who loves you with all his heart?"

My eyes are fixed upon her face as she speaks. I see the faint color, like the heart of a rare shell, grow in her face. I hear the slight tremor in her voice. I feel the faint quiver in her fingers that grasp mine. I know quite well of whom she speaks: she is pleading with me the cause of the man she loves.

Looking at her, seeing how fair and feeling in the very depths of my heart how good she is, a wonder creeps over me that he can be so blind, so dull, as, having all that is sweet and pure and good, all that I have heard him praise and value a thousand times, within so easy reach, only to stretch out his hand and take, to reject it and want something so far meaner, poorer, smaller. The wonder is so great that, however silly and tactless it may seem, I cannot but speak out my mind.

"How can he care for me," I say, with the strongest accent of astonishment of which my voice is capable, "when he must see in you everything that he most admires?"

It is she who turns her head away, she who is pained and embarrassed now; it is my eyes which dwell searchingly upon her face.

"Hush!" she says; "I am getting an old woman. I am as old or older than he. We look upon each other as brother and sister."

"If, now," I continue, pursuing my thoughts aloud, with unintentional cruelty, "it had been he who cared for you and you who did not love him, it would have been most natural."

"You are prejudiced," she answers, quietly. "I do not believe the man exists who is more worthy of a woman's love than Hector. And, dear Di, if you knew him as I do, if you could only see, through the mask of reserve and shyness that he wears, how really unselfish and noble he is, you would love him too, and be the happiest woman in the world."

For a moment, for one moment only, a doubt creeps into my mind whether she really cares for him. Is it possible for anything so magnanimous to breathe as a woman who loves a man pleading for him to another woman?

"How do you know," I ask, "that he cares for me? Has papa told you?"

"He told me himself," she answers, slowly.

I feel enraged at this wanton, selfish cruelty on his part: he must know that she loves him.

"When?" I ask, briefly, knowing that to say anything against him would be to give her double pain.

"Soon after his father died. Oh, Di" (very earnestly), "you must take pity upon him. I never saw a man look so haggard and miserable in my life."

"That was not on my account," I say, impatiently. "Hector Montagu is not at all a man to be desperately in love with any woman."

"You do not know him," she answers, quickly. "You are like every one else: you judge him by that cold manner which is only put on to hide the intense strength and depth of his feelings. He owned to me himself that he suffers so dreadfully from your refusal of him that he feels at times as if his reason would give way. Oh, dear Di, I entreat you, don't set yourself against him so determinedly; try to care a little for him!"

"What! you too?" I cry, with hot indignation. "Is every one bent on ruining my life? Oh, Claire! of all people in the world I should not have expected you to give me such bad advice. Why, I should be committing a positive crime to marry a man feeling towards him as I do to Mr. Montagu!"

Somehow I cannot bring myself to call him by his new title. I should like him even less with that name, which reminds me only of a harsh, arbitrary, selfish man.

At this moment the dogs spring up simultaneously and bound off, and in the distance we catch sight of papa coming towards us. I always see more of him when Claire comes.

Time passes by with lagging footsteps; I fancy his scythe has grown rusty, so slowly and lingeringly it hacks and hews at the hours it used to crop swiftly enough of old. I wake in the morning with a dull sense of oppression, a feeling of misgiving that there is something wrong, before even I am wide-awake enough to be conscious of reality. The mornings that used to be so short, how long they are now! How weary the hours from breakfast to lunch! What an eternity from lunch to dinner! I have no heart to read: is not my own unhappy romance sufficient for me? Less heart to sing; for how can I sing without remembering him? If I try to work, my hands fall idle, and my thoughts go back to the one golden day in May, which has made dark all the days that follow. What is sunshine, what sweet scents, soft breezes, fair scenes, to a soul out of tune! Take away happiness and leave all that nature can give, and it is utterly barren and void; but take sunshine, melody, zephyrs, and leave love and happiness, and the world is yet full enough of joy: give both together, and you have, not this world, but heaven. I am reluctant, almost, to visit my poor: even they seem less to be pitied than formerly, when I came out from their poor hovels into the sunshine thanking God who had made me differ.

The long summer days creep on. When the great sun sets in his glorious flood of golden waves behind the dark firs, I sigh, and say, as though a weight were lifted from my soul, There is another day gone. But the thought follows, Are there not a thousand more days in store for you, each one as long, as dull, as prospectless? And yet they say life is short. I begin to understand how it is with those who say in the evening, "Would God it were morning!" and in the morning, "Would God the day were done!"

But Curly is coming home: it will be different then: I shall brighten up, and forget that I have been unhappy.

A few more long, weary days, in which I try to busy myself with preparations for his home-coming, decorating his room, polishing his gun, putting his fishing-tackle in order, and here he is at last. He, at all events, is not changed: there has been nothing yet to sadden or sober him; his voice is as ringing, his blue eyes as full of mirth, his bright face—God bless it!—as handsome as ever. He is just as affectionate, as glad to get back to us, as contented and pleased with everything, as he always was. It is quite clear to me that he has made up his mind I shall be Lady Seldon, or, as he will always have it, Duchess of Landermere. He is a stanch friend, and returns loyally to the charge again and again, undaunted by what he is pleased to call my wicked perversity.

"I don't intend to marry at all, Curly," I reiterate. "I shall be an old maid, and keep house for you."

"Many thanks," he says, coolly, "but that sort of thing never answers. You and my wife would be sure to quarrel like blazes."

"Oh!" I return, opening my eyes, "you have a wife in view, then, have you?"

"Of course I have," he says, magnificently. "I am convinced there is nothing steadies a fellow like marrying young. Really, Di, I don't see anything to laugh at," as I greet this announcement with a burst of unrestrained merriment.

We are sitting at breakfast one morning towards the end of August, when the post-bag is brought in. Papa gives me a letter with an elaborately heavy monogram, addressed in a hand which puzzles me at first sight to decide whether it is a man's or a woman's. A letter is so rare an event with me that I like to make as much as possible of it by minutely examining the exterior and guessing at its possible contents before I proceed to make myself master of them. I am trying to decipher the letters of the monogram, when a jubilant exclamation from Curly causes me to look up.

"Hurrah! Here, dad, cast your eye over this."

"My dear Curly," papa reads, aloud, and, having read so much, turns with some curiosity to the signature. "Gwyneth Desborough," he says, raising his eyebrows.

I can see distinctly, as he holds the letter, that the large masculine hand is the same as that in which my letter is addressed. Papa reads on:

"You promised me a visit, and I want you to come over on the 31st and have a shot at the partridges. We shall only be a small party, the Warringtons and Colonel Montagu among them, but there will be good sport, and you must come. I shall take no denial, but ride over and fetch you myself if you send an excuse. I've just bought a lovely chestnut mare. You shall ride her, for she wants very light handling, and I have not allowed any one to get on her back but myself yet. We'll have some jolly rides together. By the same post I have written your sister.

"Most sincerely yours,
        "GWYNETH DESBOROUGH."

A feeling of blighting disappointment comes across me. There is so little time left for Curly to be with us, not much more than three weeks, and this woman, whom I dislike more than any one I have ever met, is to take our boy from us.

"Quick, Di, read your letter," cries Curly. "Oh, dad, how awfully jolly it will be!"

"Then you have quite made up your mind to go?" says papa, a twinge of pain contracting his face.

"Oh, dad!" answers our boy, his bright face falling, "it would be such a chance. But, of course" (ruefully), "if you object——" And there he pauses, not having the heart to offer to give it up.

Meantime I have opened my letter, and read:

"DEAR MISS CAREW,

"I hope your brother will be able to come to us on the 31st, and it will give us much pleasure if you will accompany him. If you care for riding, and will bring your habit, I have one or two quiet horses in the stable that might suit you."

"Lady Gwyneth is very kind," I say, with a curling lip, "but I shall not tax her hospitality."

"Why is that, Di?" asks papa.

"In the first place, I hate her," I return, vindictively. "She is a horrid woman!"

"Don't believe her, dad!" cries Curly, flushing up. "She's an awfully nice woman, and I like her tremendously. Really, Di, I wonder at you: you used not to be spiteful."

"I am not spiteful," I retort, vindicating myself with some warmth. "You would not like her, papa. She cuts her hair short, and tries to be like a man, and talks loud, and smokes, and says rude things to everybody."

"Not a very pleasing picture, certainly," papa remarks. "Well, Curly, what have you to say for the defense?"

"I know she was awfully nice and kind to me," replies Curly; "but of course women never have a good word for each other."

Papa and I exchange a smile.

"My dear fellow," says papa, "don't take opinions at second-hand, particularly on the subject of women. If you don't find out, when your turn for the experience comes, that there are plenty of women who are neither jealous nor spiteful nor selfish, why, it will be a very unlucky one, and very different from mine."

"All right, dad," remarks Curly, getting up, and indulging in a soft whistle to himself as he goes out of the room.

"I suppose he must go," I say, in a dejected tone, as the door closes.

"If he does," papa answers, "I should like you to go with him."

"That I will not!" I cry, hastily. "There is nothing I should dislike so much; and it is easy enough to see by her letter that she only asks me out of bare civility."

"My dear," papa returns, with decision, "I most particularly wish you to go if Curly does; and I suppose" (sighing) "we must not disappoint him. I fancy it is rather a fast kind of house; and I should not like him to be there alone. Your presence would be a restraint upon him, and if you saw anything you did not approve you could write to me, and I would make an excuse for summoning you both home. I know there are many men and women who (more shame to them) like to draw a boy out and make a fool of him, whilst all the time he is thinking himself a very fine fellow. If," papa adds, sorrowfully, "I could have pleasant parties for him at home, and invite his friends here, I would not hear of his going to Lady Gwyneth's; but, under existing circumstances, I have no heart to deny him a pleasure that he covets so much."

"Oh, papa," I entreat, "don't ask me to go. I should hate it so."

"But Mrs. Warrington will be there. You will in all probability see very little of your hostess. Well, well, I leave it to you and Curly to settle between you."

Need I say what the result is? Of course I consent, and when the day comes, however reluctant, however prescient of an unpleasant "time," of course I go.

"I wonder who Colonel Montagu is?" says Curly: "some relation of the Alford people, I suppose."

"Sir Hector had a brother Colonel Montagu," I respond, briefly.

"That's who it is, then, of course."

This is the second time that Curly and I are starting on a visit together. He is even more joyous and full of anticipation than when we were going to Warrington; but as for me, my heart is like lead within me; every step that takes us nearer to the Castle sends my spirits an infinitesimal bit lower. It is a long drive, but we come at last to the castellated lodge, and the gates are opened for us.

"'Leave all hope, ye who enter here,'" I think, dismally, to myself, as they shut with a clang behind us. Why does this strange foreboding hang like lead upon me?

The drive up to the house is magnificent, through an avenue of the grandest, stateliest trees I have ever seen, and after half a mile of them we emerge from their splendid gloom into a broad space all ablaze with vivid glorious color, whence not one subtle shade of the prism seems wanting.

As we descend from the carriage, some one comes towards me from the broad doorway. No, not for the fairest gift in the world, not to save my own head, can I keep back the traitorous blood from my face, or the tremulous quiver from the hand that he takes in his. It is Captain Montagu.

"What! you here?" cries my brother, with enthusiasm. "How jolly! Why, Lady Gwyneth wrote that Colonel Montagu was coming; and we thought it must be your uncle."

"Myself. 'Not Launcelot nor another!'" he answers, laughing. "Did you not hear that I had got my step?"

"No: you don't mean to say you are a colonel! Well, you're a jolly young one, at all events," returns Curly. "Where's Lady Gwyneth?"

"She has gone out riding, and left me to do M.C. She told me to tell you if you came in pretty good time that you were to be sure and go to meet them; there is a horse ready, and a man to show you the way. Off with you!" And Curly, needing no second bidding, darts away like a shot. "Won't you come into the garden?" he adds to me: "it is much pleasanter than the house. By the way, have some tea first: Lady Gwyn commissioned me to look after you and do everything that was right."

"No tea, thank you. Yes, I should like to see the gardens." And we stroll away together.

If I had only guessed this, I tell myself, not all the brothers in the world should have got me here; and yet my traitorous soul keeps giving little throbs of pleasure at being near him once more, at looking through my furtive eyes at his handsome, pleasant face.

"I did not know until to-day that you were coming," he says, as we turn off the broad terrace on to the turf. "Have you been here before?—I mean in the old time when poor B—— had it. It was one of the most charming houses in the county. Now" (and he turns with an accent of disgust and looks up at the great structure), "horrible, isn't it?"

I take a long survey of the range of building. To the right is the old part, gray with age, stained, moss-grown, weather-worn, but stately and regal; and to the left, brand-new, garish, with plate-glass windows, and a trumpery attempt at imitation of the veteran building, is the gigantic wing built by its present owner.

"Look at all the brand-new coats of arms of the Desboroughs," says my companion, laughing; "and see just that one of the late owner over the doorway: the coronet is nearly worn away with age. Poor fellow! he did a bad stroke of work for himself when he helped his father to cut off the entail. By Jove! I never saw a family go to the devil as they have done."

"I should have thought Lady Gwyneth, at all events, would have had better taste," I say, replying to the first part of his sentence.

"Poor Lady Gwyneth! she declares this place is a perfect nightmare to her: you know it was all done before her time, and, as she says, these nouveaux riches can't shake themselves free of their own newness; they don't fancy anything unless it is fresh from the shop."

"It is very nice and wifely of her to say such things," I return, dryly; and then, with energy, "It is mean and despicable enough of a woman to marry for money under any circumstances, but I think it is far meaner to ridicule and hold up to contempt the man to whom she is indebted for everything."

"We are walking down the long green slopes to the lake lying in a vast hollow. He turns to me with lazy amusement in his eyes.

"Poor little Lady Gwyn!" he utters. "But you never did like her, I remember."

"Never" (with energy). "I dare say you think it strange my coming here at all. I did not want to: it was only to please Curly. Papa would not let him come without me."

We have reached the water: by its margin are clumps of shady trees, with seats under their wide branches, and here we seat ourselves.

"Charming piece of water, is it not?" he says. "I wonder if there are any carp in it? Do you remember our carp-fishing that gold——" (hesitating) "that day at Alford?"

"I remember your catching some in a net," I answer, trying to speak indifferently.

"In the net?—yes," he echoes, absently. "By the way, have you seen Hector since he has been invested with his new dignity?"

"I have not seen him since I was at Alford."

There is a pause, during which I look away at the far blue cloudless sky, at the shining water, at the rushes, at the sloping sward, at everything but him, and he, I feet, has his eyes fixed upon me.

"And so," he says, presently, after sating his curiosity or whatever other feeling may have impelled his long gaze,—"And so you refused Seldon."

"I never said so," I replied, quickly.

"No; but he did. Poor lad! he was awfully cut up, and buttonholed everybody about his hopeless suit. Lady Egidia nearly caught him at the rebound, but not quite."

I make no answer. I am wishing with bitter energy that I had not come.

"You do not approve of any but love-marriages," he goes on, cruelly. "I wonder you still believe in love, after having gone through a London season. Most of the people I know who get on worst married for love. What is that French saying—you would not know it, of course, though, and I never could remember a quotation in my life. Let me see" (trying to think): "it is àpropos of marriage,—so many months of worship, so many years of hatred, and the rest indifference. Under these circumstances it does not much matter whom one marries; does it?"

"Under those circumstances, no," I answer, coldly.

"I suppose," he continues, "if you think it mean and despicable in a woman to marry for money you would think it still worse in a man; should you not? Suppose, for instance, I were to tell you that I think of contracting an alliance with the cousin of our host; you would feel a great contempt for me,—perhaps never speak to me again?"

I answer him by never a word.

"Perhaps you may not know that Desborough has a cousin, the only child of his uncle, who was partner with his father; only this one was not filled with a lofty ambition like his brother, did not change his name to Desborough, nor anything else, but was contented with the homely appellation of Puggins. Miss Puggins is not lovely; she has reddish hair, freckles, a soap-and-candle kind of complexion, and hands—not hands, paws. But Miss Puggins will have a hundred thousand pounds on her wedding-day, and another hundred thousand at the demise of Puggins père; and Lady Gwyneth, who is very good-natured, though you do not like her, is doing her best to make up the match."

I look up at him

"With some surprise, and thrice as much disdain,"

but never a word do I answer.

"You have a very speaking countenance," he says, turning away from me.

"Have I?" I cry, my passionate anger and contempt breaking into words at last. "I am glad to hear it. I should like to be sure that I look what I feel, for there are no words that I know of which would express it."

A strange look comes over his face as I speak. Suddenly he stretches out his arms to me.

"Oh, darling, for God's sake!" he cries, and then turns sharply and walks away from me along the lake's margin.

And I, maddened with bitter pain and anger, take my way swiftly back to the house.

My cup is not yet full. I hear that Mr. and Mrs. Warrington are not coming; he has slightly sprained his ankle, and is unable to walk. I learn something also that vexes me still more: Lord Rexborough is here.

"Such a jolly party!" Curly tells me, with enthusiasm, "and only a small one,—which makes it all the pleasanter; though I'm awfully sorry about poor old Warrington. Lady Gwyneth's sister, Lady Audrey, just as jolly as Lady Gwyn. Miss Puggins, Desborough's cousin,—such a caution" (subsiding into laughter); "but I'm not to make fun of her, because Lady Gwyn wants to get up a match between her and Charlie Montagu. Fancy, Di, a good-looking chap like that taking up with Miss Puggins! Puggins! by jingo! what a name! I don't wonder at her wanting to change it. That makes four ladies, with you, and we four men: so we're just complete. I wouldn't mind changing that little snob Desborough for some one else,—say Seldon, for instance" (with a sly glance at me). "And, Di" (frowning a little), "I say, do make up your mind to be pleasant and civil to Lady Gwyn. I'm sure you'd like her if you knew her as well as I do."

"Grant me patience!" I think; but I answer by a smile. If I am unhappy and dissatisfied at being here, that is no reason I should wish to infect him with my discontent.

I do not meet my hostess until we are assembled before dinner. She greets me with much politeness, not to say cordiality, and I cannot help thinking that, so far, she shines to more advantage in her own house than she did at Warrington. Her sister is a second edition of herself; if anything, rather noisier, and more free of speech. Lord Rexborough greets me effusively; my host, who looks smaller and more snobbish than ever, treats me with patronizing civility.

"So we are reduced to eight," says Lady Gwyneth, addressing Lord Rexborough,—"a most odious number, particularly at dinner, where it entails two men and two women sitting together."

"Can't be helped," he answers. "Only having a lady on one side of you, you can't make the other jealous, you know."

"Ah, but you are one of the fortunate ones," laughs Lady Gwyneth. "Knowing your proclivities, I have taken care that you sha'n't be left out in the cold."

Here dinner is announced. Mr. Desborough takes me (I suppose he could not very well take any one else). After all, it is just as well. I would rather sit next to him than Lord Rexborough; and Curly could not take his own sister. As for Captain Montagu (I cannot bring myself to think of him as colonel), he of course has the heiress assigned him; and heaven knows the less I speak to him the less likely am I to feel bitter and miserable. Lady Audrey sits on my left, but she does not waste the sweets of her conversation upon me: she, her sister, Lord Rexborough, and Curly make a very lively, not to say noisy, quartet. The other four members of the party are as conspicuously dull and silent. I am not a big enough swell to make my host put out his conversational powers. Miss Puggins, on his other side, does not seem very talkative; and Captain Montagu devotes himself to his dinner. I have remarked that whatever disturbing causes may affect a man's mind, they very rarely interfere with his enjoyment of dinner, especially if, as in this instance, it is an exceptionally good one. Such is not the case with a woman, I suppose, or, at all events, with a girl. I have naturally a most healthy appetite, but under the influence of any excitement food is abhorrent to me. So I say, "No, thank you," to almost everything, to my host's evident disgust, and occupy myself by watching furtively my opposite neighbors.

"Really, Miss Carew," says Mr. Desborough, out of all patience at last, "I am afraid you are very hard to please, or your appetite is a wonderfully small one. It would be hardly worth while to keep a two-hundred-guinea chef for so unappreciative a lady."

"I have a very good appetite, thank you," I answer. "Everything looks delicious, but at home I am only accustomed to one or two dishes, and those of the plainest kind."

He stares at me in undisguised astonishment. He evidently cannot imagine any one revealing their own shame (poverty is shame to him), much less glorying in it. For somehow I do take a delight in making the worst and humblest of myself before him, by way of contrast to his vulgar assumption.

"Oh!" he says, when he can find words; "there will be some mutton presently, I dare say."

Meantime, I am taking an inventory of Miss Puggins's charms. She has red hair, plain red,—not auburn, nor burnished gold, nor mordoré, nor the subtle sun-kissed shade dear to painters, but red, plain red, such as in common unvarnished speech is called carrotty. And her complexion! one might call her tallow-face, if one did not remember that Juliet's father once said,—

"Out on you, tallow-face!"

She has nothing to remind one of Juliet, except perhaps that her Romeo is next her, and my eyes flit from her dull, vacant face and rest lovingly on his. Yes, lovingly; I will not recall the word; however low he may have fallen in my esteem, however I may have banished him from his throne in my heart, nothing can detract from the outward beauty of his face, that makes it a pleasure (a sad enough one, heaven knows!) only to look at him. And Romeo's name was Montagu, I think, and the conceit pleases me. I resume my contemplation of her face, which looks uglier by contrast with the beauty of his, as his looks handsomer from its proximity to the plainness of hers. She has dull blue eyes, a short, thick nose, a mouth rather wide and thin-lipped, but her teeth—oh, great redeeming point!—are good. She has large red hands, and seems to know it, for she tries to hide them. Now and then Colonel Montagu talks to her. It is evidently uphill work, but her dull face brightens up with pleasure, and she takes the opportunity to glance shyly up in the face that she evidently finds as handsome as I do. Poor girl! I feel no spite or grudge against her; indeed, I am rather sorry for her than otherwise,—she is so utterly unattractive, the most jealous woman on earth could not suffer one pang through her. If she marries him ten times over, I shall feel no jealousy of her; of what value is the beautiful case when the jewels are gone from it?

It is a dreary ordeal to me, this long, sumptuous, costly dinner; the many wax lights, the heavy odorous flowers, the glittering gold and silver plate, the shining glass, are no curious feast for my eyes, now they have grown accustomed to such sights. The loud, merry laughter of the hostess and her friends jars upon me. Once or twice they try to draw Colonel Montagu into their gay talk, but he too seems somewhat out of sorts to-night, and only half responds.

"What's the matter with you, Charlie?" roars Lord Rexborough across the table. "You're as dull as ditch-water. Are you uncomfortable about the Leger, or are you meditating upon the heavy responsibility of being a lieutenant-colonel?"

"That's it," answers Colonel Montagu, looking up and laughing. "I am trying to think how the deuce I shall spend all my leave."

"Oh, go and look on at them, and make yourself popular by doing other fellows' 'guards,' like the 'bus-driver on a holiday."

"That might be a good plan," replies the other, and then he returns to silence and his dinner.

Curly's voice is loud, his face is flushed, and a sudden fear steals over me lest he should be drinking more than is good for him. I begin to watch; the butler is going round constantly filling the guests' glasses, and I see with intense anxiety that Curly never refuses. What can I do? A feeling of positive agony comes over me as I reflect how impossible it would be for me to interfere or even to give him the slightest hint. I forget the very existence of the people who have so utterly occupied me until now, and strain my ears painfully to catch what he is saying. He is talking in a boasting, swaggering way, oh, so different from his usual tone and manner! and I see with indignant pain that Lady Gwyneth, her sister, and Lord Rexborough are leading him on, and exchanging occasional glances of amusement. My blood begins to boil: all my old instinctive dislike to Lady Gwyneth surges up in my heart. I positively hate her. At last,—at last she rises from the table, and I rise too, trembling in every limb, for I have made up my mind what to do. I cross straight over to him, and whisper, entreatingly, "Dear boy, do come with us, or, if you stay, pray don't drink any more."

He looks at me with an angry glance and turns away without a word, and I am obliged to follow the other women.

"Lady Gwyneth," I say, as the door closes upon us, "may I speak to you a moment?" and she answers, "Certainly," with a glance of chill surprise at my flushed, excited face. The trains of the other two are disappearing round the corner, and my hostess and I are standing in the vast hall, under one of the great swinging lamps, whose light makes every expression of our faces plainly visible to each other.

"My brother is not used to drink very much at home," I whisper, dashing eagerly into my subject: "he has had, I fear, more than is good for him to-night, and papa would be so dreadfully vexed."

"Nonsense!" she answers, with a light laugh: "he is all right enough. You can't keep him tied to your apron-string forever. It will do him good to break out for a change."

I feel bitterly incensed with her for making light of what seems so dreadfully serious to me.

"That is not our idea," I answer, hotly. "Papa would never forgive me if I allowed him to—to disgrace himself."

"What do you propose doing, then?" she asks, looking at me coldly. "Perhaps you would prefer to disgrace him forever in his own eyes by sending the butler to fetch him out of the room."

"There is no need of that," I say, hastily. "If you would send some message to him, he would come at once, and you could make an excuse to prevent his going back."

"I will be no party to it," she replies, moving off. "You are at liberty to do anything you like. And as to the boy's having had too much, it is simply your own imagination."

And Lady Gwyneth walks away, and leaves me alone under the lamp with, if my face is as great an index to my mind as people pretend, a very charming and amiable expression upon it. I, Diana Carew, who, until last winter, never knew the sensation of anger or hatred. Perhaps I made too much of it. I have often thought so since; but papa and I were so proud of our boy that to see him do anything calculated to lower him in the estimation of others would be the cruellest pain to us. When I join the other women, Lady Gwyneth and her sister are talking to each other in a low voice. There is nothing left for me but to address myself to the heiress, and to count with agony the long minutes until the rest of the party shall join us. Half an hour—half an eternity it seems to me—creeps away, and then I hear, with no relief, alas! Lord Rexborough's loud laugh mingling with Curly's. When they enter, Curly is leaning on the other's arm, not only as a mark of familiar affection, but because I see, in an agony of shame, that he is incapable of supporting himself alone. His fair face is flushed, his utterance is thick, and he is unmistakably the worse for drink. Lord Rexborough looks delighted. "So," I think, with the exaggeration of excited feeling, "so might the arch-fiend triumph at the destruction of a human soul." From the experience of later years, I have no doubt that my emotions on the occasion were excessive, and that I was very harsh in judging so angrily the rest if the party, to whom the fact of an Eton boy taking two or three more glasses of wine than was good for him was so venial, not to say natural, an offense that they looked upon it only with amused indulgence.

Lord Rexborough has piloted him to a sofa, where he lolls with an abandon that he would never dream of at other moments, for there is no better-mannered young fellow in the world than our boy.

"Who's for a round game?" cries Lady Gwyneth.

"I am," shouts Curly: "by jingo, yes, let's have a round game! Where are the cards? Here, let me help you get them." And he tries to stagger up.

"Better hold on to the sofa, my boy," roars Lord Rexborough; and Lady Gwyneth—how I hate her!—joins in the laugh. Every one takes a place at the round table except myself, and, although Lord Rexborough holds out the inducement of being my partner and of instructing me in the mysteries of the game, I resolutely decline. I have no heart to play, even if it were not for the deterring thought that they will play for money, which I cannot afford. This conjecture is correct. I take a book and pretend to read; in reality I am listening and watching with feverish anxiety. Curly is evidently not in a state to attend to the game; he makes frequent mistakes, and is utterly reckless in his play, and I can see that he is losing a good deal more than he can afford. What is worse, he is losing his temper, and has already said one or two sharp rude things. My cheeks blush for him until the water comes into my eyes: never in my life have I experienced such torture before. There can be no keener pang than witnessing and seeing others witness the degradation of one you love with all your heart. At last my long anguish culminates. Curly screams out,—

"You're cheating, Desborough. I swear you're cheating! I saw you, by George I did!"

Mr. Desborough gets up, flinging his cards on the table.

"Why do you notice him?" says Lady Gwyneth. "Sit down: don't spoil the game."

"I'm not going to play with a drunken young fool who doesn't know how to behave," her husband retorts.

"How dare you call me names," shrieks Curly, springing to his feet. "You little——"

But before he can utter another word I have grasped him by the arm like a vice and am dragging him towards the door.

"Come with me this instant!" I say, in a voice of such low, concentrated anger that I can scarcely believe it is Diana Carew's; then, as he stares stupidly at me and half resists, a hand is put through his other arm, and we lead him away between us.

I do not look up until we are outside the door, and then I see that it is Colonel Montagu. Curly stumbles up one or two stairs, then leans staggering against the balustrade.

"Go on and show me the way," whispers Colonel Montagu: and, as I obey, he takes him up in his arms like a child and carries him.

I did not think this languid Guardsman was so strong. My swift, trembling feet precede him, and he lays his unresisting burden on the bed.

"Now," he whispers, kindly, "go away for a little while and I will put him to bed. Don't look distressed" (smiling) "I have had the same office performed for me dozens of times when I was a lad." And he begins to unfasten Curly's necktie and pull off his boots as gently as a woman.

I go as he bids me, blessing him a thousand times in my heart, every angry thought of him banished utterly, only so thankful to set my idol half-way up on his pinnacle again. I wander in a desultory way about the corridor until he comes out.

"He is asleep now," he says. "You can sit with him a little while, if you like. You won't care to come down again to-night, I dare say. Good-night" (with a kind pressure of the hand). "Don't think anything of it: no one else will."

Not think anything of it! As I sit listening to Curly's uneasy stertorous breathing, my heart is torn with pain; I feel as if some dire calamity had come upon our house. A horrible vista stretches out before me, wherein, with all the reckless exaggeration of inexperience, I see Curly going irretrievably to perdition, and his evil angels, in the shape of Lady Gwyneth and Lord Rexborough, hounding him on.

I am roused from my horrid reverie by his voice calling me.

"Oh, my head! my head!" he moans. "Oh, Di, I feel so ill!"

It is hours before I leave him. At last he is sleeping quietly and peacefully, and, heavy at heart, I go to my own room. The lights are still burning; in the distance I hear voices and laughter; the party has evidently not yet broken up. I look at my watch: it wants ten minutes to two.

I go to bed, but not to sleep for a long time. One thing, I feel, is inevitable,—that we leave on the morrow. I shrink from it, because it involves humiliation to my darling brother, but none the less I feel, for his own sake, for the duty I owe to him, for my sense of responsibility to papa, it must be done. Then at last, when it is broad daylight, I fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep, out of which I am awakened by a knock at my door. It is rather loud and imperative, as though it were not the first summons. I wake en sursaut, as the French happily express it, and cry,—

"Come in."

The door opens, and Curly comes in. He is dressed, but he looks pale and not himself. In a moment every detail of last night's scene rushes vividly across me. He comes towards me, and then suddenly, before I can utter a word, he has flung himself on his knees by my bedside and is sobbing his heart out. No need for any reproach from me. I might have known how it would be with my boy; so I lay loving hands on his drooped head, loving lips on his golden curls, and my tears rain down as swift as his, and my heart is choked with sobs.

"Forgive me, darling Di!" he says, at last, in a smothered voice. "I don't feel as if I could ever forgive myself. How could I be such a beast?"

How can I heap words upon my boy's bitter self-reproach?—and yet how can I defend him? So I am silent.

"It is the first time," he says, tremulously, "and it shall be the last, I swear, Di. Don't say a word,—I know what you must think; but I will make up for it,—you shall see."

"It was all Lady Gwyneth's fault," I cry, hotly.

"No, it was not," he maintains, stoutly; "it was my own, and no one else's. But I will beg Desborough's pardon, and if ever they catch me getting drunk again, may I—may I feel as sorry and ashamed as I do now!"

And so all thought of a hasty and abrupt departure takes wing, and I do not even tell Curly what I had intended.

"I'd rather not go down without you," he says, presently. "You won't mind, Di, will you?"

Mind! Would I not gladly bear upon my head all the brunt of the shame, if I could? I put my arms round his neck and answer him by a kiss.

I have slept late, and when we go down-stairs every one is already there. Curly goes straight up to his host, his fair honest face flushing, and says, in a quivering voice,—

"Mr. Desborough, I am heartily ashamed of my behavior last night, and I beg your pardon and everybody else's a thousand times."

I don't know how any one else feels, but my eyes are blinded with tears, and I am only too glad to drop unnoticed into the first chair.

When I look up again, every one is talking and laughing very gayly, and, thank God! if I suffered shame for my brother last night, I can feel proud of him again this morning.

Curly keeps steadfastly to his resolve,—resists all temptation, and drinks only with the greatest moderation; so I have no more uneasiness on that score. The greater part of the first day I spend alone; the other ladies all go with the shooting-party, and I am left to my own devices. They invite me, as a matter of course, to join them, and I would gladly go for the sake of the walk, but I cannot bear to see the birds shot.

"My boudoir is at your disposal," says Lady Gwyneth, as, booted and gaitered, she is starting on the morning of the 1st. "You will like it. It is one mass of velvet, looking-glass, and gimcracks. I never use it myself; it is kept expressly for the lady-like young ladies who come here. The room I live in I call my den; but it is not at all in your style, I am sure. You'll find lots of books in the boudoir. If you care for French novels,—but I suppose you don't,—all the newest ones are in my den. Order the carriage at any time you like. I hope you'll be amused."

When they have started, I betake myself, with some heaviness of heart, to a peregrination round the house. I, who am naturally bright and joyous and glad to join in any pleasure and laughter, feel as though the unenviable rôle of wet blanket had been thrust upon me; I am the obnoxious goody young woman who is shocked at everybody else, and whom the rest of the company studiously avoid. I knew I should hate this visit, and I do,—bitterly, unspeakably. Six more days, long, dragging, weary days, in the forced company of the man whom I cannot look at without pain and grief, whom, however small it makes me to confess it, I shall always care for more than any other man. I have carte blanche to wander where I choose, and I begin with the old part of the house. The old tapestry, many of the family portraits, the ancient furniture, is left as in the days of the former owner. Nothing can be more stately, more dignified, in more refined taste. All these rooms are uninhabited now, but Lady Gwyneth has sufficiently good taste to leave them unaltered. The change to the brand-new decorations, the garish colors, the acres of plate-glass and looking-glass, the fantastic and staring monograms wherever they can be crowded in, the rich, bright-colored carpets, the cart-loads of ormolu. Presently I find myself in Lady Gwyneth's "den." It is much more like a man's room than a woman's; there are certainly none of the elegancies that you expect to see in the living-room of a woman of birth and unbounded riches. A plain, small-patterned paper, chintz curtains and coverings to three or four easy-chairs, a fine array of whips, driving and riding, a trophy of foxes' brushes, gloves, cigar-cases, periodicals, a dozen or so French novels in paper covers littered on the table, an album of photographs, which I close as soon as I have opened it. On the wall, pictures of many Derby winners, and several hunting sketches; on the chimney-piece, photographs in stands of a few men and many dogs. Lord Rexborough appears twice among the former. There is no piano, no work-basket, not a single vase for flowers,—indeed, not one object that would reveal the sex of the usual occupier. There is nothing to tempt me to linger, for the view from the window is, very characteristically into the stable-yard.

I feel a slight curiosity to see the despised boudoir, and turn my steps in that direction. I open the door and pause upon the threshold. Certainly it is a triumph of upholstery, but it looks cold and formal, as a room does that is never lived in. The walls are of faint, creamy pink, the cornice picked out with silver; the furniture is all ebony and silver, the curtains and couches of blue velvet and satin, the oval mirrors framed in silver, and there is a profusion of Sèvres and Dresden china, of brackets and lace, statuettes, exquisitely-painted china plaques, and every kind of "gimcrack," as Lady Gwyneth expresses it. I draw aside the filmy lace curtains, fine as a spider's web, and look out over the blazing parterres down the green slopes to the cool, still water and the dark background of trees beyond. It would be a charming room if it were only lived in, but now everything is stiff and formal, arranged in the house-maid's taste, each chair equidistant from the other, so that one cannot even sit down without feeling guilty of having disturbed the methodical precision of the place.

Thence I wander into the gardens, which are most lovely, and somehow manage to crawl through the dull morning. It is nearly lunch-time, and I am thinking with unspeakable horror that I shall have to sit down alone to lunch under the Argus eyes of the solemn butler and his gorgeous satellites, when, to my intense relief, appears the heiress, hot, tired, discontented. I greet her with a more hearty welcome than I could have imagined possible.

"What! back already?" I say, with lively interest. "Are you tired?"

"Yes," she answers, in not the most amiable tone. "And so would you be, if you had had three hours of trudging through stubble-fields and turnips, to say nothing of having been dreadfully bitten."

"Bitten!" I echo, in horror, only thinking of the dogs.

"I can never go into a corn-field this time of year without being worried to death," she returns, crossly; and then I realize the nature of the casualties. "Those two," she proceeds, "are more like men than women: nothing ever tires them. It is very unladylike, I think, to be always running everywhere after the men."

Poor heiress! she forgets that her aspirations were the same, though her powers inferior.

"They won't get me out again!" she continues, still a victim to irritation. "I should not have gone this morning, only" (stammering a little over the fiction) "Colonel Montagu over-persuaded me."

The over-persuasion was couched in these terms: "You don't mean to say you have an adventurous spirit too? I'm afraid you'll very soon knock up if you are not used to it."

Lunch revives her spirits, and she becomes quite garrulous.

"What shall we do all the afternoon?" she says. "We must drive, I think. My cousin has lots of horses and carriages in the stable doing nothing: we may as well have one out." And I concur.

"Let's go into the garden," she suggests next, and leads the way to a seat sheltered from the sun's rays by the branches of an elm.

"Have you ever met Colonel Montagu before?" she inquires of me, when we are seated.

"Yes," I answer, briefly.

"Is he not handsome?" she proceeds, with enthusiasm.

"Yes."

"But wonderfully, out of the way handsome!" she persists. "Have you ever seen a handsomer man?"

"No."

"But you don't say it as if you meant it: indeed, I think you only say it to please me,—I mean" (reddening consciously) "for the sake of agreeing with me."

"Not at all," I answer, quietly. "I think Colonel Montagu quite the handsomest man I ever saw. But why should I say so to please you?" (looking at her coldly, and feeling my voice harden in involuntary contempt). "Is he anything particular to you? Are you going to marry him?"

"Well, no," she stammers, with bashful confusion; "not exactly that. What a downright point-blank question! Why" (eagerly), "have you heard anything about it? Has he mentioned me to you at all?"

"I think he told me that you were staying here," I answer.

"He was asked here to meet me," she says, looking pleased (I don't quite knew at what). "I met him two or three times in town last winter, and he said he hoped to meet me again, so my cousin asked him here. He is so delightful, so amusing, has such a perfect way of saying pretty things to one: has he not?"

"Very," I make answer, a grim sense of the humor of the thing stealing over me.

"I may be wrong," remarks Miss Puggins, regarding me curiously, "but I have a sort of idea that there is not a great deal of love lost between you two."

"Yes?" I say, biting my lips. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, you know" (with charming frankness), "last night after you left the room, we had a long talk on the sofa together. Lord Rexborough and Gwyneth were playing écarté, and I tried to draw him out about you, and he answered just in the same short sort of way that you did about him just now.

"Ah!" I say, unable to be anything more than monosyllabic.

"You are neighbors, too, are you not?" she continues. "Is not Alford a lovely place? I am dying to see it. And his old mother, too, is so nice, I hear. What is Sir Hector like? Very cold and reserved, is he not? So different from his brother, I am told."

I want to be good-natured, but her vulgarity and curiosity seem to shut up my conversational powers completely. She does not appear to observe how small a part I play in the dialogue, but rattles on.

"How do you like Lord Rexborough? He is handsome, is he not? But I think the way Gwyneth goes on with him is too bad: don't you? If I were Harold I should not like it at all. I believe they were in love with each other before she married, but he was only Colonel Blount then, and never expected to be Lord Rexborough; but his uncle and cousin were drowned out yachting the very day of her wedding. Wasn't it funny? I rather wonder Harold cares to have him here; but he doesn't seem to mind,—he is so dreadfully fond of a lord. My papa is always laughing at him. He hasn't any ridiculous ideas like poor uncle; and they quite quarreled at one time because papa wouldn't change his name to Desborough. I wish he had, you know" (frankly), "because Puggins is such a horrid name: isn't it? Only that, being a woman, of course" (looking conscious) "I can change it. The worst of it is, I have such a horrid Christian name,—Sarah; and papa makes me so wild,—he will call me Sally."

Here her confidences are postponed pro tem. by the announcement that the carriage is at the door.

On our return we find the shooting-party have come in before us.

"Such a day we've had!" Curly tells me. "Bagged fifty brace. Charlie Montagu shot twenty out of them. I always thought those languid airs of his were put on: he walked and shot better than any of us. Rexborough got fifteen brace. I got eight; but then I lent my gun part of the time to Lady Audrey: she and Lady Gwyn shot seven brace between them, and Desborough one. I never saw a fellow muff it so. He missed forty birds if he did one. The heiress very soon sloped, and jolly glad we all were when she did, she would keep chattering so. Isn't she sweet on Charlie? He's only got to ask and have there, it's very plain. Now we are going out riding, we four. Charlie is going to stop at home to spoon the heiress; and you, poor Di! I don't know what you're going to do. Why didn't you bring a habit?"

"You know I haven't a decent one," I answer, regretfully.

"What a bore! Well, good-by! I wish you were coming."

"Do pray be careful!" I cry after him, and, not content with my caution, I follow to see him mount.

The riding-party are out on the steps, and the non-riding party are seeing them off. Certainly the saddle is the most advantageous position for Lady Gwyneth and her sister: both have perfect figures, perfectly habited, graceful seats, and unbounded confidence. Lady Gwyneth is going to ride the chestnut, which objects violently to being mounted, and indulges in a series of buck-jumps and capers after she is on his back that send my heart into my mouth. She only laughs and seems to enjoy it.

"Your turn to-morrow, Curly," she cries, laughing, and I vow to myself that, if I can prevent it, he shall not ride the brute. All the horses seem mettlesome, and it is with anything but a comfortable sensation that I watch them prancing and clattering down the drive.

"Have you seen my hothouses?" Mr. Desborough asks me, as we are left standing together in the doorway. "Perhaps you would like to look round." And I assent, and walk away with him.

"Won't you come too, Colonel Montagu?" asks the heiress, and he complies languidly.

Mr. Desborough hurries me on until we are well in advance of the other couple.

"We mustn't spoil sport, you know," he says, in a meaning way that does not tend to increase my love for him.

"Certainly not," I assent, wondering if the scorn I feel is curling my lip.

"He'll be a lucky fellow if he gets her" (with a backward glance). As I am unable to make a civil answer, I make none, but fall to admiring the orchids. When we have gone the round of the houses, whose contents I am able to praise and admire with great sincerity, we come upon the other pair sitting together under a tree.

"I thought they would not follow us far," says my host, with a knowing smile.

If anything, the time goes more slowly here than at home. People say time is so short; and yet there are sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, twelve hours in a day,—or rather fifteen from rising to going to bed. And, if one's heart is aching all the while, heaven knows that tittle of time, a day, seems long enough.

The same party at dinner, arranged in the same manner; but to-night I have no cause for anxiety on Curly's account. He is merry, but not loud, and drinks most sparingly. I listen to my host's platitudes, I contemplate the heiress's charms, or want of them, I steal furtive glances at Colonel Montagu. They need not be furtive: he is not likely to intercept one of them, for all dinner-time he never once looks in my direction. He is more cheerful to-night, and talks to every one except me. My heart throbs indignantly; my thoughts go back to that night, barely four little months ago, when in the wood at Alford he professed himself ready and willing to sacrifice the future for love of me.

Dinner comes to an end; again I follow the other trains to the drawing-room, again I have a request, almost a prayer, to make to my hostess. This time it is that she will not let Curly ride the chestnut.

"I know he rides very well," I say, eagerly; "he has great pluck and a very good seat; but, after all, he has not had much practice, and if anything were to happen to him I——" I stop short, unable to dwell upon such a horrible possibility. Lady Gwyneth laughs me to scorn. I might have guessed as much. "Poor fellow!" she utters, contemptuously: "it is a wonder he has a bit of nerve at all, if he is always being watched and warned and cautioned. Something will happen to him, probably, one of these days; it always does to people who are coddled up and taken such extra care of."

I choke down my anger as best I may, but my dislike of Lady Gwyneth is growing deeply and rapidly. No power on earth shall ever induce me to come under her roof again.

When the rest of the party join us, Lord Rexborough draws a low chair and sits down deliberately beside me.

"All right to-night, you see," he whispers, with a jerk of his head in the direction of Curly. "What a lucky fellow he is to have such a good little sister to keep him straight!"

I dislike this man intensely, and I am in a bitter humor. I would rather offend him than not: little care have I of displeasing my hostess, as I had at Warrington.

"It is very kind and considerate of you to allude to what must naturally be such a pleasant subject," I say, fiercely.

"Oh, hang it! I did not mean to annoy you: you need not take one up so very short. No one thinks an iota worse of a boy for taking a little too much once in a way."

"Some people think all the better of him, I dare say," I retort, scornfully,—"would, perhaps, aid and abet him,—would be rather glad to help him sink down to their own level."

My adversary only looks amused.

"By Jove!" he says, with a laugh, "that was a nasty one for me!—of course you meant it for me."

I am silent.

"Charlie is making the running with the heiress, eh?" he goes on, after a slight pause. "You know I used to think you were rather sweet there last winter, and I'm very glad to see it hasn't cone to anything. Serious intentions don't do for people who are both in the same boat,—'face is their fortune.'—eh?"

If it did not happen that at this juncture Lady Gwyneth summons us to a round game, I should certainly rush away and leave him master of the field, so utterly am I repelled and disgusted by his coarseness. Lady Gwyneth evidently does not share my feeling for him. I might not have noticed any thing, perhaps, had Miss Puggins not suggested it; but now, having the cue, it is not very difficult to see that her manner to him is different from what it is to any one else.

"I don't want to play to-night," he answers her. "I am going to have a chat with Miss Carew: we are old friends, you know" (laughing).

"Come," she says, persuasively, in a tone so far softer than her usual one that I look involuntarily to see if Mr. Desborough is near; "do come: we are all going to play to-night. Miss Carew, you must join us, and it shall be all for love."

"I could not afford to lose any more of Miss Carew's love than I have done already," he answers, with a laugh, and then he rises and gives himself a shake like a great black bear and proceeds to the table. We all play, and the game is harmonious enough, excepting for a passage of arms between Lady Gwyneth and her lord. Although we are not playing for money, she is betting what seems to me very heavily on the game.

"Like my luck!" she says, crossly, at last, to Colonel Montagu: "that's fifty I owe you with last night. I ought to have paid up this morning, but I could not get the money out of my generous proprietor."

"I have told you over and over again, Lady Gwyneth," responds Mr. Desborough, with angry pompousness, "that I will not pay your gambling-debts. No fortune could stand against it."

"Won't you?" she says, scornfully. "Then" (turning to Lord Rexborough) "I shall have to come to you, Jack. You would have paid them all without a murmur, would you not, if your uncle and cousin had only gone to the bottom one little day sooner?"

I feel literally petrified by this daring speech. I look up, half expecting some dreadful finale, but, beyond a scowl and a dark ugly flush, the husband takes no notice. Lord Rexborough is deep in the study of his cards. Colonel Montagu, with quick tact, makes a diversion, and we all go on playing as if nothing had happened.

This, I reflect to myself, is one of the fruits of marriage without love.

There is no shooting the next day. We all go for a picnic to a ruined abbey ten miles distant. The day gives me nothing to chronicle,—only more dull heart-weariness,—and I am glad, ay, very glad, when it is gathered to all the days that have gone before it. Colonel Montagu and the heiress are left together in a marked manner; they are glanced at laughingly and spoken of aside as "a case." Curly, poor boy, little dreaming all the stabs he is inflicting upon me, takes especial delight in chronicling its progress and speculating upon how soon it will come to a crisis. I am not jealous of her,—that would be impossible; but no woman who loves a man can see his attentions given to another, however grudgingly or with however mercenary intent, and not suffer bitter pain. He rides the chestnut to the picnic. Lady Gwyneth laughingly dares him to it, and he accepts the challenge without hesitation.

"After all," she says to him, as we are picnicking among the ruins, "you are no roi fainéant, as your devoted admirer, Mrs. Huntingdon, pretended. You shot splendidly yesterday, and I could not have managed the chestnut better myself than you did this morning."

A flush of pleasure creeps over me at her praise. I love to think he is less indolent and languid than he tries to appear. At this moment my eyes fall on the heiress, who is gazing at him with a proud expression of proprietorship, and a feeling of sickening disgust comes over me.

The next day they shoot again. Mr. Desborough does not go with the rest of the party, but volunteers to drive me out, and I accept. I may as well do that as anything else. That evening Lady Gwyneth asks me, for the first time, to sing. I open the piano, and am half-way through the second song, when the door opens, and Colonel Montagu comes in, followed by the others. He does not seat himself beside the heiress, although she moves her dress invitingly, but walks to the embrasured window and stands in the shadow of the curtain. His face is turned towards me, but I cannot tell if he is looking at me. I know not what impulse seizes me, but I leave the song I am singing unfinished, and break into one that must surely stab him to the heart, if he has one. Ay, if he has! My whole soul goes out into the last verse; there are tears in my voice, in my eyes, in my heart, as I sing it:

"Ah, but the days brought changes after,
    Clouds in the happy skies,
Care on the lips that curved with laughter,
    Tears in the radiant eyes.
Parted asunder, worn with grieving,
    Wearily each one prays,
Ah for the days beyond retrieving,
    Ah for the golden days!"

And when I have sung the last note, lest I should betray myself, I rise, and, before any one has time to speak, am out through the conservatory, rushing with swift feet down the green slopes to the water. It is a glorious night, just such a night as that one the memory of which brought all my heart into my voice. The deep-colored moon is coming up over the stately trees.

"A sudden splendor from behind
Flushed all the leaves with rich gold green,
        And, flowing rapidly between
Their interspaces, counterchanged
The level lake with diamond plots
        Of dark and bright."

I stand and look down into the shimmering water, bitter and miserable at heart, half wishing I could fling myself down into its deeps and let the smooth water flow together again over me. A footfall sounds behind me, and the swift blood rushes to my brow and neck. He has come after me: perhaps he still cares for me; perhaps——

I do not move or turn until a hand is laid upon my arm, and then I look up, and with a sudden horrible revulsion of feeling meet the eyes of Lord Rexborough.

"So," he says, looking at me intently, "it is not all over between you and Charlie?"

For answer I turn to fly from him; but he catches me by the arm and detains me.

"Stop," he says; "don't be in such a hurry."

"How dare you?" I cry, passionately, struggling in his grasp as a mouse might struggle in a cat's mouth. "Let me go!"

"Don't hurt yourself," he says, looking amused; "I am awfully strong, you know, and I don't intend to let you go until I have had a little talk with you; unless you scream, of course, and make a scene,—which you won't, unless I am very much mistaken in you."

"It is a fine use to make of your strength, is it not," I cry, tauntingly, "to detain a woman against her will by brute force?"

"Come quietly, then," he says. "There!" pointing to a seat close by; "I don't want you to go any further than that. I am not going to use my brute force" (laughing) "to carry you off. I am only going to ask you a question."

His hateful grasp is still upon my arm: it is undignified as well as useless to struggle with him, and he is right in supposing that I am not likely to cry out or make a scene.

"Leave go my arm, then," I say, with suppressed anger.

He obeys.

I walk to the seat under the trees and sit down.

"Now," I inquire, in the most aggressively uninviting tone I can command, "what do you want?"

He kneels with one knee on the seat, not so close as is his disgusting wont, but at a respectful distance.

"I want to know," he says, speaking in rather a less familiar and offensive way than usual, "why you hate me so. I believe you look upon me as only one remove from the devil."

"You are rather like the picture of Apollyon in my old Pilgrim's Progress at home," I answer, without hesitation. I detest him. I would say anything to rid myself forever of his hateful importunities, and, though I think him quite capable of strangling me and throwing me into the lake, I am so sick and weary and disgusted with everything I have no room for bodily fear.

"It's not because I'm like the devil that you hate me," he says, thoughtfully: "that's never any great drawback to a man in a woman's eye,—particularly a good woman. Besides, you don't know whether I am good or bad: how should you? As far as that goes, Charlie's quite as loose a fish as I am, and you don't hate him. Then, of course, I haven't his soft, spoony ways: that takes all you women so tremendously. I've led a roughish life: it's always been more in my line to court hardship and danger than to loiter away my time in women's boudoirs. But you haven't told me yet why you hate me."

"Why?" I reply, with vindictive coolness. "I hardly know. It does not seem worth while thinking about, but all the same I do hate you, and, as you seem to know it, I think it would be more gentlemanlike of you to leave me, and not to annoy me with your company."

"By Jove! you're a cool hand!" he says, looking at me with quite an admiring expression. "Are you not afraid of saying such things to me? You don't seem to reflect that I could drop you into the water and drown you in half a minute."

"Oh, yes," I return coolly, "I have thought of that, and it struck me as very probable you might; but I do not mind: you are very welcome; I have had about as much of life as I care for."

"Poor little girl!" he utters, in a pitying tone, that jars horribly upon me. "And so," he continues, after a somewhat long pause, "you really hate me? Well, things don't often conquer me, and I have made up my mind that you shall like me before you have done."

"Have you?" I say, scornfully. "I dare say you are quite equal to any of Hercules' tasks, but I think you will find that a little beyond you."

"You are very truthful and outspoken, at all events," he answers. "Yes, and you are very pretty and very plucky too, and, although you do snub me so smartly, I like you all the same. If you were only civil to me" (laughing), "I believe I should like you a devilish deal too well for my own peace of mind. I don't believe very much in women as a rule, but I do in you. Perhaps it's because you are the first woman who has snubbed me—since I came into my title. I dare say you think it's swagger, but I give you my word there are precious few women who wouldn't run into my arms if I opened them,—and asked them to be Lady Rexborough," he adds, with a grim smile. "I don't suppose you would" (sitting down beside me, but still at a respectful distance, and eying me curiously).

"That I would not!" I answer, heartily. "Not if you were ten times Lord Rexborough and had a million a year."

"You are a strange little girl," he says. "I don't suppose you would. Certainly, if you could refuse Seldon, who will be a duke, and is a nice, good-looking young fellow into the bargain, I don't suppose I should stand much chance."

The moon is mounting higher in the heavens.

"Dark blue the deep sphere overhead,
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,
Grew darker from that underflame."

There is no great inducement to me to stay out with this man, whose presence is odious to me, except that the night is so exceeding fair, and that I shrink from returning to the drawing-room after my sudden flight.

"Have you done with me now?" I say, making as if to rise.

"Do not go," he entreats. "Stop with me a few minutes longer, of your own free will, won't you? I will not force you this time."

His tone is so much softer than usual that I comply.

"I don't wonder at your thinking me a rough brute," he says, in a low voice. "I am quite conscious of it myself; but women never seem to take offense: I should think a great deal better of them if they did. I've not had much of a chance," he continues, looking away from me, "though, heaven knows, I have often wished to be better. You see, if a man is dragged up anyhow, without the influence even of any passably good woman, he gets rather rough notions about the sex; and if, as was my case, he has a mother who is ten times worse than none" (his voice getting low and husky), "it's no very great wonder if he goes rather to the bad."

For the first time in my life, a kinder feeling for my companion comes over me.

"I never was fond of but one woman," he goes on, presently, with a gesture of his hand towards the house. "I dare say you've heard the story: they wouldn't let her have me because I was poor, and God knows, poor little girl, hers isn't much of a life! If I had known a girl like you, say ten years ago, it would have been the salvation of me; but I don't suppose I shall ever do much good now. There's no chance for a man in this world or the next, I believe, unless he's fond of a good woman. What can he think of the sex when he sees them selling themselves day after day to any wretch who has only money enough to buy them? Just look at the contemptible hound who is master of this place; and yet she was a high-spirited girl, and had a heart, or I used to fancy she had."

"Is it only women who sell themselves?" I ask, bitterly, thinking of another case in point.

"Upon my soul I don't understand it," he answers, turning to look at me, and evidently reading my thoughts. "Charlie is a very sensitive, soft-hearted fellow, really: he would be utterly miserable with that creature. He never can marry her, though it seems as if he was trying to screw himself up to it just now. A better fellow never breathed than Charlie, and, though you hate me" (smiling), "there is nothing I should like better than to see you two come together. With money, mind; not without."

"I don't hate you quite as much as I did," I say, softly, stretching out a hand to him.

He takes it and puts it to his lips, and, for the first time, I do not shrink from his touch.

"Let us make a compact!" he exclaims, eagerly: "try to think more kindly of me, and I will try to be less of a brute when I am with you."

Strange and most unlooked-for result of this forced interview: as we walk gently up the green moonlit slopes towards the house, I feel no repugnance to being out alone with him in the quiet night. Before joining the lest of the party, I go to my own room to smooth my hair: it is in the same corridor as the morning-room, and as I pass the latter to go down-stairs the door stands open and a flood of moonlight streams across the floor. I cannot resist looking out of window on a bright night, and I pause and go in. The window is embrasured, and the curtains are half drawn some two feet from the glass itself. Two chairs stand between, and having gazed out once, I find the prospect so fair that I drop into one and continue my star-gazing. I may have been there perhaps five minutes, and am thinking reluctantly of leaving again, when a sound of footsteps comes along the corridor,—a light woman's step and a man's heavy one. The door is pushed open, and the pair, whoever they may be, come in. I, being hidden behind the curtains, am about to come forth, having no desire to play eavesdropper, when I am deterred by the sound of a woman's sobs. I pause, irresolute: it is Lady Gwyneth. Then comes Lord Rexborough's deep voice.

"For God's sake, don't cry! What can I do for you? My poor little darling!"

His voice is hoarse, as if with some deep feeling.

"I cannot bear it!" she sobs; "my life is torture. I hate him worse and worse. His meanness and vulgarity are more sickening every day; and, after what I said last night, he taunted me about you, and asked me why I didn't go off with you."

"D—n him!" muttered Lord Rexborough, hoarsely. "My poor little girl, you'd better have taken me and poverty after all. Heaven knows, if it were not for your own sake—my life's of precious little value to me now—I'd take you away from him this moment. But you'd repent it,—a woman is bound to, sooner or later; and I care too much for you——"

No, I will not hear more! I have been standing in an agony so far, not knowing how on earth to get away; but now I make a sudden rush, and am out of the room, down-stairs, and in the drawing-room, before you could count ten.

"What on earth is the matter?" exclaims Colonel Montagu, who is standing near the door. "How white you are! Have you seen a ghost?"

"Yes—no," I stammer, dropping into a chair.

"Tell me," he whispers, bending over me with bent brows. "I saw Rexborough go after you: he has not dared——" (angrily).

"No, no!" I cry, recovering myself. "Lord Rexborough and I are quite good friends now, and we—we have been admiring this lovely night together."

"Oh!" (looking dubiously at me). "I don't know that Lord Rexborough is the best companion in the world for moonlight walks," he adds, in a tone that I might fancy jealous, if I did not know how utterly indifferent he is to me.

Lady Gwyneth does not appear again. Her sister goes, after awhile, to find her, and, coming back, reports that she is tired and has gone to bed. Lord Rexborough comes in presently, looking perfectly innocent and unconcerned.

"You did not show me that flower in the conservatory, after all," he says, coming straight up to me, "and I want to see it."

I obey his summons: something in his eyes compels me whether I will or no.

"It was you in the morning-room," he says, in a low, hurried voice, as soon as we are out of sight of the others. "You need not say a word" (as I am about to protest): "I know it was pure accident. Very few women would have been as honest as to go when you did. I need not ask you" (looking keenly at me) "if our secret is safe with you. I know it is."

At this moment, as he is bending eagerly over me, Colonel Montagu strolls in.

What is to be the next phase in my life? I think, horror-stricken, as I brush out my hair that night. What would not I have given to avoid being the unwilling sharer of this hateful secret! And yet, feeling as I do in the innocence and integrity of my youth the fearful shame and wickedness attached to unlawful love, in my heart of hearts I cannot but be sorry for them both. And, though until now I have never had any love for either of them, I pray for them on my knees to-night as I might have done if she had been my sister or he my brother.

The next day passes without any incident. I am rather more friendly with Lord Rexborough,—rather less so with Lady Gwyneth. It is evident that she can scarcely control herself to be commonly civil to me.

The day after that is Sunday. We are later than usual: it is a quarter-past ten before we sit down to breakfast, and nobody looks as if they meant going to church. I inquire diffidently of my hostess if their church is near.

"Are you thinking of going?" she asks, rather superciliously. "Perhaps you would like a carriage. It is half a mile off."

"No, thank you," I return. "You will come, won't you?" (to Curly).

"I don't know," he answers, undecidedly. "We get such a jolly lot of it at Eton, that I don't suppose it would do me much harm to stop away for once."

"Do come," I say, in a persuasive sotto voce.

"Go with sister, like a dear good little boy," interposes Lady Gwyneth, mockingly. "She's afraid to leave you alone with me: I might tempt you into some mischief. And it's much nicer hearing old Clarke droning away, and the charity children singing out of tune through their noses, than going round the stables, and perhaps indulging in the sinful game of croquet."

Of course that decides him, as it is intended to do. As I wend my way to church alone, I am afraid my thoughts are not as holy and charitable as they should be. "Never mind," I say, consolingly, to my wounded spirit; "get through to-day and to-morrow, and then your misery will be over."

It is a dreary afternoon. Colonel Montagu is rowing the heiress on the lake. Lady Gwyneth has gone driving in her phaeton, and has taken Curly, principally, I believe, with the amiable intention of annoying me. Lord Rexborough and Lady Audrey have disappeared together, and I am left to my own devices. They are rather dull ones, it must be confessed, consisting chiefly of ingeniously tormenting exercises of mind and memory. When my host, in pity of my evidently lonely and neglected condition, bids me to a long walk with him, I acquiesce gratefully. His companionship may afford me very little pleasure, but it is in any case better than my own, and I am fond of walking for its own sake. I endure patiently his talk of the great ones of the earth, of whom I know something more than when I first met him at Warrington last winter. In the evening they play cards, as usual. Curly declines at first, but Lady Gwyneth laughs him out of his scruples.

"I can't think how your morals get on, Curly," she says, scoffingly, "when you have not your sister to look after them."

"Ah," says Lord Rexborough, championing me, to my surprise, "if I had had such a sister to look after my morals, I should have been a precious deal better fellow than I am. Don't mind being laughed at, my boy; and never be ashamed to be influenced for good."

Lady Gwyneth looks up at him, her eyes flashing with angry surprise.

"If you think so much of good influences," she utters, with a bitter sneer, "why don't you look out for some good, young woman to convert you? A wife would be even better than a sister."

He answers her by a look which even I can read. It says, "You know why I do not;" and she drops her angry eyes, and the conversation too.

My boy playing cards on Sunday night! I do not know that it is actually wicked,—far be it from me to condemn any one,—but, though we have not had a religious education, we should as soon have thought of staying away from church on a Sunday morning, or card-playing on Sunday evening, as of flying.

Curly has not yet ridden the chestnut.

"After all your promises, Lady Gwyn," he says, reproachfully, at breakfast, on Monday morning.

"You shall ride her to-night," she answers. "There is my hand on it." And she extends it to him. Curly, blushing a little, kisses it.

"Bravo, young one!" shouts Lord Rexborough, with a hearty laugh.

"Isn't he charming?" says Lady Gwyneth, laying a caressing hand upon his shoulder. "If I only had him for a month without any counteracting influences, he would be quite perfect."

"Patience!" I think, grinding my teeth; "patience until to-morrow."

I make one more effort. I follow her to her den, thinking grimly how my boy's bones (morally) would be lying whitening there if she had him for that month she spoke of alone.

"I entreat you once more," I cry, earnestly, "not to let him ride that chestnut. I know it is not safe."

As usual, she makes me a scornful answer.

"It may be nothing to you," I return, hotly, "but, if anything happened to him, papa and I should never get over it."

"I have given my word," she answers, coldly, "and I can assure you I have not the least intention of breaking it."

"Then," I cry, passionately, "if anything happens to him, it is on your head! if he is killed, you will have murdered him!"

"Miss Carew, you forget yourself," she says, imperiously.

"I shall never forget you, nor how you have tried to ruin Curly," I answer, bitterly, and turn to go. All day long I am tormented by fear. As four o'clock chimes, the hour appointed for the start, my mind is at fever-heat: at first I think of shutting myself in my room and not seeing them off, but something impels me to go down. The horses are at the door. Curly, radiant with delight, is preparing to mount.

"You get up first," Lady Gwyneth says to him, "and ride gently down the avenue. She gets fidgety if she is kept waiting."

The chestnut violently resists being mounted. She plunges, and almost breaks away from the groom who holds her. Colonel Montagu is standing close to me: in an agony of nervousness I clutch hold of his arm.

"Do not be afraid," he says, kindly. "She will be all right when he is on her back."

Will she? He is in the saddle, and she is bucking, plunging, rearing with all her might. I am sick with terror; my legs fail me. I should fall if Colonel Montagu did not put a strong arm round me.

"Let her go!" cries Lady Gwyneth. "Don't pull at her."

As the words are in her mouth, the chestnut rears up on end: it seems to my agonized eyes as though she will never come down again.

"Get him off! get him off! oh, I pray, I entreat you!" I cry, tearing myself from Colonel Montagu. "Oh, have mercy upon me!"

In my agony, I hardly know what I am doing or saying. I push him violently forward.

Curly is pale, but he is still in the saddle.

"Better get off, my boy," cries Colonel Montagu, going towards him. But, whilst he speaks, the chestnut rears again, quivers in the air, totters, and falls back with him under her. Oh, my God! She makes a furious plunge, but he—he is lying dead, stone dead, on the ground before my eyes! I am beside him! Lady Gwyneth is there too.

"Go away!" I shriek, dragging her off. "Do not dare to touch him! It is you who have murdered him!"

She goes without a word.

"I will fetch the doctor myself," she mutters. "I shall go quicker than any one."

I fling myself down beside my dead boy, I take his beautiful golden-haired head in my arms, and cry, "Oh, how shall I tell papa?" That is my first thought. They are all standing round me, except Lady Gwyneth, and now Colonel Montagu bends down and whispers, "Let us take him in;" and I move aside, and he and Lord Rexborough take up my boy tenderly, and I follow them to the house.

"Best take him up-stairs at once," they whisper to each other, and they carry him up and lay him on his own bed. And all this time I am thinking with dull agony of papa. How will he bear it?—how shall I comfort him?—who will break it to him? And in my pain I turn to the man I have loved.

"Will you go to him?" I say, with trembling, faltering lips. "Will you tell him? You will not mind the trouble, will you? And, oh! break it to him gently; do not tell him all at once; it would kill him!"

"Of course I will go, this very instant," he says. "Oh, my poor child" (his blue eyes growing wet with pity), "try and bear up. If I could only make you know how grieved I am for you!"

"Yes, I know, I know," I answer, hastily. "But do not wait; go at once, pray go."

He goes, and Lord Rexborough and I are left alone.

"We cannot tell till the doctor comes," he whispers, kindly. "I've often seen fellows look like death with concussion of the brain."

I shake my head. "He is dead," I say,—"dead." I have taken up my post at the bed-head to watch the beautiful marble face that not ten minutes ago was flushed with health and pleasure. A sort of stony feeling creeps over me. I feel as though it were not I, but some other woman, who is looking on at me, and to whose voice I am listening. I have no tears, and in a moment of time my thoughts are traveling back all the years that papa and I have watched over our boy, of the sacrifices we have made, the hopes we have indulged, the love with which we have loved him, the pride we have had in him. I take my eyes off the white lovely face and turn them to Lord Rexborough's dark one. It is furrowed with pain: even his eyes have tears in them at this piteous sight.

"Poor lad! poor little girl!" he murmurs, in a broken voice.

"I told her so," I hear myself say, in a cold, quiet voice; "I told her she would be his murderer. She would have liked to ruin him body and soul, but she has only killed his body."

"Hush!" he answers me, in a pained whisper. "She meant no harm, and, poor little woman, she will suffer most awfully at this."

"She suffer!" I echo, in cold scorn. "What is it to her? what will it be to her in a week's time? And papa and I" (my voice breaking into a wail), "what shall we do without him all the rest of our lives?" And as I think of his bonny face and his ringing laugh I break down and fall into an agony of weeping. I fling myself on my knees by my dead boy and call on him to speak to me. I cry aloud to God to take pity upon me, and all this time the rough, coarse man whom I have loathed is standing over me, stroking my hair tenderly and bringing his loud, harsh voice down to a soothing whisper as soft as a woman's. But I heed him not; the flood-gates of my tears are unloosed; I am sobbing out all my passionate love and pity of the young life crushed out in its fair dawn. I am praying frantically for a miracle to bring my dead boy back to life. There is a sound of steps in the corridor, and I look up and see a stranger entering hurriedly. He comes up to the bed, looks at my boy, takes up his lifeless hand, and I see his face contract.

"He is dead!" I mutter, and, as I speak, Lady Gwyneth, with ashen face, comes towards the bed.

I start to my feet.

"Go away!" I whisper, hoarsely: "do not dare to come and look at your work! Remember, it was you who killed him! he would be alive now if it were not for you!" And, so saying, I push her violently towards the door.

But the strain on my nerves is too great, and I fall back senseless into Lord Rexborough's arms. When I come to myself, I am lying partially undressed on my own bed, a kind, comely-looking woman is standing on one side of me, and on the other the doctor,—I suppose it is the doctor.

"Thank God, she's come to, poor dear young lady!" says the woman's voice.

I stare vaguely from one to other of them: I cannot make out what they are doing, nor how I have come here. My eyes involuntarily close again, and I hear them whispering over me, and feel a warm hand on my wrist. Have I been ill? My brain begins to make an effort; I have seen the man's face before; and then all at once consciousness comes back, and I remember all. I start up, crying, wildly,—

"Is he dead? Has papa come?"

"No, no; he is not dead," the doctor answers, in a cheery voice. "Try not to agitate yourself."

"Not dead!" I utter, looking at him as if to read him through and through; "not dead! Will he live?"

The doctor looks away.

"We must hope for the best," he says, in a low voice.

I sink back on the pillow with a groan.

"Oh, poor papa! poor papa!" I mutter. "Who is with him?" I ask, presently. "Not she!" (wildly) "I will not have her near him. I must get up and go to him," and I try to stagger up.

"Wait a little," says the doctor, soothingly. "You shall go presently: you can do no good now."

"Why are you not there, if you say he is alive?" I cry, with a searching look at him.

"Because you wanted me more for the moment. They would have sent for me if—if I could have been of any use."

"But you must be of use," I say, feverishly, "if he is alive. He is not! You are trying to deceive me!"

"He was alive twenty minutes ago," he answers; "but you can do without me now, and I will go. Remember, though, if you want to be of any use, if you want to nurse him, you must not agitate yourself: you must try and control your grief as much as possible. Try and bear up." And he pats my hand kindly.

"Help me to dress," I say to the housekeeper, whom I recognize now; and she obeys, with many kind homely words of sympathy, which almost make me cry again, only that I have made up my mind for my boy's sake to be strong. She helps me along the corridor, for I still feel weak and giddy, to the room which is to witness the parting of my darling's spirit or his resurrection back to life. As I enter, Lady Gwyneth comes towards me. She is still in her habit; her eyes are red, the tears are streaming down her cheeks.

"Do not send me away!" she cries, in low, passionate entreaty. "If you knew how awfully I am suffering, you would not harden your heart against me. Blame me, hate me, but let me stay!"

I shrink from her, but my anger has died away in my overwhelming grief, so I let her stay. She kneels on the opposite side of the bed from me, her hands buried in her face, looking up once and again at the marble beauty that never stirs nor gives the faintest sign of life. The doctor takes up his post at the foot of the bed. The light wanes and dies; in the mirror opposite the window I can see his glorious death. Death! oh, ghastly comparison, for the sun will rise to-morrow, and my boy!—ah, he may be where there is no sunrise nor sunset, where there are no more tears, in the radiant blessedness of God's eternal presence. And if I were sure of his beatitude (the thought steals over me) could I be content to do without my boy again in this world? could I say, "It is well"? No, no! my earth-clogged soul rebels.

"O Lord, only give him back to us!" I cry. "Only give him back; we cannot spare him!" I am roused by the doctor asking in a whisper for a light. Lady Gwyneth rises softly, and, going out, returns with one. All our eyes turn to the bed, but there is no change. We resume our watch. Presently there is a sound of wheels: my heart throbs violently, I tremble in every limb. Lady Gwyneth goes out, followed by the doctor, and we two wait alone for our father's coming. It seems an eternity until I hear his footsteps. At last I catch the sound: he opens the door, he is in the room. Is it his face that looks at me so wan and blanched? He comes towards the bed on which all his hopes are dying. There are moments of supreme agony as well as supreme bliss in which speech plays no part. Silently we put our arms round each other in one convulsive sympathy of pain; then he throws himself down beside the bed and takes the dear white lifeless hand in his. His whole frame is convulsed with sobs; the scalding tears trickle through his fingers. Women's tears are of little account; we weep for a petty mortification or for misplaced sentiment; but a man's tears are like his heart's blood. Here is the end of his hopes, of his sacrifices, of his untiring love; here lies the last of his race, his darling, dying, and he is powerless to stay the King of Terrors for one little hour, to win one last look of recognition from the loving blue eyes. If I live to be a hundred, shall I ever forget the impotent agony of that moment? All the pain of losing my darling is merged in anguish at my father's grief. "Help me, O God, to console him!" I pray, over and over again, in an agony of intensity. Then I creep on my knees beside him, and lift one of his hands from his face and put it round my neck, crying, from no jealousy or self-seeking, God knows! "Oh, darling father, you have me still!" He opens his arms, and I pillow my head on his breast, and the tears of our bitter anguish for our boy flow together.

Presently the doctor comes in again softly. Papa conquers his weakness, and speaks in a firm voice. "Is there any hope?"

"While there is life there is hope," he answers, tritely. But he turns away and sighs. All night long, papa and I keep our vigil beside our wrecked hopes; neither of us tries to persuade the other to leave the bedside or to take rest: we understand each other too well for that. Often during the night hushed footsteps come to the door, and my quickened ear catches the voice of Lady Gwyneth or Colonel Montagu or Lord Rexborough. Sometimes they come stealthily in and look at the beautiful lifeless form and go out again sighing. I hear Lady Gwyneth whisper to papa that she has telegraphed to London for an eminent physician, and that he will be here by the first train in the morning. The night crawls on, and we watch our boy, papa and I, one each side of the bed; sometimes we start when the flickering light or our overstrung nerves make us fancy he has moved. The long night goes; the chill gray dawn succeeds it. Colonel Montagu comes in softly and wraps a shawl round my cold shoulders. The dawn grows strong; the red sunlight creeps up the sky; it waxes broad and hot; and yet he has never stirred. We look fearfully at each other—papa and I—as the strong light shows us the waxen face. Is he gone from us? our eyes ask each other, with mute terror. But the doctor says, "No, there is still hope."

Wit the morning the great physician is here. Before his coming we had looked forward to it with an intense eagerness: we had fancied he would make some speedy change; in our hearts we had thought slightingly of the country doctor's skill. But when he arrived he could do no more: he could bring no color to the white face, no animation to the rigid form. Only one thing he could do to give us comfort, and that he did. He told us of other cases he had known where life had almost seemed extinct, where the patient had lain for four-and-twenty hours without sign or movement and had yet recovered and been none the worse for the accident.

"And sometimes," says papa, in a husky voice, looking searchingly in the great autocrat's face, "more often still, I suppose it terminates—fatally." He can hardly bring himself to the utterance of that dire word.

"We must hope for the best," is the answer. Even when the great oracle uncloses its lips at such a time, its utterance can but be trite and commonplace.

And then he consults and agrees courteously with his country colleague as to what is to be done under various contingencies, takes us by the hand with grave and kindly sympathy, bids us be of good heart, and goes; and with him goes all of hope and courage which that fearful night's vigil had left us.

But, after all, our boy is spared to us. He comes back slowly from those dark portals on whose dread threshold he had set foot, whose gates had so wellnigh closed behind him. When I first look at myself in the glass after that awful time. I expect to see my hair white. I am astonished to find it still its own natural dark brown. When our dear invalid is able to be moved, with what utter and intense joy do I leave behind me the house where I have spent the most grievous days of my life! Lady Gwyneth has redeemed herself very much in my eyes by her untiring care of and solicitude for Curly: she has shared our night-watches and been more tender and womanly than I could have believed possible. As for Lord Rexborough, my dislike of him has merged into warm friendship; and for Colonel Montagu,—ah, I cannot speak of him!—only I think, proudly and gladly, though he may never more be aught to me, that the idol I set up to worship was not unworthy.

In what strange ironies fate delights. Whilst Curly lay between life and death, a letter came to papa announcing that our mother's only brother had died abroad, leaving to Curly and me each three hundred a year, to be at our own absolute disposal from the time of his death, not waiting for our coming of age. When our darling lay so near the land of shadows, this news, that at any other time would have seemed so unutterably good and joyful, struck on us like some cruel mockery; but now that he is growing strong again, and we have the promise that he will in all probability be none the worse for his accident, our new riches are a delightful theme, Curly and I never weary of talking about our great possessions and laying them out in imagination. The presents we will buy for papa, the benefits that he shall derive from the newly-acquired wealth that seems so enormous in our eyes,—these are subjects of which we never weary, which serve to beguile most delightfully the tedious period of convalescence.

September has gone, October is here, and there is talk of Curly going back to Eton. Papa and he have gone for a drive in the old pony-carriage, and I am dawdling away the last bright hours of the short afternoon in our old-fashioned garden. The last few days have been so bright and hot, they might almost cheat us into the belief that summer was yet tarrying with us, but for the unmistakable signs around of the year's decay. It is not very long after five o'clock, but Phœbus is driving his golden chariot apace down the sky towards the long belt of firs yonder. Here is, not actually but very nearly, the last rose of summer left blooming alone before my eyes, and the fair summer blossoms have given way to the great, scentless, ugly autumn flowers,—coarse dahlias, flaming nasturtiums, gaudy zinnias, gorgeous gladioli, and last, but not least, big staring sunflowers. It is a conceit more pretty than truthful, I fancy, that

"The sunflower turns to her god when he sets,
The same look that she turned when he rose."

In the present instance, at all events, the sun god is hurrying fast to his setting, and his great ugly satellites are turning their broad backs upon him in the most unblushing manner. I am sitting on the grass, book in hand, gazing meditatively up the long green vista that divides the flower-rows and the two lines of crooked, prolific apple-trees. They are weighed down with much store of fruit, crimson, gold, green, and russet, and on them and through their narrow leaves to their twisted trunks the red rays play warmly. My book does not occupy a great deal of my attention: it is a very old one, and I have read it many a time before. Its quaint old-fashioned language amuses me. I cannot help thinking Sir Charles Grandison a bit of a prig, for all he is a very fine and noble-hearted gentleman, and Harriet Byron's naïve vanity in the repetition of the extravagant praises of her lovers makes me smile. After all, it must be superhumanly difficult to write one's own story without appearing either utterly uninteresting or disgustingly conceited. I open the book at random, and read,—

"I twitched the string just in time; the coach stopt. 'Mr. Orme,' said I. 'How do you? Well, I hope? How does Miss Orme?'

"I had my hand on the coach door. He snatched it. It was not an unwilling hand. He pressed it with his lips. 'God be praised,' said he (with a countenance—oh, how altered for the better!) 'for permitting me once again to behold that face,—that angelic face,' he said.

"'God bless you, Mr. Orme,' said I; 'I am glad to see you. Adieu.'

"The coach drove on. 'Poor Mr. Orme,' said my aunt.

"'Mr. Orme, Lucy,' said I, 'don't look so ill as you wrote he was.'

"'His joy to see you,' returned she. 'But Mr. Orme is in a declining way.'"

My reading is here interrupted by the vision of a white figure flitting to and fro among the shrubs, evidently on its way to me. I discern it to be Sally in her light cotton gown.

"What is it?" I say, as soon as she comes within hail.

"If you please, miss," she responds, at the top of her voice, "It's Sir 'Ector Montagu."

For a moment my mind conjures up a vision of the dead old tyrant. I could hardly be much more disconcerted by a visit from him than from his successor.

"I will come," I say, picking myself up slowly from the grass with a fluttering heart, and walking housewards with most reluctant and unwilling steps. His back is turned towards me as I enter the room. When he faces me, I can see that he is altered, and that he looks darker, thinner, more haggard than he used. His greeting is a strange one: he does not give me the usual commonplace salutation, but takes me by the hand (unlike Miss Byron's, it is an unwilling one), and says,—

"You once offered me your friendship, and I refused it.—rather ungraciously, I fear. I have come to-day to ask you for it."

And then he goes on abruptly to speak of Curly's accident.

"I did not hear of it until some time after it happened," he says.

Then I ask him about his mother.

"It is on her account I am here to-day," he answers. "Without such an excuse I should have been diffident of coming. My poor mother is so low-spirited and dejected,—she cannot at all get over my father's death. Is it not wonderful," he breaks out, "how these good women will deceive themselves into thinking when a man is dead that he possessed every virtue under heaven! Far be it from me," he adds, hastily, "to breathe one unkind word of those that are gone: death makes all sacred; but it does seem strange."

"Lady Montagu was always devoted to Sir Hector," I answer. "I felt sure she would take his death dreadfully to heart."

"She is always reproaching herself with not having done enough for him or made greater efforts to please him. She is quite morbid on the subject. I think she remembers every time she was a minute late for dinner, and is inconsolable because, since her illness, she did not come down to make his breakfast. The doctors recommend change; but no inducement will get her to leave the place. She fancies that if you would only come over and spend a little while with her it would cheer her up and make her a different person. Cannot you come?" he adds, eagerly; then, as he sees how I shrink from the thought, "You need have no fear about me" (in a pained voice): "you will be sacred from any annoyance from me. Indeed, if it would make you happier, I will go away altogether."

"There is no need for that," I say, reluctantly, "and I should be glad, most glad, to go to Lady Montagu, if I could really be of any use to her; but——"

"But what?"

"Curly is still here," I say. "I could not possibly leave home until he is gone, and then I shall hardly like to leave papa, he will feel his loss so dreadfully."

But when papa returns, a few minutes later, he warmly seconds Hector's request, and utterly pooh-poohs all idea of not being able to spare me. And so, most reluctantly on my part, it is settled that Sir Hector (how strange his new title sounds!) shall send the carriage for me the week but one following. Papa invites him to stay and dine. He accepts, apparently nothing loath. His face seems to grow less haggard, the unfrequent smile comes to his lips, and he becomes quite cheerful. For one moment before he leaves we are alone together.

"Do not be afraid to come," he whispers, hurriedly. "I swear not to vex you by any allusion to the past. We will be friends, nothing more" (with a sigh). And then papa returns, and he bids me good-by.

So it happens that once again I go to Alford,—to the house where, in one little day, all my future was spoiled and marred. Lady Montagu is sadly altered: the delicate color in her cheeks has faded to a waxen hue, her eyes are dim with much weeping. She greets me with all her old kindness, but the very sight of me affects her and brings tears to her eyes.

"Do not mind me, my dear," she says, tremulously "Everything now brings back my dreadful loss."

How many a devoted husband, I wonder, has been mourned far less than the cruel, selfish old tyrant of Alford! She talks much of him: indeed, it seems the only theme on which she cares to speak. I listen, with scant patience, inwardly, to her self-reproaches, knowing how utterly unmerited they are; but it is useless to try to persuade her that she has not failed in wifely duty and consideration to her lamented lord. There is a great alteration in the manners and customs of the house,—far less state and a great deal more comfort. We dine, not in the great cold banqueting-hall, but in a cosy little dining-room, furnished simply, but in the most perfect taste, from the many oaken treasures of the hall. There is no unnecessary parade of gold and silver plate, and we are waited upon by Simkins and one footman, who retire when they have served us, and are summoned by a hand-bell. Hector's manner to his mother almost makes me love him: it is a mixture of the most tender kindness and respect. She may transgress as much as she chooses—and I am bound to say she does—the rule of punctuality, without a look or a hint from him. If his soup is cold through waiting for her, he makes no remark. What a blessed change his rule must be for the servants! But, though he is so considerate, he lacks no dignity, and they run with far more alacrity for love of him than they did for fear of his father. His considerate thoughtfulness for his mother can be illustrated by one example. He has given the servants strict orders not to address him as Sir Hector before his mother: in her presence he is always plain sir, as of old. For my own part I am glad, for I can never hear the name and title without an unpleasant reminiscence of its former owner.

The morning after my arrival, Hector takes me to the stables and shows me a pretty pair of ponies.

"These are for you to drive," he says. "I am in hopes you will be able to entice my mother out. It will seem different from taking a formal drive in a large carriage."

He has them put to, and makes me drive him round the park, and I enjoy it most thoroughly. I cannot help fancying (perhaps with the vanity I deprecated in Miss Byron) that the ponies are here more on my account than his mother's. How good and thoughtful he is! why cannot I care for him? True to his word, he never makes the slightest allusion to the past; but for an occasional look in his dark eyes, I might think he had quite got over caring for me. We have an unceasing subject of conversation in the improvements he proposes making. Every evening we pore together over plans of cottages and schools. We make delightful little pictures of clean, comfortable houses, with trim gardens, and places where the cottager may keep his pig without annoyance to himself or his neighbors; where he may have his potatoes and cabbages and fruit-trees; where he may keep bees, if he has a taste that way, and even fowls; a little drying-ground, where the good wife can hang out her clothes, instead of employing the surrounding bushes and hedges: in short, a habitation so pleasant and inviting that it would be a real pleasure to live in it, even though one had a higher social status than that of a farm-laborer.

Meantime, Lady Montagu dozes away comfortably in her arm-chair by the fire, secure from any interruption of her pleasant slumbers. The days pass on neither very slowly nor very swiftly, as is usually the case when one leads a comfortable, uneventful life. She is decidedly far more cheerful than when I came: her eyes are brighter, her cheeks less waxen, she smiles not unfrequently, and without that dreary effort which was so painful to see at first. She has driven several times with me in the pony-carriage, and enjoys it. The weather is clear and bright, and she has no symptoms of her old enemy bronchitis.

Neither she nor Hector ever allude to Colonel Montagu: once or twice when the post-bag comes in I recognize his handwriting, but she reads her letter without a word of comment. I long to know if he is going to marry the heiress, but dare not ask. It is evident enough, by their own silence, that they do not wish me to refer to him.

After a fortnight at Alford, I begin to talk of going home, although they both use every argument in their power to dissuade me. I am happy enough: it is from no wish to leave either of them. I love Lady Montagu dearly, and for her son I feel the very warmest regard: every day makes me like him more, for every day brings fresh instances of his real unobtrusive goodness. I cross-question myself severely on the subject of my inability to love him, but my rebellious heart flings to the wind any notion that he can ever be more to me than a friend. No! Loyal je serai durant ma vie. I have never loved, shall never love, but one man.

It is, however, on papa's account that I want to go home, for I know quite well, in spite of ten thousand protestations to the contrary, that he does miss his little girl sadly. I have elicited so much from severe cross-questioning of Gay.

"Well, my dear," she says, after great pressure, "it's no use my goin' against the truth, nor it wouldn't be right to do so, though your pa would be very angry with me for letting of it out, but he does seem quite moped and lost like when you're away. Even that Sally, whose head is as thick as a deal board, she can't help noticin' of it,—how he scarcely eats anything, and always reads a book all meal-times. And the fuss he makes of that dog" (meaning the pug), "you wouldn't believe it; and when you are coming back he always brings the letter to me, and his eyes brighten up, and he says, 'Well, Gay, your young lady's coming home to-morrow, or next week,' as it may be, and then I promise you, my dear, we all go about with twice as much life in us as before."

So I know that I am missed, and that makes me resolute in refusing to be away for very long at a time. But, as Hector entreats me so earnestly and genuinely for his mother's sake, I yield, and stay on another week. But all the entreaties in the world are powerless to keep me a day longer. I promise to come over frequently for a day or two at a time.

So I take my leave, and go back to papa and Gay and the pug. I have heard people assert that pugs are stupid. I should like to show them mine. Of all the devoted, faithful, intelligent friends in the canine world, commend me to a pug! I could write chapters upon chapters about dogs, and, though I have not had experiences among my own kind bitter enough to make me appreciate it thoroughly, I can still recognize the fine satire in the speech of the man who said, "Plus je connait les hommes, plus j' admire les chiens."

Diana is sitting over the fire one dull November afternoon three days after her return from Alford. She has brought home a goodly store of books, and is deep in one of them. She has glanced through the window and assured herself that there is nothing to attract her out of doors; her conscience does not prick her on account of the dogs, as they have had a famous run before lunch: so she arms herself with a novel with the real delight of a passionate lover of reading, piles up the blazing fire with more wood, and ensconces herself in a cosy chair with her feet on the fender. The bright flames throw a ruddy light upon her hair and a delicate pink shade on her face; her slender ringless hands look scarce strong enough to support the heavy tome over which she is poring so intently; her small slippered feet are crossed on the fender, and she has evidently made up her mind to an afternoon of uninterrupted enjoyment. But she has only read a chapter and a half when the unwonted sound of the door-bell makes her start.

"Oh, dear!" she says, half aloud, with an accent of unfeigned disappointment, "who can it possibly be? Just as I was getting so intensely interested, too!"

She is not left long in suspense. Gay herself ushers in, with the ceremony due to so important a guest, "Sir Hector Montagu."

"You are not well," says Diana, in a tone of friendly interest, as soon as the first greetings are over. "How pale you look!" He takes a seat opposite to her, and for a moment makes no answer. She has time to note the haggard, hunted expression of his face, changed almost out of knowledge in the last three days.

"It is no use," he says, in a low, agitated voice: "I cannot be silent any longer. I gave you my word not to open my lips about my love at Alford, and I kept it, did I not?—kept it to the letter. But it is too strong for me. Can you not give me hope? Oh, for God's sake, if you can, do!"

And the hunted eyes look at her in terrible earnest. At his words, all the kindly warm feeling of friendship for him that has grown up in her heart during the last three weeks dies out and gives way to a cold feeling of repulsion. Her face becomes pale, and she shivers,—ever so little,—but yet he sees it.

"What is it," he cries, in a voice of indignant pain, "that repels you so? Am I loathsome? Am I something to shrink from as you might from a leper? Am I so repulsive that even you, who are so good and charitable you would not willingly pain any one, cannot but shiver at the sound of my voice when it speaks of love?"

Diana's kind heart is stung by remorse.

"Oh, no! no! do not say that!" she cries, hastily, and then looking round as though to conjure help from some invisible presence. "Oh!" she says, remorsefully, clasping her hands, "what can I do to make him not care for me?"

He makes a great effort over himself, but his eyes are full of unutterable pain. Presently he says, humbly,—

"Could you not try to tolerate me?—could you not get accustomed to the thought of me by degrees? And then surely, in time, my love for you could not fail to bring out some answering feeling in your heart."

Her eyes are fixed mournfully on the fire; she does not know how to answer him, since it is impossible that she can give him hope. He takes faint courage from her silence, and continues:

"After that night at Alford I did everything in my power to forget you. I vowed that I would conquer my love, but" (sighing) "it was too strong for me. Ever since my father's death I have occupied myself perpetually about the place, trying to get oblivion by hard work both bodily and mental. But all the time I hungered for the sight of you; and when you came you made the place heaven for me, as I knew you would. God knows what a bitter effort it cost me to keep silent all the time; but I had given you my word. Now I must speak."

Diana, genuinely distressed, casts about her for something that will make her refusal of him less harsh.

"I wish you would not persist in thinking so well of me," she says, rather forlornly. "I can't think why you should care so much about me: indeed, I am not so very nice, really; you would be very much disappointed in me."

"Should I?" he answers, eagerly. "I am quite content to risk that."

"But," she says, raising troubled brown eyes to his, and trying back since her last words were unsuccessful, "surely it could be no happiness to you, to any man, to have a woman who could not make the smallest, faintest pretense of loving him. And" (sorrowfully, because she hates to give him pain) "I could not."

"It seems strange," he says, turning his eyes from hers and gazing into the fire. "I used to be rather a proud fellow, but now I seem to myself a very abject. I would rather have your indifference than any other woman's love. I would rather" (looking at her with fierce, miserable eyes) "have you if I knew you hated me than go without you."

Diana's resources have come to an end. What can one say to a madman? She takes refuge in silence. Oh, if her father would only come in! she thinks; if some diversion of any kind would occur to put an end to this miserable tête-à-tête! But nothing does happen, and she sits staring mutely at the fire and trying to get inspiration out of the glowing logs. But none comes, and, after a long, unbroken silence, she says, desperately,—

"What am I to say to you?"

"Say!" he cries, clutching at the very faintest ray of hope; "say you will try. Think about it; try to get used to the thought; let me come and see you often; tell me how to make you like me. What is there in the world I would not do or compel myself to, if it made you think more kindly of me? If you send me away" (feverishly) "you send me to the devil! I shall throw up everything at home and go away somewhere, to Africa or China,—it is all the same to me, as long as I only put an impossible distance between myself and the sight of you."

"What!" cries Diana, "and give up all the plans for doing good that you have looked forward to for years, now when everything is in your power, in your own hands?"

"Yes," he says, bitterly, "even so. I am a poor philanthropist, am I not, to let all my good resolves be balked by a pet at Fate; but if I stayed here without you I should go mad: there is madness somewhere in the family, I believe" (looking rather wild).

Then, as he sees Diana's frightened look, he says, calmly,—

"No, no; do not be afraid. I am sane enough; only about going to the farther ends of the earth I am quite serious. Oh, Diana," coming closer to her and taking one white, reluctant hand, "think what we might do together, how happy we would make our people, how, working together, we should strive to lessen some of the gigantic burden of sorrow and want that grinds the souls and bodies of the poor. Has that no weight with you,—you who are so pitiful, so tender-hearted and charitable? Your life could not but be a happy one, since it would be so full of goodness and charity, and you would be loved" (his deep voice quivering with strong passion) "as I believe before God no woman was ever loved before. What is my fate to be? is it to be a life of love, a life of usefulness and honor, or will you condemn me to be a miserable outcast?"

He is pouring out his very soul in his words: it is no exaggerated language, such as men think right to use on such occasions; every syllable comes straight from his suffering heart.

Diana is overcome: the intensity of his passion masters her. Her face is ashen pale: her lips will scarce unclose to pronounce her heart's death-warrant. In a moment of time she has thought of her barren future, of the hopelessness of her own love, and as he draws the vivid picture of his own life to come, which, according to her fiat, shall be good or evil, the thought of sacrificing herself dawns in her heart.

"Let it be as you wish!" she almost gasps.

He seizes both her hands and looks into her eyes as though he would pierce her very soul.

"Are you in earnest?" he says. "Oh, for God's sake don't deceive me!—don't promise and take your word back again, unless you want me to blow my brains out!"

She draws away from him and stands upright.

"If you are willing to let me sacrifice myself," she says, looking at him with cold misery in her eyes,—"well" (with a gasping sigh), "so be it!"

"It shall not be a sacrifice," he cries, passionately: "you will, you shall be happy. Unless you are the most unreasonable woman God ever made,—and I know you are not that,—you must be content with your life: nay, you shall love me yet."

For one moment, in his wild joy of having her, willing or unwilling, he loses his stern self-control and lays his burning lips on her cold, most reluctant ones. And if the King of Terrors had claimed her as his bride, and sealed her to himself with his icy kiss, she could not have shrunk and shivered with a more ghastly horror. But Hector, if even he is conscious of it, does not care: his blinded eyes see only the radiant picture of the future wherein she shall love him as he loves her.

She starts from him, crying, with unconscious cruelty,—

"Do not make me hate you! You know I have no love to give you. I am sacrificing my future to yours. Do not make the sacrifice too impossible!"

"Forgive me," he says, humbly, taking her cold hand quietly.

Before she knows what he is doing, he has slipped on her finger a ring blazing with diamonds.

"Do you know," he whispers, triumphantly, "I have carried that about with me ever since the day I went to London when you were first at Alford, in the forlorn wild hope that some day this might come to pass?"

Diana feels inclined to tear it off and fling it away. What cares she though he could deck her from head to foot with diamonds, each one as big as the Koh-i-noor? Would they make her heart less heavy, her sacrifice less bitter?

"I know," he utters, an uneasy flush coming to his dark brow, "that you cannot get reconciled to the idea all at once. Perhaps you hate me for having taken an unfair advantage of you, but you will think better of it in time. Only don't, I implore you, steel your heart against me: try, when I am gone, to think more kindly of me. I won't stop now" (looking wistfully at her, as though hoping she might bid him stay).

She does not: she is longing to be rid of his hateful presence, to be alone with her gigantic new misery,—the worst, she thinks now, that has ever befallen her. So, with one lingering clasp of her unwilling hand, he goes,—goes, astounding as the fact may seem, wildly, feverishly happy.

Diana, left to herself, feels like one in a dream. She moves to the window and looks out at the chill dull day, chill and dull as her own hopes of the future,—looks with vague eyes at the bare trees with their scanty remnant of yellow leaves, at the sodden gravel-walk, the few straggling bits of color among the dying autumn flowers. She shivers, and comes back to the warm fire and leans with one arm on the mantel-shelf and her head resting on her hand. Glancing unconsciously downwards, her eyes light upon the ring which is flashing back a hundred lovely lights from the glowing flames. She drags it off and flings it away from her, and then, as a sudden remembrance darts across her, she tears out her handkerchief and passes it sharply again and again over her lips until the blood comes. The lips that she had meant should never more be touched by mortal man! that until now had been sacred to the memory of that one golden day! She begins to realize what she has done. A vista of unspeakable horror opens before her. What! to live in the house that is yet his home, where he needs must come and she needs must see him, and, seeing, love him, though she is his brother's wife? And at this ghastly thought she flings herself down on the ground and sobs and moans with such terrible anguish that, could the man who was so confident of winning her love see her, he must needs relinquish all hope.

Sir Hector mounted his horse,—

"He gave his bridle-rein a shake,"

and rode off triumphantly, with flashing eyes. In his exultation he tossed a sovereign to the old man who did duty as groom and gardener at Carew Court. The latter, gazing at his retreating form, had half a mind to run after him and ask if he had not mistaken the gold piece for a shilling, but pleased himself by deciding that it was intended as a gift, now Sir Hector had come into so much wealth and splendor. "Anyhow," he remarked to himself, "it's nothin' to him, and it's a fortin' to me." Saying which, after one more loving glance, he put it away in his waistcoat-pocket, where it warmed the cockles of his old heart.

Meantime, Sir Hector rode on his way. For the first mile he felt nothing but a wild sense of triumph; at the second, an unpleasant remembrance of Diana's stony look of misery thrust itself upon him; at the third, a reaction came, and he pulled up his horse suddenly by the roadside. Bruno, having had a tolerably long journey, was not fretful or impatient at this sudden pause, but betook himself, unchecked, to searching in the hedge for some stray bit of edible green, wherewith to beguile himself whilst awaiting his master's pleasure. If any one had come along the road just then they might have been astonished on this chilly November afternoon to see a horse and his rider stationed by the hedge-side, as though it were a broiling afternoon and they were taking shelter from the too ardent rays of a July sun. Sir Hector's brows were deeply knit. Here, in the hushed gray stillness, between the two hedgerows of wintry red berries and tangled brambles, he was fighting with himself the hardest battle he had ever yet been called upon to fight during his six lustres of life,—fighting with the hopes that were dearer to him than life. One horrible thought had taken possession of him,—the same one that had moved Diana to her outburst of anguish: it was the thought of his brother. He knew well enough that she had loved him, that it was that love which had stood between himself and her before, that for aught he knew was standing between them now. Had he not been in the same house with her for weeks only two months ago, and though over his father's death-bed he had wrung from him, on certain conditions, the oath that he would never speak to Diana again of love, what faith was there to be put in him? Had he not at Alford, the very same evening that he had volunteered to withdraw himself from his (Hector's) light, made open and violent love to her? But came the ghastly thought, suppose it turned out as he hoped, suppose Diana came to care for him: could he hope to keep her forever out of sight of Charlie? And suppose when she did meet him, after however long a time, the old love came back? Even if he trusted implicitly in her high principle, would that hinder his own jealous heart from beating with furious suspicion, even hatred of his brother,—of them both, perhaps? And yet to tear this new hope, that had seemed like the unclosing of heaven's gates to him, out of his heart, to leave a torn, gaping wound, that all time would fail to cicatrize!

It is over; with one throe of agony he has torn the dear hope out of his life. He picks up the reins, turns his horse's head, and rides swiftly back to Carew Court. The old groom, seeing him come back, is smitten with a grievous suspicion that he has discovered his error and returned for the sovereign, and is preparing to think meanly of him in his disappointed heart. But Sir Hector only throws him the reins, muttering that he has forgotten something, and turns hastily to the house. The hall-door is ajar: he pushes it open and goes in. No one meets him, and he makes his way to the room where he left Diana. Without knocking, he opens the door, and sees her prone by the fireside, wailing and weeping in her bitter abandonment. She does not hear him, and he stands for a moment looking at her.

"It is well that I came," he thinks, with a bitter pang.

He closes the door, and she, hearing the sound, turns quickly.

"Dry your tears," he says, in a harsh, husky voice; "do not sob in that agonized way;" for, try as she may, she cannot all at once still the gasping throes that shake her slender frame. "I have come to release you."

"Yes, yes," she cries, eagerly; "you are right; you see it could not have been. Oh" (rising to her feet and giving a sigh of utter relief), "I am glad that you see it too. There," she says, stretching out a hand to him that is no longer unwilling, and smiling through her tears, "I will make a fresh compact with you. I will always be your friend,—your best friend."

"Never!" he answers, harshly, more pained than words could express at her joyful acceptance of his bitter sacrifice. Surely she who was his ideal of all that was tender and womanly might have some intuitive sympathy for the great waste and havoc of his life, which she herself, however unwittingly, has caused! "After to-day, if I can help it, I will never see you again."

"You will think better of it," she says, and all the time she is stealing furtive glances around to see what has become of the ring she flung away in her disgust. Presently she espies it glittering behind the leg of a chair. He has turned away, and is looking with miserable eyes into the fire, and she takes the opportunity of stooping to pick it up and slip it on her finger again. As if he had not seen it lying the very first moment he entered the room!

Diana stands looking at him, rather embarrassed how to return it. She does not want to give him pain, but she cannot keep this valuable token that but so late was the badge and symbol of the loathed enslavement of her future. As she is casting about uneasily in her mind for some appropriate yet unwounding words with which to return it, he turns and looks at her.

"Let me look at you for the last time!" he mutters, in a voice harsh with strangled emotion; "let me be quite sure that the woman who spoiled my life was as lovely as I thought her!"

Diana stands before him with the color shifting uneasily in her face: not even the hitter fit of crying has made her unbeautiful. The troubled brown eyes look up at him with unfeigned sorrow for his pain. He gives one long fixed look at her. "Good-by," he says, with a sigh, wrung from the depths of his heart, not attempting to touch her, or to take other farewell than that one sorrowful word. With that he turns to go.

"Stop!" she says, detaining him: "this ring" (drawing it quickly from her finger),—"please take it."

He grasps it with mingled wrath and pain, and flings it furiously into the fire's red heart. But his fury has more of pain than anger in it.

He is gone, and Diana on her knees is carefully rescuing the costly bauble from its fiery grave. When it is cool enough, she wipes it, and lays it aside to be returned on some future occasion. She feels very sorry for him, but in truth and reality she does not even dimly guess at the bitter pain she has inflicted upon him. We know well enough our own pangs, but which of us ever realizes those of his brother man?

As Hector rode home, he felt that all pleasure in life, all love of it, was gone from him. Until now he had always had hope, however dim or vague, that Diana would be his one day; now he realized fully the futility of his dreams. In one hour's time, life had grown black and bitter: it held nothing for him in the future that he valued. Many a boy in his passionate disappointment has felt the same, and in a month's time has laughed again and gone about the world with a very cheery comfortable interest in it; but this would not be the case with Hector. He was not reckless or impulsive; he knew his own mind; having lost the one woman whom he loved, no other could ever take her place. There might be a thousand more made after the same external pattern, women with bright eyes, sweet red lips, and gracious ways, but there was only one Diana Carew for him. He had never loved or much desired any other woman; this one possessed all his heart. And she had tossed it lightly, nay, contemptuously, away.

For a few hours he kept up bravely. He dined with his mother, talked to her cheerfully, as though to-day had been as commonplace as other days, read or seemed to read the papers as usual while she dozed, and kissed her with the wonted affectionate kiss when she retired for the night. He too went to his room, and there he laid his arms on the table, and, burying his face in them, sobbed—not like a child, as the common phrase runs, but—as only a stern grown man can sob, and he, if God is merciful to him, but once in a lifetime. It was his farewell to love, to hope, to life, all but the mere mechanical every-day part of it. What should he do? he asked himself; if he stayed on here alone, with all the huge long hours in which to eat his heart out in vain regrets, he should go mad. Then he formed a bitter resolve. How many a time had he not heard of men going to the devil when overtaken by grievous disappointment, and coming back after a time the worse perhaps in health and pocket, but tolerably cured of their heart-aches, anyhow with the wounds cauterized. He had never been a saint; he had as much of earthly alloy as most men, not bad men, have; but he had never loved vice for its own sake, had always had a healthy disgust for its grossness and coarseness; but now he meant to fly to its foul waters for the nepenthe without which he needs must die or lose his reason. He was going to try dissipation, like a man of sober, temperate habits might toss off glass after glass of brandy as an antidote to the agonies of neuralgia. So he went, and returned a fortnight later in the state a man of his temperament would naturally do, his nerves unstrung, his whole soul filled with unutterable loathing and horror of himself and all connected with his moral experiment. He had a new remedy in view now. He longed for death as men long "after hid treasures," but he would not take his life with his own hand; that would be unmanly, that would stain his ancient name with dishonor. But there were other means. He took to hunting every day when there was a meet within twenty miles. He had always been a fair rider, now he became a desperate one,—rode as straight as a die; no place was too big or too ugly for him. The best riders in the field looked askance at him. "By Jove!" said one to another, "one would think a fellow who has just come in to a title and such a property as Montagu would set a little more value on his life. Hang me, if one wouldn't think the fellow wanted to break his neck!"

And of course, as it always happens when a man burns to shake off life, it clings all the stronger in him. Sir Hector came scathless out of his rides for death, without a bruise or a scratch: he seemed to bear a charmed life. And he would come home worn out and sleep for hours from sheer exhaustion, and then, as regularly as the hour of two came round, he would wake up, and be delivered over to his tormentor,—memory. He tried to read, but Diana's eyes looked out at him from the pages; try as he might, he could not escape her. And in the morning he would come down white, wild, haggard-looking, and, if it was a hunting-day, would mount his horse, or, if not, would go over his farms, or take a gun and walk twenty miles after birds; but his hand and eye were unsteady, and he did not often hit anything now. When he did, he felt an unsportsmanlike feeling of regret, and would take the dead bird in his hand, smooth the ruffled feathers gently, and say, "I might have left the life in you, since you enjoyed it. I wish to God you were alive again, and I was dead!"

His mind had quite lost the strong, firm balance which it had possessed formerly in a greater degree than most men's.

Lady Montagu was away for a few weeks at Hastings, to get over the worst of the winter, but she was coming home for Christmas, which would soon be here now. Simkins remarked with genuine distress the change in his master, and confided his doubts and fears to Mrs. Bishop, the comely housekeeper, with whom, at no very far distant date, he contemplated setting up the "Montagu Arms." With the penetration of her sex, she made a very good guess at the cause of the change in Sir Hector, and was not long in bringing Simkins round to her own view of the case.

"Oh, woman! woman!" he said, apostrophizing the sex in general, and Mrs. Bishop in particular, "what you has to answer for! Not but what I must say, if there is to be a new Lady Montagu, there's no one I would like to see occupying the place better than Miss Carew."

"Tut!" answered Mrs. Bishop, huffily; "we don't want no more mistresses here than my lady."

Sir Hector had always made a point of going to church on Sunday mornings; not that he took any particular pleasure in it, but because he considered it right for the sake of example. He found it wearisome work sometimes listening to the vicar's platitudes. In his heart he was skeptically inclined, like many intellectual men, and insisted on bringing revelation to the test of reason. At home, however, and in his own parish, he eschewed all argument on theological subjects, and, for aught any one at Alford knew to the contrary, his religious convictions were as deep and sincere as those of the vicar himself. In church he behaved with the decorum and propriety of a gentleman: who was to know that one half the time he was indignantly refuting to himself the axioms delivered from reading-desk and pulpit, and the other half thinking of utterly irrelevant subjects? He had great ideas of consistency, too: it seemed a monstrous absurdity, not to say crime, to pray to God on a Sunday to deliver you from sins that you had the fullest intention of committing probably the very next week. He steadfastly refused to "eat and drink his own damnation" by communicating whilst his life was still impure. This was the only religious exercise of which he seemed outwardly unobservant. But in the future's happy vistas he had dreamed of a time when all this would be changed, when his life would be pure without effort, when he would banish all doubts from his heart, and, kneeling beside the woman he loved, would, with a glad heart, also offer up ungrudgingly his prayer and praise.

There are very few men who do not look for and respect piety in a woman: even a bad man is shocked by irreligion or flippant sneers at virtue from a woman's lips. Hector had watched Diana in church with stealthy and secret gladness,—had gazed at her sweet serious face, listened to her devout utterances, longed for her dear sake to be better, and looked forward to the time when she, by her example and influence, should lead him too heavenwards. And now all these hopes were shattered in the dust, and there was nothing left for him but to "curse God and die." How could he pray to a God who had decreed the utter ruin and blasting of his life? how love him as a Father who would not willingly afflict, when he had laid this crushing misery upon him? And between him and heaven now there was a great gulf fixed,—the gulf of deliberate sin. But, though he had ceased even formally to utter a prayer, he nevertheless went to church,—partly from habit, partly from a sense of responsibility, and chiefly to get rid of two hours of the weary Sabbath. The Sunday before Christmas-day he went as usual. A stranger was doing duty, and Hector prepared himself to listen with a shade more interest than usual to the sermon. It was no marvel of oratory or elocution,—a few plain words, plainly spoken; but they gave Hector the idea of a new weapon wherewith to repel the enemy that beset him in the night and in the noonday. The preacher was quite a young man, nothing much to look at, but he had that most excellent gift in a preacher, the art, whether it was art or not, of making his hearers feel that he was thoroughly in earnest. Moreover, he knew when to stop: he did not fatigue his already half-weary congregation with a lengthy discourse. His sermon occupied just thirteen minutes by the clock in the organ-gallery, and when he had made his point he concluded. Some such words as these they were:

"Which among us has led a life so charmed that there has not entered into it a bitter grief and disappointment? And here to-day, I doubt not, there are hearts which are troubled, sorrowful, perhaps despairing. And to those hearts I speak now. I say to them, have you ever tried prayer? I do not mean the morning and even prayers that you gabble through by rote, prayers many of them set and formal ones for things which perhaps you do not want,—but prayer, the very outpouring of your souls, the prayer you would pray on your knees with all the intensity your voice and heart could command if you were asking the life of one you loved better than yourself, of an earthly sovereign or judge. If you have, I will answer for it that you never pleaded to my Master in vain. I do not say that he saw fit to give you the thing for which you asked: in your blindness you may have asked something which, had it been granted, would have been your curse instead of your blessing; but you have gained peace, strength, courage; you have been able to say, afterwards, 'It is better if the will of God be so.' If you have never tried it,—if you have said to yourself, 'What does God care? he will not trouble himself to look down upon my wants and sufferings,' or if you have thought, 'God must hate me, because I have led a wicked life: I dare not approach him,' here, now, in his name I bid you shake off all doubt and fear. Prayer is the talisman against misery. Go to him; go in secret, where no disturbing thoughts from the outside world can beset you, and there pour out all your soul to him as you have never yet done to God or man; strive as Jacob strove when he cried out in his anguish, 'I will not let thee go except thou bless me,' and I, the humblest of his ministers, will answer for my great Lord and Master that he who goes unto him humbly, sincerely, urgently, shall in no wise be cast out."

There was no grandeur or even originality in the words; the speaker was commonplace enough, but his eyes kindled as he uttered them, his voice trembled with strong feeling, and, as he spoke, there was such intense conviction in his utterance that no one could think he was preaching a remedy whose efficacy he had not himself proved.

Hector, whose heart was hardened like the nether millstone, said to himself, as he walked home, "I too will try if there is balm in his Gilead." And he who had not knelt in sincere prayer to God since he was a youth, shut himself in his room and prayed with wild intensity. But he rose from his knees cold, unconscious of any response to his agony of entreaty. He had but beaten the air with vain and empty words.

But had he prayed aright? He had not besought resignation, or submission, or the power to get good out of what seemed evil: he prayed that the woman he longed for might be his, or that he might forget her. He felt as though God were angry with him and would not hear him. Who were those, he wondered bitterly, who had tried the paths of sin and found them fair and flowery? Apples of the Dead Sea, that filled the mouth with gall-bitter ashes, they had been to him. Then, since vice was hateful and virtue impossible, what should he do but die? The next two days he rode harder than ever: his favorite hunter was killed, but he got off, as usual, without a scratch.

On the third day Lady Montagu returned. She was positively frightened at the change in her son as he helped her out of the carriage. "My dear boy," she cried, anxiously, "what is the matter with you? Why did you not send for me before?"

"Matter!" he answered, laughing a laugh that sounded painfully hollow and unmirthful. "What should be the matter? I am as well as ever I was in my life. Why, mother, you look as scared as if you had seen a ghost."

She put her hand on his arm and went with him to her boudoir.

"Hector," she said, when they were alone, with a searching glance into his eyes, "something must ail you, or you could not be so changed in a month."

"I expect," he answered, with a bitter laugh, "that you have come straight from the sight of your handsome son, and had forgotten how ugly I was."

Lady Montagu looked at him in unfeigned painful amazement. He was never wont to speak bitterly to her.

"The truth is," he said, changing his tone, "I have been hunting a good deal lately. You see, there is not a great deal of excitement in this lively place, and I expect it has taken it out of me a little." Then he added, abruptly, "Perhaps I may as well make all my confession at once, to save you the trouble of worming it out of me by degrees. I asked Miss Carew again, and she refused me."

Lady Montagu looked at him with all her mother's love yearning out of her wet gray eyes. If perhaps she had loved her bright handsome son the best in fair days, in the dark ones her heart went out to the one in trouble, as the mother's heart always does.

"My poor boy!" she said, softly, clasping his hands tenderly in hers. And, but for the shame of it, the stern man would fain have laid his grieved head upon that tender breast, and poured his bitter pain into the loving, listening ear, as he had done long years ago in his childhood.

But now he drew himself away, and said, huskily, "God bless you, mother! I know you are sorry for me; but, if you love me, never speak of it again! Men get over these things," he added, with a smile so wan it almost broke her heart to see.

She said not another word, but as she watched him all that evening her anxiety deepened: she felt there must be something physically as well as mentally amiss, to make his face so drawn and sharp, his eyes so hollow and sunken, his usually firm strong hands so shaking and nervous. The next day she sent a note to the doctor, who, as is not unseldom the case, was also the tried and trusted friend of the family.

"Come and dine with us in a friendly way to-night," she wrote. "There is something very wrong with Hector."

Mr. Benyon was shrewd, kindly, practical: under his auspices Hector and his brother had gone through the infantine troubles that were then considered de rigueur, had won their interested affections by prescribing nice instead of nasty remedies when they were ill, and by romping with them when they got well again; and the liking had not slackened when they grew to men. He often dined at the Court, and was always a welcome guest. On this occasion, though his dining was no unusual event, Hector understood perfectly that he had been sent for on his account. But he made no sign, and received the doctor with his usual cordial courtesy. When Lady Montagu left them after dinner, Mr. Benyon continued to sip his wine with his wonted enjoyment, talked about sport, local matters, and so forth. All the same he was watching his companion narrowly. He observed his restlessness, saw how little he ate, how hurriedly and without any pleasure he gulped down his wine, as a man might swallow a soothing draught. He saw how sunken his eyes were, how livid the lines underneath them, how his cheeks were sunken and his lips so parched and dry he had frequently to moisten them. The doctor did not like the look of him. He said to himself, shrewdly, "There's a woman at the bottom of this, I suspect, or he's taken to gambling: most probably the former." It was no good to lead up gently to the subject, he concluded. Hector was not easy to tackle. So, suddenly, without any preface, he said, looking hard at him, with his glass midway back from his mouth to the table,—

"There's something wrong with you, my friend: you want a little of my advice."

"What a penetrating fellow you are, Benyon!" returned Hector, with a mirthless laugh. "Of course my mother didn't put you up to this?"

"It don't want much putting up to," answered the other, bluntly. "Do you happen to have looked in the glass lately? I suppose I might ask the usual question, 'Who is she?' though it's nothing to my purpose to know; but, rather, what the deuce has she been doing to you?"

"Who can minister to a mind diseased?" said Hector, wearily.

"I can, to a certain extent. Keep your digestion right, eat more, drink less, and get as much exercise and fresh air as you can."

"I've hunted five and six days for the last three weeks, and have been in the saddle, on an average, eight hours out of every twenty-four."

"The deuce you have! If you go on like that, you'll knock yourself up completely. You're not used to so much of it; and in your present state it is likely to do you a great deal more harm than good. Try something else; get some one to lend you a yacht, and go off to the Mediterranean."

Hector laughed a harsh grating laugh.

"Rare good thing, the deck of a yacht, when you want to get out of yourself! Try again, Benyon."

The doctor rose, and came round to where Hector was sitting.

"My pulse, eh?" (anticipating him). "There you are; and my tongue is quite at your service."

Mr. Benyon sat down in front of him, looking grave, and said, quietly,—

"This won't do: you can't stand this sort of game much longer."

"No," replied Hector, coolly: "I shall be in the lake with the carp, or in a lunatic-asylum."

"I should not wonder," said Benyon, calmly. "Your nerves are unstrung, your brain is over-excited, and both are acting most injuriously on your stomach."

"My dear fellow, I am as wise as that myself. There is only one chance for me: give me of the waters of Lethe. I haven't tried that yet. Your chloral and morphia will poison me quicker than brandy: so much the better."

"There is something you want more than drugs or opiates."

"And that is?"

"A little common sense. Why, what the deuce!" cried the doctor, warmly, "a cool-headed, sensible fellow like you to let anything bring you to this state! I couldn't have believed it of you."

"Could you not? Suppose, now" (with suppressed fire), "that you loved a woman to madness and felt you could not live without her: how would you cure yourself of your passion?"

"How?" answered Benyon, promptly. "Why, marry her if she were single, or run away with her if she were married."

"Ay, but suppose she was free, and yet no earthly means, neither love, mercy, nor pity, would make her consent to be yours?"

"Then I would forget her," rejoined the doctor, stoutly.

"If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she he?"

"But if you can't!" cried Hector, passionately. "You say I am a cool-headed, sensible fellow: do you suppose I haven't tried? Tried! good God! what have I not tried? perpetual motion, excess,—in short" (laughing harshly), "all the good old approved remedies for the disease."

"And that is precisely the way you've brought yourself to your present condition. Now, I don't want to frighten you, but it's my duty to tell you the plain truth: if you go on like this you'll bring on paralysis or softening of the brain. You must make an effort to shake it off. Occupy your mind with something, no matter what; take a fair amount of exercise, without overdoing it; and, above all, beware of stimulants. I only wish," said Benyon, smiling and laying a kind hand on his shoulder, "I could cure you right off by giving you the young lady; only perhaps the remedy might be worse than the disease."

"The girl I love is an angel," said Hector, fiercely, "and I would give every acre of Alford to possess her."

"I talked in that way once," remarked the doctor, ruefully. Report said his lady had been a beauty and a temper. It said, furthermore, that when the former attribute departed it left the latter in greater force than ever.

After all, Mr. Benyon came, advised, prescribed in vain. At Sir Hector's request, he sent him an opiate; but instead of soothing it excited him furiously and made him ten times worse. So he threw physic to the dogs, and led the same life as before, getting gradually worse, both physically and mentally. He took to sitting up at night, and reading until after the fatal hour of two; then he would get perhaps three hours of feverish sleep, and wake again oppressed with the nightmare of despair, which, if anything, is almost more grievous in the morning- than in the night-watches.

One evening, in quest of something fresh, he stumbled upon a book of curious old stories, or, as they were called, chronicles, printed in old French. Glancing over it, he came to a page on which he read,—

"The story of the sad knight, who for a woman's sake did put an end unto his life."

"That might suit me," he thought, grimly, as he carried the book to his smoking-room. And there he read, detailed with much circumlocution, how the sad knight was betrothed in his boyhood to his cousin, who was the fairest among maidens. And they grew up together, and ever as the days went by he loved her with a deeper and greater devotion. And she, though she had affection unto him as unto a brother, had no other love to give him, and this she most frequently put before him, and did most urgently entreat him that he would not press a marriage upon her which would be hateful unto her. Then one day he came suddenly upon her and said, "I have come to claim you, since if I do not presently have you for my own I needs must die." Then the maiden answered him in grief and scorn, "Since, then, one of us must die, for if you die without me I shall die with you, draw now your sword and thrust it here into my heart."—"If you love not me," he made sorrowful answer, "it is because you love another."—"And if it be so!" she cried; "must he needs die too? O valiant knight, you who can slay others, can you not slay your own desire, and make glad two hearts that love each other?"—"God's death!" he cried, in wrath, "prate not to me of your loves!" and he turned and left her with a sore heart.

Then wist he not what to do, since his pain was so great and bitter it went not from him either by day or night, and in those things where before he had taken pleasure he found no joy. Then said he to himself, "Why should I spare my life, that is no longer aught but grief and pain? I will to the wars, and there for her sake will I get myself slain."

Then he sought once more the damsel, and said unto her, "Fare you well, cruel one, since you will have none of my love!"—"Nay," the maiden answered, moved to pity at sight of his grieved countenance, "go not away. Nay, where will you go?" And he answered, "Did I not tell you that I needs must die without you? I go unto my death!"—"Nay," she cried, again, weeping, "but let me rather die! Of what avail is my life?" and therewith she wrung her hands. "Fare you well, cruel one!" said the knight, with one grieved look at her. "When my mother shall come to you and say, Where is my son?' you shall make answer, 'He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake!'" Then while the maiden still wept sore, and wrung her hands, the sad knight rode away.

Then, when a few months were sped, came his squire, bearing a lock of his hair all steeped in his gore, and said, "Damsel, my master bid me cut this hair from his head as he lay a-dying, and carry it to you, and say, 'I lie dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake. When you joy with the knight whom you love, look awhiles on this and think of me.'"

Then was the maiden sore grieved, and wept many tears: but anon came her own true love, and they were wed.

Thus briefly concluded the tale of the sad knight.

"Anon came her own true love, and they were wed," repeated Hector, bitterly, closing the book and flinging it on the table. A new idea came to him as he sat moodily contemplating the dying embers. If life was so grievous to him, why should not others be glad? Involuntarily crept in the thought of Diana mistress here,—Diana happy,—Diana his brother's wife, whilst he lay dead and forgotten, God knows where. "Never! never!" he cried, between his teeth, in a paroxysm of furious jealousy. All night long the two sentences ring in his ears, and all the day following, and the nights and days afterwards. He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake. But anon came her own true love, and they were wed.

A furious battle begins to rage in his heart. Shall he throw away the life he hates so bitterly, and in throwing it away secure Diana's happiness? The thought of her becoming Charlie's is utter agony to him; he feels somehow as though, were he even lying dead a thousand miles away, he would know it, and be tortured with jealousy. But "for her sake, for her sake!" he goes on saying to himself; "to make her happy! I could not live and see her his," he tells himself; "or it would be easy enough to give him half my income and let him marry her." But from that thought his whole soul revolts. Not while he lives; not while he lives. Then comes another thought. Suppose, for her sake, he slipped out of that life which day by day was becoming more and more unbearable, and after all his brother did not marry her,—did not perhaps care for her? He must provide against that.

Day by day he became more worn, more ghastly-looking, and day by day Lady Montagu's anxiety about him took greater proportions. Christmas had gone, the new year was here,—the new year that to Hector was worse, far worse than blank. Again Lady Montagu sent for Mr. Benyon. In her alarm she confided to him a secret that had always been very carefully kept by the family. Two generations back, one of the then baronet's sons had taken his life with his own hand.

"I don't know why," she murmurs, looking with fearful eyes into the doctor's face, "but that story has haunted me of late. Hector looks so wild sometimes. Oh, Mr. Benyon!" (with terrible earnestness) "you don't think——"

"No, no, no!" he interrupts her; "no need to worry yourself with such thoughts as those. I am afraid I can't do very much for him, because he won't mind what I say. I'll speak to him again, if you like, and try to frighten him a little about himself. The best thing he could do would be to go up to London and consult G——; and, if you could persuade him to stay there a little while, change and cheerful company would do more for him than all the physic that was ever concocted."

"Do see him! pray, pray do your best to persuade him!" cries the anxious mother. "He is in the house now; and, if you can manage it, see me again before you leave."

Mr. Benyon, who knows his way as well about Alford as he does about his own snug little house, goes to the smoking-room, and finds there the person he is in search of.

"Well, Benyon," says Hector, with a hollow attempt at gayety, "have you come to have another try at the 'mind diseased'? Confession's good for the soul. I've thrown your 'physic' to the dogs, and if you send me any more it will all go the same way,—figuratively, not literally. Poor brutes! I've too much regard for them!"

"I have come, as I came before," answers Benyon, bethinking himself of a new plan, "because your mother sent for me. I can tell you one thing: anxiety on your account will soon make her ill, and then you'll have to forget yourself and nurse her."

"Poor mother!" answers Hector; "what is she afraid of? Does she think I'm going into a decline, or does she fancy—— I'll lay a hundred to one," he cries, looking keenly at the doctor, "she's been raking up a little old family story for your benefit; eh, Benyon?"

Thus attacked, the doctor feels a little confused.

"Women are always nervous," he answers, evasively; "but, upon my life, you are enough to make any one nervous, with your long, cadaverous face. Why, I thought you were more of a man."

"So my mother thinks of that, does she?" says Hector, musingly. "What a ridiculous idea!" (laughing harshly). "Fancy doing oneself out of twelve thousand a year, and all for a woman's sake. Come, Benyon, you don't think me quite such a fool as that?"

"Indeed I don't," he returns, heartily; "if I did, I should send for a strait-waistcoat at once. But at the same time" (gravely), "if the sanest man in the world plays the devil with his nerves and constitution as you're doing, there's no answering for the consequences. Come" (clapping him on the shoulder), "I'm very much in earnest just now, I promise you; it's no use mincing matters, you're in a bad way, a very bad way. I want to frighten you,—I only wish to heaven I could! Pack your traps and go off to London and see G——; look up some of your friends, and don't be in any hurry to come back. My advice is sincere, you may depend" (laughing), "for it's very much against my own interest. If you stop here, you'll have a fine long illness, and put I don't know how much into my pocket."

"Very well," Hector answers, docilely, to the great surprise of his friend. "I dare say you're right. I'll be off to-morrow; you may tell my mother so. No doubt she is waiting, God bless her! to pounce upon you as soon as you go out of here. And make her mind easy; be sure you make her mind easy. Tell her I'm as sane as you are, and add any little anecdote (you must know lots) of men who have gone rather to the dogs at first for a woman's sake, but who invariably came back. Good-by; it's very kind and good-natured of you to bother yourself so much about me, and this time you see it has not been in vain."

Benyon shakes him by the hand and wishes him a hearty God speed; but he goes out more puzzled than satisfied. Nevertheless, he is able to set Lady Montagu's mind at rest.

Hector, left to himself, sits for full an hour absorbed in deepest thought. Then, with a long sigh, as of a man who has at last made a difficult resolve, he rises and goes cut. In turn he visits the gardens, hothouses, stables, kennels, and to every man he gives a pleasant word, to every animal a caress. It is as though he were going on a long journey, whence he might never return, and that melancholy steals over him which always attends the thought that one is doing something for the last time even though it be something that we care little for. At dinner Lady Montagu finds him brighter and more cheerful than he has been for a long time, and thinks with inward congratulation that she has done well in sending for Benyon.

"I am so glad, my dear, that you have decided upon seeing G——," she says; "he is certain to do you good. And be sure you do not hurry home on my account, because you fancy I shall be dull. Henrietta and her boy are coming to me on Saturday for a fortnight, and will not, I dare say, be in any great haste to leave."

Hector glances wistfully at the sweet kind face that beams upon him with such anxious love, and looks away again, lest the sight of it should unman him. Who knows? after to-morrow its tenderness may never shine upon him any more in this world. After he has wished her good-night, he goes to his room and spends some hours in looking over and arranging papers. Then he makes a draft of a will. He has some money of his own, and that he leaves entirely for the benefit of the poor of Alford. When this is finished, he fetches the old book of chronicles and opens it at the story of the sad knight. With his pen he draws a line down each margin of the whole story, and under the two sentences, "He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake," "But anon came her own true love, and they were wed," he scores two deep lines. Then he wraps the book in paper, and writes upon it, "For my sister-in-law, if she be called Diana." This done, he folds it in another sheet, upon which he writes, "For my sister-in-law when my brother marries. It is my express desire that it should not be opened before that time."

Next day he bids farewell to his mother. He has promised himself that he will not betray any emotion at parting from her, but he has a hard task to master his emotion. A strong impulse comes over him to kneel down before her and ask her blessing; but that might save him from himself! He controls himself with a stern effort, so stern that it even makes his leave-taking seem cold. The poor mother, never dreaming what is in his heart, wishes regretfully to herself that he was more demonstrative,—more like Charlie.

The iron horse speeds him swiftly on his way to London: as it rushes along he takes note of all the familiar landmarks, and bids them a silent farewell, as he did to everything at Alford yesterday. His plans are vague as yet: he intends going abroad, but how and where he leaves chance to decide. The following day he goes to consult the eminent physician. The eminent physician receives him with great suavity, that deepens into seriousness as he asks certain questions and receives the answers.

"Your nervous system," he tells Hector, "is considerably disordered, very considerably disordered. The first thing that is necessary is for the mind to be at rest. There must be no mental disturbance of any kind: perfect freedom from all anxiety is what you want,—what you must have."

It is very odd how doctors, who it is to be supposed are subject to the cares and anxieties that beset other folk, will glibly prescribe repose to the tortured mind as though it were a tonic mixture that could be made up at the chemist's.

"A moderate amount of gayety," the eminent physician continues, "plenty of cheerful society, horse-exercise, an occasional visit to the theatre if the atmosphere is not too trying to your head,—in short, my dear sir, I advise you for the next few months to devote yourself to the study of how you can make life most agreeable. At the same time, I think I can give you something that will soothe the stomach and nerves, and in a week or ten days' time I hope to see you a different man." And, having written out a short prescription, he hands it to Hector and bids him a bland "Good-day."

Hector pockets the prescription, nor ever looks at it again. He has sought the great man's advice to please his mother, calculating pretty well what it would be. In his case it was as easy to carry out as though he had recommended one of his own farm-laborers to eat meat three times a day and wash it down with generous wines.

His next visit was to his lawyer, to get his will drawn up. Then he went to his club. As chance would have it, the first man he met was one whom he had not seen for years, but who, in days gone by, had been his greatest friend. Hector laughed, and felt cheerful,—the first time for many weeks.

"I'm off to Naples in my yacht the day after to-morrow," said Captain Baring. "I can't stand this infernal climate in the winter. What on earth's the good of living in a pea-soup atmosphere, and having your nose frost-bitten, when you can bask in glorious sunshine among orange-groves, have a rosebud for every withered violet here, and look at blue skies and seas from sunrise to sunset? I wish to heaven I could persuade you to come with me, old fellow; but I suppose, with all your new cares and responsibilities, there's no chance of your getting away, eh?"

"I don't know that," replied Hector, seeing the opportunity he wanted unfolding before him.

"You look thundering bad, my dear fellow,—I can tell you that," proceeded the other, eagerly. "I never saw a fellow so changed! A trip with me would be the thing of all others to set you up. Come, say the word."

"Very well, I will go," Hector answered, coming to a rapid decision. "Many thanks for the offer. I was thinking of going off abroad somewhere."

"By Jove! how glad I am to have stumbled across you!" cried Captain Baring, heartily. "We'll dine at Southampton to-morrow night, and go on board the first thing in the morning."

So, after a little more talk, they part: the time is short, and each has plenty to do before starting. There is one thing Hector dreads and shrinks from utterly: it is the meeting with his brother. And yet it must take place. There are some words that must be said between them,—words which will perhaps decide the future of both. He is on his way to Colonel Montagu's rooms, when he meets him coming up the street.

"Hullo, Hector, you up in town!" he cries; and then, quickly, "By Jove! how bad you look! What have you been doing to yourself?"

"I am going abroad on Saturday, with Baring," says Hector, not answering the questions put to him. "I rather want to see you before I go. Shall I find you to-night?"

"I was going to dine with Bagot, but I can put him off. Where will you dine?—at the Garrick?—or shall we try the new restaurant?"

"Do you ever dine at your own place?"

"Oh, yes. Gunter will send me anything I want. Do you particularly wish to dine there?"

"I should prefer it."

"All right. I suppose eight will do you?"

"Any time you like."

"I wonder what the deuce he wants with me!" thinks Colonel Montagu, as he goes on his way up St. James's Street.

The tête-à-tête dinner was not the most cheerful one imaginable, though Colonel Montagu did the honors pleasantly, as he always did everything, and Hector would fain have shaken off the constraint that oppressed him. He wanted to feel kindly towards his brother, since it was perhaps the last time they would ever dine together. Both were glad when it was over, and they adjourned to the other room.

"Isn't it rather a shame to smoke here?" asked Hector, doubtfully, as Charlie handed him the box of cigars.

Looking round at the delicate satin furniture, it seemed more than rather a shame; but Colonel Montagu answered, carelessly, "It won't hurt, once in a way!" He buried himself in one of the inviting chairs by the fire, and motioned Hector to take the other. It was a comfort to both that their cigars obviated the necessity of making conversation: so Charlie drifted into his usual pleasant sense of bien-être before the warm blaze of the fire, surrounded on all sides by the charm of beautiful objects, and Hector gave the sad and morbid fancies rein to which he had of late become a slave. Presently his eyes wandered to his brother's handsome, indolent face, and thence to the costly toys with which he had been pleased, in careless luxury, to strew his rooms. Then he pictured him to himself master at Alford, gay, happy, surrounded by love and friendship, utterly forgetful of the brother who had yielded up his birthright to him and gone away to die in a foreign land. Why not? It was not for his sake he was relinquishing a life that only seemed fair and enviable to the outside world because they knew nothing of the supreme agony of the canker-worm's tooth in the heart.

"O God!" he groaned to himself, "what have I done that thou shouldst make this difference between us?—that he should have all the love, all the desirable things of life, and I not even the husks?"

So heavy a sigh escaped him that his brother looked up.

"My good fellow," he said, laughing, "don't do that again, or you will blow all the lights out. What the deuce is the matter with you? You haven't got any debts or anxieties, you are not nightmare-ridden with the thought of having to marry an heiress: why on earth should you sigh?"

"Apropos!" uttered Hector; "have you proposed to her yet?"

"What a cold-blooded fellow you are! You ask if the awful and momentous question that is to doom me to a life of wretchedness has been put, as you might ask if I had ordered dinner. No, I have not proposed, and, upon my soul, I don't think I shall! Old Adolphus Fitz-Rex is dying for her money, and, by Jove, he may have it for me!"

Hector made no reply. Presently he said, nerving himself to a great effort,—

"I am going to ask you something that will very likely surprise you. Give me a candid answer, if you can: don't be afraid! I'm not laying a pitfall for you. Do you, did you ever, care anything about Diana Carew? If she had had money, or you had been an elder instead of a younger son, would you ever have thought of marrying her?"

To conceal his agitation Hector spoke in a hard, rasping voice, that, despite his assurance to the contrary, made Charlie suspect a snare.

"I have kept my word to you faithfully," he answered, in rather an injured voice. "I avoided her studiously when she was in town, and at the Desboroughs', where I had no idea of meeting her until the day she came. I never, by look or word, infringed the promise that you wrung from me over our father's death-bed. And" (sighing as he knocked the ash off his cigar) "it might have been an easy enough task for you, but I would not go through it again to have my debts paid twice over. You may be sure of one thing" (with unwonted bitterness): "when she is Lady Montagu, you won't be troubled with much of my company at Alford."

"Then you do care for her?" uttered Hector, in a deep, low voice.

"Care for her!" cried Charlie, springing up and striding down the room. "Care for her! If I hadn't been such an infernal fool as to make you that promise, I'd have reformed my bad habits and married her before this, poor as I am!"

Hector suppressed a sigh. The old sentence returned forcibly to his mind: "But anon came her own true love, and they were wed."

It was a most unusual thing to see his indolent brother so excited; there could be no doubt about his sincerity. Although it was the chief part of Hector's plan that he should love and marry Diana, a bitter pang crossed his heart.

"I wonder," remarked the Guardsman, resuming his seat and his composure, and feeling a little bit ashamed of the ebullition,—"I wonder why you amused yourself by trotting me out on the subject? it was not particularly magnanimous, when you've got all the playing-cards in your own hand."

"You said when you met me to-day that I was looking bad," replied Hector, with apparent irrelevancy. "I have heard that remark ad nauseam lately. Well, it is true enough. Heaven knows I don't feel much better than I look, and I have a sort of presentiment that I shall not come back from the journey I am starting on to-morrow."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Colonel Montagu; "presentiments! If ever there was a man above that sort of tomfoolery, I should have thought it was you."

"I have a presentiment," repeated Hector, in a deep, low voice, and with a haggard glance at his brother, "that I shall never come back from this journey."

"Why, my dear old fellow," cried Charlie, kindly, "I shall begin to think there is something very wrong with you, if you talk such stuff as that. Why, what the deuce is there to kill you in a trumpery little voyage to Naples and back? Baring's too good a judge to trust himself in a yacht he does not know, or I'm much mistaken."

"It isn't that," Hector answered, with a troubled glance into the fire.

"What is it, then? Do you translate Vede Napoli e poi morir into an obligation to die as soon as you have set eyes on it? What are you afraid of? Roman fever, or brigands, or of being engulfed by a new eruption of Vesuvius?"

"Never mind," answered Hector, wearily: "let me get to what I want to say. Suppose I do not return: will you give me your word of honor to marry Diana Carew?"

Charlie looked at his brother with serious anxiety. He began to think his mind was unhinged, and said to himself it might be a good plan to go to G—— next morning and hear what really was the matter with him.

"Come," he said, rising, and giving Hector a friendly shake of the shoulder, "pull yourself together, and don't give way to this sort of humbug. You don't look very brilliant, certainly; but I don't see anything to alarm yourself about. A couple of days at sea will set you on your legs again. Come, cheer up!—this is unlike your usual form."

Hector was silent for a moment; then he said, in a calm quiet voice hat was habitual to him,—-

"Talking of it won't kill me. I may come back, or I may not; and if I do not, I want to be sure that Diana Carew will be Lady Montagu."

"What on earth am I to understand?" asked Colonel Montagu, looking thoroughly mystified. "First by threats and promises you wring from me an engagement neither by look nor word to endeavor to gain her affection, and now you urge me under absurdly hypothetical conditions to marry her. If you are in earnest, why not say at once, 'Go and marry her, if she will have you'? You shall not have to speak twice, I promise you."

"No, no!" cried Hector, harshly. "You are still bound by your promise. My death alone can release you. Well, I may be mad,—think so if you please, but humor me: tell me that if I do not return you will marry her."

"All right; I promise," answered Colonel Montagu, thinking it better to humor him.

"Give me your hand on it."

Charlie held out his hand. Hector grasped it with a feverish one that convinced his brother still more forcibly there was something wrong.

"One thing more. If I don't come back, look after the poor at home, and do something for them. Hayter will show you the plans of all I intended to do; and she knows, she will see to it if you let her have the money. Remember, I charge that upon you."

Colonel Montagu felt quite cut up about his brother. He did not believe for an instant in the fulfillment of his presentiment, and he most certainly did not desire it, for he was eminently kind-hearted and not a bit envious. He was really shocked to see such unusual weakness in his stern self-contained brother, and resolved not only to see G——, but to write to Baring about him.

"It can't hurt you to promise me those two things," said Hector, eagerly, "and I shall go away more satisfied."

"All right, then," answered Charlie, with an attempt at gayety; "I promise both."

Hector rose to go.

"I'll walk with you as far as Limmer's," volunteered his brother, feeling rather uncomfortable about him.

"Just as you like," answered Hector; then, forcing a smile, "you need have no doubt as to my sanity. I am perfectly well able to take care of myself."

"I shall see you to-morrow," said Charlie, as they were parting, feeling an unwonted regret at bidding his brother good-by. "I'll run down to Southampton with you, if you like."

"I have a hundred things to do: it's no use making any appointment; and as for going down to Southampton, it's not to be thought of."

"Well, good-by if I don't see you again. A pleasant trip, and get rid of your blue devils before you come back."

"Good-by." And the brothers clasped hands very kindly.

Colonel Montagu walked home thoughtfully. For a wonder, he neither went to the club nor yet elsewhere, but betook himself straight to his own rooms, lighted another cigar, and mused over the strange events of the evening.

"Hector's in a deuced bad way,—poor fellow! I never saw a man so altered. I suppose it's all about her: he has asked her again, and she won't have him. And yet he is the very last man in the world I should have expected to see so out up about a woman. I can understand a boy like Seldon taking it badly, but not a cool-headed, unimpulsive fellow like Hector. It can't be all that. I've heard of men getting frightful fits of the blues after coming suddenly into a lot of money. I don't think it would affect me that way. Of course nothing will happen: presentiments are the greatest rot in the world; not one in ten thousand ever comes true. When I rode that steeple-chase three years ago, I had a presentiment I should break my neck; and nothing came of it. My nerves were shaky at the time; I had been drinking rather hard just before. That reminds me. I never saw Hector drink so much in my life at one sitting as he did to-night,—gulped it down, too, as if he did not care for it; and there is no better in the cellars at home. I'm awfully glad he is going for that cruise: nothing like it for bracing the nerves: he'll be back in a couple of months quite himself again."

Then his thoughts turned to Diana.

"I wonder," he said to himself, "if she does care for me, or whether it's only my own stupid conceit that makes me fancy so? I know she did at Alford that golden day" (sighing). "What an infernal scoundrel I was! But I did not really care for her then as I did here, as I did at the Desboroughs'. How utterly glad I was when she refused Seldon!—though, poor lad! I could not help feeling sorry for him. And how I hated poor old Jack when she became friendly with him! I would not go through that cursed time again for anything in the world. How I endured it I don't know. To see her grieved, indignant face, and to have to avoid her, and seem to seek the society of that plain, common girl! Marry her! Not to save going through the bankruptcy court to-morrow. Pah!" (with a gesture of intensest disgust). "If I only had the chance of winning Diana now! How she must despise me! What should she feel but contempt for me? Not more than I do for myself, I'll answer. No, I know how it will be: Hector has only got a morbid fancy, which he does not really believe in himself, else he would say, 'Go and win her now if you can.' He will come back all right again, and in the end she will have him. I have a presentiment of that; I had all along. Oh, what a fool I was not to take her when I could have had her! I've not got so much pleasure out of life lately: the same old round palls upon one after a time, when one has lost the power of caring for fresh faces, as I have" (sighing) "since I knew her. I wonder what witchery there is about her that makes men so desperately bad about losing her! She does not set herself up as being better than other women, and yet there is something pure and sweet about her one can't help reverencing. Even that wicked profligate, old Jack, confessed that she made him want to be better. I suppose I must leave it now until Hector comes back; and then, if she won't have him——"

Here the entrance of a friend cut short his soliloquy. The second morning after, Hector was standing on the yacht's deck, taking a silent farewell of the country he never meant to see again. The voyage did him good in one way, but his mind grew steadily worse: the monotony, the confinement to a narrow space, became unbearable. His one idea had been to put a great distance between himself and Diana; and, now that every hour took him farther away from her, he was filled with an insane longing to see her once again. Anything would have been better than this! Why had he not been content with her friendship?—only to see her sometimes, to hear her sweet voice speaking kindly to him, to meet the friendly glance of her beautiful eyes,—surely that would have been some comfort to his misery, even though she would never consent to be his. Sometimes he had a wild thought that the moment they reached Naples he would travel back overland as fast as steam and horses could take him, and get back only just to see her once again. But he gave up that idea before he set foot on shore.

The day after they arrived at Naples, and the four following ones, there was a bitter northeast wind,—colder, more piercing, than any he had ever encountered in his own country.

"Are these your sunny climes?" he laughed grimly to his friend. "Of the two, I certainly prefer an east wind in England; at all events, we know how to keep it outside the house."

"Too infernal!" answered the other, disgustedly, with chattering teeth. "Upon my life, I wouldn't have believed it if any one else had told me it of Naples."

They drove to Pompeii in an open carriage in whirlwinds of dust. Hector was glad to do anything rather than remain quiet, but he was disappointed in the place; the houses could not have been much bigger than dolls' houses, he thought, and there was nothing to inspire him with any ideas of by-gone luxury or splendor. Perhaps he was not in a humor to be pleased or surprised by anything. He would have liked to see Vesuvius vomiting flames and stones; but it lay tranquil, with one tiny smoke-wreath that looked nothing but a little fleecy cloud on its breast. Life seemed more abhorrent to him here, in the cold, among the squalor, dirt, and wretchedness of Naples, than even it had done at Alford; he wished a thousand times he had not left home. Why not go back now, he thought, sometimes, and, forcing himself to forget Diana, lead a life of usefulness? He had come here to die; and yet how should he die so as to leave no suspicion that he had died by his own hand? There was only one person in the world he wished to be aware that he went out of life willingly; that was the one for whose sake he meant to take the journey whence there is no return.

If any one had told him his own story a year ago, told it of some other man, he would have given his verdict at once, "The man was mad." But it never occurred to him now that there was any madness in what he contemplated. What is madness? The upsetting of the mental balance, perhaps on one subject alone; the loss of the power to look at things (one thing, perhaps) as the rest of the world looks at them. There was no cowardice in the act he intended, he argued to himself; he was not going to shake off life simply because he could not face the pain of it, but for her sake, that she might be happy in the future. He did not tell himself that he had not courage to see her happy with another man, that the only thing which could reconcile him to her happiness with another was that when it came he would be

"Out of the multitude of things,
Under the dust, beneath the grass,
Deep in dim death, where no thought stings,
No record clings.
No memory more of love or hate,
No trouble, nothing that aspires,
No sleepless labor thwarting fate,
And thwarted; where no travail tires,
Where no faith fires."

The cold winds had passed away; one could understand now the meaning of Italian skies and seas; the flower-children were streaming about the Chiaia, and choice bouquets were offered right and left to the passer-by at fabulously small sums according to English ideas, taking into consideration the time of year and the beauty of the flowers. They were going a trip along the coast this lovely morning; there was a fresh breeze, although it was hot enough for the dirty ill-clad lazzaroni to be lying about basking in the sun. Hector felt a shade less miserable this morning; he was not thinking of death; there was something in the warmth, coming after the bitter cold, in the blue dancing waters, the azure skies, the scent and sight of lovely flowers, that made even bare life an almost pleasant fact. His friend, who had been sorely puzzled and pained about him, remarked the change with genuine pleasure.

"Come, old fellow!" he cried, heartily, "I am glad to see you have shaken off the blues at last. Thrown 'em to the sea and the sky, eh?" And he laughed cheerily at his own little joke.

The schooner cut smartly through the waves, with the wind in her favor. Captain Baring had gone below. Hector was on deck, looking through a glass at the lessening town. Suddenly he heard a cry and a splash. Rushing to the side, he saw the cabin-boy beating the water with his hands and shrieking for help. In a second he had torn off his outer clothes, and, shouting "Man overboard!" jumped into the sea. He had always been a good swimmer, and fond of it, from his Eton days, and he knew the lad could swim but little, not enough even to keep up until the boat came to his rescue. The schooner was going such a pace that even before the boat could be lowered she would be a good way off. As usual in such cases, there was some hitch in getting it down, and before the men were in it she was nearly half a mile off, and the wind dead against them.

"Don't catch hold of me, and I'll save you!" shouted Hector to the boy, as he swam up to him. "Keep going as long as you can, and when you're tired I'll hold you up. Don't lose your head: there's no danger."

At this moment that death was so near him, Hector never thought of it: he was battling for life with the instinct of a strong man: he meant to save the boy and himself too. It was hard work, swimming with one arm and holding the terrified, exhausted lad with the other: the minutes whilst the men in the boat were straining every nerve to get to them seemed hours. They are coming at last, thank God! He cannot hold out much longer. Now they are within four boat's-lengths. A sudden deadly agony seizes him: he leaves go the lad with a great cry of anguish. When the boat comes up, there is only the lad struggling alone in the water. Hector is nowhere to be seen. The men look all around, and then in each other's faces, with a stony horror. At last one uncloses his lips.

"Cramp!" he says, in a low voice. "My youngest brother went like that."

And so Hector, with the strange irony of Fate, went out of life fighting his hardest to keep it, when all these days and weeks past he had been longing for death and not knowing how or where to find it. Yet surely Fate was kind; for, if he needs must die, was it not better to pass out of life gallantly rescuing one who loved and clung to it, and with no stain on his name or on his own soul? And though he "died in a foreign land," and remotely it might be said "for a woman's sake," since but for her he would not have come there, he died actually for the sake of a little friendless lad, who without his aid would have been sucked down by the blue cruel waters. And surely there is no nobler epitaph can be writ over a man's grave, be it rudely carved on perishable wood or graven in letters of gold upon stately marble, than this: "He gave his life for another."

It is a bright day in February: if it were not for the skeleton-like appearance of the trees, whose bare branches force themselves unpleasantly upon the eye, one might fancy it May. The wooing of the joyous birds before their St. Valentine is sweetly noisy: they are intensely glad of Winter's death, and are holding a spirited wake over him. Do not be too sure that he is gone, you merry little souls: there's many a nipping night, and day too, in store for you before your friend the Summer shines the frost away. It has been a happy winter,—happy as life ever can be again, I think to myself.

Curly has quite recovered, and we have all, papa included, spent a delightful week at Warrington, where, at our especial request, there was no party,—only just the Fanes. And then they (the Fanes) came to us for a week, for now we have come into our money we are able to entertain a little,—in a very small way, of course. We have what I believe people who are poor generally have, and what the rich as often lack, the sincere, hearty desire to make our friends happy and comfortable. We poor people know that it all depends upon us whether our guests enjoy their visit, and the rich are too apt to trust to their adventitious circumstances and to make no further effort. We have an extra in-door servant, on the strength of our new wealth, and a real groom, who does not help in the garden, nor do anything apart from his own domain, except wait at dinner when we have visitors. For we have two saddle-horses now, and Curly and papa, or Curly and I, ride every day. Papa is a different being: he is quite bright and cheerful, and when he is out with us Curly and I are tremendously proud of him; we never see any one else so distinguished-looking or who talks so well.

Money is a very pleasant thing. I know we find ours so. It is a real delight to go into a poor cottage now, knowing that where help is wanted one can give it, instead of coming out heart-sick and heart-sore because one has so little to bestow but one's exceeding sympathy. I wonder the rich do not oftener treat themselves to the pleasure of giving. I don't mean by sending checks to charities, but by going among the poor, giving the gifts with their own hands, and seeing for themselves the immense happiness it causes. How it would expand their hearts, and prevent them getting choked up with selfishness! There is no pleasure in this world like giving, of that I am quite sure; and it is a pleasure with which many people are very chary of indulging themselves.

I have forbidden myself to think about my love since September, when its utter hopelessness was so bitterly proved to me. I cannot help remembering how dearly I have loved Colonel Montagu, and right well I know that I shall never again love mortal man with the same love wherewith I have loved him. Sometimes, too, a troubled thought about Hector has crept over me. I have fancied that I might have been kinder, showed more feeling for him; and yet I could never realize that he was capable of suffering much for love's sake. Once Mr. Warrington said at dinner,—

"I never saw a fellow so changed as Montagu. He looks so pale and fine-drawn, and rides as if he had the devil behind him."

Looking up at the moment, I catch papa's eye fixed earnestly upon me, and the color mounts to my cheek, and a guilty feeling creeps over me.

This February morning I am standing at the open window, and the pug, with many seductive devices, is entreating me to go out. Anon she pulls me by the dress, or, jumping up, catches a finger playfully in her mouth, then whines and scratches, lays her head on one side, and says with her eyes, as plainly as any human being could say it with his tongue, "Dear little mistress, do, do come out." So, presently, being rather a slave to her, I pronounce the magic words, "Come along, dogs!" with which she knows I never deceive her, and with one bound she is out of the house and down the gravel walk. Papa is coming up it, and she wriggles her body fascinatingly at him by way of salutation. Contrary to his usual habit, he does not stop to talk to her in friendly dog-language, but comes straight towards me. In a moment I divine by his face that there is something wrong.

"What is it?" I cry, before he has time to unclose his lips.

"I have just heard some very bad news," he answers.

"Curly!" I gasp, turning white to the lips. Why do one's terrors always run upon those one loves best?

"No, no, thank God; nothing that concerns him. Poor Sir Hector Montagu has been drowned in the Bay of Naples. I did not even know he was abroad."

A chill creeps over me,—a great sorrowful pity that as yet finds no words.

"Poor fellow! he died saving the life of one of the yacht's crew, I hear," continues papa.

Mechanically I turn and go towards the house, he following me. I feel horribly shocked by this news, shocked and remorseful as though in some measure I were guilty of his death. In a moment everything comes back to me,—his tenderness towards his mother, his kindness to me, his goodness to the poor: what will become of them? And then involuntarily my thoughts turn to his successor.

"Poor fellow!" utters papa, softly.

Poor fellow! echoes my heart, and the tears rain down my face.

"What will the poor people do?" I say, speaking my thoughts aloud.

"I hear they take it terribly to heart," answers papa. "He was such a good fellow, and they looked to his doing so much for them. His brother, I fear, is a very different sort of man."

My father's unconscious words stab me to the quick, all the more perhaps because of the truth underlying them.

My first impulse is to write to Lady Montagu; but when I take pen in hand a strange diffidence comes over me. She must know about his coming over here, for she has never written to me since. If I was the cause, the unintentional cause, God knows, of his going abroad, will she lay his death at my door? The very thought makes me shrink with pain and self-reproach. Yet what could I do? Must a woman not dare to refuse a man she cannot love, lest some evil chance should befall him for which she must evermore afterwards reproach herself? I sit down to my painful task, and, as best I may, pour out my genuine grief and sympathy, with all my respect and admiration for her dead son's goodness. Many a tear blots the paper as I write: so grieved am I that, could it bring him back again, I think I would give him hand and heart too ungrudgingly.

I do not expect an answer, nor does any come. Despite our anxiety, we hear nothing from Alford until, one day a month later, Colonel Fane comes over. Claire has been with Lady Montagu ever since. Her grief for her son was terrible to witness, she wrote. As for Sir Charles (Sir Charles! I cannot recognize him by that name), he is most dreadfully cut up: she would never have given him credit for such deep feeling. He started at once for Naples, to bring his brother's body home, but the blue sea had never "given up her dead." When he returned, he was in wretched spirits. The only thing he took the least interest in was looking over Hector's plans of improvement for the poor, and giving orders for their being carried into execution. It was the saddest house she had ever been in. All this Colonel Fane told us. Poor Claire! I thought of her pain too,—her grief for the man she had loved all her life through,—grief the harder to bear since it could not be openly avowed save as a sorrow for a friend. There was one question I longed to put, yet dared not. Was he engaged to the heiress?

Ever since September have I been haunted by the fear of hearing the news which, far apart as we already are, would make the gulf quite impassable. And so the days crawl on, and I try with all my might to shut the thought of him out of my heart,—-the thought that he is within a few miles of me,—that he might so easily, just for old friendship's sake, ride over and see me. Colonel Fane comes again: this time he tells us that Lady Montagu and Sir Charles are both going away from the Court for some months. My heart sinks within me. Why should it, since I knew he could never be anything to me?

May has come round again,—May, with her lavish fullness of life, so great a part of which must never come to fruition, but die before the summer sun shines upon it. O Nature! why this waste of life and death? why this heedless neglect of the children thou bringest forth?

I am on my way to the village, to sit an hour with a girl who is dying of decline. Papa has gone to spend the day with the Fanes: the blacksmith has lamed my horse in shoeing, or I was to have gone too. I am walking along the lane which skirts our park, under the shade of the trees, in which is every bright and tender shade of spring green. In the distance a horseman is coming towards me. As I first catch sight of him, I think it is papa returning, but as he comes nearer, my heart gives a great throb, half of pleasure, half pain: right well I know now to whom that gracious form belongs.

Captain—Colonel—nay, Sir Charles Montagu draws rein as he comes up to me. He is handsomer than ever, though he looks so pale and careworn; but perhaps he only seems so to me because my eyes have ached so long for the sight of him. Dismounting, he extends his hand, into which I put my tremulous one. I dare hardly look at him, lest my tell-tale eyes should betray to him how unutterably glad I am to see him again. Even he, so self-possessed from long habit and contact with the world, seems a shade embarrassed when our first commonplace greeting is over.

"How is Lady Montagu?" I ask, hurriedly.

"Poor mother!" he answers; "she is quite broken down. I am going to get her away from Alford as soon as I can. She will never be any better so long as she is there. And!" (with energy),—"I perfectly loathe the place. I was on my way to Carew Court," he adds, after a pause: "may I go on with you, or will it be taking you out of the way?"

He leads his horse, and we walk along together under the green branches. Their leaves are small and young yet, and the gold sunshine floods them through and under and over. It is a rare May morning, such a one as he and I pleased ourselves by calling golden once,—a long time ago. Does he remember it? He gives no sign. Why does the first line of the second verse haunt me all the way as we walk side by side to the house,—

"Ah, but the years brought changes after"?

Has not this year been fruitful of changes? Has there not been "care on the lips that curved with laughter," and tears—ay, bitter ones—in the eyes, whether "radiant" or no? We do not say very much on the way home, nor until the groom has taken his horse and we are in the house. How many a time have I pictured him here,—pictured myself inordinately happy at his presence! and yet to-day I feel constrained, weighed upon; he does too, I think. The May sun shines full into the room, exposing mercilessly the threadbare state of the carpet, the faded hues of the curtains. As my thoughts travel back to the costly perfection of his rooms, I feel for a moment ashamed of the evidences of our poverty. Why should I? He knows—has always known—we are poor.

He comes and sits down by me on the sofa.

"I have been coming here ever so many times," he utters, in a low voice, turning his eyes full on my face, "only I could not pluck up heart. It seems horrible to think of being happy when Hector, poor fellow——"

He breaks off without finishing the sentence.

What does he mean? My heart flutters and trembles within me, the color shifts uneasily in my face, my eyes are drooped away from him. Oh, kind heaven! let me not mistake him!—let me not imagine more meaning underlying his words than he would have me! I feel him take my hand, his other arm is thrown round me, his lips are on mine, and my eyes close for one intense moment.

"To feel the arms of my true love
        Round me once again."

Ah! is not all my sorrow, all my pain, wiped out, paid, more than paid, in that one short supreme moment of time?

"Darling," he whispers, "do you think all this time that I must have seemed such a despicable brute in your eyes, I haven't loved and longed for you?"

I have no answer for him but tears,—tears, foolish tears,—the symbol of sorrow, but of great joy too. And mine are all for joy. Where is my pride? what has become of my rage against his cruelties, my indignation, my bitter resentment of his treatment? Here he but opens his arms to me, and I fly to them, with no womanly subterfuge, no temporizing, but only a great unfeigned joy that he comes to me at last. But these thoughts do not trouble me at the moment,—only afterwards, too late, when he is gone.

"Do you know," he says, still holding my hand, "what Hector's last wish, his last injunction to me, was? He had a presentiment that he should not come back. I laughed at it then, little thinking, poor fellow, how soon it was to come true; and his last charge was that I should ask you to be my wife, and that I would look after the people at Alford and carry out his plans. And I will, so help me God!" he adds, earnestly, whilst a dimness comes over his deep-blue eyes. "And you will help me, darling, won't you?—he said you knew his wishes better than any one else."

A chill creeps over me. I scarcely know why, a dark cold suspicion that he is fulfilling a duty to his dead brother shadows painfully in my heart, else why has he not come before?

"And Lady Montagu?" I ask, doubtfully.

"My mother does not know." he answers. "I have not dared to tell her yet. Fond as she has always been of you, she thinks——"

"Yes," I say, quickly, "thinks——"

"That you were the cause of Hector going abroad. My poor darling" (taking my hand and kissing it tenderly), "it is no fault of yours that you should inspire such passionate love, and I don't think any of us ever gave poor Hector credit for the deep feeling we now know he had."

As he speaks, the memory of Hector's wan eager face comes to me, and contrasts itself with the fair, handsome, unimpassioned one before me. But Hector was pleading with the power of despair, and this one,—this one has but to ask and have, nay, to have love showered upon him.

"I have made a resolve," continues Sir Charles—no, I cannot call him that—Charlie. "I've been an irresolute, self-indulgent fellow all my life, and now I want—oh, little one" (earnestly), "you can't think how I want to be better for his sake and yours, for I know how likely I am to slip hack into my old ways again. I'm not gifted with what they call moral courage. I've always found it so easy just to do what was pleasant to me, and not bother my head about whether it was right or wrong. I never had any responsibilities, you know,—never expected to have any. But, looking over poor Hector's papers, I came across a letter from him to me to be opened after his death, and in it he said he knew I should be awfully cut up for a bit after his death, but that the impression would soon die out, and that I should probably only think of making the place gay and pleasant and spending all the money on myself, and forget the poor, and perhaps let a bailiff grind them down; and he begged and entreated me to look into matters myself, and try to do some good, as he meant to do if he had lived. It was all quite true, and I felt it," Charlie goes on, with a shaky voice. "I have no faith in myself, but I do want to do what's right, and I want some good little soul like you to show me the way. And you will, won't you, dearest? But now," he hurries on, "I am going away, going just because I want to try and exercise self-control, because there is nothing in this world I should like so much as stopping here and making love to you, only I feel that to be happy and forget him, poor fellow, all the time that I am reaping the benefits of his death, seems inhuman. And now, when you have promised to be mine, and I have your promise to live on for the next few dreary months, I am going away from Alford, going to travel with my mother, going to do anything that will make the time pass quickest until I can come back to you."

He takes both my hands, and looks into my eyes the look that has looked my heart away long ago, and whispers,—

"Tell me, darling, may I hope?"

Across me there comes a bitter regret that I am so poor a creature I cannot control my evident joy and gladness to be his. His question, "May I hope?" is a farce; and by the involuntary consciousness in his eyes I see he knows it. Yet, to save, it may be, some poor semblance of dignity, I say, averting my face from him,—

"Are you asking me for my own sake, or is it only because your brother wished it?"

My hands are still in the clasp of his. He presses them tighter, and whispers,—

"Look into my eyes, and ask me that again."

I look into the blue depths, as I am told, with an eager, searching gaze, and fancy I read in them the answer my soul would fain have.

"Are you satisfied, little unbelieving one?" he asks. And with that he kisses me once again lingeringly, and rises to go.

"Are you going?" I ask, with a feeling of unspeakable disappointment.—"going already?"

"Yes," he answers, sighing. "Don't you remember what I told you?—I haven't the heart to let myself be happy yet, with the thought of that poor fellow gone to his miserable death. Good-by, little darling. I know you'll be faithful to me until I come back; but kiss me once more and tell me so."

My eyes fill with tears. To have found him only to lose him again,—it seems almost too cruel a pain to bear.

"You will write to me," I plead, "once now and then, that I may be sure what has happened to-day is not all a dream?"

"Of course I will write. Why, child, I believe you are only half convinced yet how I love you."

"And," I say, hesitating, hardly liking to say it, feeling as if it looked like an attempt on my part to prevent his escaping from his word, "may I—may I tell papa, or" (hastily) "would you rather I did not?"

He pauses for a moment before answering.

"You do not wish it?" I say, only anxious to do that which shall be pleasing to him.

"You shall do what you think best, darling," he answers. "I could not speak to him myself so soon after poor Hector's death; and I would not for the world my mother should hear of it yet, nor from any lips but mine. Trust me until I come back." And the blue eyes look lovingly at me, so that I forget everything but that his will is my law. "Do you think," he adds, "it won't be hard enough for me to go away from my happiness just when I have found it?"

He is gone,—gone! and I am sitting at the window, in the full hot sunshine, trying to think. Is it real? I pinch myself, as I have read in books of people doing to make sure they are awake. That is hardly a good test, though, for in some happy dreams I have similarly assured myself of the reality of my own wakefulness. Well, there is no mistake this time. I, Diana Carew, am in full wide-awake possession of all the senses that have been bestowed upon me. I feel the warm sunshine on my face and throat, I hear the sweet jubilance of the birds and the sonorous hum of the big handsome bees, I see the chestnut-tree that looks like a gigantic chandelier with its thousands of wax candles, and the green fields yonder all golden with buttercups, and I smell the heavy-scented azaleas, the lilacs, and the wallflowers. And, since I last looked out, that has come to pass which, in my wildest dreams of possible bliss, has never taken the shape in which it comes real to me to-day. The man whom I have loved with all my love, loved unswervingly in good report and evil report, has come to me, come, not poor, with the thought of sacrificing himself in coming, but gifted with many gifts. He has asked me to be his wife, a fate than which none in this world can seem to me more altogether blissful or to be desired. And yet I am not happy. Truly there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous. As my mind shapes the sentence that the great humorist has made immortally ridiculous, I cannot help thinking how Curly, a couple of years ago, used to weary our ears with its constant iteration, notably, "And though the Christy Minstrels never perform out of London, yet I am not happy." I smile in memory of my boy, and then my thoughts return to graver considerations.

I have let him go without satisfying myself on a hundred points. Whilst he was with me, the joyful fact of his presence made me oblivious of all else; but now that he is gone, and I can think seriously, cruel doubts rise up and array themselves against me. With their winged shafts they pierce every joint in the armor of my loving confidence. How is it possible that he can have come to care for me so suddenly, when last autumn he could treat me with systematic indifference, even making love to another woman before my eyes,—when in the preceding summer he could coldly avoid me and take an interest in another man's love for me? Why, too, had he delayed so long to come to me, when he was so near me? How could he go away from me now and wish his proposal to be kept secret? The more I think over it, the stronger grows the ugly doubt in my heart of his love for me. He has come to-day under the influence of his regret for his brother, to fulfill his last wish. At last I see how Hector loved me, and a bitter yearning regret for him fills my heart. As a mountain to a mole-hill, his love stands in comparison with Charlie's. What greater proof of love could I have had than his conquering the feeling that was the bitterest of his life,—the thought of my being his brother's wife! At last, too late, I see the full nobility and generosity of his character: what can I do now but weep blinding tears of unavailing regret? And yet, could I summon him back in the flesh, I know I could never have loved him with the love he craved: to marry him would have been not one whit less a sacrifice, from which I should have shrunk as much now as then.

But to have gained happiness, such happiness as I had never dreamed of, and for the taste of it to be like ashes in my mouth! After long and painful thought, I decide upon keeping the event of to-day a secret even from papa; a painful prescience comes to me that this happiness will never be fulfilled. So I content myself with telling him that Sir Charles Montagu has been over to call, and, after a few indifferent questions about him, papa drops the subject. There is one great hope to which I cling; he will write to me, and in his letters perhaps he will say something to satisfy my hungry heart.

A few days after our interview, his first letter comes. It is only a short one, principally about his mother, and their plans for the summer. It ends thus:

"Dearest, if you think this letter cold and indifferent, I have tried to make it so. I feel as if we both owe it to Hector not to let ourselves be happy and forget him yet."

As I read, my miserable unbelief in him grows stronger. He does not love me. His is not a nature to be acted upon by any such scruples as he pretends; the first element of his sensuous, indolent nature is to indulge himself in everything that pleases him: if (and I go back to the sentence of his which has always galled me so bitterly)—if he could never be ten minutes alone with a woman without wanting to make love to her, could he be cool and indifferent towards the woman he really loved and meant to make his wife? My heart indignantly rejects the idea.

"No, no, no! he does not love me!" I say to myself, bitterly, "any more than he did last summer, last autumn." I do not answer his letter; I cannot; what should I say?—but I dig a grave for my new-born hopes, and give them decent burial, and try to smile, as if all the joy and hope of my life were not buried with them. Yet somewhere, as in Pandora's box, lying under all the doubts and fears and miseries, there is a little winged Hope lying, that his presence may kindle into life some day, if Fate be not too cruel. I do not even conjecture how strong it is until, one morning a fortnight later, a letter comes to me that slays it outright. The envelope is directed in a strange hand: inside there are a few words in the same writing, and inclosed is a letter from him. I read first the words in the unknown hand; "The sender thinks it only fair to Miss Carew that she should be made acquainted with the real state of Sir Charles Montagu's feelings."

Then, trembling and heart-sick, I go to my own room, and, locking myself in, read his letter twice over. This is it:

"MY DARLING,—

"After what has happened lately, how can I ever hope to make you think kindly of me again? To profess my love for you, and then to tell you I am going to marry another woman! But I promised my brother,—I gave him my sacred word; and how dare I go back from a promise made more sacred still by death? My own darling, I know you do love me, unworthy though I am of your sweet love. The thought that I shall never be anything more to you half breaks my heart. I love you. I do not love her,—need I tell you that? If I had never given that hateful promise to Hector, we might have been so awfully happy now! Only, if I marry her,—and I hardly see how I can get out of it,—never think that I did not love you with all my heart and soul, and would have asked no greater happiness than to have you for my wife, if Fate had not been against us. She complains of my being unloverlike; if she could only know how utterly unloverlike I feel towards her! So, my darling,—for the last time I dare call you so,—good-by, and may your lot be a happier one than that to which I am miserably looking forward!          C.M."

When I have read the letter twice through, I lay it down and lean my head upon my hands. I feel stunned, as though some one had struck me a heavy blow. One thought iterates itself again and again: Hector is revenged,—Hector is revenged! Ay, had I treated him with the wantonest, most heartless cruelty, had I laid myself out to win his love and then spurned it, he would yet be amply, fully revenged. How can we gauge our sorrows? I thought the hours when I believed my boy dying, the bitterest ever given mortal soul to know; but the anguish I feel now seems not less keen. To be spoken of by him with shuddering dislike,—to have inspired in him nor love nor liking,—to have been asked tardily, reluctantly to be his wife because he had given his word to his brother! Oh, it was an easy task to give him up for his own sake, that I might not mar his fortunes, when I thought he had some little love for me; but now, to give him up to another woman,—a woman he loves passionately,—loves as ardently as he is indifferent to me!

"What have I done to deserve this misery?" I cry, beating my hands together in an agony of pain and shame. "Oh, what have I done?—what have I done?"

I push my hair off my brow, and rub my hands hard against it, to try and still its throbbing. Is it like this, I wonder, that people begin to go mad? If I could only get away somewhere! I cannot stay in this place,—cannot go on leading this monotonous life. I will go to papa and beg him to take me away at once,—I care not where, if only it be a long, long way off. I am in a fever of impatience. I do not even step to look at myself in the glass nor to smooth my disheveled hair. I thrust the letter into my pocket and run swiftly downstairs to his study. He looks up from his writing as I enter, then, dropping his pen, cries,—

"Di, my child, what ails you?"

With an unconscious instinct I run to him, fling myself down before him, and bury my head in his knees. His kind arms are round me, and he murmurs, brokenly,—

"Poor little girl!—poor child!"

At his tender voice, at the sound of its great pity, I break into tears and sohs and bitter crying. In all my life I have never cried like this before.

And papa strokes my head, and presses my hands in his, and says, "For God's sake, child, do not cry like this! My poor little girl, what is it? What can I say to comfort you?"

I had not dreamed of this outburst. I meant to have come quietly and said to him, "Papa, I am not happy. I want you to take me away somewhere. Please do not ask me any questions;" but, somehow, at sight of him, at the sound of his kind voice, I break down.

What shall I tell him? What account shall I give of my bitter pain and grief?

He waits patiently as any woman until my sobs die away; then he says,—

"Tell me about it, dear. What makes you unhappy?"

But I am silent. How can I tell him?

He waits yet a little, and then, stroking my head fondly says,—

"Am I not your father? Who can feel for your pain as I do? If your mother were living, you would take your trouble to her; but, since she is dead" (sighing), "let me be father and mother both to you."

I would fain tell him, but the words will not come. How can one tell one's father of one's foolish, unreturned love?

"Do you think I never noticed," he goes on, "how changed you were after you first went to Warrington? Do you think a father can be so dull and blind as not to notice when his children suffer? Do you think, my poor little girl, I never guessed the cause of your unhappiness because it was out of my power to help you?"

At last my lips unclose.

"I will tell you," I cry, hurriedly; and, nerving myself with a great effort, my face turned away from him,—turned to the light where the cruel sun streams in unmindful of my heart's pain,—stammer out incoherently, sobbingly, painfully, my "plain, unvarnished tale."

"You know when I first went to Warrington, when I first met poor Sir Hector, his brother, Captain Montagu, was there. He could not help it" (with a sigh that nearly rives my chest asunder): "he was always used to see beautiful, fashionable women. What should he think about a little stupid country-girl? But I—I shall never care for any one again."

"So," says papa, in a low voice, "that was why you refused Sir Hector and Lord Seldon."

"Then," I proceed, becoming more and more embarrassed with my recital, and looking away for help out through the sunshine and the deep-colored roses to the far blue heaven, "then when I was at Alford he came home unexpectedly, and we were together a good deal. I don't know why" (my voice faltering), "perhaps—perhaps he could not help seeing I—I cared for him, but he asked me very generously to marry him."

"Well?" papa's voice is low and impatient.

"Well," I echo, reproachfully, "as if I would have let him burden himself with me who had nothing, when he had been used to every luxury all his life. No" (with a touch of pride): "he was willing to take me, but I would not have him."

Papa makes an impatient movement. I hurry on. "When I met him in town, he avoided me. I don't suppose" (sighing) "he ever had thought much about me, and then, you know, at the Desboroughs' every one thought he was going to marry the heiress. From that time until the other day when he came here I have never seen him."

"And is it possible," papa asks, wonderingly, "that you have gone on caring for him all this time, when he has never even kept up a pretense of thinking of you?"

His words stab me to the heart. I put my hands before my face to hide the fire of shame that burns my cheeks.

"He came the other day," I falter, "to ask me to marry him!"

"What!" cries papa, in a voice of utter astonishment.

"He came," I go on, coldly, not sparing myself, "because Hector's last wish was that he should marry me."

"Oh, Di, Di!" exclaims papa, in a low, unsteady voice; "where are your women's eyes and hearts, that you cannot appreciate such a noble fellow as that, but fritter away your love on one who is not worthy to be mentioned in the same year with him? Well" (impatiently), "and what did you say to him? Did you refuse him again for his own sake?"

"No," I mutter; "no."

"Well, then, in heaven's name, why did he not come to me, like an honorable man, and why are you in such grief to-day?"

"He did not speak to you," I return, hastening to defend the man I love, "because—because, poor Hector having been dead so short a time, he did not wish anything known yet. He thought it would look unfeeling."

"Oh!" utters papa, doubtfully. "But, Di, we have not come to the cause of your trouble yet."

"It is this," I cry, taking the letter and inclosed lines from my pocket and thrusting them into his hand.

He takes it, and while he reads I look up for the first time and scan his face. He makes no sign, utters no word; and yet his face is eloquent enough to me. I have seen enough. I hide my eyes with my hands.

"Poor little girl!" I hear him murmur, presently, in a broken voice.

Papa does not for an instant hesitate to yield to my wish to go away. I think, indeed, he would have proposed it if I had not done so. And now the money difficulty does not stand between us and the fulfillment of our wish, as it would have done this time last year. The Fanes are going to Switzerland, and have already urged us to join them. Now papa writes to ask Colonel Fane if it would be agreeable to them to have our companionship, and receives a quick response in the affirmative. Ere ten days have passed, I have turned my back upon my own country, indifferent in my misery, save for Curly's sake, whether I ever behold it again. On the day I leave England I inclose the letter, with its anonymous companion, to Sir Charles. At first I thought of sending them without any addition from me, and letting them tell their own tale; but on this point I change my mind. I would not have him think I blame him for being unable to love me. So I add these lines:

"DEAR SIR CHARLES,—

"The letters I inclose will speak for themselves. Of course I know you never intended the one in your writing to fall into my hands, and I am quite sure you will be very sorry it has done so. You acted very generously in asking me to be your wife, you have done your duty to your brother, and can have nothing to reproach yourself with. It is I who positively refuse to marry you: do not make any attempt to shake my resolve,—it would be utterly useless, and only put us both to unnecessary pain. When you get this, I shall be out of England. Do not try to find out where I am. I have left most urgent directions with the only two people who know, not to tell you. I hope you may be very happy.

"Yours sincerely,
        "DIANA CAREW."

So, in this lame, cold effusion, I take my leave of the man who has had all the love of my young heart,—who has taken it and left me bankrupt.

The Fanes are very kind: they affect not to notice my sad and altered demeanor, but ere long in my desperate need of sympathy I fly for comfort to Claire's loving pity. For, though she is outwardly as bright and cheerful as ever, I know right well that it is from a sense of duty, not from any spontaneous gayety. My tutored eyes discern how surely the iron has entered her soul too. And, like the angel that she is, she ministers her sweet pity and consolation to my sorrow, and I am comforted by it. She says I have done right. What else could I do when the knowledge came to me that he was only sacrificing himself to a sense of duty and had no love to give me? Surely fate was in a bitter mood when she thrust upon me the power of making myself passionately beloved where I could give no return, and withheld it when it would have made fair all my life. If I were only good like Claire! I cannot kiss the rod as she would have me, as she does herself. I cannot thank God for my ruined life. The most I can do is to try hard, oh, how hard! not to rebel too violently.

"My dear," she whispers, with her soft kind arms about my neck, and her tears falling in sympathy with mine, "you will see it yet. I know how hard, how almost impossible it seems at first to see anything but cruelty and injustice in these bitter trials; but if only you do not harden your heart, you will see the love of God in it some day, and be able to say, 'It is well.'"

Until now it has never been difficult for me to love God and pray to him; reverence for all that is good and great is a part of my nature; in a humble, childlike way, I have looked up to my Father in heaven and asked of him, as I have been bidden, those gifts that I have desired. I have brought to his footstool all my cares but this one; how dared I bring my earthly love? I have been taught that I must love God first before all others; and how then could I pray for his sanction to my setting up an idol before him and worshiping it with that rapt passionate love which our earth-cloyed souls give so easily and naturally to mortals, and whose intensity is in measure and degree so far beyond the devout and reverential but cold love we offer to the Deity? My talks with Claire, however, do me good: it must indeed be a hard nature on which her sweet goodness could leave no impress. She is so bright, so kindly, so humble; there is none of the austerity of conscious goodness about her; she is not afraid to laugh and be merry lest she should detract from her character for saintliness. I have heard men speak against women, accuse them of envy, malice, littleness. I would like them to know Claire, to see her appreciation of goodness, talent, or beauty in others, her quick, glad recognition of excellence wherever shown. Her affection does not hang upon the mediocrity of her friends, as I am told (by men) that most women's does.

There is at all events one person who thoroughly appreciates her,—her brother.

"Ah," he said, one day, when we were talking about her "if there were more women like Claire going about the world what a much more tolerable—indeed, what a much happier—place it would be! But, unfortunately, most good women are dull, and many bright women are—well, not exactly what you would call good; so that it does not very often fall to a man's lot to see one like Claire who, is good, charitable, unselfish, and the merriest, brightest companion all in one."

If I were to add what Colonel Fane added to this,—not, I must confess, with any truth or justice, but that I might not feel myself left out in the cold,—I suppose I might draw down upon my foolish head the condemnation wherewith I visited the egotism of Miss Harriet Byron. We are in Paris, en route for Switzerland. Colonel Fane and his sister find it sadly altered since the war; but to me, who have never seen the Queen of Cities before, and to papa, who only remembers it, in the first days of the great unhappy Emperor who (let no man forget) made her what she is, it seems the gayest, the most beautiful city the mind of man could imagine. How marvelously buoyant and volatile must be the French nature, to stand erect so soon from the weight of such crushing misfortunes!

Our first destination after Paris is Geneva, which we have agreed to make our headquarters. It strikes us as being dull after Paris, and the glare is frightful. The evenings on the lake are pleasant, and I like to stand on the bridge and look down at the blue rushing Rhone, deep and blue as his eyes. Colonel Fane is kindness itself: he takes such care of me, and never seems to forget anything that could add to my comfort. For the last few days a suspicion has begun to dawn on me that papa is falling in love with Claire. Dearly as I love her, the very thought gives me a twinge of jealous pain; we have always been first with him, Curly and I, and, now that I have no one left but my father, it seems cruel to think of losing him. I try hard not to be selfish. I remind myself of the sad lonely life he has led. I can see plainly enough how bright Claire might make his future; and yet—yet the thought of giving up the châtelaineship of home, however poor an office it may seem in the eyes of others, is grievous and bitter to me. I begin to watch her narrowly, in the endeavor to discover what her feelings for him are, and I fancy that sometimes her bright eyes are brighter still, and the delicate pink in her face deepens when he appeals to her, as he often does.

Some one has strongly recommended to us the ascent of Les Voirons, some mountains near Geneva, where we are told is a charming hotel, and one of the loveliest views in Switzerland. Papa and Colonel Fane decide upon our spending a day or two up there, and accordingly we set forth on our journey. If the result repaid us, we agreed before reaching our destination, we should be fortunate, for great were the disagreeables, not to say perils, we encountered en route. We drove from Geneva to Bergue, where we arrived in a deluge of rain, and found nothing but a wretched and most uninviting auberge. Mine host was about the most ill-looking and surly individual conceivable: if we had been in Italy instead of honest Switzerland, our minds might have undergone some apprehensions as to our safety, more especially as there was a great open trap-door in the room into which we were rudely ushered. After alternate threats and persuasions, Colonel Fane wrung a promise of a steed apiece for Claire and myself: they themselves would have to walk. Our surly host went to fetch the horses from the plow, and in about an hour we were mounted and off. The sensation was like what I should imagine riding on a dromedary might be. There was scarcely any footing, at times; it was about as easy as riding up a ladder cut in a rock. Suddenly, as we were nearing our journey's end, Claire's horse stumbled and threw her. There was no more doubt in my mind after that what papa felt for her: the agonized expression of his face, as he bent over her, would have told me plainly enough if I had never guessed it before. Most fortunately, she is not hurt, but she refuses to mount again, and performs the rest of the journey leaning on papa's arm; whilst my eyes, half jealous, half kindly, follow them. I fancy Colonel Fane is sad and out of sorts too; perhaps he also suspects something, and is reluctant to lose Claire. He may well be that.

At last we reach the hotel, and, glad as we are to get there, with the darkness coming on, we begin to think lugubriously that we have been "let in." It is too dark to see the view; we are the first visitors of the season; it is damp and chilly, and there are no fires anywhere. But two hours later, when we have dined by no means badly, and are sitting round the blazing wood fire, we are able to take a more cheerful view of things; and the next day, which is gloriously bright and sunny, we are fain to admit, after having explored the neighborhood, that we were not victims to a heartless practical joke, as we at first dismally conceived ourselves.

It is afternoon of the second day after our arrival. My heart is sad and bitter within me, and I creep away from the rest of the party and wend my way alone through the pines to a solitary spot, where I may nurse my sorrow all, all alone. To say that the day and scene are glorious, is to give but very poor and faint expression to my sense of their beauty; but what other words can I find? Down in sultry, glaring Geneva to-day the heat would be unbearable; walking along the white, hot streets, unless provided with a dense blue veil, the sun would scorch up one's eyes and face. But up here, so much nearer to him, one can bear his fervent kiss unsheltered by veil or parasol: his fierceness is tempered to delicious warmth by the soft cool winds that come from heaven across the brow of the snow-king. I throw myself upon the short green turf, all gay with myriad eyes of pink, blue, and yellow, an "enameled sward" indeed, and let my eyes wander down the valley to the white glistening town, the lovely lake, blue as a deep-colored forget-me-not, with the serpent windings of the Rhone flowing into it. The dark chain of the Jura stretches away in front of me: on all sides are mountains, some velvety green and pine-crowned, some bare and sterile, and away, far off, but clear against the blue sky, garbed in his unchanging white garment, stands Mont Blanc. Green and fair is the valley beneath; sweet odors rise from the mountain's pine-clad sides, and the birds are singing up in these heights joyously and tunefully as they sing in our woods at home. Is not nature fair? and yet its fairness cannot make my soul less sad,—nay, rather more so. There is only one thing that seems happiness to me to-day,—oblivion, nothingness, to shut one's eyes once forever on a scene some such as this, and never through all the countless ages to unclose them again. I have lost the power of realizing a happy future: all life, all existence, it seems to me, must be marred with some pain. Then the thought comes to me with grim irony that now my life is done, my father's is beginning. God knows I do not begrudge him any happiness, only——

My swift thoughts fly back to the one love of my life,—the foolish, unhappy, but, oh! I think, the faithfulest love a woman ever gave to man. How can I live through all the long dull years without him,—the great appalling number of years that I have yet to crawl through before I reach the allotted number of threescore and ten? And yet life is called brief,—fleeting. Why, to me a year seems an eternity. A year! Where shall I be this time next year? and he,—where will he be? Married to the woman he loves, whispers my heart. Oh, heaven! what has she done to deserve so glad, so blest a fate, and what have I done to inherit mine? The thought is too much for me. I fling myself prone on the short sweet turf. I tear with ruthless hands the jeweled eyes from their green head, and cry and sob to heaven to pity or to slay me, since I cannot longer endure the aching agony of life without him.

My rage of pain has spent itself at last: my sobs come fitfully. There is a sound of voices in the distance, and I rise and turn to flee. For pride's sake, I would not be seen with the traces of my late violent emotion upon me. I walk hurriedly along the mountain's slope. Suddenly a voice utters my name,—a voice whose sound sends the blood rushing to my brain and my heart leaping to my throat. I turn. Where are my senses? am I dreaming? Oh, kind heaven, if it be so, let me never wake again! He is here, my lost love who has so cruelly torn my heart in twain. His arms are round me; his gentian-colored eyes are looking into mine,—mine that I know are spoiled and marred with tears,—and yet I care not; vanity, grief, all are forgotten in this supreme moment in which I forecast Paradise. Does what I say sound too strong? Ah! but if you ever loved with all your heart and soul, loved and lost, and found your love again! No single question comes to my lips. I care not to know why or how he came. I have forgotten that other woman whom he loved. With his arms about me, his lips pressed to mine, every doubt, every fear, is gone; by the passionate emotion of his voice as he whispers the sweetest words my hungered ears ever heard, by the quivering of his strong arms that bind me, do I not know, let what will have gone before, though he may have seemed indifferent in bygone days, that he loves me now?—not, perhaps, as I love him,—nay, how can a heart that has loved often feel the intense devotion of the one that has but known a single passion?—but he loves me. That is enough for me! I am content. It is well,—passing well. If I had not known the wild misery of the last three weeks, could I have tasted the utter exquisite joy of to-day, with the blue sky above me, and the fair valley beneath, the sweet birds' song, the scented air, and above all, without which sights and scents and sounds were barren so short a while ago, "the arms of my true love round me once again."

The shock to Colonel Montagu of his brother's death was indescribable. If they had been the most devoted brothers in the world, he could hardly have felt it more keenly, coming as it did so swiftly upon Hector's presentiment, and with the memory of his wan, altered face. His first impulse was to start for Naples to bring back the body. The moment he got his foreign leave, he was off, traveling day and night until he reached his destination. But the sea never gave up her dead. Colonel Montagu came home haggard, with a great grief gnawing at his heart. He reproached himself bitterly for having let his brother go; not one exultant thought crept into his heart at the advantage he was to reap from the death of the poor fellow lying fathoms deep under the blue waters. If he was self-indulgent and reckless, he had the kindest heart in the world. Ambition had never troubled him; he had been content with his easy, pleasant life, loved by men and women too. He might be extravagant, but he thought it rather a joke to make his old curmudgeon of a father pay for his gay follies. He never kept a poor man waiting for his money, nor refused to help a friend in trouble. There was "no straighter fellow going than Charlie Montagu," all his brother-officers averred.

This was the first grief he had known in his life, and he felt it acutely. Day nor night could he forget Hector's changed, sad face, nor his parting words. It seemed almost a crime to him to laugh or be happy when he thought of the pain his brother had suffered,—the pain that had banished him to a strange land to die. His thoughts would go back remorsefully to the night at Alford when he had yielded to the temptation of his self-indulgent nature to make hot love to Diana. He had not really loved her then,—not loved her as he had grown to do since; it had been a sudden passion kindled in him by her love, her beauty, and the witchery of the warm, lovely night.

Perhaps, he told himself, had Fate not put her in his way that night, or had he used his honor to resist the temptation, Diana would have come to care for Hector, and he, poor fellow, would be living now. And yet at that thought a twinge came across him: he could not honestly wish Diana any one's but his own now; and yet I believe firmly if giving her up could have brought his dead brother back, he would have tried to pluck her out of his heart. There was only one atonement that he could make now: he would to the very letter carry out every wish of Hector's that concerned the estate, and he would ascetically deny himself any profit or joy yet awhile out of his brother's death. He forgot that by this self-denial he was making the woman he loved suffer; he had but one idea,—it would be wrong to be happy yet. Her presence would make him happy; he longed eagerly, ardently, to go to her, to take her in his arms, to be quite persuaded of what he was so nearly certain,—that she still loved him, and would forgive his seeming indifference and neglect of her. Somehow he felt as if she must of her own knowledge guess the truth that he had loved her all the while, but that he was bound by the promise Hector had wrung from him over his father's death-bed. When the vision of her sweet face and sorrowful eyes, sorrowful from his making, came to him, he tore it out as treason to the dead man. True, it was Hector's dying wish that he should marry her,—would it not be the joy of his life in the time to come?—but not yet, not yet,—while the memory of Hector's grief and death was still green and fresh. How many a time, when he rose in the morning, had he said to himself, with his old self-indulgent habit, "I will ride over and see my darling to-day," and done violence to himself afterwards to resist the temptation! and at last, when he did go, how he had schooled himself to be cold and quiet, and keep back the love that was rioting in his heart, and so had made her fancy him indifferent! It never occurred to him that she would not understand the restraint he was putting upon himself, and the reason of it.

When Diana's letter with the inclosures reached him, it was a revelation. He saw at last the cruelty he had been practicing upon her, a cruelty to which her anonymous correspondent, whether friend or foe he could not divine, had put the culminating touch. Why, that was the very letter he had written to her at the Desboroughs' the day of Curly's accident, and afterwards had made up his mind not to send, because it would be a breach of faith to Hector. He had missed it afterwards from his blotting-book, but fancied he must have torn it up with other papers. And this the poor sensitive darling had somehow or other turned against herself, and had gone away abroad to escape him. Well, there was but one thing to do now, at all events: he was not going to lose the hope of his life for any scruples about the right or wrong of being happy; he would take the goods the gods sent, and his heart beat with exultation at the thought. He rang for his servant, and ordered him to have everything packed by the afternoon, and then he went to find his mother. They were in Ireland. He would get to Dublin that night in time to cross, and go straight to Curly, from whom he knew quite well he would have no difficulty in discovering his sister's whereabouts, when he explained to him why he wanted it.

He then went to his mother's room. She was not yet dressed.

"I have something important to say to you, mother," he said, as he entered. "Parker" (to the maid), "don't look black at me for invading these sacred precincts." He spoke in his usual pleasant, smiling way, and Parker, far from looking black, smiled, as every woman smiled at Charlie Montagu, and retired.

"What is it, my dear?" Lady Montagu asked, anxiously, unnerved by the severe shocks she had undergone. "No bad news, I trust?"

"No. Don't be alarmed,—nothing the matter," he returned, and then hesitated, finding some little difficulty in broaching the matter on his mind. "Little mother," he said, sitting down by her, and taking her hand in the caressing manner that was habitual to him, "I told you one of poor Hector's last wishes: there was another I did not tell you."

"Yes?" answered Lady Montagu, the ready tears starting to her eyes at the mention of her poor dead son. "Tell me about it, dear."

"You know how fond he was of Diana Carew?"

Lady Montagu shivered a little, as if the remembrance pained her.

"The last wish he expressed to me was that" (speaking very slowly) "I should marry her."

"Impossible!" cried Lady Montagu, with energy; "impossible! I used to be fond of her. I do not wish to condemn her, but I can never forget that poor Hector's death lies at her door."

"Don't be unjust, little mother," said Charlie, gently. "You cannot accuse her of having tried to make him like her, or of giving him any false encouragement. She never went to Alford without being greatly pressed. It was a dreadful misfortune for Hector, poor dear fellow, but no one could say it was her fault."

"But," argued his mother, "it is inconceivable that he should have wished you to marry her: he was intensely jealous of you; he made me promise never even to breathe your name in her presence."

"I know," sighed Charlie; "and before he paid my debts after nay poor father died, he made me swear never to utter a word of love to her again. It did not seem so hard then; but afterwards, when I saw her in town, and at the Desboroughs', I felt I cared for her more than I did for any other woman, and it was frightfully hard for me to seem indifferent. And I don't know how it is, but" (averting his face, on which the color is deepening visibly) "heaven knows I am not the least worthy of it, but I don't think she ever had a thought of love for any one but me."

Lady Montagu looked at her handsome son with all her mother's pride and love shining in her eyes.

"I do not know how any woman could help loving you," she said, fondly.

Charlie, evading her flattery, went on quickly:

"I never spoke to you about it before, because it seemed heartless to think about being happy so soon, and marrying the girl he loved, poor fellow; but he was really in earnest about it; he seemed most anxious, and said she knew all his wishes about the estate and the poor. And I, being afraid of forgetting too soon, have, I am afraid, behaved like a brute to the poor little thing, and she thinks I don't care for her, and has gone off abroad somewhere."

"You are not thinking of going abroad, Charlie?" cried his mother. "You will not, unless you want to break my heart."

Then he explained to her all that had happened, and, after much coaxing, persuasion, and reassuring, wrung from her a most reluctant consent to his following Diana. It was a hard task; but he was bent upon going, and the poor mother yielded when she saw it was useless to resist.

The next day Sir Charles was at Eton with Curly.

"But Di said I must not," answered the lad, ruefully, in answer to his friend's appeal. "You know I'd do anything in the world for you, but Di said if I loved her I was not to let you know where she was."

Sir Charles proceeded to tell him as much as he thought necessary to convince him that his sister would bear him no malice for the breach of faith.

"But," persisted Curly, more embarrassed still by this aspect of affairs, "I gave Seldon my word of honor to do all I could to persuade Di to marry him; and if I help you I shall be breaking my word to him."

"My dear fellow," answered Charlie, laughing, "Seldon has about as much chance of marrying your sister as you have of marrying the Princess Beatrice."

Curly, at last persuaded, revealed that his father had written him to direct to them at the Poste-Restante, Geneva, on the 23d, and that they were traveling with the Fanes. Then the two bade each other farewell, and Curly went back to Eton, feeling rather Judas-like with his future brother's magnificent tip. Sir Charles went back to town and made arrangements for his journey. There was no foreign leave to get now, thank heaven: he had sold out of the Guards, and was of the opinion that most men are, or profess to be, before and after giving up what has hitherto been the pride of their lives,—that "the service" was "going to the dogs." He was not particularly pleased at the thought of Rochester Fane being Diana's traveling-companion: he remembered with anything but satisfaction how attentive he had been to her at the Warringtons', and with what friendliness she had received and accepted his attentions. Suppose that, bitterly hurt and indignant at his own treatment of her, she had consoled herself with Fane's love: for it did not seem possible to Charlie now, infatuated as he was becoming about her, that a man could be long in her sweet society without making love to her. Suppose he should arrive too late. The thought put him into a fever. He had not received Diana's letter for eight days after it was written, because of the uncertainty of his own movements, and, owing to this unlucky accident, all this valuable time had been lost.

Arrived at Geneva, he had no difficulty in tracing them: the polite landlord informed him that they were expected back from the Voirons the following day. But that was not good enough for Charlie in his hot haste: he ordered a carriage and started at once in pursuit. And so it happened that while Diana was breaking her poor little heart on the mountain-top he was toiling up the steep ascent, guided by an urchin from the village, being far too impatient to wait until a horse was unyoked from the plow, and rather preferring to trust his own legs to get him to the top. Mr. Adams, his "gentleman," who accompanied him, was furious, and swore to himself with a bitter oath, as he toiled and stumbled after his active master up the mountain's side, that if Sir Charles had another such freak as this he'd be blanked thrice over if he didn't give up the situation, good as it was.

The ex-Guardsman was a curious mixture of energy and indolence: he could endure any amount of hardship and fatigue, but he would have considered it an insufferable exertion to pack his own clothes or shave himself. It is just possible that this was a remnant of swagger begun in early life and grown into habit. Anyhow, Mr. Adams toiled and panted and blasphemed after him as well as he might, and tried rather unsuccessfully to assume a cheerful smile when Sir Charles now and then turned with laughing good nature to ask how he was getting on.

The first person Sir Charles saw on reaching the summit was Mr. Carew, who, as may be imagined, received him with scant cordiality. But, after a few minutes' conversation in private, everything was satisfactorily explained, and glad enough was Di's father to bid him "God speed," as he directed him to the spot where he was most likely to find her.

His heart beats as it has never beaten before as he sees the slight graceful form he knows so well flying before him. There is no languor in his step or face as he strides after her, feeling in his excitement no more fatigue after his unwonted exertion than if he had strolled up St. James's Street. In a moment he is calling her by name, his arms are round her, he is raining impassioned kisses upon her lips. She does not resist him, as perhaps a girl who had been kissed by half a dozen men might have done, with a show of virtue a little too conscious to be real: this is the one love of her fresh pure heart, into which no thought of any other man has ever crept: why, then, should she affect to shrink from him, when it is such utter happiness to be near him?

"My own little darling," he whispers, presently, still feasting his happy eyes on her dear face, "how could you think hardly of me if you cared for me? Did you not feel that I loved you all the time, even though I was compelled to seem indifferent?"

"No," answers Diana, truthfully. "I did not think you cared for me. Oh" (with a little, touching sigh), "do you think I could ever have pretended not to love you?"

"My darling," says the young man, tenderly, "I wonder how on earth I ever came to be so lucky as to be loved by such a little angel?"

Diana's face dimples with happy smiles.

"You wonder," she says, with an air of sweet conviction. "Nay, it is I who should wonder how you came to care for me."

As she lifts her loving radiant eyes to his face a strange remorse comes over him.

"I have been a worthless, selfish fellow all my life," he says, "but" (with passionate earnestness) "I swear to heaven to be something worthier before I die."

When, a long time after, though it seems but a few moments to them, they are sauntering reluctantly back to the hotel, Diana stops, and glances lingeringly down the peaceful valley at the blue lake, lying like a bright mirror mountain-framed, at the hamlets with little church-spires looking heavenward out of each.

"And to-day," she says, half to him, half to herself, "only to-day I envied any human soul down in that valley by contrast to my own wretchedness; and now" (raising her rapt, lovely eyes to his face) "I pity every one so who is not me!"

What sweeter flattery could the vainest man in Christendom desire?

How poor words are, how all inadequate to express the great joys and sorrows of our lives! Is it not proof of this that when we are (how rarely!) overtaken by great gladness, we say we are unutterably happy?—if we want to describe anything, either of pleasure or pain, transcending the common limits of every-day experience, we are reduced to saying, "words fail to express," etc. Is there some language among the dead ones in which bygone ages could pour out the torrent of their joys and woes without being hampered by the paucity of superlatives which afflicts me at this moment? I give it up. I cannot tell you how happy I am,—so happy that a vein of fear runs through my gladness that such utter bliss cannot last. It is no dream: I am wide, wide awake, and Charlie is sitting opposite to me. He wished to sit next me, but I begged him to sit opposite instead, though I was too shy to tell him why. It is because I want to see him, to feast my eyes on his face with my old insatiable love of good looks. And now I need never again steal furtive glances at the bright debonnair face. I may fix my eyes upon it without dropping them guiltily when they meet his. Are the rest of the party cheerful and merry, I wonder? I hardly know: our spirits are so exuberant, after our long famine of mirth, that if none of the others unclosed their lips, it must needs have seemed a cheery gathering. Papa looks very bright, I remark: is it from the contagion of my happiness, or from some secret gladness of his own? Ah, I can wish him joy now without the shadow of a selfish regret creeping in to mar the genuineness of my sympathy. One's father naturally seems older to me than any other man of the same age, but, now I come to think of it, there is hardly more difference between his age and Claire's than between Charlie's and mine.

Claire comes running into my room just before dinner.

"My dear," she whispers, her pretty face beaming with kindness and congratulation, "how glad I am at your happiness! Did I not tell you to trust, and all would be well?"

"Ah, Claire," I cry, flinging my arms round her, "I can't tell you how utterly happy I am. Was there ever any one in this world so fortunate as I? I am quite sorry I abused the poor world, when it is, after all, the happiest, delightfulest place one can imagine."

"Do not forget, dearest, where all your thanks are due," she says, softly, and, kissing me once again heartily, goes out. I do not forget! On my knees I am thanking God with all the intensity of which my heart is capable for his exceeding goodness to me. There is one person who does not seem quite to share the general gladness. That is Colonel Fane. He is preoccupied at dinner, and goes off alone afterwards with his cigar. It is a glorious moonlight night. Charlie and I wander back to the place of our meeting. Ah, what a night!—a night to live over again in memory all the nights of one's life, if one lived to be as old as Methuselah, sure, quite sure, that even in the longest, happiest life there could never come two such. Dark pine-clad mountains standing out against the sapphire sky, bright waters flashing back the moon's streaming silver, nightingales answering each other from tree to tree, and my hands clasped upon the arm of the one man the world has ever held, will ever hold, for me. And this time last night—nay, only five short hours ago,—he seemed as far removed from me, as unattainable, as that glorious evening star yonder.

"Little darling," says the voice of my beloved, presently, "are you quite sure you have nothing on your conscience to confess to me?"

"On my conscience!" I repeat, slowly turning my willing and most guiltless eyes to his.

The mere sound of his voice is delightful to me, even if it were propounding the Sphinx's riddle. That does not seem much more impossible to guess than his present meaning.

"Are you quite sure," with a little jealous accent that delights me,—"are you quite sure you have not been flirting just a very little bit with Fane?"

"I!" I answer, in a tone wherein astonishment and reproach do battle royal for victory.

"Little darling, of course I know you did not," he answers, hastily; "only he is evidently most confoundedly put out by my appearance on the scene. Did you not notice how glum and silent he was at dinner? Such a cheery fellow as he is usually."

"Absurd!" I answer, with scorn. "Colonel Fane looks upon me as a brother."

"Oh, does he?" answers my lover, with an amused smile. "You little innocent child" (taking my face between his hands and looking straight into my eyes), "I think a man would be puzzled to be with you long and keep up that useful little fiction of fraternal feeling."

He is quite mistaken in his supposition; but it pleases me, since it shows the value he sets upon me,—pleases me far better than if it were true. I never want to know the pain again of being loved by a man to whose affection I can make no return.

It is decided that we are still to continue our Swiss trip, but to be at home again by the time Curly leaves Eton, instead of his joining us abroad, as had been proposed when the thought of returning to Carew Court had been so hateful to me. I shall always love Switzerland better than any country save my own,—not for the sake of her beauty only, but in memory of the happy days I spent on her glorious heights, in her tranquil valleys, on her blue lakes, by her silver streams, in her quaint old towns. I know not when or where I was happiest:—if it was gliding along the lakes, with the red sunset kindling the waters into flame and purpling the mountain-sides; in the delicious Vevay gardens, listening to the entrancing strains of the string hand; driving along the lovely valley of the Arve, where the water leaps flashing against the sunshine; at Chamouni, in glorious sight of the great snow-king, standing against the clear blue sky; among the lovely scenery from Argentiers to Martigny, with its wealth of wild flowers and ferns, crystal streams, luxuriant trees, and distant view of the sharp aiguilles, with their myosotis-colored background. Every scene is indelibly fixed on my mind, every spot we visited,—the ice-caves, green and transparent as our English seas at calm, the awe-striking Gorge de Trient, where I fell into a panic lest we two, in the zenith of our happiness, should be engulfed in the black seething waters, sweet Lucerne, peaceful Inturlachen, pretty, picturesque Thun, quaint old Berne, Ouches, Lausanne,—all the lovely haunts of fair Helvetia. We were early in the season, and did not meet many of our own country-people,—a chance bride and bridegroom, generally French or German, whom we regarded, Charlie and I with furtive sympathy, a few Americans, pretty, well chaussées and well dressed, and a few Russians. Everywhere we go, my generous lover insists upon heaping me with presents, until at last I rebel.

"Don't think me ungracious," I plead, "but when you give me all these beautiful things which I have not been used to, and don't want, it makes me quite unhappy. If" (with a slight accent of reproach) "I did not care for you, and you were trying to win me over by gifts, there might be something in it; but when you know——" And my eyes, to spare the modesty of my lips, finish the sentence.

"Little darling," he says, in answer, "don't you think it's rather selfish of you to deprive me of the greatest pleasure I have in the world?"

That journey, than which none was ever more sadly begun, more triumphantly concluded, comes to an end at last. We are on English shores and in London. Charlie and I separate with bitter reluctance, though it is only for a week or two, whilst he joins his mother and brings her hack to Alford. When Curly has gone back to Eton for his last term, I am to go to Alford for a short visit, and in October we are to be married.

"It seems an eternity to October," he grumbles; "but of course you are right; we must not seem to have forgotten poor Hector." And a shadow comes across his clear brow.

Curly is delighted, when he has shaken off one or two loyal regrets for his friend Lord Seldon.

"I think he's getting over it," he whispers me, with a sagacious nod. "I introduced him this Eton and Harrow match to one of Archdale's sisters,—Viola, the dark one; and, considering that he swore he'd never have anything to do with a woman again, he seemed to be getting on pretty well. One thing, he had the right one to help him: he won't ask Miss Viola to share his coronet in vain. Oh, Di! how could you be such a little donkey? Not but what Charlie's a stunning good fellow; only I should have liked to see you a duchess. And the Dad too!—only fancy the Dad getting spoony at his time of life!" (for Claire has consented to marry papa when I have left the old home). "I'm rather glad as it has turned out. She's so awfully sweet and good, Claire, she won't be trying to set the Dad against us, like most step-mothers would. And then," adds Curly, practically, "that five hundred a year of hers will be very useful to them: it isn't as if she had nothing; and the old place would have been awfully dull without a woman."

I am going to divide my three hundred a year between papa and Curly, for Charlie refuses to have me as a dowered bride, in however small a degree, and I,—I love to owe everything to him. So he has combated my father's and brother's objections, and insists upon having his own way in this matter, at all events.

My first meeting with Lady Montagu is a painful one,—we both cry floods of tears; but, after we have been together a few days, she steals behind me, and, taking my head between her small white fingers, she kisses it, and in a tone tremulous with emotion, whispers,—

"Do not think, my child, that I love you the less because my manner has been a little constrained towards you lately. I could not quite forget" (with a sob) "poor Hector. But there is no one in the world I should love so much to have for a daughter."

My wedding-day has come: it dawns clear and bright, with an Italian sky, and the glorious warmth of July. Gay is radiant at this auspicious omen. "Happy is the bride that the sun shines on!" she chirps, over and over again, as, with loving fingers whose alacrity is a little delayed by joyful agitation, she apparels me in my bridal gear. The new maid is not allowed to lay one finger upon me so long as I am Diana Carew. I am Gay's own child, that she has brought up from my very tenderest youth, and no one, she and I resolve, shall supersede her so long as I am still the child of the house. Gay is in raptures, then, because the sun shines; but I—! The sun can add no joy to mine; a deluge could hardly take from it; but of course it is far better that everything should go smoothly and auspiciously.

It is to be a very quiet wedding, no one but ourselves,—papa, Lady Montagu, Curly, Claire (Colonel Fane is away), and Lord Rexborough, who is to be best man. He and I are tremendous friends since Curly's accident. I understand him so much better, and his manner is so far gentler and less rough than it used to be. I confess frankly to having misjudged him: he has a thoroughly kind heart under that rough exterior, which was more affected than natural, I verily believe.

The sun shines with a hearty good will upon us, shines in a flood through the stained window over the altar, and plays a thousand pranks with my white attire, decking it with vivid, unbride-like blue and red, green and gold. But I am so confident of my future happiness that I would have gone to church clad in black from head to foot with profound indifference. There are no other wedding guests, save my poor, who have collected in force at the lower end of the church, and in the church-yard. As I go out leaning on the arm of my husband, of whom I feel so utterly, unspeakably proud, they press forward with hearty blessings and good will. The unbidden tears rush to my eyes: these sincere good wishes seem better worth having to me than the congratulations of half a dozen of dukes and duchesses.

They are to have a dinner when we are gone, which will be as soon after the wedding as I can put off my bride's dress and don my traveling-garb; for we are going up to town by the two o'clock train, and have to drive six miles to the station.

Dearly as I love my husband, fearlessly as I face the unknown future with him, how can I yet leave the Dad and my boy without a twinge of keenest pain? I have kept up bravely until now, have wished every one good-by with ready smiles, but now that it comes to those two my eyes are dim, my voice falters. Have I not lived all the years of my life with my father? have not we shared our cares and loved each other with the heartiest love wherewith a father and child can love? Never has one of us harbored an unkind thought of the other, never has a cross word passed his lips to me, nor a petulant one mine to him. And our boy, whom we have loved with all our hearts, whom our tears and prayers have brought back from the doors of death! How can I leave these two without emotion? I can not. Tears blind my eyes, sobs choke my throat, as I throw my arms first round one then the other; and their eyes, too, though with manly shame they try hard to smile, their eyes are dim, their dear voices that bid me such hearty "God speed" quiver and tremble; and I, the happiest, proudest woman in England, am helped into the carriage by the man I love with all my heart, in floods of tears as though I were the saddest, unwillingest bride in the world.

"Little darling," whispers my handsome husband, as we drive away,—he always calls me thus; he does not like my name,—"you shall never have any cause for tears that I can prevent, I swear. Look at me; tell me you are not afraid to trust the future with me."

I look into his deep-blue eyes and smile through my tears. If but half of the great love and confidence I have in him is written in mine, he must needs be content with what he reads.

I think he is.

Christmas week,—a genuine old-fashioned Christmas,—a white world without, blazing fires and holly-wreaths within, a larder stocked to defy the ravages of hunger among a good-sized garrison, signs of prosperity and plenty everywhere. Christmas is evidently going to be kept at Alford; the Yule logs are ready for burning, plum-puddings have been made for the million, and the tokens of festival that are wont to gladden the hearts of boys and girls home from school abound. It is not that the house-party is intended to be a very large or gay one, but this year the poor have been thought of with bounteous memory, and the chief part of the gallant array of stores is destined to find its way into multitudinous humble homes, where it will boundlessly rejoice and warm the hearts of the recipients. Still, there is to be a party at the Court, and, if not a gay one, still a very cheery one. Mr. Carew and his new wife are coming; Curly, of course, and Colonel Fane; Lord Rexborough, and a Miss Montagu, cousin to Sir Charles. Lady Montagu (not the pale delicate lady we have hitherto known by that name,—the dowager now,—but a lovely, graceful young woman, whose name is Diana), Lady Montagu has busied herself all the morning with tripping into each room prepared for the reception of visitors, placing flowers there which she has arranged with her own fair hands, and casting thoughtful glances around to see that nothing is wanting for the comfort and pleasure of the coming guests. Curly's room is her special care and delight; she never wearies of stealing in to look at that. There hang his favorite pictures, the books he loves, with many new treasures that her loving care has placed there. For in the future she means Alford to be as much his home as Carew Court; as much,—not more, for her father's sake.

Happiness is certainly vastly improving. Diana was always pretty and gracious-mannered, but now, radiant with love and happiness, she may well be called, as she often is, as her husband thinks her, lovely. Perhaps the elegant and costly attire with which Sir Charles insists upon her being adorned has something to do with the enhancement of her beauty. I, for one, agree with Tennyson when he says,—

"Let never maiden think, however fair,
She is not fairer in new clothes than old."

To say that Sir Charles and his wife are still the most doting lovers is not to say much for a two-months-old marriage. I may tell of the past, but dare I predict what is in store for them?—and yet I have immense faith in their happiness in the future. Diana is fair and loving, and good as she is fair; and he is generous, good-hearted, sweet-tempered, and he adores her. For once the oft-quoted French proverb would be out of place, "De deux amants il y a toujours un qui baise et un qui tend la joue," although it might have been true enough once.

Diana is beloved by every one, from her mother-in-law, who thinks there is no one like her, to the magnate of the servants' hall, unambitious of a new mistress, Mrs. Bishop. But even her golden opinions have been won by the fair young châtelaine, and she has not a word for her but what is favorable and admiring. Outside, in the parish, she has already begun the work of which she and Hector had talked so often in the old days. She goes even further: she makes it her business to know the wants and sorrows of her new people; in her own immense happiness and prosperity she does not forget those whom Providence has less endowed; and from her husband she has carte blanche for her charities. Diana is quite to be trusted; she is prudent if she is generous; she does not think charity consists in giving indiscriminately to all who ask, and she knows, too, how a little sympathy, a few kind words, oftentimes make a small gift of more value to the receiver than a large one, sent coldly and without interest, through a servant.

The Dowager Lady Montagu proposed to leave the Court after her son's marriage and take up her abode at the Dower House; but her children ridiculed the idea utterly. They had vowed to each other to make the rest of her life happy and serene; she was never to know another care; she should be as much mother to Diana as to Charlie. She had her own suite of rooms, and, delicate of intruding upon the happiness of the nouveaux mariés, she would shut herself up too much alone: so, when she would not be prevailed upon to come to them, they simplified matters by going to her.

It is noon of the day before Christmas. Diana, having put the finishing-touches to all the rooms, opines that she will make her toilette de reception before lunch. The guests are all to arrive between two and three, and she has been especially desired to make herself "lovely." Not one of the party have seen her since she was borne from their sight in a flood of tears on her wedding-day. Sir Charles often twits her laughingly with this episode.

"I never felt so small in my life," he is wont to declare, "as when I carried you off bathed in tears from the arms of your agonized relatives."

Diana does not like to be reminded of her weakness, and puts her little white hand before his mouth.

"It is quite true, little darling," he insists, kissing it. "I believe you were awfully sorry when it came to going off with me, and leaving everybody behind but the pug."

The finishing-touch is being put to Lady Montagu's toilette when Sir Charles comes in. The maid discreetly vanishes.

"Little darling," says the sovereign of Diana's heart, coming towards her after having stood for a moment at the door to take in every detail, for he is a perfect connoisseur of the art of dress, "you look positively lovely! I am afraid" (coming a little nearer) "to touch you."

"Do not be," she answers, with sparkling eyes and blushing cheeks (she has not quite lost that embarrassing old habit); and as she speaks she twines both her arms round his neck and puts up her sweet red lips to be kissed.

"You will make quite a sensation next season," he predicts. "You know, little darling, you really are a much prettier woman than when I married you. I am longing for them all to see you. I know they will say so, every one of them. No tears to-day, mind; no red eyes and pink noses."

"Tears!" she retorts, with happy scorn: "why should there be tears when we are all meeting?"

"Next September," says Sir Charles, "we will have the cheeriest parties in the world,—a happy mixture of Guardsmen and pretty women,—no dowagers except the mother."

"You won't want to have the Desboroughs, will you, darling?" asks Diana, coaxingly.

"At all events, we will not ask the heiress," he answers, gayly. "You shall have no cause for jealousy."

Diana laughs. Then, twining her hands round her husband's arm, and looking up into his handsome face,—

"Do you know," she says, with an air of sweet conviction, "I can't help being sorry for her? I am sorry for every woman who has not got you."

"Little flatterer," he says, putting his arm round her, "what answer do you expect me to make to your barefaced compliments? All the same I must say" (laughing) "you are unnecessarily liberal of sympathy for your sex. The heiress apart, I don't know of any other very anxious aspirant to my charms. Come and show yourself to the mother."

Leaning on Sir Charles's arm, Lady Montagu traverses the oaken gallery. Her maid and the upper housemaid are peeping after them from a half-open door.

"Aren't they a lovely couple?" whispers the maid.

"Yes," sighs the upper housemaid. She has long been the victim of a secret passion for her handsome young master. She is stout and middle-aged, but she none the less shares Diana's passion for good looks.

The Dowager Lady Montagu greets her children with a fond smile as they enter her boudoir, still arm in arm.

"Is not this a ravishing toilette, little mother?" asks Sir Charles, bringing his wife forward and regarding her with eyes of fondest admiration.

"Indeed it is," replies the dowager, with unfeigned admiration. "I must not tell you what I think, my love" (to Diana), "or I should make you vain."

"Fine feathers," laughs Diana, gayly, who is not above feeling the sweetness of genuine flattery. "I think I am rather a fine bird just now, mamma. Your rival is coming to-day" (stooping to kiss the elder lady's delicate cheek). "Fancy my being so rich all at once: a little while ago I had no mother, and now I have two."

"Claire is my mother too," says Sir Charles, laughing. "I shall make a point of calling her by her new title."

"If you please, Sir Charles, Hawkins would be glad to speak to you," says Simkins, appearing in the doorway.

"All right: I will be with him directly." And presently the young man goes out.

"By the way, my dear," observes the Dowager Lady Montagu to her daughter, when the door closes upon Sir Charles, "I have just found something that must, I think, be meant for you."

"For me, mamma?"

"It is a small parcel that was pushed back in the far corner of a drawer in what used to be poor Hector's room. I came across it only half an hour ago: it is directed in his handwriting, 'For my sister-in-law.'"

"It surely cannot be for me," says Diana, trembling a little.

"Open it, and see."

Diana unfastens the string that binds it: her deft fingers are unwontedly awkward. At last she has undone the first wrapper. There is still another, on which is written, "For my sister-in-law, if she be called Diana."

The color fades from Diana's cheek. She knows not why she feels thus strangely moved, but she does. Her knees knock together. She cannot open it in Lady Montagu's presence.

"Mamma," she says, in a low, hurried voice, "I cannot open it here. Let me take it to my room. I will tell you about it afterwards."

"As you wish, my dear," answers Lady Montagu, a shade disappointed.

Diana hurries away to her room. A strange terror possesses her. She knows not why, but she has a presentiment of some painful disclosure. She is so nervous she cannot wait to unfasten the string, but, taking a knife, cuts it. When she has taken the paper from it, she utters a sigh of relief; it is only a book, a little old French book. Hastily she turns over the leaves. Stop! here are marks. She reads, "The story of the sad knight who died for a woman's sake." Her breath comes quick, she trembles in every limb, but she reads on hurriedly,—reads the story,—sees the identity of cases that struck Hector, and understands with swift intuition what is the meaning of this legacy that he has left her. Presently she comes to the two underlined passages, "He lies dead in a foreign land, and all for a woman's sake. But anon came her own true love, and they were wed."

A little cry escapes her. She pushes the book away, and gazes stupidly before her with sightless eyes. A great horror creeps over her. Could it be that he had gone away from Alford, away from his country, resolved in his own heart to die? Everything seemed to confirm the awful thought: his last injunctions to his brother, this underlined story addressed to his sister-in-law. She, however unwittingly, had been the cause of his death. And he, as he had foreseen, having died for her sake, had been forgotten, and she had married his brother, and been happy. The horror of the thoughts crowding one after another seems as if it would almost bereave her of reason. Poor Hector! at last the woman you have loved so utterly realizes all she was to you, all you sacrificed for her sake. She who thought you cold and hard and passionless knows at last how you could love. And as the thought comes to her, Diana, all unmindful of her dress, of her coming guests, whom she is to greet with her happiest smiles, flings herself prone by her bedside, and in her sorrow and remorse cries such bitter tears as she has never thought to shed again in the new life.

The gong sounds. Her ears are unmindful; she heeds nothing, cares for nothing, has no thought but one intense, heart-breaking pity of the dead man who had loved her so utterly. A swift step sounds upon the stairs; she heeds it not. The door is pushed open, her husband calls her by her name, once, twice: she heeds not, answers not.

All at once he catches sight of her prone form, hears her gasping sobs.

"God in heaven!" he cries, with white lips, "my own little darling, what is the matter? Speak to me—oh, child, for God's sake speak to me!"

She answers him by never a word. He takes her up in his arms, lays her on the sofa, and kneels down beside her.

"Do you want to break my heart?" he whispers, in a tone of such utter misery that she at last comes back from her agonized trance and remembers him. She points to the book.

"Read," she murmurs; "read."

And he, wondering more and more, takes the book that is lying open, and reads for himself,—reads the bitter story from beginning to end. Then he too comprehends.

They look from one to other with mute misery; he has no word to say that may comfort her, nor she him.

"Poor little girl!—poor Hector!" he murmurs, at last, in a broken voice, whilst the unwonted tears stand in his eyes.

"At least," says Sir Charles, after a long silence, "thank God, whatever he may have had in his mind, poor fellow, he came to his death by fair means. Poor little darling!" (with infinite tenderness), "this must grieve you terribly; and so, heaven knows, it does me. But you have no cause to blame yourself. What could you have done? There is only one thing we can do now" (sighing); "that is, to remember him, and do our utmost to carry out all his wishes. And, darling, for heaven's sake keep it from my poor mother. It would break her heart."

And so Diana rises and washes the tears from her face as he bids her. But she goes heavily, as one that mourneth for a brother.

She feels now as if this will always stand between her and joy all her life through.

"I was too happy," she says to herself, sighing. "I felt it could not last. Now I can never be happy any more."

But you and I, reader, know that it will not be so. When we are surrounded by those we love, when the world showers its fairest gifts with lavish hands upon us, when we have the faithful heart of him whom we love best in the world to lay our sorrowful head upon, how can we but forget?

"And grief shall endure not forever, I know;
As things that are not shall these things be.
      *      *     *     *     *     *
Wrecked hope and passionate pain shall be
As tender things of a spring-tide sea."

And Diana, though she if moved with such sorrow to-day for the man who loved her "not wisely, but too well"—Diana, because her sorrow is grounded on pity, not on love,—because she has the constant presence and passion of the man who is all in all to her,—Diana needs must cease to grieve, needs must be her own joyous, radiant self again; but in the midst of her happiness she will nevermore lose the memory of the man who died in a foreign land, and all for a woman's sake.

THE END.