TABLE of CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER I

“Pull down that blind, Miss Foster! Don’t you see the light comes right across my eyes? but, indeed, if I did not attend to my own wants and comforts, I might want long enough!”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Redman; I was so occupied with the paper I did not perceive it;” and Miss Foster rose eagerly to perform the old lady’s behest.

The time was somewhere about 11 a.m.; the scene a small dining-room in one of those genteel modem houses which abound in the new. district where polite Brompton melts into aristocratic South Kensington. Among the neat tenements and accurate front gardens of Abingdon Villas few equalled, none surpassed,

No. 13, the abode of dignified and solid respectability incarnate, in the person of Mrs. Redman, relict of the late John Redman, of Corbet Court, City, and Bayham Hill, Camden Town, a substantial man who, after scraping together a good jointure for his wife, a fair portion for his elder daughter (the one who had married to please him), and a tolerable business for his only son, departed this life—having toiled much and enjoyed little—leaving, however, a name and reputation calculated to encourage others to tread in the same thorny road; and now the widow found Camden Town too low a place to spend her money in, so migrated to Brompton and the neighbourhood of her married daughter.

There had been another daughter, but her name was never heard, or at least heard only in the lowest whisper.

This fine sunny morning then Mrs. Redman sat near her dining-room window; she was a large woman, but not a fleshy one—no, she gave the idea of much bone; she wore a dull, thick, black satin dress, made high and plain, the folds of a delicate white net handkerchief showing above it round the neck; she also wore a huge cap, the area of which was covered with a variety of quillings and plaitngs, and bows of ribbon, till it became an edifice of formidable aspect and dimensions, yet not a whit too big for the head it covered; beneath it was a broad, cold,, pale face, with a large jaw, thin lips, and eyes of no particular shape, hue, or expression at any time; but especially undecipherable at present, for her glasses were on her nose, slanting slightly to one side, as though to give her the advantage of double and single vision.

On a small table lay some netting, but her hands were crossed and quiet—small hands for her size, and wrinkled, as was natural at her age; but having a somewhat cruel look, from the muscular development and claw-like fingers Miss Foster, who was drawing down the blind, was a human of a very different type; a thin wafery creature, in some drab- nondescript of a morning dress, and a black silk apron, with a kindly, weakly face that must once have had much beauty; now it was faded, the lines of care and trouble unsparingly drawn, the once bright eyes sunk, the nose risen into sharp prominence, the dark luxuriant curls reduced to a sausage-like roll at each side of the face, and, greatest change of all, the radiant smile of happy girlhood dimmed, till scarce a ghost of it is to be found in the nervously ready smile of a much enduring companion.

Oh! relentless and mysterious law, which blindly and helplessly we obey, whence comes the curse which hangs on weakness, however innocent, and good, and tender? Here, on the threshold of another’s history—in which Miss Foster, now drawing down Mrs. Redman’s blind, has little or nothing to do—would I fain turn aside to note the simple annals of her life, and trace the course of one of those everyday unrecognised tragedies—those almost hourly crushings out of life’s life, youth, joy, and hope, in the deadly combat between heart and circumstance.

The blind duly drawn down, Miss Foster returned to her task of reading aloud the police reports to her mistress, as Mrs. Redman emphatically was, much more than of the smart pink-ribboned housemaid, or the independent cook; and for some minutes Mrs. Redman listened with tranquillity; soon however she interrupted the lecture.

“Look to the right,” she said; “there, to your right; just in the upper pane; there’s a slit in my new muslin curtains, and this is only their second season. Now, how ever could fearah put them up without seeing it, and telling me; but she no more cares for my property than—than anything,” she added, after a short mental search for a simile. “I wonder you did not notice it, Miss Foster; but you never see anything. I wonder what your eyes are for, I’m sure?”

“I am not very observant,” acquiesced the companion; “but now you point it out, there is a large slit; dear me, yes, a very large slit.”

“Just ring the bell, will you,” returned Mrs. Redman; “I want to show it to Sarah, and also that side-board. I could write my name in the dust that’s on it.”

“In London, really,” observed Miss Foster, in a deprecating tone, “as soon as a thing is dusted it is covered again.”

“Well, then, it should be dusted again,” said Mrs. Redman, sharply. “I’ll trouble you to-but stop, who is that coming in at our front gate? Now, that gate ought not to be left unlocked, with all kinds of queer characters about. Look here, Miss Foster. What do you make of those oddlooking people? Walking up to the front door, too!”

Miss Foster started forward with her usual nervous readiness, but was too late to catch more than a glimpse of a little girl in a hat, before the pillar of the portico hid the visitors from view.

“Whatever can they want?” ejaculated Mrs. Redman, with that species of indignant apprehension common to dogs and men at the approach of a reduced fellow-creature.

A man and a girl, shabby-looking but not quite common, “Just the sort of people to come with a petition; and I’m sure, paying poor-rates to the amount that-”

Here a trim housemaid, in an exquisite and picturesque cap, a cotton dress rustling with starch, and a saucy apron, entered, holding a salver on which lay a card, which with an air of deference she presented to Mrs. Redman.

“Dear me, now what can this mean?” began her mistress. “Stay Sarah.” To Miss Foster: “Just look at this, will you?” and without ceasing to gaze on the morsel of pasteboard, she gave an impatient jerk with her elbow.

The card had evidently been bent by lying in a pocket instead of in a card-case; moreover, there was the impression of a human thumb on one end of itthumb on one end of it.’ Nevertheless, it bore in dear and beautifully formed characters the following inscription:—

“Gracious goodness!” said Miss Foster, “who can that be?”

“I suppose they have been burnt out, or something, and are getting up a subscription,” returned Mrs. Redman. “Here, Sarah, take that card back, and say I never subscribe to anything connected with the parish.”

Sarah departed.

“But perhaps he doesn’t want a subscription,” timidly suggested Miss Foster.

“What does he want, then?” demanded Mrs. Redman, with much asperity; upon which Miss Foster subsided into her usual crushed condition.

Mr. Warrene Fitzwarrenne, however, was not to be so easily disposed o£ Sarah returned with the salver still bearing the objectionable card.

“Please ’m, the gentleman says he only wishes a few moments’ conversation, and-”

“Will not detain you long,” interrupted a deep rolling voice, which sounded as though accustomed to “hurl maledictions,” or “call down blessings” of the most telling description.

And Mr. Warrene Fitzwarrenne strode into the room.

He was by no means equal in dimensions to his voice, for he was somewhat below middle size, and the length of his stride was, to judge by appearance, rather inconvenient. He was tightly buttoned up in an overcoat of fashionable appearance, but terribly worn about the seams. His face, close shaved, had a blue mottled look about the chin, and though he strove hard to call up a look of grave determination, it was a kindly, simple, weather-beaten face.

One hand in a dark glove, showing glimpses of finger ends, held his hat, which had a crape on it, by a very weak rim, and the other drew after him a child of twelve or thirteen years of age, with shabby boots and coloured stockings, a dark stuff frock, a small black-and-white check shawl, a battered hat with a mangy black feather, and a pair of cotton gloves.

Under the hat Miss Foster descried a small, white, pasty, delicate-looking face, with great eyes, red with crying, a mass of pale dull yellow hair, rough, untidy, and hopeless-looking. She entered awkwardly, half resisting the force with which her conductor dragged her into the centre of the room, where they stood the antipodes of all that surrounded them. The bright grate, the polished furniture, the snowy curtains, the sweet hyacinths in their coloured glasses, the neat servant, the indescribable atmosphere of order, care, respectability contrasted with the shabby, threadbare, scrambling vagabondism. I

“Will not detain you long,” said Mr. Fitzwarrenne, as he strode into the room and confronted Mrs. Redman,, who, with a sort of gasp as for breath, made an ineffectual clutch at Miss Foster's garments.

“Madam,” continued the intruder, letting go his charge, that he might the better gesticulate, placing himself in attitude, and sending his sentences well home, with emphatic pointings of the forefinger. “Madam, I have a tale to unfold which—permit your domestic to retire.”

“No, I won’t!” said Mrs. Redman, angry, yet frightened. “Say your business at. once, or I’ll send for the police. Sarah, don’t attempt to go.”

“As you will, madam,” returned Mr. Fitzwarrenne. “Then, in brief, my business is this, to place under your matronly protection, your paternal care, this dear child, your orphan granddaughter, Madeline Digby and he drew the shrinking girl towards the representation of respectability, who seemed on the point of a collapse.

“Miss Foster, why don’t you turn them out, or do something?” cried the terrified, infuriated Mrs. Redman. “How can you sit there and see me imposed upon? I have no granddaughter of that name. I have washed my hands of Captain Digby, and all connected with him, years ago, and I never permit his name to be mentioned before me; he has done me ill enough, and I do not believe this creature is my daughter’s child—my unfortunate daughter’s infant must have died fifteen years ago;—when she did. You’ll not find it so easy to impose upon me. Leave the house, sir. How dare you come here to insult me, talking of that—that wretch who-”

“Hush, madam,” returned Mr. Fitzwarrenne, with a touch of feeling, which lent dignity for a moment. “My poor comrade will never offend in this world again; he is gone to be judged by a different code from ours!”

“Dead! Is he dead? and yet be must have been quite a young man,” said Mrs. Redman, somewhat eagerly—a touch of selfish curiosity relaxed her settled wrath.

“Sarah, you may go down-stairs,” she added, suddenly noticing that fair functionary standing open-mouthed, eager for further revelations; but she was compelled to retreat.

“Yes, madam, ten days since we laid one of the truest-hearted fellows in his last resting-place; and some hours before the final struggle, he took this little hand” (taking the girl’s) “laid it in mine, and said, ‘ Eat ’—he used that friendly abbreviation—‘ Kit, this is all that holds me to life, yet she will be better off when I am gone. Take her to her grandmother, Mrs. Redman,—she will not refuse food and shelter to her child’s child.’ He also gave me this packet,” unbuttoning his coat rapidly, and in his hurry pulling out a ragged pocket-lining, as well as a small bundle of papers, “which contains, no doubt, the verification of my tale. I there solemnly promised to place the orphan under your protection; and to it I now consign her.”

He drew himself up, and made as though to retire.

“Stop, stop!” cried Mrs. Redman, “do not suppose you are to have it all your own way, and saddle me with the cost of a girl to clothe and feed. Why should that man, Digby, leave his child unprovided for on my hands? What right has he to suppose I ’ would do anything for her?”

“Oh, Kit! dear kind Kit,” cried the pale child, speaking for the first time through an agony of sobs, and clutching his arm, “don’t leave me here; let me stay with you and Mrs. Fitzwarrenne, and I will do anything. I’ll wheel the perambulator, and take care of Aurora and Margaretta, I will; and I can go on in the pantomimes, and earn something in that way. Oh, don’t leave me with this old lady! I’ll die, Kit dear, if you do!” There was wonderful pathos and sweetness in her tones, and a suppressed passion in her pleading which touched the tender heart of Miss Foster, and brought tears to her eyes. Something in her voice, too, disturbed Mrs. Redman; she fidgeted in her seat, and looked more sour than ever.

“Some one will be coming in,” she said, angrily, “and a strange appearance it will have—people like you here. I’ll do nothing, and promise nothing, till I consult with my son, Mr. John Redman. Here, leave the papers, and your address. I’ll have the matter severely examined;” and Mrs. Redman sank back, holding the yellow packet as though she feared it.

“Dear, dear, I feel quite upset,” she exclaimed, as her companion returned, “to have such a couple walking up to my front door as if they were the best in all London, and Mrs. Nettlethorpe in her front parlour window, I’ll be bound, making all sorts of remarks, and I that have been in the highest respectability all my life; it’s enough to give me a brain fever, it is, and you no more care nor think about it than if I was a stone. I’m sure I often wish I was. Go down to the cook, Miss Foster, do, and tell her to make me a cup of arrowroot and put a glass of port wine in it. I am quite exhausted. And, Miss Foster, write to Mr. John Redman immediately, and tell him he must come round this evening; and just put on your bonnet and ask Mrs. Comerford to step this way.”

And there was a family council held that evening at No. 13, Abingdon Villas, not perhaps of the same lofiy and historical description as many that figure in the chronicles of noble races, but to do the councillors justice, conducted on principles as hard and selfish, as narrow as if the worldly success of some aristocratic family, or the interests of some struggling nation depended upon it.

Mrs. Comerford arrived in time for tea and sallylun, and was met in the hall by Miss Foster, who came forth timidly from the dining-room, carefully shutting the door after her.

Mrs. Comerford was good-natured in a condescending patronising surface way to her mother’s companion. She was always afraid the old lady would leave her money from Mrs. Comerford’s darling children, and so was invariably studying mother’s ways, and her mother’s cat’s ways, and ever doing the civil to the insignificant companion—a line of conduct which brought much snubbing on her devoted head.

“Dear, dear,” said Miss Foster, “I am so glad you are come, Mrs. Comerford. Would you not like to step up to your mamma’s room, just to straighten your hair, and put on your cap. I’m sure dear Mrs. Redman has been in that state ever since the shocking upset she got this morning, that I scarcely know what to do with her. She can’t hear you to clear your throat, or step across the room, and she didn’t eat two bits at dinner. It’s true she had two large cupfuls of arrowroot and port wine, and three Abemethy biscuits before, but what’s that?”

“What indeed!” echoed Mrs. Comerford with true pathos.

“Isn’t it awful?” resumed the sympathetic Miss Foster. “I never had such a turn, at least of late years, as when that man—oh, such a desperate looking man, Mr. Comerford walked into the room.” Poor Warrene Fitzwarrenne would have been highly flattered could he have heard this tribute to his dramatic powers.]

“And the girl, my dear?” asked Mrs. Comerford somewhat anxiously, “what did dear grandmamma seem to think of her?”

“Well I hardly know. She didn’t seem to mind her- at all; and I must say she was a very nice looking child. She had a lot of rough wild whitish hair, and big dark eyes; but I must say I never heard a sweeter voice.”

“Dear me, had she,” said Mrs. Comerford uneasily, “why that is like her mother, if— I mean—she is my sister’s child.”

“Hadn’t we better go down?” said Miss Foster nervously. “Your dear mamma may fancy-, eh?”

“Yes, certainly,” returned Mrs. Comerford uneasily, fully comprehending the unspoken fear.

“I thought you were never coming down,” said Mrs. Redman testily, as her daughter and Miss Foster entered, allowing the former to take her straight cold hand (kissing was considered humbug by Mrs. Redman). “I wonder you didn’t come over earlier when you knew what a 'shock I had received; but 1 don’t know what would put you out of your way. Some people think of self first, but it’s of no consequence.”

“My dear mother,” exclaimed Mrs. Comerford eagerly, “Bobby had a queer sort of a rash out all over his neck and arms, so I sent for Dr. Fenton, and he never came till about an hour ago. He says it is only a nettle rash, so he sent a bottle, a third part to be taken every four hours, and I just waited to give him the first dose. I’ll be home for the second. It smells a little like vinegar, and honey, and camphor, and rhubarb, not at all nice, and we had such a business to make the dear boy take it—he is wonderfully sensible—or I' would have been here an hour ago, I’m sure.”

"Well, well, never mind,” returned the mother. “Is the tea made, Mis? Foster? Fm just wearying for a cup. I’ve not been able to take a mouthful since—since that visitation. Only think, after resting for fifteen years (it’s near fifteen years, isn’t it, since I sent that man twenty pounds?) in peace, to be attacked in this way. Fm sure no one can say Fve not sacrificed myself to my children. You know I offered to provide for- Mary if she would leave that man—a poor wretch that dragged her into misery. Fm sure I wish your brother would come.”

It was remarkable that when Mrs. Redman was in one of those peculiar conditions called by the initiated “upset,” she had no relative of any kind; it was “your brother,” not “my son;” “your children,” not “my grandchildren.” However, the wished-for individual made' his appearance before the meal was quite finished.

Mr. John Redman was a person of great importance in his own estimation, and that of his family. He was a portly man, with a rather handsome aquiline face and thick dark brown hair, accurately parted to one side, and brought in a graceful wave over to the Other. He was a well-shaved, well-dressed man, with exquisitely got tip linen, neat boots, and a diamond ring—a sort of cross between the Club and tbe City man—who piqued himself upon his knowledge of life. He was greatly respected by his mother, and was, perhaps, the only thing she loved, probably because he was the only thing she dared not snub. Mr. John Redman flattered himself he was quite the gentleman; nevertheless, there was no one who more humiliated poor Miss Foster than this strong, rich, successful man.

He was never quite sure of her name, or that she was in the room, or that he had spoken to her. Yet this was all unintentional. And what business had a poor thing, only a companion, who gave so much for what she got, hours of reading aloud, all her personal liberty, a lifetime of patient endurance, for thirty pounds and her keep, to look for recognition? How much more independent, and rich, and dignified, was Mary the cook on twenty pounds and all found, with Christmas gifts, and the disposal of the kitchen stuff!

Mr. John Redman entered with his usual sedate composure; hoped his mother was well, with the politeness which rather awed that venerable matron; said, “How do, Susan?” to his sister; then sitting down, suddenly remembered Miss Foster, and exclaimed, “Oh, and how’r yon?” evidently not expecting a reply.

“Have some tea, John?” said Mrs. Redman.

“Well, not if it has gone the rounds,” he replied, drawing out a perfumed handkerchief, and wiping his brow.

“Make some fresh tea, Miss Foster,” ordered his mother.

That done, and Miss Foster rewarded by the measured remark, “Not bad,” as the great man sipped it, Mr. John Redman looked at his watch. “Ah! I’ve not more than half-an-hour to give you, mother. I am to dine with Scrimager, of Grimes & Co., at 7.30, so perhaps Miss—a—a— will just—just-”

“Tell Sarah to take away tea,” said Mrs. Redman; “and you needn’t come hack, Miss Foster.”

“Very well,” returned that lady, simpering. “Can I settle your cushion, and give you your netting before I go?” she added playfully, for a ghost of old coquetry always rode up when Mr. John Redman was present, and a word or two of civil notice from him would make her girlish for a fortnight.

“No, no; I don’t want nothing,” said her amiable patroness, crowding her negatives in her hurry, and the family conclave was left to its discussion.

Mr. Comerford—or papa, as Mrs. Comerord called him—was not admitted: indeed, his was not a prominent position, and perhaps in calling him “papa” Mrs. Comerford hit his most distinguishing characteristic.

“This is an awkward business for you, ma’am,” began Mr. John, turning himself on his chair, and throwing his arm over the back of it; “let me hear it fairly, for your note told little.”

Whereupon Mrs. Redman recapitulated the event with which our story opens, interrupted by ejaculations from Mrs. Comerford.

“Well, the first point to be ascertained,” said the man of business, “is this—are we sure the girl is the bona fide child of my unfortunate sister. Let me see these papers;” and he turned over the contents of the packet left by Fitzwarrenne with Mrs. Redman. “Hum !—‘ Certificate of baptism, Liverpool. Madeline Digby, child—Arthur Digby, Mary his wife, &C., &c.’ So far, so good.”

“They might all be forged, you know,” said Mrs. Redman.

“Or this girl might be the child of some other woman than onr unfortunate sister,” observed Mrs. Comerford.

“Yes! it would be a pretty business if I was to clothe, and feed, and educate the child of some vile woman,” added Mrs. Redman.

“The story must be carefully inquired into; but should the girl prove to be my sister’s child, ma’am, you must not let her come upon the parish.”

“I’m sure I never knew such a thing, never,” observed Mrs. Redman, in piteous accents.

“Nor I, never,” echoed Mrs. Comerford.

“And what would you have me do?” asked the mother.

“Oh! having ascertained the genuineness of those documents, educate and clothe her; give her the chance of earning her own bread. That she has a right to expect. If she doesn’t choose to do so afterwards, then you may wash your hands of her.”

“Dear, dear, but what a lot of money it will cost.”

“The first expense is the whole, perhaps,” remarked Mr. Redman, “and may save some loss of character.”

“Well, it is hard,” said his mother, bitterly, “to have to spend my money for that Digby’s child; what we never had to do for you, John—or your children, Susan.”

“No, indeed,” ejaculated the latter.

“It is hard,” acquiesced the son, heartily; “hut I don’t see how it can he helped; but”— rising and pacing the room, his hands in his pockets, and an evident inward struggle going on—“ I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll contribute twenty pounds per annum for the next two years, and we’ll see what comes of it; she may not be the person she is represented to be. You have seen the child. What do you think, yourself, ma’am?”

“Well, I’m sure, John, your offer is handsome, and Fm obliged to you. It would be hard on me if all was to come out of my pocket.”

“Well, she has no claim on me,” said Mr. John, rather hastily, “but what is she like?”

“Well, she has a lot of light hair, something like your poor sister’s, and her voice startled me a little, but then she has sort of black eyes, and does not look over twelve or thirteen, and according to that certificate she must be fifteen.”

“Nevertheless, I am inclined to think she is your grandchild. However, we must be prudent. So I’ll just put the matter in the hands of Farrer and Gould; they are first-rate men, and dose as the grave. I fancy they have some curious secrets in their keeping, and in a day or two it will be cleared up, one way or other.”

“Then would you have me take her home to live here in this house?” said Mrs. Redman, querulously looking round on her exquisitely neat apartment as though it was about to be desecrated by the ingress of a young Bohemian like her possible grandchild.

“No,” returned her son, soothingly; “couldn’t you put her to some school, and fit her to go out as a teacher? You needn’t have her before you always.”

“No, I couldn’t, you know,” said the old lady, in her sharpest key. “Whatever would Mrs. Nettlethorp, and Miss Wilkins, and Mrs. Parkins say, they that have no notion that I ever had another daughter except Susan, or if I had, that she died young. Why if a granddaughter appeared here, they’d think things even worse than they are.”

“Oh, she need never come here,” interposed Mrs. Comerford; “for a trifle more pay any school would keep her through the holidays.”

“I do hate to hear you run on so, Susan,”said her mother, with the utmost contempt. “You’re sure to talk nonsense. Where is the trifle more of pay to come from I’d like to know. Tm sure I’ll be stripped of everything.”

“Don’t begin to quarrel before you know if you have any cause,” remonstrated Mr. Redman, calmly superior; “the child may be an impostor, and until this point is cleared up any arrangement is premature. Now my time is up, I must say good evening.”

CHAPTER II

The result of inquiries was so far satisfactory that Mr. Redman, his mother, and Mrs. Comerford, who, for certain reasons, was much the most difficult to be convinced, all agreed that it would be much better to silence all gossip and possible slander by taking the orphan of the sinning and defunct ex-captain under their respectable protection, and placing her at a school. Not that I expect much to come of it,” grumbled Mrs. Redman; “her poor mother was so weak and fanciful, I’m sure she was not like a child of mine; nor was it like one of us to be caught by the smooth tongue of that scamp Digby, with his airs about being a cavalry officer, and a man of family, so the child will be a poor thing I expect I shall never forget his impudence, coming to ask Mr. Redman’s consent, and then his coaxing my daughter to run away; and, dear, dear, the worry and grief I went through! and after, when they got from bad to worse, I was always steady to my principles, and never would see her.”

However, having made up her mind, Mrs. Redman set to work in the most prudent and economical manner.

Miss Foster was worked pretty hard, a certain sum being given her out of which she was expected to find dresses, and hats, boots and necessaries to no end, and she did wonders. Shopping was a grand delight, and perhaps the only heart that felt a shade of real interest in the motherless child was the half-starved one that beat weakly in the companion’s bosom. How often Miss Foster came to grief for not extracting thirty shillings’ worth out of a sovereign, and how often she was sent to change sundry articles, and match impossible bits of old merino and crape which Mrs. Redman rummaged out of her multifarious stores, it boots not to tell.

Finally, about a fortnight after the opening of our tale, the unwearying Miss Foster was sent to the Fenchurch Street Station to meet the waif for whose transit a post-office order had been despatched to the benevolent- Fitzwarrenne, with much trepidation on the part of Mrs. Redman, who anticipated fearful misapplications.

Poor Miss Foster was rather enlivened by so much unusual activity, and awaited the arrival of the train with some interest. She soon recognised the fair-haired dark-eyed child, and taking her hand with irrepressible kindness (Mrs. Redman being safe at Brompton)—

“Your grandmamma has sent me to meet yon, my dear, and I have some nice clothes for you at an hotel close by.”'

“I’m glad you have come for me,” replied the little girl, with a smile so infantine in its sweetness, and shewing such pearly teeth, that Miss Foster was startled into believing that she might possibly turn out pretty, and with an unconscious emphasis that had made Miss Foster her Mend for ever.

“Have you any luggage?” asked Miss Foster. “I suppose not.”

“Oh yes, I have,” said Madeline, “a box under the seat of the carriage, this— this gentleman,# she continued, colouring and pointing to a red-faced jolly-looking man, “was so good as to take care of it for me.

“Here yon are, little one,” replied the stout man, tugging at an obdurate square box, a disreputable looking box, covered with coloured paper much tom, and tied with an old cord much knotted. “Glad to see her in your care, marm,” he continued to Miss Foster; “the poor thing cried fit to break her heart, nigh all the way. Good-bye, my little lass, and good luck to you,” and he resigned the box to a porter.

“Dear, dear, you must not cry,” remonstrated Miss Foster, as though she had been talking to a child. “You are going to school and will learn all sorts of nice things.”

“I am glad to go to school,” replied Madeline, in the sweet low-toned composed voice, which sounded wonderfully old for her child-like stature, with an accent refined beyond what her appearance would lead you to expect, but yet with a musical ring in it not quite English.

“Come, we must go to an hotel close by, where you can have some dinner, and change your things. You must have a black dress, you know, and— But don’t cry, ye are only losing time. Here, my good man, please to bring the box this way.” And taking her charge’s hand, Miss Foster somewhat fussily led her to the entrance, and calling a cab, they drove a few streets off to a quiet hotel, recommended by Mr. Redman, where it was decided in the family council the little outcast should be clothed and fed, and generally made presentable previous to being delivered to the inspection of Miss Jones, the principal of that well known educational establishment, Springfield House, Clapham.

This, after much deliberation, had been agreed to, as Mrs. Redman rigidly resolved not to permit “that disgraceful-looking creature that calls herself my granddaughter,” to appear within the sacred precincts of her temple of respectability, till some months’ discipline and dressing had made her fit to pass current through the searching ordeal of Brompton criticism.

The house to which Miss Foster led her charge was one of those old-fashioned nooks of which experienced City men alone know the renown. The rooms were dark and stuffy— but the ale was irreproachable'; the lower panes of the windows were principally of ground glass, b^jt then the upper ones dis-closed dusky brick walls, seemingly but a few inches distant, so the ground glass was decidedly an improvement. Here in a dingy bedroom little Madeline was introduced to tbe contents of a highly respectable portmanteau and bonnet box, and it must be confessed her eyes sparkled through the lately shed tears, as she inspected a coSmmon and a better black dress, of inexpensive materials ’tis true, but neatly made, and a marvellous fit, considering it was the result of Miss Foster’s guess work and dim remembrance of the orphan’s proportions. There were under garments, too, and a hat and a bonnet, and a bootmaker close by brought an assortment of “bottines” to try on. Then succeeded the less gratifying operation of opening the Thames End importation—the mangy paper-covered box aforesaid.

A strange assortment of odds and ends was thereby disclosed; ragged skirts and dusty jackets, several tattered play books, ends of ribbon, and some parcels of old letters, yellow and faded.

“I do not know what they are,” said Madeline, the eyes again welling over; “but papa always kept them, and so I shall until I am old enough to know what to do with them.”

There was a Bible and a prayer-book, a silver snuff-box, a pair of long cavalry spurs,the portrait of a handsome young cavalry officer, with eyes like Madeline’s, and a sweet irresolute mouth. This, the spurs, and the letters, Madeline resolutely insisted on transferring to her new and elegant portmanteau.

“It is all I have left of my own dear papa,” she said, “for Kit was so good I couldn’t help leaving him the violin papa used to play on so beautifully. Ah! he did everything well, and yet how unhappy he was!” and the tears flowed afresh.

“Well, my dear, keep them; I’m sure your grandmamma would not object,” said Miss Foster in a soothing tone, determined that the redoubted grandmamma should know nothing about the matter. “And now dry your eyes and try and be composed, for Mr. John Redman (your uncle you know) said he would be here about two, and I want you to look well in your nice new things, if it was only to show your gratitude, you know.”

“Yes,” said Madeline, dreamily; “I ought to be very grateful. What a quantity of money all these things must have cost! and I am so fond of pretty things—nice neat dean things. Oh! yes, I ought to be very grateful! Shall I see my—my grandmamma to-day?”

“No, my dear; she thinks it best for you to go to school at once.”

“I wonder she would not like to see me in my new clothes,” said Madeline simply.

Miss Foster made no reply; but led the way down-stairs to a crooked strip of a room, where a serene waiter was laying a table in obedience to the imperious mandates of Mr. John, who, in propria, persona, was directing the arrangement of a mid-day meal—a cold sirloin of beef and pickles, a monstrous cheese in that exquisite condition of moistness and mellowness only to be found in old-fashioned hotels, or rather inns, and a foaming jug of ale. Mr. John was no glutton, yet he always seemed to find that any excuse for extra eating produced an exhilarating effect. It was,'therefore, with a fair degree of cordiality he advanced to meet his guests: “How do you do, Miss—a—? here, you waiter, don’t forget the pulled bread; it’s half the battle; and how are you, Miss—what’s your name?”

“Madeline Digby.” The tone was so sad, so soft, yet so composed, that Mr. 'John felt in some strange and indescribable manner stopped, and as it were gently slipped from an elevated position. The sensation of course was but momentary; a flashing composite thought, in which were mingled the consciousness of his own free and easy condition, diamond ring, balance at his bankers, and elegant toilet, compared with the helplessness of the little outcast before him, quickly corrected these strange vagaries of his imagination which usually troubled him so little; hut he looked with closer attention at the speaker. She seemed scarce tall enough for twelve, yet there was nothing stunted in the figure; though her frock sat loosely, it could not hide the graceful slope of the shoulders, the peculiar deer-like setting on of the small classic head, the shape of which was clearly shown as the luxuriant light-brown hair was simply parted and drawn to the back, where it was looped in thick plaits; the face was too colourless to be pretty, nor had it any regularity of feature to recommend it either, yet the strong contrast of the large dark-lashed eyes with her light hair, and a certain harmony of expression, gave it an attraction to any one who looked twice.

Of course Mr. John thought and saw all this in a tithe of the time my clumsy pen can write it; albeit not a very deep observer, he was dimly flattered by the sort of vague distinction which he felt, rather than recognised, pervaded' the form and movements of his niece; so he held out his hand in his most patronising manner. “Shake hands then; you know I am your uncle;” a fact which he stated in much the same tone of unspeakable condescension in which my Lord Croesus, in bran new broad-cloth, confesses himself a miserable sinner in the same category with poor Jack and Betty of the workhouse. “Come, let us see how much beef and pickles you can stow away. Sit down Miss—a— Foster, you’re looking quite blooming after all your work; ’pon my word, you’ve turned this young ’un out first-rate; ain’t you a lucky girl to find such friends?”

“Mrs. Redman, and you too, have been very good to me,” said Madeline earnestly, raising her large eyes to her uncle. Something in the tone and manner again struck him, and he asked rather abruptly: “How old are you?” “I was fifteen last April,” she replied.

“She is very small of her age,” observed Mr. John to Miss Foster; “she looks a mere child.” “Papa used to say I never was a child,” said Madeline.

“Ahem!” returned Mr. John, sternly coughing down the mention of the defunct delinquent. “Well, there’s some cold beef and bread and butter, and, Miss Foster, give her some pickles.”

“No, thank you; I cannot eat pickles.”

“No! Why—how’s that? not used to ’em, I suppose—never mind—take what you like. Miss Foster, let me help you. This is a prime piece of sirloin; I’ll stick to the cheese and ale; I know the Falcon cheese and ale of old. Now then little ’un, you’re not eating your bread and butter.”

“Thank you, I do not care; the butter is not quite fresh, I think.”

“Oh, you’re a little epicure, are you?” said Mr. John, feeling a half indignant surprise that a pauper like little Madeline should refuse victuals of any kind.

“No, indeed I am not,” she returned, evidently understanding him; “but it does not in the least matter.”

“How is Mrs. Redman this morning?” asked her son, in the interval of crunching pulled bread.

“Well, pretty well, though rather nervous and flurried when I came away—so frightened lest I should be late to meet the train, that I was near an hour too soon.”

“Ladies are all alike,” said the jocular Mr. John; “an hour too soon, or an hour too late : and you take her (nodding at Madeline Digby) straight on to Miss What’s-her-name?”

“Yes; we are to be there in time for tea at five o’clock, so perhaps we had better think of moving.”

“Oh, you’ve lots of time yet. And I suppose you’ve settled all about her holidays? You know my mother musn’t be worried in any way—at any rate, she won’t let herself?”

“Oh no. The Misses Jones have agreed, for a trifling additional sum on account of board,, to keep Miss Digby through the holidays.”

“I don’t know what you call trifling, but it must be a precious small sum my mother would apply that term to,” said Mr. John with a loud laugh. “You must complain to me if they starve you, remember, my little girl,” he added, with a rough sort of kindness, to which Madeline, though wounded at the tone employed, which was of the kind that rich men employ to poor things, who should receive any jagged edges of good nature with grateful alacrity, replied by as bright a smile as she could muster.

She had wonderful tact, this young waif; she saw the man meant well, and she had a dim notion that she would make him her friend.

“And is Mrs. Redman really my mother’s mother,” she ventured to ask at last, “and you really my uncle?”

“Yes, my dear,” returned Mr. John seriously, thinking she was overpowered by the nearness of such grandeur, “we do stand in that relationship to you; and I trust,” he continued, with an air of deep morality, “you will take care to be a credit to us, and never do anything to disgrace us.”

“Who?—me? Oh no! Why should I?” returned Madeline.

“I think, then, I have stayed as long as I can,” said Mr. Redman. “I shall ring for the bill,” and he made as if to rise.

“Let me,” said Madeline, anticipating him with a sort of well-bred politeness, which was strikingly free from servility.

“Well, my dear,” said Miss Foster, “I think we had better start too; there is no use in staying here, and the sooner you are settled at Miss Jones’s the better.”

“Then I shall say good-bye, and there are five shillings for pocket money,” said Uncle John, taking out two half-crowns from a plethoric purse.

“Oh no,” said Madeline, shrinking and blushing; “I ought not to take it; you have done so much; and see, I have half-a-sovereign Mr. Crump said was due to papa, and gave me this morning.”

“And who is Mr. Crump?”

“Oh, our manager; he has been so good”

“Pray don’t mention such people, my dear,” said Miss Foster in a flurry.

“But he was very good,” said Madeline earnestly.

“Well, good-bye to you," interrupted Mr. John; “I must be off.”

An hour after, and a cab bearing a smart black portmanteau, and a tin bonnet box, drew up at the door of Springfield House. This edifice was of stout, old-fashioned red brick, and stood back from the road, rather near the common, on the left as you drove from town. There was a gravel sweep and some trees before it, and an extra-sized plate on the door, indicating the educational establishment of the Misses Jones. Within, a wide hall led through the house, and a glass door opposite the entrance showed neatly kept grounds and large trees at the back. On the right was the school-toom; on the left, the dining-room, the drawingroom, and a study, where eminent professors of special branches of education taught the select few whose parents chose to pay for exceptional advantages. Up-stairs was Miss Jones’s private sitting-room, and larger bedroom accommodation than is usually found in such establishments.

It was the hour of repose. The work of the day was almost over, and the twenty-seven young ladies of irreproachable parentage and careful training were nearly all dispersed in their various dormitories, smoothing their hair, and making some sort of toilet previous to the evening meal of tea. After which, some preparation of to-morrow’s tasks, needlework, and “recreation,” as a nondescript species of employment—letter-writing, reading, crochet, or talking—was denominated, closed the day.

The long narrow table was laid with the requisites for tea. Large piles of bread and butter, the latter most delicately laid on, diversified the centre, garnished also by some dishes of watercresses. A tea equipage occupied either extremity.

The 'only persons in the room were the English and French governesses, who with a governess-pupil, and the two Miss Joneses themselves, formed the resident staff. Mademoiselle Delplanque was occupied in arranging Borne flowers in an unmanageable vase— one of those jagged-topped articles to be seen in the baskets of itinerant vendors at RaSmsgate and Margate. The English governess was standing in the window, with an elaborate piece of rather brown tatting in her hand.

“Tenez” said mademoiselle, after a long silence for her. “It is impossible! Nothing can arrange itself in such a monster as this.” “A finger-glass would have done better,” returned Miss Gunston. “There is no time to change it now before tea.”

“Then I will change myself, and sit so as not to see it,” rejoined the Frenchwoman, laughing. “Such a failure will spoil my tea.” “The new pupil has arrived,” said Miss Gunston. “The cab was at the door when you came in, and now the lady who accompanied her has just come out.”

“Eh!” exclaimed the other, joining her at the window, to see the back of the cab as it passed through the gate. “Ma foil what luck the respectable Meeses our principals always find! ’Tis scarce a month since a vacancy occurred, and see, it is filled up.

Listen, my friend. If, when the whole twenty-eight were in place, they had another application, would their limit he inflexible, eh?”

“That’s neither your affair or mine,” replied the prudent Englishwoman. “As they always keep their number up so successfully, it is to be supposed they sometimes reject applications.”

“And this demoiselle, is she a paying pupil »or-

‘‘ Oh yes. At first she is to he on the regular footing, but afterwards, when Miss Moor-croft goes, and she is a little forward, she is to be governess in her place, though I fancy she belongs to rich people.”

“Poor child!” ejaculated the Frenchwoman.

A world of experience and anticipation lay in the expression. A warning “Hush” from Miss Gunston stopped further remark, for a couple of young ladies had strolled into the room. Almost immediately the bell for tea resounded through the house, and pupils flocked at the summons like hungry chickens, the mere idea of allowance (though a fair one at Springfield House) acting, as usual, as a keen whetstone for appetite.

The twenty-seven pupils and the three teachers were all assembled when Miss Jones,who usually left the five o’clock tea to the presidency of Miss Gunston, entered, escorting, according to custom, the new-comer, Madeline Digby, whose aspect was composed but somewhat sad.

“I have brought you a new companion, young ladies,” she said (this was the usual formula), “ whom you will, I hope, make at home as soon as possible. Miss Gunston, Mademoiselle Delplanque—here is an additional charge for your kind care, and I trust, by God’s assistance, an additional pleasure.” To Madeline: “Here, my dear, take your place between Miss Moorcroft and mademoiselle. This is the station of a new arrival. I have no doubt that in a few days you will find yourself familiar and at your ease.”

“Thank you,” murmured Madeline, and Miss Jones departed to join her sister in the tea and toast which solaced this hour of repose after the fatigues of the day.

Madeline glanced round at her future companions. It was an average collection of faces. Fat girls, with turned-up noses and heavy jaws; thin, sharp girls, with small eyes and narrow mouths; good-natured faces, cranky faces, attractive, repellent; but those which especially fixed her attention were the countenances of the English governess, who sat at the other end of the table, and of Mar demoiselle Delplanque and Miss Moorcroft, between whom she was placed.

The first was a light-haired, long-nosed and firm-lipped Englishwoman of a certain age, reliable probably, but unsympathetic, to which latter quality, no doubt, was due the remarkable amount of authority she exercised in the school.

Mademoiselle Delplanque was the regular type of a Parisian imported for London schools; black-haired, black-eyed, a rather broad face and high cheek hones; the mouth wide, a little vulgar perhaps, hut good-natured, with a suspicion of moustaches; the figure bony and difficult, yet dressed into a certain grace, albeit the material of the toilette was inexpensive enough.

Finally, Miss Moorcroft, not much older than herself seemingly, a thorough English girl of the middle class, with abundant nut-brown hair, a soft pink and white complexion, and kindly honest brown eyes. She had on a neatly-made grey alpaca dress, with scrupulously white linen collar and cuffs, and a black silk apron; she looked the perfection of tidiness, and indeed prettiness, the very girl to make a model wife for the rising man of middle station. Madeline’s heart warmed to her at once.

Tea proceeded rather silently, as all English conversation was prohibited. Mademoiselle occasionally indeed broke out into scraps of talk, and Miss Moorcroft whispered kindly questions “If Madeline took sugar? if she would have more bread and butter?” &c.

Poor Madeline felt greatly bewildered; she did not understand a word of French, and a tone of submission to authority pervaded the little assemblage, which, quiet as she was by nature, oppressed the young Bohemian, hitherto accustomed only to the unbridled liberty of a vagrant life; so she kept very still and watchful, and strove to understand it all, and her own position. She thought mademoiselle ate rather greedily, and she suspected a fat and a thin girl who sat opposite of pinching each other under the table. At last Miss Gunston rose and pronounced a rather lengthy grace. Immediately all the young ladies rose too, with the alacrity of released creatures, and flocked towards the garden, except one culprit, who was in punishment, and obliged to write out a long exercise in the school-room.

“Come along with me, I will show you all about the garden and everything,” said a dumpy, pasty-faced girl of about sixteen, passing her arm through Madeline’s. “I have no friend now. Julia Tomkins and me used to be great chums—that girl with the coarse red hair fastening her bootlace. Law! did you ever see such legs! But she is such a telltale, I couldn’t bear her any longer. I know she told Miss Gunston how I got Mary, the under housemaid, to fetch me some tarts and cheese-cakes after we were in bed one night. My name is Mary Anne Summers, what’s yours ?”

All this was uttered with extraordinary volubility. Madeline replied suitably, and her informant continued:—“Miss Gun. is awful sharp; she sometimes seems to know what you are thinking.- Miss Jones is good natured enough, and she does all the speechifying; but Miss Belinda Jones is just such another as Miss Gun. The Frenchwoman is cross enough sometimes, and so given to favourites; but she is so silly; law, you’ll see her laugh and cry in the same hour. And how long have you come for? who is your pa’ and ma’? and where did you come from?”

Madeline coloured; she resented this rough cross-questioning, yet did not feel equal to a quarrel; indeed, though high-spirited she was pacific, and too innately nohle to take offence easily. Nevertheless, she was determined to reveal as little as possible, and she knew as well as though a volume of warning had been vouchsafed to her, that she must not betray her antecedents in the correct precincts of an educational establishment. '

“My father was Captain Digby; he is dead; I am in mourning for him. My mother I do not remember, but my grandmamma, Mrs. Redman, placed me here, and I suppose I shall stay as long as she likes.”

“Law! you are an orphan, then,” cried Miss Summers, by no means sympathetically; “and where do you come from?"

“I can scarcely say,” returned Madeline, prudently. “While papa lived we travelled about; he was very delicate.”

“Well, where did you come from last?”

“From London,” said Madeline shortly.

“Oh, from your grandma’s, I suppose?” said the inquisitor.

To this Madeline made no reply.

“My pa,” resumed Miss Summers, “is very rich. His place of business is in the City— Cheapside—perhaps you know it. It’s a comer house, and, though small, he does the largest business in umbrellas, travelling bags, and ties, and all that sort of thing in the City. Why I’ve seen ‘ Buy your umbrellas at Summers ’ written on the dead walls all round Stoke Newington. We have a large house there, quite as large as this, only rather differently furnished (in a contemptuous tone). Ma’s drawing-room is blue satin and gold, and the dining-room—oh, the dining-room is splendid; real Turkey carpet, and bronzes, and pictures, Dutch pictures, old masters, you know; and we keep three servants, a cook, housemaid, and parlourmaid, and ma’ says we must have a boy—a page, you know. My eldest sister is married to such a nice man, and quite rich—Henry Brown, of the firm of Smith, Payne, and Brown; they are in the straw-bonnet line in St. Paul’s Churchyard.” And Miss Summers ran on, Madeline ceasing to listen, and looking round with the sense of pleasure she always derived from whatever of grace, beauty, or order, met her eye. _

Springfield House had been the residence of some City magnate, and the grounds were extensive and tastefully laid. out. Behind the house stretched a lawn of considerable size, exquisitely green, and shaded by forest trees of large growth—the remains, probably, of some old chase or park—and one or two fine oaks and elms studded its expanse. The back of the house was partially covered with woodbine and clematis—the girls in their bright summer muslin dresses, grouped about in light and shade, produced a pretty effect— the order and regularity, if a little oppressive, was also soothing.

Madeline’s thoughts wandered fondly back to her father. Oh! to have had him there; to sit in the shade of those graceful trees, and rest his eyes on that cool green, and quench his thirst with some juicy fruits, instead of the terrible bottle which made him so ill I Madeline could never realise his being intoxicated, for to her he was always mild, tender, gentleman-like; and his intoxication, too, was of the silent, dull order—the result of weakness and the effort to drown thought. Her dear accomplished father! for whom she could do nothing more—nothing!

“And how many servants does your grandma’ keep?” was the next question of Miss Summers which fell on her ear.

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Madeline, carelessly speaking out the truth.

“Not know how many servants your own grandma’ keeps!” said Miss Summers, in some surprise.

“Come, Miss Digby,” said the under-governess, interrupting the examination very opportunely; “you may as well see your room, and unpack your clothes ready for the morning, as you have nothing else to do.”

And Madeline gladly followed her up several flights of stairs, and was ushered into a long large bedroom, where seven little white beds were symmetrically arranged, with an equal allowance of painted deal wardrobes and drawers in one. Here Madeline employed herself for the next hour, transferring the contents of her portmanteau to the drawers and shelves of her wardrobe, with the assistance of her new friend, the under-governess.

“Who sleeps in this room besides myself?” she asked.

“I do, and Miss -and Miss -,”naming the five other young ladies.

“Then the girl who spoke to me in the garden just now is not qpe of them?”

“No!” said Miss Moorcroft.

“I am glad,” returned Madeline.

Miss M. smiled. “Do not be too ready to speak of your likes and dislikes/’ she said. “It is very easy to make enemies at school.”

“I shall remember,” replied our heroine, and relapsed into silence.

In her own mind she was reflecting on the painfulness of dressing and undressing in company with five or six other young ladies; for wandering though her life had been, she had always had some tiny nook of a room all to herself—and that sanctity of her own chamber was inexpressibly dear. Now, indeed, she felt that there was not one spot on earth, or one heart, she could call her own. However, she spoke nothing of all this—poor child, she was too bitterly convinced of the fruitlessness of contending with the inevitable —so she swallowed down her .tears, not daring to ask for sympathy, knowing that she had no business to disgrace her benefactors by the revelation of her mean sorrows; but for the time being, all her higher ambition of being educated as became a lady, and a Digby, vanished, and her poor desolate heart ached to be back with Kit and Mrs. Fitzwarrenne, in the little back parlour at Thames End, shelling shrimps for Gwendoline and Anna Maria; listening to the scraps of stage-talk from the host and his occasional visitors—dreaming of herself electrifying Metropolitan Houses as “Pauline” or “Mrs. Haller,” and assisting kindly slatternly Mrs. Fitz. to put the children to bed. She forgot, in the tenderness of the moment, how often she used to shrink from the discomfort, disorder, and dirt of the Fitzwarrenne menage. ’Tis true, her own experience of life with her father was homely enough, still he had the habits of a gentlemen even in their dire poverty; and as his child, whom he so fondly loved, advanced towards womanhood, he strove hard to restrain his craving for stimulants, and to elevate his own tone and position for her sake, but it was too late, so he did the best he could for her by dying.

All these thoughts floated through Madeline’s brain, as she folded and put away petticoats, stockings, etc., and yet she managed to speak rationally to Miss Moorcroft, who made some general inquiries as to what she had learned, etc.

“I am terribly ignorant for my age,” she said, confiding readily in her new friend. “I know a little of music, hut I have no idea of French, and I am so anxious to learn it.”

So the time slipped by till the bell summoned them to prayers. This was a very solemn proceeding, and consisted of reading a long chapter, generally selected with a view to illustrate future punishment and suffering, generally followed by an exposition by some popular Evangelical divine, strongly condemnatory of pleasure in every form, concluding by a long argumentatiye prayer—a collection of which, in a thick obstinate-looking book, was one of the sacred insignia of office, and was handled only by the eldest Miss Jones, a smooth-looking gentlewoman, with grey hair and a matronly cap.

Then the young ladies each curtsied to Miss Jones, and betook themselves to bed.

Madeline followed, performing her night toilette in the privacy of a nook between her bed-curtain and the wall, and offering up a curt, but earnest prayer for G-od’s guidance and protection.

She heard a good deal of vulgar gossip and rude jesting among her companions, but she disregarded it, and with marvellous fixity of purpose in so young a creature, sought to comprehend her own position, and what line she had best pursue. She felt that she was singularly friendless, and the wisdom and instinct of her heart told her she must make friends. Then she felt that her grandmother was anything but a real Mend. And the future—how about that? She must depend on herself. She must learn, learn, learn diligently to fit herself either to teach or to act; and so merciful sleep stole over her, and this most eventful day ended.

CHAPTER III

A week had scarce elapsed before Madeline, with the quick adaptability of youth, felt as if she had for a lifetime been subjected to school routine, and time slipped rapidly on; no sign was vouchsafed by her grandmother or uncle that they took further cognisance of her existence. Prom the hour Miss Foster had bid her good-bye, she seemed cut off from all ties of any kind, and she often felt a sort of bitterness and shame that the post never brought her a letter, not even from her friends the Fitzwarrennes, who had been on the point of leaving Thames End for some other town, where the truculent Kit was engaged to represent a large amount of villany. She was then ignorant of their address, and they of hers.

Her first acquaintance, Miss Summers, once observed with refined irony : “What a lot of letters you do get to be sure!” and Miss Jones also said on one occasion: “Remember, Miss Digby, I expect all letters to be shown to me, except those bearing the signature of your venerable grandmother. But I trust the influence of Springfield House has been already strong enough to check any tendency to surreptitious correspondence.”

“I have never received or written a letter since I entered your house,” replied Madeline, with an air of truthfulness her instructress could not doubt; but thinking to herself, “If I did want to get a letter free from your inspection, I see no reason why I should not:” an extremely improper though not unnatural sentiment.

Madeline’s quietness and readiness to oblige made her on the whole a favourite, though her rejection of Miss Summers’ advances towards chumship made that young lady somewhat of an enemy. “ Miss Digby is no great things I can tell you,” she frequently asserted; “she is ashamed to talk of her friends, though she says her father was a captain; she pretends she doesn’t know how many servants her grandma’ keeps. Such nonsense! I suppose she has only one, and does her washing at home!”

Of course these rumours quickly reached Madeline’s ears—school-boys and school-girls have small delicacy; hut our little heroine had; with much simplicity, a certain individuality, a sort of pride and self-reliance, which rendered her nearly invulnerable to the opinions of others, save those few she looked up to and loved; from them disapproval was agony. She had been brought up in the forcing bed of poverty, which hurries young plants too soon into mental maturity; and hers was a nature only too ready to accept such forcing. While almost a child, she felt herself the guardian of her father; both head and heart taxed to the utmost to tend and shield him, for he was little able to take care of himself;' and then that terrible bottle which disagreed with him so sadly! How many wiles were exercised to win him from this! and what happy moments she had passed with that dear father, when he used to teach her writing or history, the latter by word of mouth—they could not afford books; or, sweeter than all—singing, with the aid of his violin. Poor Madeline’s education had been of a most desultory and intermittent order; and from old play-books and odd circulating library volumes, she had gathered the strangest jumble of ideas about the world and life, mixed with the results of her actual existence; she had a real thirst for knowledge, and an intelligence acute and eager for a thorough understanding of what she learned.

This led to considerable disappointment at the commencement of her regular studies; the routine of a class, the parrot-like committing to memory, seemed to mock her with the dry bones'—the mere outlines of subjects— while her intelligent questions were considered impertinent intrusions by the teachers, and audacious efforts to make herself out unusually clever by the young ladies.

She preferred the French lessons to any others, as, although far from a profound intelligence, Mademoiselle Delplanque taught well, according to the system under which she had gained her diploma. Moreover, Madeline became soon a chief favourite with the Frenchwoman, chiefly because there was something un-English and sympathetic about her; and she treated mademoiselle with a gentle and unvarying respect; never once smiling at her blunders, and altogether assuming a tone in their intercourse most flatteringly dissimilar from that of the other pupils.

But Madeline’s affections flowed really but to one, and that the governess-pupil, Jessie Moorcroft; there was a sweet, bright womanliness about this girl that won Madeline’s heart, and she was sufficiently intelligent to be a pleasant companion, for she was peculiarly formed to follow a lead. She was always willing to do as she was bid, and learn as she was taught, without the silent discussions with self, or the troublesome root and branch questions to which Madeline was addicted. Nevertheless, the under-governess was a great help and guide to the friendless Madeline, who impressed her new friend with unbounded admiration. At first she had been inclined to pity her, for the neglect which had left her so ignorant on many important topics; hut soon she began to feel that whatever they studied together assumed a new charm from the sort of broad view Miss Digby took of the subject, and the original way in which she connected it with some other branch of study.

So the time passed away, not unhappily, though at times words, and more, small actions of Miss Jones and Miss Gunston reminded Madeline rather bitterly that she was a friendless dependent. Nevertheless, study, even in the meagre way it was placed before her, had a true charm for the orphan, and the order of the place delighted her innate love of method and of beauty, in which latter order is always a component part.

Shortly before the school broke up for the summer holidays, Miss Foster paid Madeline a visit, to her great dolight. That gentle example of single blessedness was truly flattered at the empressement evinced towards her by the desolate girl. Madeline had nothing to complain of, and sent a suitably grateful message to the all powerful grandmamma.

“Tell her,” she concluded, “my dearest wish is as soon as possible to earn my own bread.”

“Quite right, my dear,” returned Miss Foster, who, before the Miss Joneses, had delivered a second-hand lecture, considerably softened, on the necessity of Miss Digby’s giving the most anxious attention to her studies in order to fit herself for her future career, and free Mrs. Redman from the burden imposed upon her.

“I have heard no complaints against Miss Digby,” said the dignified head of the establishment, and with this cold commendation the interview closed, and Miss Foster, for the few remaining moments of her visit, was left alone with Madeline. The latter was neither mortified nor disappointed at this “damning with faint praise.” She knew how much she had acquired, and this was a solid fact, not to be affected by Miss Jones’s opinion. Still she thought quietly, “ Had it been Miss Summers’ or Miss Harris’s friends who were inquiring after their progress, what loud praise Miss Jones would have given 1”

“Miss Foster,” said Madeline, as the door closed on the schoolmistress, “if it is not too much trouble, will you write to me sometimes and allow me to write to you. It looks so forlorn, as if I was something bad, never to get a letter; and my grandmamma, though it may be too much trouble for her to write, would she never care to see a letter from me? Does she dislike me?”

“Oh! dear, no! how could she! Only she is a little peculiar, though a most excellent upright woman, and never writes even to her own children. No. But I shall be most happy to write to you, only do not be surprised if it is some little time before I do write, for I am going with your dear grandmamma to Ramsgate for a few weeks, and I shall write when we come back. I’m so pleased to have such a good account-to give her; and be sure you take great care of your clothes, for your grandmamma expects not to be obliged to get anything more for you until winter.”

“I will take care,” returned Madeline, with' a sort of sad submission very touching; and so they parted.

It is a great trial to be left behind at school during the holidays. The sense that the rest are going off gloriously to loving, abundant, welcoming homes, where their coming is a jubilee, and that no one wants you, especially the schoolmistress with whom you remain, and on whom you are a terrible restraint.

Poor Madeline felt this keenly, and strove to reconcile Miss Jones to her presence by liberal offers of needle-work and mending, for the young poverty-taught girl was singularly expert in these womanly accomplishments.

Miss Jones was but little grateful, or mollified by this, for she little dreamed of the skill she almost rejected.

The evening before the breaking-up, that is two days before the dispersing of the pupils, was a warm July evening, and Madeline and Miss Moorcroft stole out for half an hour’s talk after tea in the garden.

“I shall miss you sadly,” said Madeline.

“Well, dear, I have a little plan,” said Miss Moorcroft. “I did not intend to say anything until I was sure of your grandmamma’s leave; but I have asked Miss Jones to write to her to ask if you may come and stay a few days with my mother and me, during the holidays. We are very quiet, stay-at-home people, but it will be a little change for you.”

“Oh! how good and kind of you,” cried Madeline, her large eyes lighting up with joy, as much at the kindly thought of her friend as at the delightful prospect of change.

“I wonder if Mrs. Redman, if my grandmother will let me? She can have no objection, only I sometimes fancy she would rather I did not enjoy myself, that poor people should always be in a state of punishment. There are persons of that kind, you know. I have read of them in books.”

“I hope there are very few,” returned her friend, smiling; “but we must hear by to-morrow if she will or not. It is now four days since Miss Jones wrote.”

“Ah! She is at Ramsgate, then,” cried Madeline, “and that is the reason of the delay. I probably think too unkindly of her.” This suggestion of a visit to Jessie Moor-croft was a charming solace to Madeline in her first loneliness. That, and the unrestricted use of a piano remote from Miss Jones’s apart-ment, helped her to support the first terrible solitude of the house. All day, for the first week, the heads of the establishment were immersed in accounts; and at meals they scarce entered or seemed conscious of poor Madeline’s presence.

At last, nearly ten days after the breaking-up, she was summoned to their private sitting-room, and there informed that a letter had been received from Miss Foster, on the part of Mrs. Redman, in which permission was accorded to Madeline to accept the invitation of her friend.

“Tell Miss Digby, however,” continued the epistle, “that her good grandmamma desires me to say, she fears her readiness to run after new friends and amusement indicates a disposition little suited to her future life; that, dependent as she is upon the goodness of others, she should show a more fixed and steady purpose of amendment and application, such as will fit her for the task of earning her own bread.”

“A very sensible letter,” said Miss Belinda Jones, with a solemn shake of the head, as she finished reading it aloud. “You would do well, my dear, to lay it to heart.”

“I have done so,” said Madeline, in a some-what peculiar tone, and colouring; “and as I am in truth anxious to improve, will you he so kind as to point out in what particular you wish me to ‘ amend,’ as of course my grandmother only knows of my conduct through Miss Foster’s report?”

There was a remarkable quiet in Madeline’s accents; and the elder Miss Jones, after a moment’s effort to recall some delinquency, began in a plausible voice—

“You have really done very well on the whole. I have no doubt Mrs. Redman alludes to that innate wickedness—that original taint with which we are all afflicted, and which faith alone-”

“To say nothing of your carelessness about your music,” put in Miss Belinda. “You have by no means advanced as you ought in that accomplishment.”

“It is true,” returned Madeline, with the most hearty concurrence in the sentence, yet the words were uttered in a tone of independent judgment, not with mere obsequious submission to the decision of a superior mind. “It has been always the greatest punishment to me to practice those terrible tuneless scales and exercises, but I see their necessity, and I shall be more diligent in future—I will indeed.”

The earnestness of her . voice suggested to the Misses Jones that she was a greater delinquent than they knew of; and besides, they were of the stamp to stretch the granted inch to an ell, and consequently opened a lecture “in duo,” in which the future; sin, the world, the flesh, and the devil, were set forth in appalling colours, and Madeline, after listening for some time in respectful silence, could scarce repress a smile. Hers was the very type of mind that has in all ages produced revolt, that is, reform—a pure, bright, yet subtle intelligence, a loving heart, a most dauntless spirit, ready by nature to question every assertion, not recklessly or irreverently, but by an irrepressible instinct bringing all things to the test of her judgment, and yet tenderly respecting persons. At present her native good taste and sense would not permit her to utter a syllable of- dissent from the harangue to which she patiently listened. Moreover, she knew it would hut turn her schoolmistresses against her; and at its close, when turning to leave the room, she stopped herself, and in her soft sweet accents put one question—“Do you think it wrong in me to wish to spend some days with Miss Moor-croft?”

“No, no; certainly not,” exclaimed Miss Jones hastily, as Madeline’s absence would be most suitable to her own arrangements; “there can be no objection to it whatever; I will write and tell your grandmamma so myself.”

What a joyful task was it to write her first letter! Madeline, I am afraid, was almost a-glutton over it, and favoured her friend, after the first page of acceptance and thanks, with a short summary of Miss Jones’s lecture, and a few grave but droll remarks thereon—in short, covered two sheets of best note. In reply she received a guarded letter, with polite messages for the Misses Jones, a warm welcome for herself, and ample directions how to proceed to Camden Town, in which unaristocratic, but healthy, locality Jessie Moorcroft’s mother resided.

CHAPTER IV

The morning of the Thursday after the receipt of Mrs. Redman’s permission, was a close, grey day, and Madeline looked eagerly from her window by six o’clock to discern the face of the weather. She was to wear her best black dress and bonnet, partly because three months’ wear and tear, even with the most careful treatment, is “hard lines” for an every-day garment, and Madeline’s had given way in many places, and been patched, and grown glazy and brown in others, for which there was no remedy, so it was unfit to make its appearance in holiday time; then she was only to take her bonnet box; indeed, Miss Jones had suggested a bundle, but from this Madeline shrunk—there was such painful untidiness in a bundle.

So Mary, the under-housemaid, volunteered to carry Miss Digby’s box to the office, at the head of the common. Madeline always was a favourite with servants; here her respect for persons stood her in good stead; she could not wound a beggar, while the loftiest presence did not overpower her.

With strong but repressed excitement, which lit up her whole face with a beauty none would dream under ordinary circumstances it could express, she bid Miss Jones good-bye, and holding the remains of her fifteen shillings very tight in a tiny purse, netted for her by mademoiselle, took her place in the omnibus.

“Don’t you go up to the top, Miss; you will have to get out at the Helephant and Castle before you are half way,” advised the experienced Mary; “and gather up your frock well, or it’ll be all trod upon.”

“Thank you, Mary; thank you very much,” said Madeline, radiant with gratitude, and ready to bestow any amount of silver and gold (had she possessed it) on her adviser.

“You are quite welcome, Miss,” returned Mary. “Here, conductor,” continued this thoughtful person, “put this young lady down at the Helephant and Castle, she wants a Hislington ’bus.”

“All right,” replied that potentate. “Proceed, Jim,” to the coachman. “Time’s up.” They drove off.

The very journey was a fruitful source of delight to Madeline, albeit a .crowded omnibus is not the most agreeable mode of transit. But then Madeline had seen so little of London. The enormous number of vehicles, even on the Clapham road, the variety of faces in the conveyance, the change, the crowd, after the seclusion and monotony of the last three months, all helped to enchant her.

A little before reaching Kennington Gate, they picked up an old gentleman, very infirm, and in terribly shabby clothes, with an old baggy umbrella, and a shocking bad hat, nevertheless, Madeline, who had a strange, strong instinct in such matters, felt he was a gentleman. He had keen, almost fierce eyes, and shaggy brows; but when he dropped his umbrella, and Madeline respectfully picked it up and restored it, he smiled, and she was surprised to feel how familiar—'dimly, vaguely familiar—the expression seemed. He, too, looked very fixedly at her; and just before they reached the Elephant and Castle, he leaned forward, and said, in a hoarse, whistling voice, and with a sort of peremptory civility, “What’s your name, young lady?”

Madeline, greatly surprised, even startled, replied at once, without a moment’s pause.

“Digby!” repeated the stranger, gazing more piercingly even than before into her face; but before he could make any further inquiries, the omnibus stopped, and the conductor, looking in, said abruptly, “Now then, young lady for Islington; York and Albany ’bus just starting.”

Madeline, therefore, hurried out, got her box, and in the fresh excitement of crossing Westminster Bridge, and wondering what that large building at the other side of it could he (even venturing to apply for information to a fat, asthmatic female, in a green bonnet and a red shawl), the strange, shabby old man was forgotten.

. The fat female, proud of acting as cicerone, pointed out to Madeline, as they went along, the Treasury, the Horse Guards, the National Gallery, and then they passed on through the glories of Regent Street, which to Madeline seemed indeed a gorgieous array, and she wondered, if amid the diversions of this delicious holiday she would be permitted to walk down it, and look into the shop windows.

At last they reached the York and Albany, and there was Jessie Moorcroft and a respectable-looking servant girl waiting on the pavement evidently looking out for her. It was very delightful to feel the friendly pressure of her hand, to feel she was away from school and her enforced subordination to all the rest, free for awhile from the sense that, do what she would, her greatest success was to escape rebuke.

“We have a little way to walk, so I brought Sarah to carry your box. You can go on quickly, Sarah, and tell my mother we are coming.”

Jessie led the way through divers streets of greengrocery and shellfish tendencies, sprinkled with small dingy drapery establishments, at the doors whereof were ranged piles of prints and rolls of longcloth ticketed at fabulously low prices. Passing through these they came to a neat little row of houses, with tiny front gardens, tiny bow windows, and tiny verandahs, on the strength of which latter ornaments, we presume, they were called Ashley, Villas. They had little gates, generally locked, as the habits of the Camden Town boys are even more predatory than the ordinary type. A desolate-looking field, full of half-dug foundations, heaps of clay, and piles of timber, promised a corresponding row of villas or a terrace, but at present it was anything but cheerful in its aspect. However, Ashley Villas was considered rather a first-rate situation, and furnished lodgings commanded good prices there.

At one of the nicest and freshest of these little palaces Jessie stopped. The muslin curtains and blinds were snowy, so were the doorsteps. The grass in the little front plot and the couple of evergreens in the middle looked as though carefully watered and tended, and a kindly middle-aged face in a neat cap trimmed with grey and black, glanced at them through the front window, and then the door was opened.

“This is my mother, Madeline,” said Miss Moorcroft, with a happy smile.

It was hardly necessary to announce the relationship, as Mrs. Moorcroft Was just the original of the daughter, a little less refined. and intelligent, a trifle more of the middle-class housewife, but yet a fitting mother for a home-bird like Jessie.

“Well, and I am very glad to see you, my dear. We have all heard a good, deal of you.

I am sure it is very kind of your grandmamma to let you come to us, for we are very humble people.”

“I think the goodness is all your side,” returned Madeline, gratefully, and taking the kindly hand in both hers. “Jessie must have told you I have no friends.”

“Nonsense, my dear, there are lots of friends to be had if you choose to deserve them. Take Miss Digby to her room, Jessie. Dinner is ready now, and can be served while you take off your bonnets.”

So Jessie led her friend up-stairs to a pretty little room with white dimity hangings at the hack of the house.

“This is your room,” she said. “I sleep with my dear mother in the large front bedroom, and my brother Willie, who is in the railway, you know, has the little room over the hall. The two rooms on the first floor, the two best rooms, are let to a gentleman who is engajged in the City, a very good person, but so particular; so you seethe house is well filled.”

“Who sleeps here when I am away?”

“Oh, my brother; and my eldest brother, who is in a large drapery house on Ludgate Hill, sometimes comes from Saturday to Monday, and has the little front room. You see it is a great help to my mother having those apartments to let—she is quite rent free—for it was a great effort coming into this house and furnishing it after my poor father died.” This was one of the points of sympathy between Madeline and her friend; both were fatherless, hut there, fortunately for Jessie, the parallel ceased. “But come, as you are ready let us go down.”

They accordingly descended past the best rooms to the basement, where they found a very pleasant parlour corresponding with the one above, how window and all. True there was a cupboard at each side the fireplace, more convenient than ornamental, but then the top served for book-cases, and a small old upright piano was placed behind the door. There were some prints, too, and flowers on the mantel-shelf, and altogether the character of the apartment was not inelegant though very homely. The cloth was laid and the stout girl was carrying in the dishes.

“You must be hungry, my loves,” said Mrs. Moorcroft, busily putting some finishing touches to the array.

There was some nice fried fish, a meat pudding, some stewed fruit, and a glass of ale for the widow.

Madeline thought it the most delightful repast, everything was so neat, so delicately clean, and the welcome so warm. Oh, she thought, if she had but a mother! The talk was very cheerful. Madeline confessed her ambition to walk down Regent Street, and Mrs. Moorcroft asked her if she was a good walker.

She said, “Oh, yes; she was very strong, she used to walk a good deal with her dear papa (she did not fear to mention the defunct delinquent in Ashley Villas), but at school they had very little walking.”

“Too little, my dear,” said Mrs. Moorcroft, disapprovingly. “There’s a great deal too much study for health. To think of women learning Latin and things! I’m sure it will never make them better wives or mothers.”

“That I’m sure it won’t,” said her daughter, laughing gaily. “But if you are to earn your bread by teaching you must meet the demands of the market, as Sam would say; and as great ladies like to get a little .instruction for their small boys thrown in with the young ladies’ education, why we must be prepared to supply it.”

“And Latin is not so difficult after all,” remarked Madeline, “at least as far as I have gone; but that is only a little way.”

After dinner Jessie and her friend indulged in a long talk, while Mrs. Moorcroft disappeared somewhere on household matters. Then the girls rummaged all Jessie’s drawers, her treasures of books and curiosities, the usual sort of rubbish young creatures delight to accumulate, and tried to manage a duet, which the short compass of the piano would scarce permit, and the hours glided quickly past till it was almost tea-time.

“Willie will soon be in now,” said Jessie. “I am sure you will like him. He is so clever. He knows whole poetry books off by heart, but he is very shy, so you must talk to him.”

Tea was spread when the expected Willie made his appearance.

He was a tall, fair young man, about two years older than Jessie, with a long neck and sloping shoulders. His hair was light, and the moustache he fondly cherished gave - a faint sandy hue to his upper lip. He blushed vividly when introduced to Madeline, and said something rather incoherently about looking forward to the pleasure of her acquaintance, to which Madeline replied with a grave, “Thank you.”

During tea, Willie asked her, suddenly and abruptly, if she was an admirer of Tennyson? Madeline confessed, with sad humility, that she had never heard of the person, or thing, to which he alluded; whereupon he gave her a glowing description of that poet’s works and merits, to which she gave so earnest an attention that the young man was enchanted, believing the fascination lay in his manner rather than his subject. And then Mrs. Moorcroft suggested, that as Miss Digby seemed interested, Willie might read her some of his own verses, in Tennyson’s style—only, upon the whole, rather superior to the poet. This request Madeline seconded with shy eagerness, and the youthful aspirant for fame consented, with an air of lofty indifference, while trembling with excitement, and thinking that at last he had met a kindred spirit.

He accordingly produced something like half-a-dozen copy-books, in which were carefully transcribed lines of the most unequal length, full of words of the greatest magnitude and oddest sound. Poor Madeline listened with the most sincere attention, striving to follow the meaning, and longing for a dictionary. He certainly must be an uncommonly clever young man, for she could follow Shakespeare in “Romeo and Juliet,” and “Macbeth,” and the “Merchant of Venice and also sundry volumes of Scott, the “Duchess de la Yallire,” and even “Richelieu,” without any difficulty. But Willie Moorcroft was considerably above her comprehension. However, she wisely kept her stupidity to herself and the lecture continued till Jessie exclaimed, good-humouredly, “I think we had better go out now—the evening is fine, and you know, Willie, dear, I am not poetical enough to appreciate those fine things.” A look of the most profound contempt, and even dislike, swept across the young poet’s countenance.

“Then I ought to apologise for boring the company,” he said, bitterly.

“Oh, no! no!” cried Madeline, eagerly, feeling keenly for him, and thinking her friend absolutely rude.

“I believe,” said Willie, with a short laugh, “that Miss Digby is nearly as foolish as myself about poetry and he proceeded to put away his manuscripts.

Then the three went out, and had a charming walk in Regent’s Park, during which much literary conversation passed between Madeline and Willie, although they disagreed on almost all points, for Madeline’s likings were for very old slow-coach writers, and though she had read so few, and seemed so humble in her estimate of herself she was strangely tenacious of her opinions on some points. Then he was astonished at the telling manner, the sort oi passionate intensity, with which she would recite favourite passages; and Jessie exclaimed more than once, “Why, Madeline, you ought to be an actress.”

“Perhaps I may be some day. It is the way I should like to earn my bread,” returned Madeline, quietly.

“Oh, my dear! you could not think of such a thing,” returned the respectably brought-up Jessie, to whom Madeline had never told her father’s connection with the stage; “and your grandmother would never hear of it.”

“If I am to support myself, it will be hard if I could not choose my own work.”

“Don’t be such a rebel, Madeline; very few of us can choose our work!”

When the friends retired that night, Jessie, of course, saw Madeline to her room, and remained for a little private discussion of the events of the day.

“Willie is quite taken with you,” said Jessie laughing. “I suppose he will be desperately in love by to-morrow evening, and sit up half the night burning a whole candle, and composing some tremendous verses. Then, if you do not respond properly, he will be in despair, and then hate you ferociously for a week or two, that is the usual course.”

Madeline blushed! What girl of fifteen can hear of a possible lover with indifference?

“Oh! Jessie,” she returned with a sigh, “few would love me! I am a little plain thing. But some day, when I am older, I should like so much to be loved! The way Claude loved Pauline, aijd Romeo loved Juliet. But ah! that is not likely; at any rate, unless I change very much. Oh! I would give years of my life to be beautiful. But your brother is a mere boy.”

“What a funny little thing you are! Why Willie is nearly four years older than you are! But you are not plain. You are very nice, and your friends will love you always. Why are you so grave and earnest about what all girls make a jest of?”

“I do not know. A lover—a real lover is something so solemn, so sacred. I have often thought of one, but I cannot fancy what I should like.”

“Miss Jones would say you were a shocking girl to think of such things.”

“Perhaps I am. But can it be wrong. You know that all the girls at Springfield House talk and think of nothing else half so much—only they are so foolish. Why, Mary Davis said. she could be Signor Caldesi, the, Italian master’s slave for ever, and he hadn’t clean hair, and is such a funny little man; besides, I have always read that the lover ought to be the slave—not the lady.”

“Well, I do not know! But a lover must be very different from a brother, if he is. Wait till Sunday, then my brother Sam will come up to tea, and perhaps bring his friend, Tom Harris, with him, and see what you think of them.”

“It is little matter,” returned Madeline smiling, and half-ashamed of having spoken out her thoughts. “My business is to learn, and prepare for the stage—of life,” she added after a short pause of playful malice, to startle her kindly, but somewhat matter-of-fact friend.

The intervening days passed delightfully, and Willie went through the stages prophesied by his sister, which was somewhat of a drawback to Madeline, who respected the feelings of others perhaps rather too much.

Mrs. Moorcroft took her and Jessie a long ramble through Oxford Street and Regent Street. They visited the Polytechnic, and other wildly exciting places, including the Zoological Gardens. But the crowning delight remained on Sunday, when Mr. Samuel Moorcroft, a steady-looking man of about five and twenty, with a good address and fair education, arrived punctually to tea at six o’clock, accompanied by his friend, who was a sort of second edition of himself, only less good-looking, more lively, and assuming more the air and manners of a gentleman. They announced that the latter had been promised two admissions to the Haymarket on the following Tuesday, and that it was their intention to escort and treat the young ladies. Jessie patted her brother on the back, and Madeline clapped her hands with delight.

“Ever been to a play, Miss Digby?” asked Mr. Harris.

“Oh yes; many times. What is the play to be?”

“Well, I’m not sure. Something good always at the Haymarket.”

“And what do you think of our two beaux?” asked Je8sie,when she and Madeline were alone. . “ Oh! I like your brother, he seems so good, and he is so like you. And the other, Mr. Harris, is very good, too, Jessie dear.” And Madeline kissed her friend, and would no^ say another word on the subject. In short she imagined she had discerned something of an attachment between them, and would not for worlds have desecrated so delicate and sacred a subject by a single remark.

Oh! exquisite tenderness! How like to the rosy solemn waking of a healthy infant, are the first dim shadowy movements of a true woman’s heart, when the spirit of the Boy-God moves on the face of the waters, and before the light comes!

Jessie laughed heartily.

That enchanting visit to the theatre closed Madeline’s holiday. It was very delightful. She wept at the trials of the heroine of the first piece, and laughed most joyously at the fun of the second. Nevertheless, though resisting the ungrateful thought, the companionship of Mr. Samuel Moorcroft, and Tom Harris, was certainly distasteful. Though her antecedents were humble enough, poor child, there was that in her blood, her nature, that shrank from men of low degree. On this occasion she preferred the cynical Willie. Still her enjoyment was great, her gratitude warm, and her grief sincere, when, the next day, she was obliged to say goodbye, %nd return in time for tea at Springfield House.

CHAPTER V

Six weeks after the close of the last chapter all things had returned to their usual routine at Miss Jones’s educational establishment, and Madeline had once more the comfort of Miss Moorcroft’s society. She sought diligently to remove the stigma of inattention on the score of musical exercises, and began to feel the benefit of her perseverance in spite of the short time allowed her for practice; she even petitioned for and obtained permission to rise an hour earlier, and so gain undisputed possession of a piano remote from the Miss Jones’s apartment; still she was not permitted to have singing lessons, for which she pined; nor music lessons, save from a governess who attended three mornings in the week, and whose instructions were included in the stated sum for board and education. Once, indeed, she was tempted to apply to her grandmother through Miss Foster. She had been sent into the study, as the smaller school-room was called, to leave some music, and finding it untenanted, sat down to play and sing (from ear and memory) one of the old melodies she had learned from her father. While so employed the singing master came in, and to her blushing apologies replied: “How is it that you don’t take lessons? I’ll speak to Miss Jones about it. You have a capital voice.” On this she applied to Miss Foster, who confidentially informed her that such an appeal would do more harm than good; that her dear grandmamma was, Miss Foster said, not inclined to spend more money at present, and begged her to have patience until the winter, when she hoped Mrs. Redman would ask her to spend a day or two, and learn to know and love her.

So poor Madeline bided her time.

The routine of life was dull enough at Springfield House. It was conducted on the strictest Evangelical principles; missionary collections pressed hard on girlish pocket-money; and the dreariness of Sunday was more than any pen could describe. All natural tendencies were considered deadly sins, as though Satan had been the originator of our being, which led to a good deal of hypocrisy and dissimulation. The scarlet abominations of Rome, and her deep-laid schemes, were topics frequently enlarged upon to these young minds; while the glorious freedom of Protestantism was set forth—that admirable system which leaves you to find out the right road yourself, but damns you if you happen to hit on the wrong one. Madeline, from sheer weariness, was inclined to side with the much-abused Catholics, though by nature, and in rights of her dauntless broad common sense, the last subject for Rome. But the sense of fair play made her sick of hearing but one side only, still she said little; and on such topics she met with small sympathy from her ally Jessie, who did not care one straw about these abstract matters.

So time went on with the rapidity always lent by monotony. Autumn was deepening into winter, and the shortened mornings compelled Madeline to give up her extra hour of practice, when one afternoon she was summoned to a private interview by Miss Belinda Jones.

Madeline ran hastily over in her own mind the events of the past ten days, in a vain effort to remember some delinquency which might have given rise to this unusual honour. She had long ceased to expect praise or encouragement; her rich grandmother evidently cared too little about her to warrant such extra trouble; but at any rate she escaped censure, for, indeed, the heads of the establishment were carelessly well-disposed towards her.

On this occasion, however, Miss Belinda looked gloomy; and directly they had crossed the threshold of the private sitting-room, Miss Belinda began: “Pray, Miss Digby, how much longer do you intend to wear that old dress? I am really ashamed that the masters and professors who attend the house, should see one of its inmates in such a guise.” Madeline coloured and then turned pale (dress was a subject very near her heart, and this particular garment had been a mortification long and patiently borne), because of the greater mortification of asking Mrs. Redman for another; but to be thus spoken to for what was her misfortune, not her fault, brought the hot tears of suppressed indignation and wounded pride to her eyes; still she struggled for calmness, and her voice was only slightly unsteady as she replied—

“I know it is disgraceful, and if I may quote your opinion I will apply to my grandmother for another; but you are aware I have nothing, literally nothing, but what she chooses to give. I am reluctant to ask, when she might remember that I have not had a dress for six months.”

“There spoke an unsanctified spirit, Madeline Digby,” said Miss Belinda, turning up her eyes. “It is your duty to ask your grandmamma for all that is necessary for your respectable appearance while in this house; and it is a false, an unholy pride, which leads you to expect that an excellent and venerable lady like Mrs. Redman is to think and act for you on every occasion, without any suggestion on your part. It is very disheartening to find you have profited so little by the careful training we have bestowed upon you!”

Madeline flushed again, then paled and bit her lip. “Perhaps I do expect too much,” she said at length, in a low voice. “I shall write as you direct, and you shall see the answer.”

“Very well. I don’t quite understand the tone in which you speak; but I hope you have the grace to see you are in the wrong. I have no more time to waste upon you at present, so go and write your letter.”

Madeline bent her head in token of obedience, and departed.

Before commencing her letter, however, she thought profoundly for a few minutes. Instinctively she felt that Miss Foster was weak and cowardly; moreover, she was in constant attendance upon Mrs. Redman, and Madeline’s memory of that venerable lady, in their one interview, presented a somewhat terrific picture, so with the 'generosity of a noble nature she resolved to beard the lion herself, and write direct to her “dear grandmamma.”

The epistle was a difficult composition; she shrunk from obsequiousness, and yet did not like to seem ungrateful; so, after many corrections, her note stood thus:—

“DEAR GRANDMOTHER,

“I am very sorry to be obliged to trouble you with a letter, especially as it is to request that you would make a further outlay on one who has already cost you so much. My common dress has become so shabby, that Miss Jones has just told me I must not appear in it any more; and my best dress, though better, will not last long when I wear it every day. Will you then be so very good as to send me some material, strong and thick, for winter use, or authorize Miss Jones to get it for me? If you will also ask her to give me time, I can make it myself, and save something in the cost.

“Believe me, I feel deeply the expense I must be to you, and I work hard, I assure you, to be able soon to do something for myself, and relieve you.

“Thanking you for all your benefits, I am gratefully and respectfully yours,

“MADELINE DIGBY.”

She read this carefully over, and then submitted it to her friend Jessie Moorcroft’s inspection; both young things considered it a masterpiece of composition; so it was folded up, directed, and posted, with the sort of bitter sense of degradation that Madeline never could quite master, when she thought of, or in any way came in contact with her grandmother. “Why,” she often thought, and even said to her confidante Jessie, to whom she revealed more and more, as time proved the faithfulness and prudence of that friend—“why can she not leaven her charity with a little personal kindness? It is true both my poor father and mother displeased her, but what have I done? I. do not wonder at my mother flying from such a home, and with such a man! Ah! he was very unfortunate and unhappy—my dear father. There is some evil always weighing down our race; but yet I will not think so—God may dispose of all as He sees best—and I am certain he helps an honest worker.”

A post or two after brought Madeline a note, directed in a spidery, shaky hand, like a small milliner’s small account, made out by some aged relative.

“I was very much astonished to receive a letter from you,” it began, without any formal commencement; “you must know I did not want anything of the kind. As to your impudence, asking for another dress, almost before I have paid the heavy bills for your outfit, it’s just like the people you come of. Pray, do you think I am made of money? or have no other claims upon me? Why do you not apply to some of your father’s relations, who, I understand, were very fine and grand. I see the sort of pride that is in you by the ungrateful anxiety you show to be free of my benefits, and sting the hand that feeds you. As to Miss Jones, I don’t believe she ever made a remark of the kind—she knows better,—and once for all, remember, I will never attend to any request of yours for finery; if you want absolute necessaries, tell Miss Jones to apply.

“Barbara Redman.”

The blood surged up in one strong wave from Madeline’s heart to her brow and eyes, which shot forth a glance of dark fire, while the usually calm brow and soft mouth contracted to a look so stem, that Jessie Moor-croft, who happened to be present, was quite startled at the sort of unexpected revelation in her friend’s face. Madeline’s sight then turned inwards, and as she thought her brow calmed and her mouth relaxed—“If in her power, what revenge would she or could she take on this poor, mean, covetous old woman. What?—and her inmost heart answered nothing.” A contemptuous word or two perhaps; but even this would be unworthy herself. No more could a civilized man revenge himself after the same manner on the savages who had tortured him. No. Mrs. Redman must act after her kind, and Madeline composed herself again after this glance at the deep gulf between her and her poor old grandmother,—rose up and went to Miss Jones.

“I have received a reply to my letter from Mrs. Redman,” she said, “and I have brought it to you. You will probably act in the affair yourself now.”

Miss Jones perused it with a knitted brow.

“Hum,” she said, at the end, “you must have written a very improper letter, and misquoted my remarks in a most mischievous manner. I really begin to fear you are a dangerous girl, Madeline Digby. All this is very unpleasant. I have not been used to it.”

“I wish I had a copy of my letter,” said Madeline, feeling her self-control giving way; “but I can nearly repeat it. I should like to prove how unjust Mrs. Redman’s remarks are.

“Don’t let me hear you revile your benefactress,” cried Miss Jones.

“I am not reviling her,” interrupted Madeline, with a steady determination, eager, poor child, with all her precocious wisdom, to prove herself right to one resolved not to think so. “I said,” and she repeated the substance of her famous epistle.

“That sounds all very well,” returned the judge, “but bow am I to know that was what you really wrote?”

“I assert it is,” said Madeline, with a sort of quiet sternness that only irritated her schoolmistress.

“Don’t answer me,” was the retort, “I shall not permit this impertinence. Leave the room.”

Madeline paused for a moment.

“Will you he so good as to give me the letter?”

“Certainly not. I must write to your grandmamma, and clear myself from what ever imputations you have made against me.”

Madeline turned and left the room. She went straight to the dormitory, deserted during the day, and, in spite of reason and courage, and all her other qualities, had a fit of intense agonised crying, choking with sobs, suffocated with the helpless sense of wrong. Oh, for some friend to stand by her, not to indulge her, but to be just!

What was this life that stretched before her! One succession of insults, and oppression, and wrong! No! She would not submit. She would bide her time, and then try her fortune on the stage, or in any vagabond way that would lead far from the harsh, monotonous respectability of Mrs. Redman, the Misses Jones, and all the rest! And there she saw visions of success, and applause, and bouquets, and triumph of triumphs, a cheque for a hundred pounds to Mrs. Redman, in payment of her “outlay.” Madeline thought a hundred would surely do it! Then she said a short hut hearty prayer for help, guidance and protection, and rose up somewhat calmed. She once more addressed herself to the task of composition, and wrote as follows:—

“MY DEAR MISS FOSTER,

“Mrs. Redman prefers I should not write directly to her. Will you then be so good as to say for me that I have received her letter, and given it to Miss Jones, who is going to write herself. Whatever they decide it will of course be my duly to submit to. I shall not repeat my thanks, lest Mrs. Redman should again misunderstand them.

“I am yours, very sincerely and much obliged,

“MADELINE DIGBY.”

This letter made the dear grandmamma very wroth. She knew that she had written to Madeline with furious haste, and that this unstudied production should have been submitted to the lynx eyes of Miss Jones irritated the old lady beyond measure. Like many of her stamp, while despising the social position of a schoolmistress, she feared their capability to “pick holes” in all kinds of imperfect performances. Besides, she knew that however deserving of contempt poverty and dependence might he, in all right thinking minds, the tone of her letter was, to say the least, scarcely ladylike.

“I knew that girl would he a thorn in my side, and a vexation. She is a proud, thankless creature!”

“I think, dear Mrs. Redman,” replied Miss Foster, to whom this remark was addressed, “if you were to make your granddaughter’s acquaintance, you would see that she is certainly not ungrateful for the favours you have so generously bestowed. She is, perhaps, deficient in the art of letter writing—expresses herself badly.”

“What nonsense you do talk, Miss Foster!” interrupted Mrs. Redman, in a vicious, querulous voice. “Make my granddaughter’s acquaintance, indeed! I can’t look on that Digby’s child as my granddaughter. She is a worthless, ungrateful creature, and you just back her up in it! You are such a fool! and always ready to oppose me in everything! Now you will gain nothing by contradicting me, I can tell you. I am not going to be governed by a companion, or wheedled by my daughter. I wonder what you and Mrs. Comerford were talking so long about this morning there, at the front gate! And as to this—this girl, this pauper, I’ll not give her another dress, and I will not let her inside my doors, so don’t expect it.”

“I’m sure I expect nothing,” said poor Miss Foster.

“Well, go on with the paper then; finish that Willmington divorce case; though I am sure you do read so bad, I can scarce make it out.”

However, in spite of Mrs. Redman’s denunciation, Madeline’s second holiday was spent under the grandmatemal roof. Moreover, she got the new dress, for Mrs. Redman was not proof against Miss Jones’s application, which was largely seasoned with compliments.

The permission for introducing her into the temple of respectability was gained in this wise. Mr. John Redman, early in December, had condescended to enliven a tea-drinking at his mother’s by his august presence. Mrs.

Comerford and “papa” were there, and old Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, the retired broker from next door, and Miss Nettlethorp, and sundry other members of the distinguished society in Abingdon Yillas. There had been lots of tea and plenty of good things, and several rubbers of whist, and a substantial “tray” with sandwiches, cold tongue and fowl, and scalloped oysters, port and sherry, and hot brandy-and-water, and the general company had dispersed, leaving the members of the family to some private conversation.

“Fine seasonable weather,” said Mr. Comer-ford, rubbing his hands. He was a satisfied soul, who never tyrannized over anyone, or worried about anything.

“Yes,” replied his brother-in-law; “another week like this will put us well through the winter. Christmas is about a fortnight off, is it not?”

“Just sixteen days,” said Mrs. Comerford. “I expect Susan Jane, and the boys home about the 20th. I daresay they have counted the days, poor things.”

“By the way,” and Mr. John turned to his mother as he spoke, “are you going to have that Digby girl here at Christmas?”

“No; why should I?”

“Well, I think it would be more decent. You needn’t keep her more than two or three days, that is if the schoolmistress gives her a good character. It would look well to bring her here for a day or two, and encourage her.”

“I’m sure,” cried Mrs. Redmari, in a complaining, piteous voice (she never dared fly out against her successful son), “the grief and trouble that girl has been to me, no one knows, and no tongue can tell, to say nothing of all she has cost.”

“Well, her coming here will not cost any more,” retorted Mr. John, “and you’ll save Miss What’s-her-name’s pay for so much.”

“It is not to be expected that my mother is to be worried with a young person in her house at her age,” put in Mrs. Comerford— “in the way all day long! now if there were other children-”

“Well, ask her to yours,” said Mr. John, rising; “you have young ’uns enough.”

“And I can tell you, my age may be great, but I am not in my second childhood, yet, Mrs. C.,” said her irascible mother.

“No, ma’am; by no means,” said Mr. Comerford, attempting to be jocular and complimentary at the same time; “though you have cut your wisdom teeth, at any rate.” Poor Mr. C. The last glass of brandy-and-water had warmed him out of his prudent taciturnity. Miss Foster shook her sausagelike curls at him from behind the shadow of dear grandmamma’s cap, and the wife of his bosom kicked his most particular corn tinder the table.

“Well, I’ll leave you to fight it out,” said Mr. John, with the composure of a superior being looking down on the squabbles of inferior creatures. “I have given my opinion, but you can do as you like.” And after sundry good nights, he departed.

So, with much grumbling—to and at Miss Foster—Mrs. Redman yielded, and Madeline was invited to spend the Christmas week at Abingdon Villas.

This invitation was of course of the royal sort, all other engagements must give way to it; and Madeline very reluctantly wrote to express her obedience to the mandate, as she had hoped to spend Christmas Day and go to church with Mrs. Moorcroft and Jessie.

It was a bleak black frost, and Madeline’s hands and feet were nearly frozen by the time she reached her grandmother’s mansion. Miss Foster met bar at the door, and gave her a hasty but hearty kiss; and then, after paying the cab, led her into the well-remembered dining-room, where she had been so contemptuously spurned. It looked even neater than ever, the glow of the fire reflected in the highly-polished sideboard, and the thick winter curtains partially hiding the dreary out-of-door aspect.

“Well, and how are you?” asked grandmamma, putting forth a small, stiff, unbending hand, and allowing Madeline to take it for an instant without the slightest pretence of returning the grasp.

Madeline replied, and an awkward silence, ensued, during which Mrs. Redman never even glanced at her, but occupied herself with her knitting.

“When did you leave Clapham?” asked Miss Foster, hardly daring to suggest any subject.

“About two o’clock.”

“And it is now half-past three—no, twenty to four! “What kept you so long on the road?” asked Mrs. Redman.

“We had to wait some time at the omnibus office, and came very slowly to Piccadilly.”

“Hum!” said Mrs. Redman. “Hadn’t she better go to your room, and take her things off,” she resumed, after a few minutes’ silence; “and do let us have tea at five, Miss Foster. “I am wearying for a cup.”

So Madeline was led away, with' a strange sense of oppression weighing her down.

“I hope you have brought some needlework,” said Miss Foster. “Mrs. Redman cannot hear to see any one sit with their hands before them, nor does she like to see much reading.”

Never did the impression of that dreary afternoon leave Madeline’s memory. How the three of them sat in the deepening twilight. Mrs. Redman at her knitting, Madeline with some crochet edging, and Miss Foster making a black silk apron, rarely speaking, and Miss Foster, when she did try to start a subject, generally snapped up by her amiable mistress. Then Mrs. Redman dropped off in a fitful doze, only to rouse up and rebuke Miss Foster and Madeline querulously for daring to pursue some topic of conversation in an undertone, not to disturb their tyrant.

When five o’clock came, and it was proved that the unhappy Miss Foster had forgotten to order the tea half-an-hour earlier, with what an air of martyrdom Mrs. Redman affected to submit to the deprivation; and when it was brought, how she tormented the unlucky companion, by assuming that she felt too exhausted to touch anything, the inclination to eat had passed off, &c. And when she could no longer resist the cravings of appetite, how she grumbled over every mouthful of toast that she took. It was cold and sodden, and it was seldom she got a mouthful in comfort. After tea was a little better, for Mrs. Redman and Miss Foster had a game of cribbage.

As they sat down, Miss Foster observed, “If you would like a book, Madeline, you will find some in the breakfast-parlour. There are all Sir Walter Scott’s novels.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Redman; “she should learn to amuse herself, and I don’t wish her to read novels. I consider they were at the bottom of all her mother’s misfortunes.” “Sir Walter Scott, you know, dear Mrs. Redman,” said Miss Foster, “is always supposed to be most healthy in tone.”

“There, you just talk as if he was a dose of physic. A novel’s a novel; so mind what I say,” to Madeline, whose name she seemed to have some objection to mention.

“Certainly,” replied Madeline, with polite attention, and continued her crochet Then a bright thought struck her. “May I finish your apron, Miss Foster?”

“Certainly, my dear, you will find everything necessary in my work-basket.”

There was something like interest and progress in this occupation, and Madeline worked so diligently, that by the time the supper-tray made its appearance, the apron was completed.

The next day was Sunday, and Madeline accompanied Miss Foster to church.

Mrs. Redman stirred out very little in the winter; so, after the early dinner, there was a levy of Comerfords to pay their respects to her.

Madeline had a sort of dismal consolation in seeing they were scarcely better received than herself; though one boy, a solemn studious prig, was decidedly a favourite. He was Mrs. Comerford’s eldest, and considered a marvel of erudition, destined for the church, and looked upon as the future great man of the family. There was the eldest daughter, too, an elegant young lady, quite as tall as Madeline, though a year younger. Susan Jane was at a first-rate establishment at St. John’s Wood, much dearer, and consequently much more aristocratic, than Miss Jones’s.

They (the St. John’s Wood young ladies) were high church in their views, embroidered altar-cloths and fald-stools, and worked ecclesiastical book-markers, and looked down on Clapham, as a low church, low-lived, dissenting sort of place, where small tradesmen’s daughters and dependents (like Madeline) were educated.

To do Mrs. Comerford justice, she had said very little about Madeline’s private history before her children, nevertheless they were perfectly aware, by a mysterious divination, that the girl grandmamma had with her was some sort of a poor relation, not altogether to be openly acknowledged, and they felt proportionately curious to see her.

Both the Miss and Master Comerfords were well and substantially arrayed; Miss C., indeed, almost gorgeously; she had a violet silk dress, and a black velvet mantle, a green velvet bonnet and a sable muff; she had rather light hair, but a bilious complexion, a little turned-up nose, a pouting mouth, and good teeth; she was remarkably well conducted, sat in an exact position, and made a slight curtsy when she left a room.

The dining-room looked quite crowded, and Madeline felt a little uncomfortable, for Master Comerford and Master Tom Comerford sat opposite to her, and never removed their eyes from her face. Miss Comerford never spoke, except to reply in subdued accents and mono syllables to questions addressed to her. Mrs. Comerford, however, made some advances to acquaintanceship with Madeline, inquired how old she was, and how she liked school, and if she was fond of practising. Madeline said she disliked it very much. “Dear me!” returned Mrs. Comerford, making a mental note of this bad indication; “Susan Jane quite dotes upon it; she is for ever playing when she is at home.”

“I like playing, just my own way, too,” said Madeline.

Then Mrs. Comerford, who always entertained her mother, brother, and Miss Foster at dinner on Christmas Day, informed Madeline of that fact, and assured her she should come too, as if it was an uncommon piece of luck for her.

“I shall be very glad to see Mr. Redman again,” said Madeline; “he was very kind to me.”

“Dear me!” reflected Mrs. Comerford; “she will be wanting to get round him.”

Madeline did not see her uncle till the following Wednesday, which was Christmas Day. The intervening time passed heavily enough. There was scarce an employment that found favour in Mrs. Redman’s eyes; though Madeline tried to please her, constantly endeavouring to check the strong aversion she felt springing up against her grandmother, by repeating to herself that although unkind in manner, Mrs. Redman had certainly bestowed many substantial benefits upon her. Her blood was much more inclined to boil up indignantly at the repeated and uncalled for insults to poor Miss Foster, than at slights to herself; but still she held on her way prudently and silently; she even darned several pairs of the old lady’s stockings very exquisitely, and was permitted to read the newspaper to her; she was politely attentive to her wants and wishes; but through all there ran an inherent independence of nature, which the tyrannical old woman felt, and chafed against, though unable to define. Madeline snatched some happy moments too; wrapped in a thick shawl alone in Miss Foster’s room, where no fire was allowed, perusing that most fascinating book, to a young and high-toned imagination, “Zanoni.” How she revelled in its rare descriptions and weird effect!

Christmas Day was not without its trials. Madeline could- not but feel keenly the unfitness of her dress to appear in so smart a circle; it was heavy and by no means new; but there was no help for it. Miss Foster kindly furnished her with a little white crape frill to put round the neck, so she brushed it well, and arranged her thick hair (which looked much brighter and more golden, since the regular hours and wholesome simple diet of school had strengthened her general health) in thick glossy plaits behind her small pink ears, and that was all she could do.

The dinner was at two o’clock to accommodate the younger olive-branches. Uncle John had already arrived, when Madeline followed Mrs. Redman and Miss Foster into the drawing-room, and was lording it upon the hearthrug, having occasional wrestlings with Master Tom.

“Grandmamma” was received with great distinction, and even she unbent slightly; Miss Foster loo received an unusual degree of notice; but Madeline felt herself an interloper, not that she was actively slighted, but thoroughly passed over; even uncle John from whom, somehow or other, she had expected better things, principally because he was a man, spoke a good deal to his mother and Miss Foster before he seemed to see her.

Then he said, “And how are you, young lady? The beef and pickles didn’t disagree with you, eh! Why! I declare you have grown, or look older, or something;” and he shook hands good-naturedly enough with his niece. He had observed her, and with some surprise. He could not' account for the strong difference between her, in her heavy unbecoming dress, and Mrs. Comerford’s carefully trained and carefully attired daughter.

The wonderful air of distinction about her bearing and gestures, the undefinable grace in the outline of the head, the contrast between the dark earnest eyes and pale hair, the delicate face and refined mouth. No! Madeline was not pretty, not so pretty as Susan Jane when she had a colour; but then one was a soiibrette, the other a young princess.

Uncle John was accustomed to see a good deal of high company at the opera and Ascot, and in Rotten Row, and was well up in the style of face and figure familiar to the frequenters of these places; and he recognised the same style, or rather the making of the same style, in the penniless orphan. Then what a slender, pink-nailed, tapering hand she placed in his large-knuckled grasp. She was a nice creature, unfortunately above her position; and not a sort of girl, either, that Tom, Dick, or Harry, rising travellers, or even juniors, would fancy—not enough flesh and blood about her for them. For uncle John was one of the large number of men who could see no possibly prosperous finale for a female except a respectable marriage.

The dinner was abundant and. long, and on rejoining the ladies Mr. Redman found Madeline and Miss Comerford looking over a book of Swiss views in a friendly manner, the “dear grandmamma” was taking a nap, and Mrs. Comerford and Miss Foster absorbed in an undertoned conversation on the sofa.

“Come, Susan Jane,” said her mother, “you must play something, and let your uncle see how well you have been getting on the last half.”

Susan Jane immediately complied, and played a long piece with no particular tune, but a great many flats and sharps in it, and runs and shakes wonderful to listen to. She did it all very' correctly, and everyone was relieved when she stopped.

“Now,” said Mr. John to Madeline, “let us hear what you can do.”

“Oh, no! pray do not ask me!” she returned, naturally shrinking from the severe criticism she felt would be exercised upon her, “You know I can do nothing like that,” and she looked at Susan Jane, who was complacently arranging some music.

“Come, we all know you have not been long at it, but do the best you can.”

“Do what your uncle desires you, this moment!” called out grandmamma, waking up, in a sharp, authoritative voice.' “Don’t; let me hear any nonsense!”

Madeline at once obeyed, and played from memory a simple introduction and arrangement of “Ye Banks and Braes,” softly, and .with taste; yet not nearly so well as she could do it when alone.

“That’s very nice indeed,” said Mr. John patronisingly. “Now give us a song.” This suited Madeline much better, for singing came to her by nature; moreover, her poor father’s instructions were excellent, so she unhesitatingly complied, and sang “The Minstrel Boy” with wonderful expression for so young a creature, with a fresh, sweet voice. The company were surprised, rather disagreeably, as though an unwarrantable liberty had been taken by Madeline in thus presuming to singout boldly and freely in their august presence. No one applauded; even Mr. John, who of all present was most friendly to her, was silent. “Something too theatrical here,” he thought; something that boded ill for that quiet, respectable success, beyond which no woman should aim.

A round game concluded the evening, and on their return, when Mr. John had left them, Mrs. Redman broke out upon the astonished Madeline. “She was an impudent, forward minx, who would never come to any good. What was she, to go intruding her squalling on the company! singing there, as if she was on the stage! but it was in her blood; and mark her (Mrs. Redman’s) words, she would disgrace them all yet!”

“But,” cried Madeline, irritated beyond self-control, and meeting the old lady’s eyes fully with a dark fire in her own, that rather startled her amiable relative, “Mr. John Redman asked me to sing, and you had just openly rebuked me for hesitating to comply when he wished me to play. What was I to do? Do you know yourself what you wished me to do?”

At this awful climax of audacity, Mrs. Redman fell back in her easy chair, petrified.

“Take her out of my sight, do, Miss Foster,” she gasped at length, “or I shall have a fit; and get me a little hot brandy-and-water.”

“If I have expressed myself unbecomingly,” said Madeline, somewhat alarmed at the effect of her words, “I am very sorry, but I really did not deserve to he spoken to in such a manner.”

“Take her away,” groaned Mrs. Redman. “Come with me—pray come,” said Miss Foster, and Madeline was hurried to the room she shared with the companion. “What in the world possessed yoij to answer Mrs. Redman?” ejaculated that terrified individual. “What a day we shall have to-morrow! and for yourself—why she might take you from school and renounce you!”

“I’m sure I wish she would,” cried Madeline, excited. “I would rather beg in the streets than have anything to do with her!” “Oh, nonsense, my dear child; hut I must. go back to her, and say you are very sorry, and'all that; you see she is not accustomed— that is, no one ever answers herand Miss Foster hurried away.

The next day was indeed a purgatorial period; however, by dint of much incoherent and ungrammatical apologising and entreating, Miss Foster patched up a hollow truce between the belligerent parties, and the day after that Madeline, with a stronger feeling of pleasure than she ever thought she could regard it, returned to Springfield House, which, cold and desolate as it was, was at least an open desert.

CHAPTER VI

More than a year had passed since the conclusion of the last chapter, with the extrar ordinary rapidity monotony lends Time’s pinions. Madeline had again an opportunity of enjoying Mrs. Redman’s Christmas hospitality. This time, however, she suffered less, and succeeded better, for she knew her ground; moreover, she had somewhat surmounted that hitter feeling of wrong with which she resented the injustice which rendered her best doings as worse than nothing, even demerits. She had cultivated indifference towards the opinions of her benefactress, comforting herself with a reliance on her own strong will, that when the time_ should come to work for herself, she would see and hear very little of her grandmother. At present that time was approaching. Madeline, it was tacitly allowed, had improved her year and a half at Springfield House to such advantage, that she was quite fit to take Miss Moorcroft’s place when that young lady left, which it was understood she would, at the summer vacation. This, however, was a grief Madeline could hardly bring heTself to face. She had spent several holidays, at intervals, with her friend, and learned to love not only her, but her excellent mother, dearly!

It was some weeks after the Christmas holidays. Mademoiselle Delplanque had paid an unusual winter visit to her adored Paris, and had returned. Madeline continued to cultivate the French governess, naturally taking to her language, till that worthy individual took a personal pride in the remarkable progress made by her favourite pupil. It was Saturday, and a half-holiday; Madeline was sitting with mademoiselle, in her room, assisting that lady to repair some of her clothes, and enjoying some talk about the -world she longed so much to see.

“Yes, my child,” said mademoiselle, “it is a hard place; but it has its pleasures, and this visit to Paris showed me some of them. I was invited to the marriage of a former pupil, and ah! mon Dieu! yes! with what tender respect! what regard! what affection! You see, in France, they do not think they can pay for all things with money. There is a little something besides, that cannot he bargained for, nor repaid, save in kind. It was a distinguished wedding; two peers of France signed the contract; and my beautiful Julie, the darling child whose pure soul I had assisted to form, was all the most fastidious taste could desire; her toilette was ravishing, and the grace with which she knelt to receive the nuptial benediction; equally religious and touching; but I have had it often on my lips to mention that there was a lady there, an old lady, very comme il faut, much sought in society, who, I am quite sure, must be a relative of yours, dear child!”

“A relative of mine! Ah! that is not likely,” said Madeline, with a sigh, “though I have heard my father say he had an aunt, I think, married in France. But what suggested such an idea to you?”

“There was something in her eyes and smile that seemed familiar to me, and I stood near as she signed the contract. Her name was Madeline de Fontarce, nee Blake. You must know, I was aware she had been a British subject, and seeing the name of my favourite pupil, I saw why the respectable lady's eyes aHd smile were familiar to me; they resembled yours. Madame, the bride’s mother, after presented me to her, and whispered me to keep the old lady awhile in conversation. I therefore ventured to remark that we had a young lady in the distinguished establishment to which I had the honour of belonging, of whom she reminded me, and the old lady was interested. I mentioned the similarity of name, and Madame de Fontarce was still more penetrated. She then inquired your family name, and when I told it, adding that you bore an air of distinction and nobility, which pointed the resemblance between you still more strikingly, she smiled, and acknowledged the delicacy of my perception. Moreover, she said she had close relations with the house of Digby, and she added, ‘ tell your pupil, should destiny ever bring her to Paris, to come and see me; for though my brightest years have been spent in “la belle France,” I should be glad to gaze on one of my own kindred once more;’ and she gave me her address, somewhere in the Rue de— de—hold! I cannot remember; and it was stupid, no doubt, but I have lost the address! forgive me—I cannot find it.”

“I am sorry for that,” said Madeline, whose imagination had been roused and fascinated by this recital, “not that it can be of any real importance, as it is most improbable I shall ever visit Paris; and yet I have an ardent longing to see it—a sort of strange idea that it is, or will be, mixed up in my life and adventures.”

“It is a charming and also a dangerous place,” said the Frenchwoman, shutting her mouth firmly, and gazing through her half-dosed eyes at Madeline, while she thought, “My faith! she is not thought handsome near these pink and white children, with their half-awake eyes; but my countrymen would be foolish over her spiritual expression, and delicate paleness!” She said nothing, however, of this, and the conversation turned, as it often did when they were alone, on the chances Madeline might have of finding an engagement to teach English in some foreign family; for the girl was Tavenous to get away from grandmaternal rule, and seek her fortune.

From the idea of being cast on the world to fish for herself she did not shrink. No stranger could be colder, harsher, more sternly unsympathetic than her nearest ties. She held no tender home to unnerve her for the difficulties of life, and in that lottery she felt she had all to win, and nothing to lose. The idea of the stage was intensely attractive; hut on this both her friend Jessie, and her ally, Mademoiselle Delplanque, threw bucketsful of cold water. It was not reputable. It would be a harrier to a respectable marriage. It was a desperate resource at the best. No! Let her stick to her profession, and endeavour to get a comfortable and remunerative engagement as resident governess.

Now Madeline felt a sort of repulsion to this she did not quite like to confess. Her mind, of a broad and inquiring cast, found perpetual thought of, and submission to small proprieties very intolerable. To write, to read, to discuss freely, and question boldly, these were her delights, and a governess must perpetually renounce them. Nevertheless, she was by no means obstinate, and had no objection whatever to follow her friend’s advice in the first instance.

The communication of Mademoiselle Delplanque respecting Madame de Fontarce nSe Blkke, sank deeply into her mind. She would give much to trace out her relationship (if any) to this old lady. Her heart warmed at the idea of her father’s kindred. They must be more kindly and sympathetic than the Redman faction. But what could she do! At last the original idea which had suggested itself to her mind took an active form. She would write to this old lady, merely a polite letter thanking her for her message. She consulted Mademoiselle Delplanque on the subject. Mademoiselle saw no objection, but did not think it of much importance. Madeline in some indefinable manner felt it was.

But then the address! Mademoiselle had unfortunately lost the address. Mademoiselle promised very readily to procure it from the friends at whose house she had met Madame de Fontarce. But then she hated writing letters, so several weeks passed over before she fulfilled her promise; then several more elapsed before a reply came, but at last Madeline got it. In the meantime she had diligently composed an epistle, which she submitted to mademoiselle’s inspection. The Frenchwoman’s knowledge of English was very much slighter than she cared to show. She therefore glanced over it, and unhesitatingly pronounced it “dtarmante”

The winter evenings were now stretching at the first chill approach of spring, and Madeline long remembered the hour of recreation which she stole after tea to make a final copy. It was in the French governess’s little room. This small chamber looked out upon the pleasure grounds. The trees were still bare and gaunt-looking—the grass had not recovered its colour after the frost and damp of winter—and the evening light had that peculiar chill, and even sad aspect, which it often wears in early spring, when the lengthening days seem to have come before their time—a moaning breeze swept through the leafless branches, complaining piteously at every chink and cranny of the bitter battle between weak youth and stern age. In the intervals of her writing, Madeline looked through the window'on the scene, and seemed to see her own story pictured. Oh! for a home! Oh! for a heart, however weak and burdensome, to be linked to, and of which she could be a part! How chilly desolate was her lot. The very strength that upheld her showed her its loneliness, for she dared to see in its nakedness; yet with a dim appeal to the unknown future she wrote on, instinctively in an un-English, yet a natural style.

“DEAR MADAME,

“You were kind and condescending enough to send me a message by MademoiselleDelplanque last January, in which you, without proof on my part, admit some relationship between us. I would fain confirm this, but I know not how, save by detailing my own slight' knowledge of my father’s story. He was Arthur Digby, of some place the name of which I cannot recall, except that it began with Bally; and he was also captain in the —th regiment of Hussars. His mother’s name was, I know, Blake, and I was named after some relative of hers, of whom he had pleasant recollections. I feel an inward conviction it was yourself. He married my mother when she was very young. She was the daughter of a wealthy London merchant, who disapproved of the marriage; why, I know not. My mother died early. I scarce remember her. And my father was very unfortunate in many ways, though the best of parents. He died about two years ago, and now my mother’s mother cares for me, and placed me here. Yet, dear madame, I am much alone, and would treasure a word—a line—from one of my father’s race. If the above facts accord with your family history, deign to say so; and though we may never meet, it will please me to think I am known to one relative on my dear father’s side. From Mademoiselle Delplan-que’s description I would fondly hope I might trace a likeness between you and my dear good father, and more, that were we to meet, I should find in you a sympathetic friend, of which, God knows, I stand in need.

“Believe me, dear madame, in any case, yours faithfully and respectfully.

“MADELINE DIGBY.”

Not so bad for seventeen; it was a strange mixture of impulse and calculation. That her heart really warmed to any one of her father’s race was true enough, but that she vaguely hoped this old lady might be instrumental in assisting her to escape somewhat sooner the clutches of Mrs. Redman was true enough also, and considerably heightened the natural attraction exercised by this possible paternal relative.

Some more weeks passed, and no reply came. Madeline waited with suppressed anxiety, she scarce knew herself how much she had staked on this venture. The idea of remaining another year at Springfield House, and without Jessie Moorcroft, was terrible. She knew its trials, its monotony, perfectly; Paris she did not know, therefore she thought it must be better : though, to do her justice,she only hoped this possible grand aunt might help her to an engagement as an English governess in France; she never thought of living upon any one. She had but two objects —first, to escape her grandmother; secondly, to earn her livelihood as pleasantly, under her circumstances, as possible.

Madeline had a strong craving and capability for enjoyment, a life all work, all gloom, was something too dreadful to anticipate; and she struggled and longed after love and happiness, as a tree will strive, even through a stone wall (that intercepts it) for the light.

At last the postman brought a foreign letter for Miss Digby. Madeline thrilled all over as she saw it pass into the hands of Miss Jones, who, though she had grown more carelessly indulgent, within the last year, to Madeline, yet jealously reserved the right of examining letters.

“Hum! eh! This letter appears to he from a relative of yours in Paris, Miss Digby. Is it possible you have written to her without my knowledge?”

“No, madam, I offered my letter about three weeks ago to Miss Belinda, hut she did not think it necessary to read it.”

“Oh, very well, you can take thisand Madeline eagerly read as follows :—

“My dear Kinswoman,

“I was pleased to receive your little billet; from what you state I have no doubt your father was my late sister’s son, and though I never saw him after early boyhood, I feel gratified to recognise you as a niece, especially as you hear my name. I have for many years adopted this beautiful and civilized country as my own, and shall never leave it; nevertheless, should the respectable lady, your maternal grandmamma, who has so kindly adopted you, ever visit this beautiful capital, I shall be charmed to make her and your acquaintance, and present you both to the small but distinguished circle it has been my good fortune to gather round me.

“Excuse the shortness of this writing, but it is an employment I seldom exercise.

“With the most profound regard and esteem,

“I am, dear niece,

“Yours faithfully,

“Madeline Comtesse de Fontarce, “nee Blake de Balltshanahan.”

There was very little promise in this epistle, yet it was a sort of gratification to Madeline to receive it. After mature thought, she decided to tell Miss Foster, in her next letter, of the correspondence, for she thought, “while my grandmother supports me, she has a right to have an outline of my proceedings.”' But Mrs. Redman took no notice of the communication, and matters went on for more than a month in the usual routine.

One fine April afternoon, the rank and file of the school were taking their accustomed walk round the common, Madeline and Jessie Moorcroft had managed to he coupled together, and as soon as they were fairly started, Jessie said, “Do you know, Madeline, I am so anxious to go to Paris—-just for two or three months’ finishing, you know; you see all the governesses who advertise now put in ‘ French acquired on the Continent or in Paris,’ and I shall get hut a poor salary if I cannot say as much, or something like it.”

“Yes,” ejaculated Madeline, with deep interest; “go on.”

“Well, I have written to my mother, and shall apply through some of the governesses’ institutions for an engagement in some school or family, where I can exchange English for French, and then I shall have hardly any expense, except travelling.”

“Ah!” said Madeline, with inexpressible sadness, “then you will leave me sooner alone. Oh! what would I not give to go with you! Perhaps, perhaps, Mrs. Redman might let me go, too! 1 shall want the same preparation you do.”

“Of course you will; wait till I get all the information, and then attack your grandmamma.”

“And when did you write?”

“Oh, the day before yesterday; and this morning I spoke to Miss Jones. She was very good-natured about it, and said she would let me go a month sooner than was agreed, because (and I was very glad to hear her say so) Miss Digby is really much more competent than I had hoped to take your place.”

“Did she say that?” asked Madeline, much gratified; “but perhaps she will not be so ready to let me go.”

“That is true, we must try; she advised me strongly not to go into a Catholic family or establishment, I should be annoyed, and my principles shaken, and so I do not intend to go into one.”

“Well I should not care for that,” said Madeline, “I should rather wish to see what their ways were like, and I dare say they are not half so had as Miss Jones and her favourite ministers make out.”

“At any rate I shall keep out of harm’s way,” replied Jessie, prudently. “My mother would break her heart if I were to change my religion.”

“Oh! Jessie, I never dreamed of any danger of that kind; you could never believe the nonsense Roman Catholics do! It is against reason and common sense, though I believe they are very good people.”

This sudden move of her friend’s greatly unsettled Madeline, and she watched every step of the process with the deepest interest. An engagement of the kind sought by Jessie was not, however, to be found in a moment, and the period of breaking-up was close at hand, when Jessie came to our heroine in the evening hour of freedom, and told her with delight that at last she had had an offer to go into a strictly Protestant school at Versailles, hut that she must start in a week, that the Misses Jones had consented, and next day she was to go to her mother’s to make the necessary preparations. ‘‘But I shall get leave for you to spend a day or two with me before I start,” she said, consolingly, “and now come and help me pack up, like a dear.” Madeline heartily assisted, though the tears would well over, and plash heavily on her hand, sometimes on the dress she was folding, or the music she was sorting. Now indeed she would he desolate, and even writing to Jessie would he a difficulty, when the postage was eightpence, and her pocket-money nil; yet with the truest unselfishness, she strove to hide her sorrow from her friend. “Why should I damp her joy? As for myself, I must, 1 will get away from this place.” Then the loneliness of vacation time came before her. How terrible it would be—always the same thing, no variety, no joyous sympathetic young spirit like her own to laugh with and build castles. That night she literally watered her couch with her tears, an# prayed most earnestly for faith, support and guidance; for weary as she was of the solemn school-room prayers, to which, indeed, she gave small attention, she had always an indescribable comfort in her own unstudied petitions, which broke away naturally from her heart, especially when uttered in the dark stillness of night, when she seemed to realize more completely the nearness of the Almighty.

CHAPTER VII

Jessie had gone, and the summer holidays had commenced. Madeline still revolved her scheme of winning Mrs. Redman’s consent to her going to Paris, and had armed herself for this purpose with full information. She thought it woujd be well to open the subject by word of mouth.

“It must be harder to say No, than to write itso she put a postscript to one of her letters to Miss Foster to ask if there was any chance of her being invited this vacation to Abingdon Villas. The reply was an invitation for a week’s visit. “This is the best answer to your question,” wrote Miss Foster. “Mr. John was here last night, and as usual stood your friend, and it was agreed that you should come. I therefore lose no time in letting you know.”

Abingdon Villas was a trifle less deplorable in summer than in winter. More light made a difference, and then Madeline and Miss Foster got out more. Susan Jane Comerford also proved somewhat companion- able, and even condescended to play duetts with her.

As to Mrs. Redman, if she did not praise, she found less fault; though Madeline always felt as if in the presence of a living dislike, to whom her every tone and movement was an annoyance.

Some days of the visit elapsed before Madeline could screw her courage to the point of addressing her grandmother on any topic; but after reproaching herself severely for her cowardice, as she was dressing one morning, she determined not to permit another day to pass without attacking her difficulty. The weight and terror on her mind was terrible. She could eat no breakfast, but revolved in her thoughts in what manner she should begin; then she glanced at Mrs. Redman, and thought she had never seen her look more forbidding. Miss Foster was bound on some errand after breakfast, and Madeline was to read the paper; so she toiled through that task conscientiously, and then when a lull ensued, began, awkwardly enough.

“I wanted to ask you—that is—I wished to speak to you about something I am very anxious-”

“Why, what can yOu be driving at?” said Mrs. Redman, eyeing her severely, with one eye looking through, and the other over her spectacles.

“You see, my friend Jessie Moorcroft, with whom you have sometimes let me spend a holiday, has gone to a school in Paris to perfect herself in French; and I should so much like to do the same.”

“Well!” interrupted Mrs. Redman, a torrent of wrath in that monosyllable.

“Do pray hear me,” urged Madeline, eagerly. “I wanted to go in the same way -she has gone; and that is, to teach English in exchange for French, so that it costs her nothing but her travelling expenses, and you know you can command a much better salary as a governess if-”

“I know nothing about it,” again interrupted Mrs. Redman. “I only know that of all the girls I ever met or heard of, you are the most impudent, and—and barefaced! Why, just as I begin to see a little relief before me, by your becoming a governess-pupil instead of a regular paying one, you dare to come to me with a new scheme ot expense. Only your travelling expenses, in-' deed!—only this and only that! I’d like to know what sum your onlys’ would come to in the year! My poor pocket could tell; and besides, the indelicacy of wanting to go off to a wicked, heathenish, indecent place like Paris! I wonder what keeps Miss Foster. She oughtn’t to leave me so long alone in this way, to be agitated and upset. It’s a perfect misfortune to he in the hands of knaves and fools as I am.”

“I am very sorry I have vexed you,” said Madeline, her heart beating fast. “I had no idea you would be angry. There surely can be nothing wrong in my wishing to improve, and fit myself for my future career. Do think of it—and—and if you would not mind—would you ask Mr. Redman’s opinion?” This was the climax!

“What!—don’t you think I am capable of making up my own mind—that I am in my dotage! I can tell you you are mistaken; and I never will consent to such nonsense as your going to Paris. I shall tell Mr. John of your impudence, and see what he will say to it. Ask his opinion, indeed !”

Here, fortunately for Madeline, Miss Foster entered, and a diversion in her favour caused by the report she had to render of her morning’s mission, during which Madeline stole away, and strove to compose herself and swallow her bitter disappointment. She thought the fact of the proposed change costing so little would have reconciled her grandmother to the project.

To her soon entered Miss Foster, with dismay on her countenance. “My dear, what have you been doing! Really, you never can let well alone. There, we were all going on quite peaceably; I really thought Mrs. Redman was getting quite fond of you, and you must go and bring down a thunderbolt upon us. Whatever induced you to think of going to Paris. Such a wild scheme.”

“No, it is not,” said Madeline, a little rudely, being much irritated; “it is rational enough. It is Mrs. Redman who is wild with unmerited dislike to me; and I will go to Paris yet, in spite of her. If she disapproves of Paris she might have told me her reasons— I should have listened with the utmost respect —instead of overwhelming me with vulgar abuse. Oh, you may look shocked, Miss Foster, but I would hate her bitterly if she were worth it.”

Poor Miss Foster stopped her ears at these irreverent words. “Hush, hush, Madeline,” she cried; “you quite frighten me. I did not think you were so wicked, or—or so imprudent. Now suppose I were to go and repeat what you say?”

“But I know well you will not,” interrupted Madeline, meeting and embracing her; “you are too good and true, and like me, wicked as I am, far too good for that. Oh, Miss Foster, my heart aches for you as well as myself. Is mere life worth what it costs you? This everlasting fear and submission to an unjust, miserable old woman like that! Oh, wait and trust me. I have a design. I will run away, and go on the stage and make money, and you shall come and live with me as a chaperone. Ah, I will not tease you, nor trample upon you; you that spoke the only kind words I have ever heard in this hateful house.”

And of course this heroic speech ended in an agony of tears. Madeline was not much of a crier, hut when she did give way her tears were a thunderstorm fearful to witness, and utterly exhausting to herself.

Poor Miss Foster, quite overcome, kept her company in a feeble way, and Mrs. Redman had rung for some arrowroot with port wine, and given her own directions for it, before the agitated companion ventured to show herself in the parlour.

It so happened that Mr. John looked in that evening to see his mother, who had by no means recovered her usual condition of angular ice, and terrible was the complaint laid before him.

“Well, I am sure you come quite at the right time,” began Mrs. Redman. “This young lady. here does not think me capable of knowing my own mind, so she desires me to ask your advice.”

“Eh!” said Mr. John, half turning, and throwing his arm over the back of his chair, his favourite and commanding attitude, “what’s in the wind now?”

Whereupon Mrs. Redman spoke, and that with an energy and volubility which astonished Madeline ; she, however, listened in silence, and without an effort to interrupt.

After Mrs. Redman’s eloquent exposition of Madeline’s impious and audacious suggestion, there was an awful silence, and then Mr. John, from the height of his superiority, said, “Pooh! pooh ! Quite a wild-goose chase to go off to Paris; better stick where you are; you know the people, and they you; but you might get into no end of mischief in a French school; and however clear the arrangement bright seem, they’d screw money out of my mother, which I really do not think you wish to do, so be advised.”

“Of course I shall,” said Madeline, heartily. “I only offered the suggestion, for there is no doubt it is a great advantage to a governess to be able to say she has learned French in Paris.”

“I daresay you can do the parley-vous ’ well enough,” said Mr. John, “so never mind, and my mother will forget all about it.”

Mrs. Redman neither assented nor dissented, but gave a sort of half audible grunt.

The next day, sooner by twenty-four hours than had been arranged, Madeline was despatched to her solitude at Springfield House. The Misses Jones were absent, not expecting the new under-governess (to which position Madeline had attained) for another day or two, so she was tolerably uncomfortable; this she regarded little. In the silence and solitude of the house she revolved a daring scheme, and arriving, after mature reflection, at the conclusion that it might do her good, and could do no harm, proceeded to put it into execution by expending part of uncle John’s last tip (he usually gave her five shillings) in the purchase of some foreign note-paper and envelopes; the whole of the following morning she devoted to the composition of the following letter:—

“TO MADAME LA COMTESSE DE FONTARCE.

“DEAR AND RESPECTED AUNT,

“I have refrained from writing, since your most kind and welcome reply to mine of last February, fearing to give you needless trouble. I now do so, because I think you might possibly help me in a matter I have much at heart.

“I readily acknowledge that I have no claim upon you, but if out of your kindness you can and will help me, you will bestow a great benefit; if you cannot, I am no worse off than before. My grandmother, Mrs. Redman, has, as I mentioned, so far adopted me that she has generously placed me in this establishment, at her own expense, to enable me to earn my own living as a governess, and now my greatest friend here has been sent by her own friends (people in poor circumstances) to Paris, in order that she may command a better position hereafter as an instructress here. I have petitioned Mrs. Red-man to afford me the same advantage—she refuses, saying most truly, that I have already cost her so much, I must now remain here as an under-governess, to lighten the expense to her. I cannot murmur, for I owe her everything money could pay for. But, madam, I cannot relinquish my desire to profit by the advantages of a residence in Paris without an effort. I may be making a most unreasonable request, if so, refuse it, and forgive me, but if, without inconvenience to yourself, you can help me—ah! for the sake of our common' blood, do not. I know little of life; I am penniless and nearly friendless, but madam, bind me to you by your present help, and you have found a daughter—a faithful follower; you may not want such a one, but at least a benefit conferred has its worth before the Great Judge, under whose eye we stand. I am capable of instructing in my own language, in exchange for what I receive, that may be a consideration.

“I am, perhaps, foolish, but my heart craves for something beyond this cold place, this death-in-life existence, and it turns to you, the only one linked with my dear father of whom I have ever known. You may have children, and numerous claims upon you. If so, reject me, I but try my chance, and I know if you can you will help me; if you cannot, still accept the hearty blessing of your stranger, yet attached niece,

“MADELINE DIGBY.”

The reader must imagine, the silent suspense in which Madeline passed the time intervening between the despatch of this epistle and the reply.

The Misses Jones had returned, and were considerably and unpleasantly surprised to find Madeline at Springfield House before them; evidently the sub-governess was no favourite with her rich relations, or she would not be so readily sent back like a bad shilling on their hands. But Madeline was too absorbed to mind them; her fate, she felt, hung on the next day or two.

Although the time seemed long, yet the reply came quickly; it was curious in its wording, yet satisfied her to whom it was addressed.

“MADELINE DIGBY,” it began, “time has not yet so chilled my blood that I cannot feel for you; yet, understand me, I am a poor widow—poorer than you, than anyone knows. If therefore, you have hopes from the Kedman grandmother, do not throw them away, yon will get nothing in exchange. If, however, you really have but your own exertions to look to, I may be able to serve you for a year, or two, hut beyond that build no hopes. Gracious powers! your father ought not to have left you in such a position. How did it come about? Let me know how I shall proceed, let us not offend the Redman; give me the carte du pays, and remember the most powerful talisman in life is—money. I confide this letter to your honour—the honour of a Digby.

“Your friend,

“MADELINE DE FONTARCE,

“nee Blake de Balltshanahan.”

Madeline’s reply, by return of post:—

MADAME, “Accept my warmest gratitude. I am yours from this moment. Your letter, committed to memory, no longer exists. In a few days you will receive a formal application for assistance from me, written with Mrs. Redman’s consent, to which you will make what, reply you think fit. Ah I how different you are from her; yet I am not ungrateful, as I shall prove to you, if God gives me the opportunity; your friendly words give me life; yet I understand you, beyond a start I ask nothing.

“Yours gratefully, devotedly,

“MADELINE DIGBY.”

She now felt that the plot thickened; but knowing how little chance a viva voce communication had of being attended to, she wrote to Mrs. Redman, applying for leave to ask Madame de Fontarce’s assistance towards a year’s residence in Paris. To this she received no reply for more than a week, and then a very short sullen assent, dictated by “grandmamma,” but written by Miss Foster. In short, Mrs. Redman delayed her reply until she had consulted Mr. John, who advised that she should not prevent Madeline from claiming assistance from her father’s relatives.

“I daresay this old woman with a big name is a pauper, like the rest of them,” he concluded; “but if she should he able and willing to give the girl a lift it will relieve you, and if not, why it will show her who she has to look to and obey.” So Madeline, overjoyed to have Mrs. Redman’s consent, for to do her justice she was reluctant to have any quarrel with her, lost no time in availing herself of the permission. She wrote a proper and formal letter, of which she enclosed a copy to Mrs. Redman, and waited the reply with what patience she could command. The result was a summons to stay from Saturday to Monday at Abingdon Villas, which she tremblingly obeyed. “What was going to happen?” Almost directly she entered the august presence of grandmamma, she felt there was a subtle change, an increase of warmth in the moral atmosphere; the curl of the grand-maternal lips was a shade less sour, the tone of her voice expressed less fully—“I hate the . sight of you!” and the five digits extended to meet her grasp a trifle less rigid. “Go, take off your bonnet,” said Mrs. Redman; “your uncle John is coming to tea, and we will talk the matter over.”

“Her uncle John!” Never before had Mrs. Redman alluded to this relationship in any way. Was “Madame de Fontarce, nee Blake de Ballyshanahan” going to prove a fairy godmother, and charm away the cloud of indifference and dislike which always appeared to hang over her in Abingdon Villas?

This cheering idea was confirmed by Miss Foster stealing up and giving her a little warm congratulatory kiss. “Such a nice letter from your aunt, my dear; quite a woman of rank and fashion evidently; hut you must make haste and come down; you are later than we expected.”

Madeline explained that some duties connected with the re-assembling of the school and her new position, had detained her. “And, oh! it is dreary without Jessie Moor-croft,” she concluded.

This perceptible, though unaccountable change made her heart beat, and called a soft colour to her cheek, the effect of which was to startle uncle John, who had arrived during her absence. This plain girl could look absolutely charming—not beautiful, she had not feature enough for that. But a dim fear that she might prove only too attractive made him involuntarily shake his head; however, he said nothing, and shook hands with his usual air of patronage.

“Let us have our tea first,” said Mrs. Redman, whose taste for that beverage was nearly insatiable; “we can read the letter after wards.”

The evening meal appeared interminably prolonged to Madeline; but at last the smart housemaid cleared away the last relics, and the door was shut.

“Now, Miss Foster, you had better read that letter aloud, and then we can all judge?”

So Miss Foster went and got out a large desk, and from it took a large envelope of thin paper, sealed with a monstrous seal, bearing the impress of a deeply-cut coat-of-arms, surmounted by a coronet; the paper had been carefully cut from round this dignified appendage, in order to leave it unbroken; then Miss Foster drew forth a sheet of thin pale grey paper, perfumed, written over with violet ink, and having a coronet in violet at the top of the first page. Then Miss Foster cleared her throat; Mrs. Redman interlaced her fingers, and rested her hands on her abdominal region; uncle John turned to face Miss Foster, threw his arm over the back of his chair, prepared to pass judgement, however intricate the case; and Madeline clasped her hands and tried to sit still.

“Ahem!” said Miss Foster.

“TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. REDMAN.

“MADAM,

“Confiding in the courtesy which always distinguishes persons of a generous which shall it be? €47nature, I address myself - to you on a subject of interest to us both—I mean our young relative, Madeline Digby, who informs me of your benevolence in clothing, maintaining and educating her.

“She also informs me that she is desirous of perfecting herself in the language of this country by a residence in Paris, and requests my assistance towards this end, acknowledging, however, that you have the first right to control her movements. I beg to submit to your approval what I propose to do.

“I am willing to maintain and educate Madeline Digby for the next two years, if you, madam, will of your bounty supply a small annual sum, say twenty-five pounds, towards her necessary apparel, and provide her travelling expenses to Paris, and from Paris to London should you desire to see her.

“After this period, should she prove a girl of graceful manners and creditable deportment, I am further willing to introduce her to my society, and endeavour to find a fitting part for her, difficult as it is to obtain one for a girl without fortune.

“Should she not be of a calibre calculated to succeed, I shall no doubt be enabled to place her in some family of distinction, where she can respectably earn her own bread—you, respected madam, in either case assisting in the matter of outfit. I append this slight stipulation knowing the noble pride of an Englishwoman who would not devolve all the natural responsibilities on another. Ultimately it must depend on the conduct of the young stranger herself how I may dispose of the few worldly goods which must remain when I quit this scene of trial. No doubt mine is but a paltry portion compared to the colossal fortunes to which you merchant princes of England are accustomed. Nevertheless, my late husband, Monsieur le Comte de Fontarce, has left his widow better off than the generality of soldiers’ widows—even those of the soldiers of his great general and friend.”

“That was the Emperor Napoleon,” ejaculated Mrs. Redman, in a tone of some awe.

“Therefore,” continued Miss Foster reading, “whenever you decide upon sending the young lady t“Should she not be of a calibreo me, give me a week’s notice, and I shall be ready to receive her.

“Accept, madam, the assurance of my most profound esteem,

MADELINE DE FONTARCE,

nee Blake de Ballyshanahan.”

Rue de---------, Numero 27.”

“That’s the letter of a real lady,” said Mrs. Redman, “and (to Madeline) I must say you are in great luck. You see, if you only behave well, she’ll leave you everything, and though she makes little of it, she is evidently well off. Indeed, if she wasn’t, how could she provide for you, for I know that’s no trifle.”

“Well, that is a proof,” said Mr. John, who had been inspecting the letter, “but it’s very seldom the widow of a Frenchman has much to leave. However, there is no reason why Madeline shouldn’t try her chance, and for my part, I am willing to continue my twenty pounds a-year for-a couple more. I suppose, ma’am (to Mrs. Redman), you’ll give the extra five pounds. Only I must say, considering we have done the needful unassisted for two years, the old countess makes a tolerable bargain. I’ll go halves in travelling expenses. I suppose a fi’-pun’ note will do it all?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Redman, coming in like the treble in a duet, addressing Madeline, “and you ought to he thankful that such friends have been raised up for you, and never forget that I first took you out of the mire, and only for me you would never have heard of the countess or anything else, so don’t be ungrateful.”

“And I’m sure,” put in poor Miss Foster, “it is quite like a novel.”

“I trust I shall never prove ungrateful,” cried Madeline, with glowing cheeks and glistening eyes. “Perhaps I may yet obtain a good salary in some distinguished family, and he able to repay some part of all the money I have cost you.”

“You are both talking nonsense,” said Mrs. Redman.

At length it was decided that Mrs. Redman should reply to Madame de Fontarce, leaving Madeline to pen her own gratitude and acceptance. Warning must also be given to the Misses Jones, and some arrangement made by which the legal term of three months might be curtailed. But on the whole this last visit of Madeline to Abingdon Villas was a success.

The Comerfords looked upon her as emerging from the depths of obscurity to which they seemed at first to have consigned her, and even Susan Jane found a great many more topics in common with the protege of a countess, albeit a French one, than with the governess-pupil of Miss Jones’s establishment for young ladies, at Clapham.

CHAPTER VIII

It was all settled at last, however; some other governess-pupil was found to fill Madeline’s place; and a couple of months after the receipt of Madame de Fontarce’s letter, she started one fine September morning for the French capital —the goal of her hopes. Mrs. Redman had declined to make any such stipulations as were suggested by Miss Jones respecting religious doctrines to he imparted to her grand-daughter. “Madame de Fontarce is going to spend her money,” she replied, « and it is no business of mine to interfere with her plans. I suppose you have made a good Protestant of Miss Digby, and she is old enough now to take care of herself.”

Madeline had, to her great joy, received permission to spend the two days immediately preceding her departure with the kind motherly Mrs. Moorcroft, who undertook to see her safely away. Mrs. Redman, though assenting ungraciously, was glad to have the trouble off her hands, and moreover saved the additional cab fare for Miss Foster, whom decency would have compelled her to send to the station with Madeline. Mr. John did not of course bend his majestic mind to details, hut he shook hands good-naturedly with Madeline when he saw her the evening before her departure at his mother’s, and on this occasion extended his usual “tip” to a sovereign. Mrs. Redman also went the length of bestowing on the departing waif ten shillings, beyond the stipulated “fi’-pun’” note for travelling expenses.

Mrs. Moorcroft’s eldest son showed Madeline much kind and useful attention, got part of her money changed into francs and Napoleons, and arranged to see her off at London Bridge Station. Madeline’s luggage was small, as Madame de Fontaroe had requested Mrs. Redman not to provide any outfit, preferring to clothe her niece after her own fashion.

It was a bright clear morning, with just the crispness of coming frosts to exhilarate the spirits, when Madeline took her place in a second-class carriage. She had a respectable Englishman and his wife, and a commis-voyageur for fellow travellers; two more companions—a French bonne returning to her native town, and a nondescript gentleman, with lots of plaids and umbrellas, and a red face—-joined them at Redhill, but the journey to Folkestone was performed rather silently.

Madeline’s sense of loneliness was lost in the delicious feeling of freedom created by the new and shifting scenes, the rapidity of motion, the sort of unreasoning, yet strong conviction that she was hastening to something more congenial than she had encountered since her poor father’s death; at all events the “world was all before her,” and little to regret behind. To her brave strong spirit the mere idea of starting to seek her fortune was delicious; surely in that wide future she would find some to love and understand her, and for the loneliness, the bleakness, she had no fear! Madeline had a strong—a dangerous love of freedom for women. Her baggage being registered through to Paris, she passed the ordeal of landing at Boulogne with some nervousness but small difficulty. How wonderfully strange everything seemed. The custom-house officers strapped up in their loose overcoats, the matelottes with their long ear rings and peculiar caps, like the chorus at an opera, their wooden shoes, shrill voices, and eager gestures; the difference of habit, temperament, and character stamped on every person and thing that met her eye, compared with that she had lefb scarce two hours ago. It was all new indeed, yet it did not produce the terrible effect on Madeline it does on so many young girls—no; her heart sprung up with a sort of pleasure in every indication that she had left London, her grandmother, Abingdon Villas and its oppressing respectability far behind, a delight in the kind of picturesque irregularity which characterised everything.

She had but a hurried glimpse of Boulogne, as (her passport exhibited) she hastened with the French bonne—whose fancy she had. taken, partly by her attempts to speak French, and still more by her genuine admiration of all she saw on French ground—to secure places in the railway omnibus. Madeline gladly availed herself of this woman’s companionship, and they got seats side by side in the train.

The journey to Paris was performed without any circumstance worthy of note. Madeline thought she had never seen a country so desolate as that between Boulogne and the capital, or tasted a morsel so delicious as the slice of ham, which with a petit pain and cup of coffee, her companion persuaded her to take at Amiens.

It was a long journey, however, and Madeline felt rather depressed with fatigue and exhausted by extinct excitement before she reached the northern terminus.

Madame de Fontarce had promised that she would have some one to meet Madeline at the station, and the question how she should recognise that some one occupied our heroine’s thoughts a good deal as night closed in. However, no one was allowed to approach the passengers' from without until the baggage was examined. This was soon accomplished in Madeline’s case, and then, with the other passengers, she defiled through a narrow gate, following the porter who carried her portmanteau. Close by this portal stood a stout, solid, respectable-looking female, in one of the usual close-tied and dainty caps which bonnes delight in, and a black cloth mantle, for the night was chilly. She wore gold earrings, and had small, black, flashing, restless eyes, and a brown complexion. She had a jovial, kindly, though somewhat bold expression, and altogether was a favourable specimen of the class to which she seemed' to belong.

“Tenez, mademoiselle” she exclaimed, laying a hand on Madeline’s arm. “Your name, if you please?”

“Madeline Digby.”

“Ah! yes; I knew it,” in a triumphant tone. “I am here to meet you on the part of Madame la Comtesse; where is your baggage? I will conduct you at once to her apartment.”

Madeline indicated the portmanteau, and immediately the envoy of “Madame la Comtesse” drew her hand through her arm with a familiarity in no way disrespectful, and spoke a few rapid words to the porter; with equal rapidity she secured a fiacre, and ordered Madeline to give the porter & pour boire.

“Do it for me,” replied the young stranger, handing her purse to her temporary protectress; whereupon a few sous changed hands, and they proceeded, through some rather dark streets at first, but afterwards through almost fairy-like scenes along the boulevards, where the shops were not yet closed, and the footways and cafes were still crowded.

Madeline gazed from the carriage window, half charmed, half bewildered; her exclamations of delight gratifying her escort, who was further pleased to find her observations were understood, and replied to intelligently, if not fluently.”

“Mademoiselle could speak well, but astonishingly well! Madame la Comtesse would be charmed! Madame la Comtesse was expecting mademoiselle with the tenderest emotion, and would be chez elle to meet her.” This last announcement was given in a tone commensurate with the enormous sacrifice implied. “Madame bad given up the latter portion of a conversazione at Madame la Gene-rale de Chateau-Foulard in order to receive mademoiselle,” &c., &c.; the good Bordelaise (as she informed Madeline she was, and Madame de Fontarce’s femme-de-chambre) chattered on.

At last, having left the lights and fairyland for some time, they stopped at a dark gateway, and the femme-de-chambre descended with startling rapidity; then a short, sharp conflict with the driver ensued, which called forth from some hidden retreat a little man with a grey cap, and a shiny pair of trousers —shiny from much service, strapped tightly round his small waist with a leathern belt, and having a half-military appearance; he threw in a few abstract observations, but the Boyde-laise addressing the small man as Monsieur le Concierge, requested his assistance to carry in the portmanteau of mademoiselle, which he accordingly did, though not very readily, or efficiently, Madeline thought.

The whole scene was indelibly stamped upon her mind, as she followed her guide into the archway; beyond was a wide space, filled with a vague soft darkness; to the left, a high narrow door showed a small chamber, apparently in the thickness of the wall, where a tall female in a white cap was bending over some needle-work, and a boy in a blouse was tying up a parcel, all displayed by the light of a moderator lamp, as well as a sword and musket suspended over the mantel-shelf, and an old-fashioned clock surmounting a cabinet; to the right a small archway, lighted by a dim gaslight, showed a flight of narrow stairs, leading away up into darkness, between two walls.

Up these stairs, with some muttered expressions of dissatisfaction, Monsieur le Concierge assisted, or hindered, Madeline’s conductress to carry the portmanteau, while she, half amused, half shuddering, followed. The stairs were steep and long, with a rope attached to one side, to aid the ascent; at the top the femme-de-chambre stopped, and opened the door with a pass key; the portmanteau once across the threshold, Monsieur le Concierge descended rapidly, and Madeline followed her guide into a sort of vestibule, profoundly dark, across which they groped their way. The femme-de-chambre tapped at a door opposite that by which they entered.

“Metis entrez, entrez toujours,” said a soft-toned slightly tremulous voice, and the door was opened. Madeline paused half a second and then passed in. The room was of moderate size but low, with a dark polished floor, studded here and there with little islands of carpet. The walls were white with prettily designed groups of flowers, the curtains of some rich dark striped stuff, of which a larger pair seemed nearly to fill up one side of the room, partially looped up, showing a dark recess. The mantel-shelf was covered with green velvet, and displayed a very beautiful Louis Quatorze clock, and some vases of artificial flowers, while before the closed fireplace was a stand of living plants; a few pastels decorated the walls, and a large settee ran along the opposite side from the door.

Near this, in a high-backed antique chair, beside a small table which held a lamp, shaded by a fanciful coloured paper shade, and reading a “Jouraal” through a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses, which hung round her neck by a gold chain, sat a lady—an old lady certainly, but seldom has age seemed so graceful. Her dress, of deep rich soft grey silk, fell in full folds,.sweeping the ground picturesquely, the body and wide hanging sleeves shaded by abundance of delicate white lace. Her nearly white hair was dressed in three or four raised frizzy curls over each temple, but drawn well back from the pale and still smooth forehead, a half-handkerchief of exquisite white lace with long ends was arranged with the most graceful carelessness across these, undulating curls, the point secured to a narrow band of black velvet at the top of the brow, by a small brilliant diamond brooch; beneath—the eyebrows still dark—the eyes still keen, and until softened by words or smiles, somewhat fierce in their deep blackness, produced an almost startling effect from contrast. The jaw was large; the mouth, wide and tightly closed, when open, displayed the most triumphant array of teeth; the ends of the lace head-dress, tied loosely under the chin, hid the wrinkled throat, and completed a picture I have en-d savoured to draw minutely, because Madame de Fontarce and her toilette were one and indivisible, and because this long description was taken in with one devouring glance by Madeline, whose first impression of her father’s aunt was almost one of awe. What! this almost regal looking woman, was she of her kith and kin? But as she stepped into the room Madame de Fontarce rose and came forward, not quickly, yet with a species of repressed warmth. “Mee poor child, you are welcome,” she said musically, yet with a strong Irish accent, strange to say, and extending a pair of still beautiful and jewelled, though somewhat wrinkled hands, took Madeline by both shoulders, and impressed a shadowy kiss first on one cheek and then on the other. Then still holding her, she put her back a little, and poured into her eyes a look so searching, a look so momentarily hard, that Madeline half shrank away. Then her whole countenance lit up with a smile of much sweetness, and she added: “Ah! yes, there is a shadow of my own youth here,” and she passed her hand lightly over Madeline’s blushing face. Our heroine now somewhat recovered herself, and by a natural and therefore touching impulse, raised Madame de Fontarce’s hand in both her own and tenderly kissed it.

“Thank God,” she said, “I am with you at last, dear aunt.”

“It is well,” said her new found relative, with grave approbation, but of what Madeline did not feel very sure. “And how did my good Nathalie make you out?” she continued, still addressing Madeline, but smiling at that individual, who had remained, .her hands in the pockets of her apron, calmly surveying the scene, as though a drama got up for her amusement. “Eh, mon JDieu,” she began, and then poured forth in a voluble flow how she had placed herself by the exit, and recognising something of the tint and expression of Madame la Comtesse, something of the “air noble,” in mademoiselle, in short something different from “les autres demoiselles Ang-laises,” she had therefore ventured to demand her name, and found she was the object of her search; and then she recounted that the little devil of a concierge had been reluctant to carry up the portmanteau and therefore she had not offered him a “powr boire, until madame had given directions,” upon which madame knitted her brows awfully, and then smiled and said “but no, a pour boire for example! Had he not his New Year’s gift,” and then she said, “But the little one must want some supper; go then, good Nathalie, and bring supper. What will you like my child, a fresh egg? ah! Nathalie, two fresh eggs and a bread, with a cup of coffee, that will not hinder sleep, which is the best restorer.”

While madame spoke, she gently removed Madeline’s bonnet and shawl with her own fair hands, and gave them to Nathalie, thereby conveying the idea of the tenderest consideration, aild the utmost condescension. Then she made Madeline sit down on a footstool, and began to question her as to her journey; and especially on what terms she parted with Mrs. Redman—or the “respectable Redman,” as Madame de Fontarce always termed her, to Madeline’s great amusement. As the examination proceeded, Madeline felt how thoroughly, yet how politely, she was being sifted; but to this she had no objection, reflecting that to a friend, and a consummate gentlewoman, such as she enthusiastically considered her aunt to he, she could not be too frank. The appearance of Nathalie with a tray not unpleasantly interrupted the conversation; and when both eggs had disappeared, Madeline was nearly ashamed, especially when not a crumb of the pain was left. The coffee was delicious and sustaining; and Nathalie,who had looked on with much interest, seeing everything demolished, said aside to madame, “ 11 y a encore a demi-tasse,” and disappeared with Madeline’s cup, she felt quite pleased.

“Now, my child, Nathalie will conduct you to your chamber, and to-morrow we will talk over our arrangements.”

Here Nathalie interrupted her mistress by exclaiming, “Tenez l here is the purse of mademoiselle.”

“Ah! it is well,” said Madame de Fontarce, coolly holding out her jewelled hand; “give it to me. I take charge of it for you, little one,” and Madeline, after receiving another shadowy kiss, retired quite content. She was not quite so satisfied, however, when Nathalie conducted her into the vestibule, where darkness was made visible by a dim lamp; from this four doors opened, and Nathalie, turning a key in one of them, ushered Madeline into a long narrow chamber, without carpet or cur-tains, and neither very fresh or clean : at each end stood a narrow strip of a couch, both arranged for sleep.

“Mademoiselle will share my room,” said the femme-de-chambre, “and as I rise early, she can have it to herself to make her toilette in' the morning. Madame could not have any-one in her room, of course, and for a demoiselle to sleep alone is impossible, so Nathalie will take care of you. There is an armoire,” opening a wide door in the wall, “but as you go so soon to the convent, it is not worth while to undo anything, so I have left your portmanteau in the vestibule.”

Madeline, however, explained that she wanted some things out of it; the Bordelaise, therefore, good-humouredly held a candle while Madeline took out what she required, and prepared for rest as quickly as she could, for she was much exhausted—too much so to heed Nathalie’s frank comments on the fashion of her under-garments, the shape of her boots. Then, after watching her at her prayers for a few minutes, her occupation seemed to suggest an idea to the femme-de-chambre, who, with an encouraging “Allans done” rummagedvrat from a capacious pocket her beads, and dropping in an unconnected manner on the floor, began to patter her own prstyers rapidly and energetically in a subdued tone. Then after seeing Madeline fairly in bed, she took the candle, and prepared to leave the room.

“Oh, stay!” said Madeline. “Will you not leave me the candle?”

“I shall be back directly I have attended the toilette of madame; and see, I lock this door we came in by; this,” opening one between the two beds, “leads to my kitchen, and thence I can go to madame, so. you will be quite safe till I come backso with a good-natured nod of the bead Nathalie disappeared. For a moment or two Madeline oould distinguish the light as Nathalie moved to and fro in the kitchen, for she had left the door open; then a lock turned, and the voice of Madame de Fontarce said, “Come here, Nathalie,” upon which the light vanished; but Madeline was consoled by the feeling of being so close to her aunt. Several times before she got fairly off to sleep she was startled by the sound as of thunder rolling beneath her, so she concluded the room she was in was over the archway; she strove to think of the past day, and soon from confused thought passed into dreamless slumber.

How surprising it was to wake in the morning! how strange all things seemed! yet she did not like the idea of being so soon immured in a convent school. Why could not her aunt allow her to have masters and remain with her? She was still a little bewildered and excited by the glimpse of another and a better world, afforded by the aristocratic elegance displayed by so near a relative as Madame de Fontarce. Was she really going to lead the life of a gentlewoman, and associate with gentry ?—in other words, to realise her fondest dream, and that condition for which instinctively she felt she was especially fitted. However premature, caution told her not to build her hopes too high; she must place herself altogether in her aunt’s hands. Madame de Fontarce gave the impressiop. of despotism; not unpleasant despotism, it is true. Then Madeline turned from this idea and looked round her. Nathalie’s bed was empty; there was no sign of her anywhere; so Madeline lay still, and waited the appearance of that functionary. Soon there were sounds of life in the kitchen, and Nathalie entered, looking somewhat coarser, and less picturesque, by day than by night.

“Good day, mademoiselle. Madame la Comtesse hopes mademoiselle has rested comfortably. Would mademoiselle have her cafe au lait and petit pain in bed?”

“No, thank you,” cried Madeline, who shrank from the idea of such seeming luxury; “I shall not be a quarter of an hour dressing, and would rather go down to breakfast.”

“As you will, mademoiselle,” returned Nathalie, a little put out; “madame always has hersau lit”

Madeline, however, had slipped out of bed, and now, after a quick glance round, asked in some embarrassment for water, cold water.

“Mais oui, certainly;” only Nathalie did not think she would require it till she hac^ breakfasted.

Madeline’s toilette was speedily accomplished, and then finding the door leading to the vestibule still locked, she ventured to open that into the kitchen. This was the smallest apartment she had ever been in, and the stout form of Nathalie in addition to a tiny stove seemed to fill it up altogether. That genial personage was occupied in placing a napkin, a coffee-cup, and a petit pain on a microscopic table near one of the three doors which opened from this smallest of gastronomic temples.

“As mademoiselle is so resolved not to rest, I have put her coffee here; I can then attend to her and to madame, who is already up.”

In effect, Madame de Fontarce summoned Nathalie five times by a little hand-bell while Madeline discussed her breakfast That finished, she was conducted from the kitchen through the vestibule into the saloon, where she had seen her aunt the night before, and left to her own resources. So she looked round. There were some nicely-bound books —Racine, Moliere, Lamartine’s “Jocelyn,” and others—and there were sundry card and counter boxes; divers romances, in yellow covers with queer names; some books of caricatures. Then the windows looked into a narrow street, with lofty, dark, oppressive houses opposite, and just one slanting ray of sunshine, in which the motes and dust floated, shone down between and lighted up two wretched-looking beings, ragged, dirty, degraded, yet picturesque, who were poking and rooting amid the small heaps of refuse which lay opposite each porte cochhre. A gentlemanlike looking man, with a sword and cocked hat, and the air of a general officer, was conversing affably with Monsieur le Concierge on the opposite side of the way. Madeline recognised the latter immediately, and while she looked the cocked-hatted man raised his eyes and caught hers, and then the concierge looked, and they spoke earnestly. She could not help fancying it was about her, and then Madame de Fontarce said close behind her in French: “My child, we do not consider it seemly in France for a demoiselle to gaze at passers-by from the window.”

“What nonsense,” thought Madeline. “I am glad you told me,” she said; “I should never have thought it was wrong.”

“No,” said her aunt. “The system in England is very different. I do not say it is worse or better, but you will find that doing in Paris what Parisians do will simplify life very much. But have you rested well, my little one?” continued madame, embracing her; “I have risen thus early for we have much to do this morning.”

Madame de Fontarce was enveloped in a robe de chanibre of violet merino (the mornings were chilly), and had a morning cap of the same shape as the one she wore on Madeline’s arrival, only of white muslin, with narrow Valenciennes edging. She looked more deadly white and her eyes more deeply black than the night before; nevertheless she might still have been a model of dress and deportment.

“You are too good,” murmured Madeline, with genuine gratitude. “How troublesome I am!”

Madame de Fontarce smiled, and looked keenly into Madeline’s eyes. Then she called Nathalie, and directed her to open the portmanteau and remove its contents into her cabinet de toilette, and let her know when that was done. “Give Nathalie your keys, dear child,” she said; “she is the best being, the truest and most devoted.”

“Still,” said Madeline, stoutly, “I should like to unpack my own box. You, dear aunt, can see everything.”

“I thought,” returned Madame de Fon-tarce, “that you might employ the time better in writing to the good grandmamma.”

“That will not take much time,” returned Madeline; “nor unpacking my portmanteau either, if Nathalie will kindly help me,” she added with a smile that molified that important personage.

“So be it,” said madame, and soon the whole of Madeline’s treasures were displayed.

The cabinet de toilette though small, was considerably larger than the kitchen, between which and the recess containing madame’s ornamental couch, shrouded by the portikre Madeline noticed on her arrival, it intervened; and when Nathalie had assisted to lay her belongings on the two chairs and a long ottoman, which was in reality a cap box, at a nod from her mistress she retired.

Madeline took a small paper packet from a box of especial treasures, and handed it to her aunt. “Mrs. Redman,” she said, “desired me to give that to you with her compliments. It contains, I believe, six pounds and five shillings—a quarter’s allowance for my dress; and I do trust, my dear aunt, that you will tell me when and how I can by my own work, in making or altering dresses, help to make myself less expensive to you.”

“You are a good child, Madeline,” returned Madame de Fontarce graciously. “Let me see—a Bank of England note, a sovereign, and two half-crowns—oh, that is right. Now, the little porte-monnaie Nathalie handed me last night contained three sovereigns and a piece of ten francs. Now I will keep this for you, and make you a monthly allowance; for you will only be permitted to have a certain allowance where I am going to send you;” and Madame de Fontarce, leaning back in a favieuil, proceeded to unfold her plans to her deeply interested listener. She had with inuch difficulty and great interest procured Madeline’s admission into the convent school of the Annonciades—one of the most exclusive and renowned establishments in Paris. It had always been Buonaparte in politics,consequently madame’s friends were much connected with it. Now, more than ever, did all parents of consideration seek to place theiT daughters there, as it was specially protected by the great man who then ruled France. “Your age,” continued Madame de Fontarce, was an obstacle at first, as it was supposed, coming from an English school, you would be an embittered Protestant, and seek to introduce those doctrines amongst your companions. I, however, asserted that you were ready to be reconciled to the religion of your forefathers, from which the bigotry of a fanatic grandmother had torn you. You will, therefore, my child, carry out my representation, by swimming with the current of opinion in your new domicileand madame paused for a reply, looking keenly into Madeline’s eyes as she did so.

“But, madame,” said Madeline, “my father was a Protestant, at least he used occasionally to take me to church; and though I used to feel tired and angry at all the abuse which the clergymen at Clapham were constantly bestowing on Roman Catholics, I am not at all inclined to become one.”

“Do I ask you to do so?” replied her aunt, knitting her brows.

“But,” argued the niece, “will it not be false to let them think me one of themselves, when I am not?”

“I should never recommend treachery,” said Madame de Fontarce, dryly, “but I do recommend the wisdom of silence. When asked directly, you must always say you have been brought up a Protestant; but the less you say the better; comply with the rules and customs of the house which so liberally shelters you, and whatever may be your convictions, you will not be the worse Christian, as I understand the doctrines of that religion. Please to remember, also, that your future depends a good deal upon me, and, with every inclination to love and cherish you, I will not bear much opposition;” concluded Madame la Comtesse, with a lightning in the eye, and compression of the lip, that told of a firm will and a high temper.

“Dear madame,” said Madeline, a kindred spirit rousing within her, and in no way awed by her aunt’s sudden imperiousness, “I shall ever do more to win your love than to avoid your anger.”

“Ha! you are of my own calibre, I imagine,” returned the old lady, resting her head on her hand, and leaning forward towards the fair pale slight speaker—“then love me, be guided by me, little one, and I shall lead you to a pleasanter life than the Redman grandmother ever could. No matter! we must not displease her. Now tell me of her, and her surroundings.”

Madeline gave a short sketch of the Redman family, and her own introduction to them. At the description of the state of destitution in which she had been left, Madame de Fontarce frowned, and muttered some inarticulate French ejaculation, which had very much the tone of an imprecation. However, she made no remark, except to say, “These domestic sores need never be exhibited to indifferent persons. I suppose, even in your Clapham school, you learned that school-girls are not very delicate or sympathetic. Leave the account of your father’s circumstances to me. And now I shall pack away your dresses; they will be of no use to you at the convent.”

There were one or two points in the comtesse’s speeches that dwelt in Madeline’s memory. First, she spoke of the convent as “the house which so liberally shelters you.” Was it, then, a charity school? Secondly, she mentioned Christianity as “that religion as though she classed it in her own mind with, half-a-dozen others! How was this? Her experience as yet had only revealed two classes of minds—the Evangelical, or whitewash school, and the high church encaustic mediaeval school—neither of whom applied the epithet Christian to the other; but of anything outside them being considered a religion, she never dreamed.

But madame roused her from her reflections, by informing her, that after the second dijeuner she would take her to the Tuileries gardens, and afterwards to the Champs Elysees, in order that she might form some ideas of Paris before entering the convent school, which would be the following day.

CHAPTER IX

Short as Madeline’s stay had been in the Rue de St. Pierre, she felt strangely reluctant to leave it—to be again uprooted and placed in what she imagined would be conventual imprisonment.

But she said nothing of this, and submissively followed Madame de Fontarce into the well-appointed remise, which the old lady had hired; a small box, containing all of Madeline’s belongings that she was allowed to take with her, confided to the coachman’s care —and away they drove through fairyland. Paris quite fulfilled Madeline’s expectations. She had no idea, previously, of how much beauty stone and mortar are capable; and as they drove leisurely (after the fashion of Parisian remises), first through narrow streets, bordered by lofty mysterious-looking houses, then past a lovely Grecian temple, which was, her aunt informed her, the Church of the Madeleine; across the Place de la Concorde, with its fountains and statues; over the bridge, and away along the quais towards the Invalides, the whole scene bright with sunshine and clear air, she could not help exclaiming, “How shall I ever tolerate London after this?”

“It will depend a good deal on yourself whether you return there, or not,” returned her aunt, significantly.

They now left- the pleasant line of the quais, and struck into some of the narrow gloomy streets of the Faubourg St. Germain. After many complicated turnings, they stopped at a door in a long dead wall. The door was furnished with a long iron bell-handle, which hung at the side, and a grille. Madame de Fontarce, availing herself, in a dignified way, of the support of Madeline’s arm, descended from the carriage, and rang the bell; almost immediately the board at the back of the grille was drawn back, displaying the round good-natured, but somewhat solemn face of an elderly female, framed in a curious array of what seemed, to Madeline, white linen bandages. Some murmured questions and answers passed between the gatekeeper and the countess, then there was a rattle as of ponderous keys, and the gate was opened, revealing the full figure of its guardian, in her black habit and curious head gear, with its half moon of white linen descending from the chin to the breast. She was a stout, broad-shouldered woman, and took Madeline’s box from the coachman with the ease of strength.

“Enter then, Madame and Mademoiselle,” she said, “the good mother will be so content to welcome another sweet young lamb. She expected you before vespers.” And Madeline followed her aunt into a large semi-circular space.

In the centre stood a large square mansion, with a steep roof and high chimneys, and long narrow windows, not the least like Madeline’s idea of a convent. Right and left of this, stretched in a curve, a sort of open gallery, with pillars in front, and a white wall behind them, forming a covered approach to the house. Before the entrance was a fountain, which played with a pleasant murmur, and as the street without was a small unimportant alley, removed from any great thoroughfare, a sudden sense of silence, coolness and repose, fell upon the spirit on entering, as though the world were indeed shut out. As they advanced a nun came suddenly through a small iron gate at the opposite side, which permitted a delicious peep of grass and foliage with the sun upon it. She wore the same garb as the janitor, with the addition of a broad red ribbon, which sloped to a point from her shoulders to her waist, where it terminated in a silver cross. Her hands were folded in her wide sleeves, and she glided rapidly, yet softly, across the court yard, and vanished through a gate similar to that by which she entered.

All seemed captivating to Madeline’s imagination, yet she felt dimly alarmed—Clap-ham having so far entered into her soul as to suggest ideas of being perpetually immured— of being bound hand and foot by some awful conclave of ecclesiastics.

“But at least,” she whispered to herself, “if I am, I shall never see my grandmother, and that is something!”

At the entrance of the house they were met by a nun, or the nun she had seen cross the court yard, and after a ceremonious greeting between Madame la Comtesse, she informed them that the Mother Abbess was ready to receive them. Crossing a spacious and superbly parquid hall, the nun opened a door, and ushered them through a long gallery-like room, to a small octagon chamber, panelled and simply painted. It had no carpet, save a small oblong island of a rug, which lay before a long settee, or canapd, covered with faded, but exquisitely clean chintz; a few chairs of a common description, and one small table, completed the furniture. A jar, containing a rose tree in full bearing, decorated the empty fireplace, and the lofty carved wood mantel-piece was crowned with a large bunch of flowers in an old china vase, the whole surmounted by a large ebony crucifix, with an exquisitely carved white marble Christ Madeline scanned these details with deep, though brief attention. This little octagon room, which looked almost like a well from its disproportioned height, was yet cheerful, for one of the octagons was occupied by a window-door, which was open, showing a large garden, with old trees, and a wealth of light and shade. Madeline kept profound silence, while her aunt and the nun conversed for a few minutes in what seemed a rapid .and bewildering manner, and then the religieuse withdrew.

“Now Madeline,” said Madame de Fontarce, “you understand French sufficiently to follow and comprehend what I shall say to the good Mother, and I hope sufficient tact to carry out my views. Attend to my observations, they are intended as a guide to you.”

Before Madeline could reply, a panelled door, so like the rest of the wall, opened slowly, and a tall slender figure, in the religious habit, entered.

A pale, pure marbly face, with delicate features, and large dark brown dreamy eyes, looked out of the hard white linen frame of the conventual head dress. The thick black inflexible habit, and thick veil, could not altogether hide the slope of the shoulders, and gentle pride of carriage. The little hands, softly laid in each other, though thin, were delicately formed, and all through the strange dress Madeline could perceive a gentlewoman.

A rosary hung at her side, and from her shoulders a long fiat white soarf. The firmness of the mouth contracted the softness of the eyes, yet there was an indescribable charm about the Mother Abbess of the Annonciade, which Madeline’s nature was quick to perceive. She produced a strange effect upon the little ex-Claphamite—this fair woman thus for ever cut off from the natural joys and hopes of life. She seemed to bring with her an aroma of religious exaltation.

Madame de Fontaroe greeted her with pro-found respect, and received with an air of the deepest reverence the benediction (it seemed to Madeline), gently but clearly uttered by the abbess.

“I have brought you this dear child, Madame Mere,” said the countess, drawing Madeline forward, “thankful to rescue the last scion of our house from heretical influences. To you I confide her, knowing you will leave her young mind free to make its own choice.”

The abbess placed both her hands on Madeline’s head, and then kissing her on each cheek, bade her welcome, and blessed her.

A long desultory conversation ensued, in the course of which Madeline learned, to her great surprise, that her father had suffered much persecution, and lost his estates principally by his loving tendency to the faith of his fathers. Madame did not distinctly assert that he was a Catholic, indeed she did not assert anything; but she produced a certain impression, while she left herself perfectly free to deny ever having stated anything in particular on any point.

Madeline felt rather indignant at this mystification of so lofty and captivating a personage as the abbess; but when Madame de Fontarce,turning suddenly to herself said, with a slight quiver of the voice and air of tender emotion, “You were too young, my child, to know of all this, and my late nephew, your father, was too anxious to shield his daughter from all he had himself suffered, to venture on withdrawing you from the Church of England.”

At this Madeline began to think her aunt might be speaking truth all the time. What did she know of her father’s antecedents?

“Believe me, madame,” said the abbess, “we will cherish this dear child, and seek to make her one of Jesus’ lambs.” A good deal of undertoned talk was then exchanged, which Madeline avoided hearing, from an honourable feeling, moving away to the window.

Then Madame de Fontarce arose, and embracing her niece said, “Adieu, dear child! be diligent, be obedient, and above all, grateful for God’s goodness which has placed you in such care as this,” pointing to the abbess. “I shall have a letter from you once a month, and take you out for an occasional holiday as shall be permitted and arranged;” then curtsying low, with dignified grace, she left the room.

When Madeline found herself alone with this cold composed woman, a sudden desperate sense of isolation and helplessness, such as in her worst times in England she had never known, pressed upon her with terrible weight. She stood where her aunt had left her, her eyes bent to the ground, feeling that those of the abbess were fixed on her. Then the low clear voice of the religieuse fell upon her ear. “You would like to join your new companions in the garden?”

Madeline looked up with a troubled wistful expression, and the abbess stretched out her arms, drawing her gently to her, whispered, “Trust in me, my child! I will be your mother; you are received as a child in this the household of Grod; you leave sorrow and uncertainty outside its walls;” and Madeline returned a slight embrace with grateful fervour.

Then the mother rang a little hand bell, and on the entrance of a nun, whom she called Sister Angela, gave Madeline to her care.

The sister took her by the hand, and led her - up a grand, wide, dark, oak staircase, to a great gallery; from this gallery the dormitories opened; eight boarders slept in each dormitory, and two nuns who, to use a military phrase, were told off at stated times, so that the pupils were constantly under supervision. Between every two beds was a sort of low wardrobe, with a drawer below and two shelves. The top of this armoire served as a wash-stand and toilet-table, and one side of the room was occupied by a row of tall windows, the lower halves of which were painted white; this inclined Madeline to think they overlooked the street. The nun who had conducted her was a broadfaced, kindly, common-place woman, not deficient in manner, but strangely childish, either in her own nature, or in her conception of that of her companion.

Madeline was nevertheless delighted with all she saw, because it was so unlike Clapham and Abingdon Villas. There was something in the atmosphere of the place so utterly removed from the common-place of life as she had hitherto known it. While she thought thus, in a vague, undefined maimer, two lay sisters entered, carrying her box, which was unscrupulously opened before her eyes, the good nuns becoming quite excited in the examination of garments so different in shape and style from the lingerie of young French girls; among other objects of interest they discovered the fondly-cherished miniature of her father, on which they pounced with lively curiosity, discovering the likeness to Madeline, and. plying her with numerous questions.

At last Madeline’s conductress exclaimed, “Hold, there! "We forget the time! The robe of mademoiselle must be tried on.” "Whereupon one of the lay sisters left the dormitory for a moment, and returned with a partly-made grey dress over her arm. This, Madeline was informed, was the uniform of the convent; it was of thin, cool texture, and on Sundays was, they told her, adorned with a broad blue sash over the right shoulder, and fastening under the left arm. This was worn by every boarder, from the heiress of a dukedom to the daughter of the humblest sous officer taken from charity, only in this instance the dress was provided at the expense of the convent.

Madeline was delighted with the rule. She remembered the toilettes of the young ladies at Miss Jones’s, and the heartburnings that resulted therefrom.

After declaring that the corsage a l’enfant would do admirably, the sisters clothed Madeline once more in her own dress, and then Sister Angela said, “It is almost four o’clock, the dear children will have their refection, and then there is an hour’s recreation; come, they long to welcome their Irish sister.” Again taking her by the hand, she led Madeline down another and less noble staircase, to some large apartments, opening into each other, on the ground floor. These looked into the gardens, and were used for the different classes, each presided over by a nun. At this hour there was quite a buzz of youthful voices, for the pupils were seated at long tables, where plates loaded with bread and butter, alternated with dishes of fresh fruit, diversified with carafes of water. All the girls at the table to which Madeline was conducted rose, and those nearest kissed and welcomed her, while the presiding nun received her with almost motherly tenderness. The bright sunlight played on some large trees far off in the garden; but the room was in shade, and Madeline greatly enjoyed the cool and delicious fruit which was most hospitably pressed upon her. It was a curious scene to her eye. The boarders all in grey, with their dark hair drawn closely back, and fastened in a roll at the back. The faces sallow, darkeyed, eager (with few exceptions); the gentle, placid nuns in the picturesque garb of their profession; all so unlike the life she had left, and therefore attractive in its newness.

A slight lingering uneasiness still disturbed her, lest she might be called upon to choose between denying her religion, or disobliging her aunt. However, she possessed the happy and often useful (if not carried too far) Irish faculty of postponing unpleasant reflection, and so gave herself up to the present. Her imperfect French was a source of delight and amusement to the pupils and the nuns also; but it was amusement without one spice of malice, and Madeline heartily shared in it.

After the light repast, the boarders led Madeline into the gardens or grounds of the convent, which seemed quite a domain to our little heroine. Here they played les graces and various games; and most of the girls had small gardens, in which they were permitted to plant what they liked, and proud was the successful cultivator who could supply a handful of mustard or cress or radish to the daily salad.

There was something singularly different in the caressing, almost infantile, sweetness with which Madeline was received by her new companions, compared with the hardened gossipry and precocious worldliness of the old ones. It is true that the boarders were never for a moment free from surveillance, though very tenderly exercised. This Madeline afterwards found a little irksome; but at first, with the haste of youth, she' was quite ready to believe both teachers and pupils angels, and to exclaim: “And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, it is this, it is this.”

At seven o’clock the pupils were recalled to the class-room and prepared lessons for the next day till eight.

During this hour a nun, who seemed to take the principal direction, examined Madeline as to her acquirements, in order she said to assign her a class. On some points Madeline’s information surprised her interrogator, on others she seemed backward. But nothing could be kinder or more motherly than the mode and tone of the examination. At eight a bell rang, and prayers were read in French by Sister Angela. Then all ascended to the dormitories, and another nun, one of those who slept in the same room, read aloud a portion of the life of some saint of whom Madeline had never heard before, and except for the religious phrases, might have passed as an extract from the Arabian Nights, or any other collection of fairy tales, while the girls undressed.

Madeline lay long awake. Here she was again afloat Tet the idea of being a waif and a stray did not afflict her as it did the night of her arrival at Miss Jones’s academy. No, it produced a weary depressed feeling, but she had got used to it, and at any rate her present quarters were infinitely preferable. At five next morning the young sleepers were roused by a nun calling in a sort of singing tone that it was time to rise, and after a hasty toilette they descended to the principal classroom, where prayers were read by the mistress. Then a breakfast of bread and milk was served, after which study commenced and continued for what seemed but a short time to Madeline. She was examined in a small room in music, and she enjoyed the method of instruction adopted. Then they were summoned to mass, which was performed in a small chapel by a little plump, rosy, pleasant-looking priest, who after it was over (and very strange it seemed to Madeline) came into the class and bestowed his blessing upon her, questioning her playfully as you might a child of eight or ten. Just before leaving he said: “And you have been a little stray lamb, but now brought back into the true, fold; dear children you must say three Ave Marias and four Paternosters,for four nights, that this sweet daughter may be truly reunited to Christ’s church.” And he left the class, all rising and standing till he had disappeared. This was the Erst, and for many months the last, allusion to her religion that Madeline heard. Her ignorance of the rules and formulas of Catholicism was taken or treated as a matter of course, and instructions gently given, so she passed with the rest unquestioned.

From mass till half-past nine, about an hour, the boarders played or walked in the garden, when studies were resumed (after a collation of more bread and milk, this time varied with butter) and continued till eleven, when dinner was served in a large room termed the refectory. It was a most excellent repast, well-cooked, and neatly served. During its progress Madame la bonne Mere made her appearance, and walked round the table, asking occasionally for a morsel of one dish or another, and speaking to the boarders on various subjects. She especially noticed Madeline, even asking affectionately if she had slept well.

From dinner-time till two recreation, and then study till four, and so on, the previous . evening being repeated.

And soon, very soon, Madeline fell into the routine, soon the various forms of worship became familiar, and the intricacies of the catechism (taught for half an hour every afternoon) ceased to excite surprise and became a rather sleepy monotony.

Over this period of Madeline’s story, denuded as it was of events, we must not linger, too much remains to be told. Yet in the history of her mind it was a very important one. The extreme kindness and gentleness with which the pupils were treated almost reconciled her to the childishness of the system in many respects; though study was not a little wearisome, restricted as it was on all sides by the fear of trenching on forbidden ground.

Music, grammar (French of course), and Latin. In these alone could she go as far as she liked, and they were admirably taught; church music delighted her, and her proficiency was a source of the greatest pride to her instructress. For secular music, first-rate music and singing, masters were allowed to give lessons, by which Madeline largely profited.

The first enchantment of course wore off. Black sheep showed themselves among the angelic host, but few and far between.

What mostly pressed upon, and at times almost irritated Madeline, was the unrelaxed efforts to keep all the girls babies, to fetter fiee thought, and yet so twine the chains with flowers that they should not he perceived. Yet scarce a day passed that she did not acknowledge the excellence of the system in many ways—the softening refining influence, the gentle sunshine which pervaded the whole establishment, and was certainly far more impressed with grand loving influence of Christ’s doctrines than the Calvinistic gloom of Clapham.

This constant balance of feeling stamped her mind with an indelible impress of liberality, not favourable either to the Church of Rome or the Church of England, but eminently to the Church of Jesus Christ.

At rare intervals Madame de Fontarce took her out for a short holiday, commencing at noon—when Nathalie would call for and escort her to the Rue St. Pierre, sometimes walking, and sometimes in omnibus—and terminating about six o’clock, when she would be despatched, to be in time for evening prayers.

These treats were not of an exciting description. The day was generally passed in reading the various odd volumes of modem novels which lay on madame’s table, and which, certes, gave a very different view of life from the literature of the convent, and in hearing scraps of talk from madame’s various visitors. Madeline continued to admire and love her aunt, who showed a great interest in her progress, especially in music, and expressed unbounded satisfaction on finding her so great a favourite with her fellow pupils and teachers.

“My child! to know and practice the wisdom of silence at your age is worth a fortune. You now pass for a good Catholic, and you may be one for what I know.”

“But I am not,” Madeline returned; “nor do I think I ever shall, though I like them so much.”

“N’ importe” returned the countess pleasantly. “Never shock the prejudices of your associates. People may forgive serious injuries, but not the rejection of their delusions.”

When Madame de Fontarce was unusually well and good humoured, she would perhaps take Madeline to the Champs Elyses to see the carriages pass, which, in the monotony of her life, was really an excitement to Madeline.

So time slipped by. One of our heroine's real pleasures was to converse with M. Duseautoir, the priest or chaplain of the con vent. He was an accomplished, polished, keen-witted man, who partly fathomed the quiet depths of Madeline’s somewhat uncommon nature. She was a great favourite of his, though she never availed herself of the privilege of confession, save on those rare occasions when the rite was compulsory on the boarders. He alone cross-examined her on her faith, and pressed her to avow her renunciation of Protestant error. This she evaded by stating her mind to be not yet sufficiently ripe; and perhaps unconsciously fearing a contrary declaration to what he wished, the good priest refrained from pressing her. Moreover, he really became attached to his little Irish lamb, and gratified by her quick intelligent appreciation of himself and his conversation, as he afterwards proved.

With her school-companions Madeline was very popular, and liked them in return, but found none to replace Jessie Moorcroft as a friend; none with sufficient equality of mind, or, perhaps, sufficient experience of life, to be really companionable. They were such babies, these great girls—and yet, married and launched into the world, what shrewd social divinities they become.

So autumn darkened and deepened into winter, the hour of rising was postponed from five to six. The grey uniform was changed for warm black cloth; the dressing of a baby Christ, and laying it in a toy manger, drove half the boarders wild with excitement. One or two of the elder girls were withdrawn to be married, though the young ladies knew nothing about it till some months after. “Julie,” their former playmate, returned to see them as “Madame La Marquise,” in a superb toilette, and apparently metamorphosed into a woman of the world.

And spring came round with startling rapidity, and Madeline, seeing her first year approach its termination, began to think of telling Madame de Fontarce she had nearly exhausted the convent reservoir of knowledge, and must think of doing something for herself.

CHAPTER X

It was not Madame de Fontarce’s intention, however, to give Madeline her liberty. “You must stay where you are some months yet,” she 'said; “I have certain designs for your welfare, which you must leave to me.” So Madeline stayed. When spending a day with her aunt, that lady generally made her write a polite letter to Mrs. Redman, and permitted one to Miss Foster occasionally, always asking to read it, to which Madeline had no objection. Her liking for her aunt, her appreciation of the convent, gave a genuine tone to the composition, which usually drew forth short but emphatic praise from that astute gentlewoman. The replies to these, always from Miss Foster, generally reached her long after date, and with the cover open. This, Madame de Fontarce explained, by observing that it would not do to give her the letter in the convent, and therefore she opened it to see there was nothing in it that required immediate attention. All seemed well in Madeline’s eyes. But Mrs. Redman, harsh and oppressive as she was, would never have dreamed of opening her granddaughter’s letters. The English recognition of individual rights, so long as those rights do not trench on any one else’s pocket, would have restrained her.

One morning Madeline was summoned to the presence of the abbess, a rare event, for la bonne mbre seldom interfered in details, and was only appealed to in extreme cases of good or evil.

The abbess looked stern, she held a letter.

“Speak truth, my child,” she said, and “Yes, without doubt,” returned Madeline, looking straight into her eyes.

“Do you know that writing?” holding out a note.

“But—yes, certainly,” cried Madeline, her face lighting up with pleasure. “It is from a former schoolfellow, the only friend I had at that miserable English school, where I suffered so much,” and our little heroine threw perhaps more repugnance into her expression than she absolutely felt, so producing an excellent effect on the abbess.

“I must keep the letter till Sister Mary Laveria can come and translate it, meantime do you read it to me, my child.”

“Versailles, Sept. 20th.

“DEAREST MADELINE,

“I have never been able to answer your dear letter that you sent me from Madame de Fontarce’s, but now I am going home in a few days, and should like so much to see you. May I come, and at what time? Will the nuns let Sam in, for he has come to fetch me? I cannot go to you without him, and it would not be very pleasant for him to wait in the street. Direct to me at the Hotel d’Angleterre, Rue de M-. I shall be in Paris on Wednesday, and only stay till Friday morning. How I wish you were coming back with me!

“Ever your own attached,

“JESSIE.”

When Madeline had finished a rapid translation she exclaimed with clasped hands, “Oh do! do Madame Mere let her, I shall perhaps never see her again! and I should like her to see this charming place and the garden, and the chapel, for she, poor girl, has only been to a Lutheran pension at Versailles.”

The abbess smiled, “But yes!” she said, “you can see your friend, you may even show her that which your tender soul most admires; and the brother, he may await you in the parlour.”

“Oh, thank you! thank you, 'bonne nitre” cried Madeline, “then I may write to her now, to-morrow you know with be Wednesday.”

“Tenez!” cried the abbess, “you go too quick, we must await Sister Mary Laveria, that I may know what you write.”

“I can write in French, bonne nitre, my friend will understand.” So Madeline got her note written, and the convent messenger, one of the few males permitted to do its service, was despatched to post it.

The next day, at the four o’clock refection, visitors for Mademoiselle Madeline were announced, and Madeline, who had been permitted, nay encouraged, to put on her blue scarf, sash, &c., escorted by Sister Mary Laveria, descended to the same little octagon chamber where she had first been received.

There she was heartily hugged and kissed by Jessie, and saluted with much respect and some awe by Mr. Sam Moorcroft, who, in one of those rampant check travelling suits, in which even the most steady and business-like Britons delight to array themselves when escaping the trammels of the City, appeared an object of the most intense curiosity to the quiet nun acting duenna. On introduction she murmured a religious salutation, under the influence of which Mr. Sam sat down uneasily on the edge of a wooden chair.

“How well you are looking dear,” said Jessie, gazing affectionately at her friend.

“Yes indeed!” murmured Mr. Sam admiringly.

“Well Jessie, you look over-worked or something, pale and thin.”

“Not over-fed, at all events,” said Jessie laughing, and then rushed into a torrent of “ abuse,” if Jessie’s voluble but weakly expressions may be so termed, of the food, the dirt, the discipline, the teaching, everything.

“Hush dear, the good sister understands,” said Madeline, fearing she might be hurt at this disparagement of her nation, and she was listening attentively, but no! was it not all spoken against a Protestant pension.

Meantime Mr. Sam, hearing that the picturesque looking female in the white cardboard hood understood English, endeavoured to make himself agreeable by praising the house and garden, and conjecturing its probable value as building-ground.

Then Jessie informed Madeline that she was returning thus soon, because Miss Jones had found an engagement for her in a clergyman’s family somewhere near Hastings, and she was to go direct there, hut to have a fortnight’s holiday at Christmas to see her mother, with many details too small for notice, though interesting to her hearer.

Then Sam was left to amuse himself by looking out of the window while Sister Mary Laveria and Madeline led Jessie all through the establishment, round the garden, and into the classes, to that young lady’s reluctant admiration and bewilderment.

On their return they found Mr. Sam slightly stupefied by inaction, and then Sister Mary Laveria requested them to partake of a little collation, and conducted them into another room, also looking on the garden, where Madeline had never been before, where bread and butter, biscuits, fruit, and coffee (first-rate coffee Mr. Sam said) were laid out. So the visit ended, with many embraces and a few tears, the friends not knowing when they might meet again.

Mr. S. Moorcroft was greatly struck by the change and improvement in Madeline, the soft high-bred tone she had acquired.

“Isay, Jessie, when she speaks and brightens up she looks downright beautiful for a minute or two, I never saw such a pair of eyes.”

He was a good deal struck by Sister Mary Laveria also, and in speaking afterwards of that memorable visit, usually mentioned her as “a jolly party for a nun.”

Winter again darkened over Madeline in the convent still; and as she found more and more the insufficiency of the life she led, she pondered deeply over the probabilities of her future. What did her aunt intend to do with her? For, in spite of her love and admiration for the accomplished countess, little traits and tiny revelations had come to her, bit by bit, until she had made out a mosaic of her character not very dissimilar to the original. It had somehow come to her knowledge that for her board and education in the convent that amiable person did not pay one sous, some benefactor having given madame what in England we should call a presentation, —her very uniform was provided. Likewise,the countess’s ardour for Catholicism generally faded away in proportion to her distance from the convent and Pere Duseautoir (who, by the way, was Madame de Fontarce’s directeur). Madeline was a little shocked to think that her aunt had imposed on the Redman faction. It was a breach of good faith, she thought, even while her pearly teeth showed through lips parted in a slight smile at the neatness of the ruse.

“Why not say honestly that she had the power of placing me en pension here; it would really have come to the same thing.” And the smile faded away into a little sigh that she should thus criticise the conduct of one so pleasant and so kind.

In the early days of March, Madame de Fontarce surprised Madeline with a letter from Jessie Moorcroft (brought to the convent, too), containing the startling intelligence that she was going to be married. It was a sweet, womanly letter, mixed with gentle exultation in the man who had chosen her, and tender regret for the dear mother she was to leave. Mr. Arthur Downing had been a schoolfellow of Sam’s, and was now a civil engineer; such a genteel profession, and his name, too! Didn’ dear Madeline think it very nice. Indeed, he was quite a gentleman. She had known him long ago; but during the Christmas holidays they had seen a great deal of him; and about three weeks ago he had proposed. They were to be married in a month, and then go to Liverpool, where he had an appointment, the distance being the greatest drawback:

“A schoolfellow of Mr. Moorcroft’s,” said Madeline, meditatively. “Then he cannot be nice enough for Jessie.”

“Why not?” asked her aunt. “What was her father?”

“A managing clerk in some large firm, I believe.”

“Then it is a step in advance, and perfectly suitable,” said Madame de Fontarce decidedly, and with perfect approbation. “Remember, her standard may not be yours; indeed, I would advise you not to set up too high a standard yourself, hut write and congratulate your friend at once; write also to the mother, and say I am charmed to hear the happy news—something civil; let me see what you write.”

Not long after, Madame de Fontarce announced her intention of removing Madeline early in April; and much regret was expressed, both by teachers and pupils, at the prospect of losing a dear companion and the most successful student of music in the school. There was a little fite given in her honour; and Madeline felt (for a moment) ready to give up her emancipation, and stay a while longer with them. But the countess’s arrangements were Mede and Persian in their fixity. On the appointed day the nuns packed her clothes. Nathalie appeared en fiacre, and she was pronounced ready.

On the whole, Madeline was sorry, when the moment of parting came, to bid the kind nuns, her instructresses, and her childish, yet precoce, companions farewell. Much had there been in the school of the Annonciades to chafe her, and some things that moved her keen though quiet sense of the ridiculous; yet on the whole she had been happy there, for she felt she had been valued at something like her worth. Moreover, she was especially proud of Pere Duseautoir’s friendship. To find such a man ready and pleased to converse with her gratified her intellectual pride, and was eminently useful in raising her in her aunt’s estimation, success of some kind being essential in that shrewd lady’s mind as a hall-mark of merit.

Nathalie was enchanted to escort her once more for a permanent residence to the Rue St. Pierre.

“Madame la Comtesse,” she said, “was not so strong as formerly, nor so bright; she required the society of a charming demoiselle like yourself. But madame was always seeking to do mademoiselle good! Even now she was revolving a project—ah! a superb project! but then it was not for Nathalie to speak and she paused to be questioned.

Madeline, busy with her own thoughts, did not care to hear anything about this project; nevertheless, not to disappoint her ally, she said—

“What can it be, Nathalie?”

“Ah! that is the secret which I must not reveal. Madame, in good time, will tell mademoiselle all about it.”

“Unkind Nathalie,” said Madeline, smiling.

It was more than six months since she had visited her aunt, and for half that time she had not seen her; she was, therefore, more alive to an indefinable change in Madame de Fontarce than the femme-de-chambre.

Her aunt seemed much aged—her eyes less bright—her manner more irritable,—though this last a stranger would hardly discover.

Moreover, there was more of tenderness in her bearing towards Madeline than she had ever shown before. Madeline was also surprised and delighted to find a piano occupying a corner in her aunt’s salon; she would not now find the evenings hang heavily, when she was left alone.

Madame de Fontarce, however, seemed little changed in habits, and, as usual, dressed in the evening to attend some reception, or card party.

“To-morrow, ma bien amie” she said, “I have a treat in store for you. I have promised an esteemed lady of my acquaintance that you shall accompany her to the Yarietes, and I well know how you love the drama; so this evening you will assist Nathalie to complete a little toilette of muslin and ribbon— very simple, and I think suitable—which I have designed for you, but could not finish without your presence.”

“How good of you, dear aunt, to think so much of me,” cried Madeline, kissing her hand, “you are like a mother to me; and that piano! I know you have gone to the expense of hiring it for my benefit.”

“Fi done, petite chatte,” said Madame de Fontarce, with the sweetest air of playful benevolence, “do not call me to account for my imprudences; but could I let thee lose the result of all thy study, for the sake of a few francs?”

The affectionate old lady did not mention that she was provided for this outlay by the savings effected from Madeline’s toilette allowance—a very legitimate way of spending it; but she might have admitted the fact! Strange influence of heart; this adamantine woman of the world wished to possess the character of a tender and generous benefactress in the eyes of her dependent young kinswoman; and yet she had looked to make a tool of this young creature, should an opportunity ever offer; and though she liked her better, perhaps, than any other living creature, she would not hesitate to sacrifice her at any moment^ But Madeline knew nothing of all this; and the warmest feelings in her heart glowed for this polished piece of flint, who yet had been very serviceable to her.

“And who is the lady, may I ask, dear aunt?”

“Certainly; Madame Delille, a rather new acquaintance. She is the wife of an ex-sous prefet, assez riche, but an excellent person; not de la haute noblesse, ’tis true—nevertheless, admirable. Now I must leave you, my child, to Nathalie! we will have a long talk tomorrow.”

Madeline rather enjoyed her evening’s work; the occupation of trying on the very gracefully-designed dress was delightful, and Nathalie’s exclamations of admiration music to ears little accustomed to such sounds; “and madame, too, would be so delighted.”

The next day Madame de Fontarce was later in making her appearance than usual; but sent a message to Madeline not to refrain from playing the piano if she was so inclined, and of this permission she availed herself. At last Madame de Fontarce appeared. “But you play well!” she exclaimed, sitting down as if exhausted; “better than I had hoped. You must practise, and keep it up; we know not what is before you, and you may require to maintain yourself, though I shall try to push your fortunes. Listen, my child: I have lately succeeded in having my position placed before our good emperor, partly through the influence of Monsieur Delille, and at last a pension has been assigned to the widow of the great emperor’s faithful soldier and friend. It is not much, nevertheless I hope to make small economies, and leave the result to you, ma jiUe, should my life be spared; that, however, is very uncertain, and as you seem indisposed to return to the respectable Redman, and she is equally indisposed to have you, you had better, during the. remaining six months of the two years I undertook, keep up all your accomplishments, that at the end of the time should I not be able to find a parti for you, why you can no doubt be easily placed in some high English or Russian family—these nations pay best. It is very difficult to arrange a marriage for a girl without fortune or influence,” concluded madame, pensively.

“My dear aunt,” replied Madeline, colouring, for she had not lost her English notions respecting marriage—that being a tabooed subject at school, and in a convent there are few, if any, opportunities for private conversation—“I should be sorry to think you were reduced to hunt for a husband for me, if I am not sought.”

“Pray do not parade such unpractical English nonsense to me,” interrupted her aunt rather sternly. “A woman without fortune is rarely sought—at least in marriage—though no doubt there are men, themselves without fortune, and therefore not entitled to look for any in a wife, that yet have brains and will, and the material for success, and would appreciate such a wife—such a partner as you might, nay would make. Do not fancy marriage is a union of lovers; that is nonsense pure and simple. It may be a very disagreeable thing when persons of bad temper and exaggerated views are bound together; but it is a most useful institution rightly understood and carried out, and we understand it much better here than they do in England.”

“Still,” said Madeline apologetically, “I should like to know and love my husband.”

“Of course, and so you would love him— habit is so strong, and Frenchmen are almost always pleasing and polite to a sensible wife. Nay, few men value a sensible reliable woman, who will help his fortunes, and' be a good mother to his children, so highly as a Frenchman. An Englishman does not care for a helpmate; he only wants a pretty doll to spend his money and hang jewels upon.”

Madame de Fontarce hated the English cordially, and Madeline knew it; nevertheless she murmured, “Yet I think I should like an English husband.”

“Dim des Dimx l” cried her aunt, with startling energy and flashing eyes. “You have no idiotic penchant in that absurd country? no fair-haired domestic ideal? I give you credit for better things, Madeline.” “And so far you are right,” replied the niece, with a calm smile, which reassured Madame de Fontarce. “I suppose every one has some ideal, and mine is so purely abstract that I have seen nothing which approaches it.” “That is well,” returned the other, more tranquilly. “The real (when it appears) is pretty sure to send the ideal out of the field, meantime the field is harmlessly occupied; we all have our weaknesses and fancies in youth; but to let them interfere with the more solid views of life is worse than foolish, it is a sin against self-interest. However, Madeline, although I feel sure of your possessing good sense, I hope and expect you will promise to be guided by me in all future matters. Your happiness, your prosperity-rand they are identical—are my first consideration. You were formed, mon petit ange, to occupy a far different sphere from that to which fate seems inclined to consign you. You have intellect, and coolness, a brave yet patient spirit, plenty of head, and, unfortunately, plenty of heart—I should rather say weakness. What I dread for you is a grande

passion, and in that conflict you would give all, and win nothing. You would give heart and soul, and truth and constancy, without one spark of that useful element denominated passion, while-”

“Nay, but my dear aunt,” interrupted Madeline in her turn, “I am not quite so silly. At Clapham nearly all the girls were in love with the professors or the clergymen, one even fancied the drill sergeant; but I never had a shadow of a fancy for any of them. It all seemed a sort of disgraceful nonsense to me.”

“Ah! that all corroborates my fears!” ejaculated Madame de Fontarce; “yet what splendid capabilities for a wife. Ah! mon Dieu grant me time. You might do me much credit yet, Madeline, if you will be but wise, and conquer that foolish longing for tenderness and sympathy, and a thousand other fine things, that exist only—mark me!— in the fancies of those pleasant pestilent fellows, the poets!—a longing you hide well, I grant, but not from my eyes. Now no man will ever give you what you want in this way. A man may gratify your vanity; he may give you rank and riches, and many pleasant accessories of life—and I grant men are often very entertaining companions—but tenderness, sympathy. Pooh!” and Madame suddenly opened her closed hand, every finger wide apart, with a gesture intensely expressive of the necessity of scattering such hopes to the wind.

“Ah!” sighed Madeline, “I do not doubt your wisdom; yet life without love! is it worth all the trouble we take about it? What does it give?”

“Success,” returned the woman of the world. “A good place among your fellows— the consideration of society.”

Madeline’s lips parted to reply, but she prudently closed them again. Why should she speak an unknown tongue to her aunt? and why should she sadden her own spirit by listening to the epigrammatic sentences which only proved that life was but dust and ashes!— that the sole hope for which she cared to exist—the hope of loving and being loved— either by friend, relative, or lover—was one, the fulfilment of which was forbidden by the nature of things; so Madeline ' was wisely silent and wisely unconvinced. Protestant and Catholic each had assailed and shaken her faith in dogmas; but from her nobler faith in the eternal, all powerful influence of love, justice, and truth, none could wean her.

Madame de Fontarce paused for a reply, and none coming, was forced to believe Madeline convinced; so she resumed, “However, promise to be guided by me, and you will not regret it.”

Madeline accepting this as a vague undertaking, gave the desired promise with sufficient readiness to satisfy Madame de Fontarce, who yet eyed her with a keen glance and knitted brow, for the young pensionnaire was somewhat of a puzzle to her, profound as was her knowledge of life and character under certain aspects. Her resources, however, presented her with no line sufficiently deep to sound such a nature as Madeline’s.

Nathalie was now summoned, and Madeline placed under her charge to get the gloves and bottines necessary to complete the toilette. These expeditions, arm in arm with the good femme-de-chambre, were some of Madeline’s happiest hours. The anecdotes and shrewd remarks of her companion amused her, and the animation, the colour, the form floating round her was a constant feast to her naturally artistic eye; yet she chafed at the extreme thralldom in which she was held. However Madame de Fontarce might weather the chains, Madeline felt their pressure at every turn. However, between the naked angular chains of Abingdon Villas and the flower-wreathed fetters of the Rue St. Pierre, Madeline did not hesitate to choose, u Let me recall the bon pore's advice,” and she thought of his eulogium on the virtue of patience. “ That truest wisdom—that noblest strength,” as he termed it. Yes! for the remaining six months she would be passive in the hands of her aunt; after that God would guide her.

Madeline’s toilette for the theatre was a grand interest and excitement. It was a very fresh and gauzy white muslin, with a corsage a l’enfant—that is, simply gathered from the shoulders to the waist by a rich blue sash, with bretelles of the same marking the shoulders. A delicate frill of lace lay against the snowy throat, and the pale golden hair was drawn loosely back over a blue ribbon, which seemed, after peeping forth across the front of the head, to tie up the whole mass, with a couple of floating ends a little behind the left ear.

“Now, look here,” said Madame de Fontarce at this stage of the operation, drawing her young kinswoman before the long cheval glass, which nearly occupied one end of the cabinet de toilette. “You are not a vain fool, Madeline, and it is well in your approaching battle with life to know with what weapons nature has furnished you. You think too much of your mind, mon enfant, too little of your personnelle. Both are useful, hut remember, to succeed as a woman the more you keep the first out of sight the better, until you are as old as myself; the latter is of immense importance. Never forget that, or let others know you think about it. See your hair, it . ought to be a fortune in itself. It is so peculiar, contrasted with your eyes. You are not handsome or pretty; but if, oh dell—if I could inspire you with ambition, which would develop tact, you might be what is a thousand times more powerful, seduisante. Then you have what so many women fail in, a natural air of distinction; and heavens! what an advantage have these eighteen months in Paris been to you! Child, you can never be grateful enough to me. Ah! if you will be but obedient, what may I not accomplish!”

Madame de Fontarce uttered these last sentences with energy, almost vehemence, and then suddenly sank back in her chair, pressing her hand to her heart.

“Dear aunt, kind friend,” cried Madeline, tenderly approaching her, “you are ill, you are suffering.”

“No, no!” said the countess, recovering herself, “you must not treat me as an invalid; ’tis true I feel faint at times, but there is much life left in me still, get me a glass of water; and look, do you like the toilette I have designed for you?”

Thus exhorted, Madeline glanced blushingly at the glass. It reflected a charming figure, rather below middle height it is true, but round and svelte, with graceful sloping shoulders, a small head, so nobly poised, a pale, rather, pensive face, yet clear in tint, with rich red lips, large dark eyes, and a profusion of pale golden hair.

It is so delightful to feel good looking, that Madeline’s spirits rose, and the sweetest smile dimpled round her mouth.

“I am thankful, my dear aunt,” she said, “that you think there is any chance of my ever rewarding you for all you have done. But I fear your only chance of a return is in the approval of your conscience.”

“Time will show,” returned her protectress, in mysterious tones, “and now it is time for Madame Delille to be here, and you must not keep her waiting, so put on your bonnet.”

And an airy creation of tulle, and blonde, and daisies, was accordingly added as a crowning perfection, and placing a white muslin scarf edged with blue ribbon, round her niece’s shoulders, Madame de Fontarce led the way into the salon, and was in the act of warning her against committing herself, as regarded any Protestant tendencies she might still cherish, when Nathalie announced Madame Delille, whereupon enter a tall large-boned, slightly rouged dame, with an elaborate toilette, and rather common aspect, at least she seemed common near the finished elegance of Madame de Fontarce, who received her with polite empressement. Madeline was presented with caressing playfulness, as an English mother might a pet child of six or seven, and told to thank madame for her goodness in affording her,so much pleasure, which she did in a few simple happily-chosen words, and with the gentle grace of manner Parisians delight and excel in. She, with her rich womanly nature, and broad, deep intelligence, smiled at the whole performance, and then thought she detected a glance as though of mutual understanding pass between her aunt and her chaperon.

After an affectionate embrace from the former, she followed Madame Delille, who was enormously polite, and rather manieree, down the little steep stairs, and they were soon driving towards the theatre. The trajet was a source of enjoyment to Madeline, and she would have preferred gazing from the window to answering the formal questions of Madame Delille.

“Mademoiselle had not long left the convent?”

“Only yesterday, madame.”

“Ah! it was, no doubt, sad to part with her beloved instructresses and young companions. Madame was very happy to be able to divert her thoughts by a visit to the theatre.”

“Madame was very good, and it was a charming divertissement, nevertheless, Madeline was so glad to be with her chere tante, that she did not repine at leaving the convent, as she would otherwise have done.”

“But you speak like a French girl; I should never imagine mademoiselle had been so long in England.”

“I love your charming country, madame, and I suppose that has helped me to acquire your language. Madame’s approbation is infinitely flattering.”

The loge which appeared to belong to Madame Delille, was large and well situated, and madame had many visitors during the evening, among them a rather flashy lady, most brilliantly dressed, whom she introduced to Madeline as “my married daughter,” without mentioning' any name. This personage also addressed her as though she were a mere schoolgirl, and seemed to examine her as she spoke.

“It is very droll,” thought Madeline to herself, “but I cannot help feeling as though I were upon my trial.”

The play charmed her. Never had she seen such acting. It was one of those simple, easy little pieces, droll in outline, yet full of touching points, so familiar to Parisian audiences, and the genius of Bouffe brought contending smiles and tears to lip and eye.

She was too genuinely absorbed to heed what passed in the interior of the box, and when at last, with a good-humoured jest on her evident delight, Madame Delille hinted it was time to go, Madeline would fain have entreated to remain for the after-piece.

“Ah!” she thought, “if Kit could but take a lesson from that polished villain who wrought so much mischief with so much ease; what a quantity of liquorice he might save, by not making his poor throat so sore with roaring!”

Poor Kit! Even amid her marvellous yet uncertain prosperity with what true gratitude her heart turned to him. After all, his and Mrs. Fitzwarrenne’s was the purest benevolence she had ever met.

These thoughts passed through her mind as the drop-scene fell on the second or principal play, for in Paris as well as in London they make the mistake of giving you too . much for your money at the theatres. But Madeline was now too well trained to speak on any impulse, so she rose, obedient to the mandate of Madame Delille, when a strong, harsh voice at the back of the box said, “Mademoiselle would like to see the vaudeville, I am convinced. Could you not re-, main?”

“Taisey vous,” replied 'Madame Delille, in tones expressive of the deepest disapprobation, “c’est impossible.”

There was no reply to this, and Madeline looked with no small surprise at the stranger who had divined her wishes. He was a short, stout, broad-shouldered man about thirty, with a close-shaved face, through which the strong blue beard showed distinctly, though nothing was left of it but a pair of moustaches, waxed and twisted into spiky ends, and a chin tuft of the Henri Quatre type. He had small, restless, bright, black eyes, a large head, and heavy, cruel-looking jaw. Madame Delille, whose politely arranged countenance had clouded over very blackly, motioned to Madeline to precede her out of the box, the door of which was held open by this unknown translator of her wishes. As she passed she dropped the fen her aunt had lent her for the occasion. The gentleman immediately stooped and restored it, at the same time meeting Madeline’s eyes with a look so unpleasantly eager, almost hungry, that she conceived an instantaneous, unreasoning horror of him she could neither account for nor repress.

“Who is that gentleman?” she asked of Madame Delille, as they drove towards the Rue.

“One of my sons,” returned madame, but so drily that Madeline felt she had committed a solecism of Parisian “demoiselle” manners in making any inquiry about a gentleman, nature being supposed to be dormant in a French girl until she is a wife.

CHAPTER XI

Madame de Fontarce had retired when Madeline came back; but the next morning she was subjected to a strict examination. The episode of the mysterious appearance of Madame Delille’s son seemed to cause as much annoyance to the countess as it had done to his mother; and Madeline laughed as she said, “Both you and madame appear angry. Yet it was natural he should come to his mother’s box.”

“What was he like?” asked her aunt, sharply.

“Well, he seemed cruel-looking to me. I did not like his appearance.” And she shuddered slightly.

“Hum!” said Madame de Fontarce, clearing up. She changed the conversation, and soon Madeline almost forgot the incident.

The life in the Rue St. Pierre was not unpleasant, and though considerable authority and restraint were made use of, it was freedom after the convent. Moreover, though Madame de Fontarce adopted the conventual tone towards her niece in society—viz., as if she were a pet child of about ten years old—in private she always conversed with and treated her as an equal, at least in understanding.

Madame de Fontarce had now her evenings for receiving, and these reunions, though of the most tranquil description, were in some degree interesting to Madeline, who assisted at them as a listener and spectator, except when some fossilized dowager condescended to cross-examine her as to her preference for flowers, embroidery, or some such bagatelle. She was always treated by her aunt’s guests as a Catholic, and as no direct opening ever offered to disclaim the imputation, she, in obedience to her aunt’s repeated requests, left the matter alone.

Indeed, the tone in which religion was treated by her aunt’s circle was not calculated to invest that subject with much importance; its members were far too well-bred, and gifted with too much good taste, to utter any unbecoming language on the subject, but it was invariably alluded to as a species of political institution useful for the masses, and therefore to be upheld by educated persons; but that they should believe in the efficacy of what they preached never seemed to be even supposed. A certain amount of sentiment, “poetry of soul,” culte de this, or that, or the other, according to the temperament and disposition of the individual, relieved the tone from the aridity of utter scepticism; but it was a very floating religious capital, difficult to realize, and fertile in bad debts.

Sometimes le bon Pere Duseautoir joined the circle, where he was treated with marked respect, and he always bestowed a good deal of attention upon Madeline. She enjoyed a conversation with him, and revelled in the subtle flattery the notice of such a man conveyed.

She continued to study German, the friendly priest, who was a good linguist, sometimes hearing her read; and music became more necessary to her each day. Indeed, noticing her rare voice, Madame de Fontarce exerted herself in some of her accustomed mysterious ways, and suddenly Madeline found herself despatched one morning (always under the care of Nathalie) to the house of a famous Italian master of song, where she had the in-expressible delight of lessons. A year before she would have thanked her aunt with glistening eyes and flushed cheek, and prayed her not to tax her slender resources too severely. Now she felt most grateful for the trouble she knew Madame de Fontarce must have taken; but though no explanation was offered or sought, she felt, rather than knew, that whatever the lessons cost, they were not paid for in coin of the realm!

At first the great maestro's manner was rather rough and abrupt, as though to an inferior; afterwards he became interested in his gentle, intelligent pupil, and he seemed to take a personal interest in her progress, which was considerably beyond the average. One day he said: “More, perhaps, has been lost through indecision than any other cause, so make up your mind, elect for the stage, and cospetto, you shall be a prima dorvna; but you must decide.”

“Ah!” cried Madeline, her eyes flashing with excitement, “Monsieur has divined my carribre; I have ever pined for the stage. Do, do speak to Madame de Fontarce; tell her I shall make money, quantities of money, and she will perhaps consent.”

“Nay, mademoiselle,” returned the great man, “I cannot undertake that task; you must manage it yourself.”

It was nearly two months after Madeline had left the convent that this conversation took place; it revived the sort of anxiety respecting her future which the tranquillity of her life with Madame de Fontarce, and youth’s belief in the permanency of the present, had lulled for a while.

The signor’s words reawakened it. It was true she had unbounded faith in her aunt’s worldly wisdom and savoir faire, and also, to a certain extent, her interest in her (Madeline’s) success. Nevertheless, it is startling to throw the disposition of one’s life, even for six months, into the hands of another. Besides if she was to go on the stage, why lose time? Madame de Fontarce might possibly prefer some other career, but she would not turn from it with unreasoning horror and condemnation like the “respectable Redman.” No, to do this veteran Parisianised Hibernian justice, no line of life which promised money, amusement, and success of any kind, was altogether despicable in her eyes. The god of her idolatry was a certain small and many faced deity, known familiarly as “Bon marche,” and on this shrine she had sacrificed—no! that word does not apply to any of Madame de Fontarce’s doings;—she had offered the consistent worship of a life! A bargain, the full worth of the cost, and more than the worth, was what she piqued herself on obtaining, and to do her justice generally did obtain.

Her enthusiasm, well managed generally, ebbed and flowed with the success of the cause die adopted, not that she ever vulgarly renounced the sinking side—no, she mourned and shook her head over it tenderly. They said that when Napoleon returned from Elba she was in a dreadful strait, and as usual found her way out of it; on this occasion, as on most others, Monsieur le Colonel de Fontarce was wisely guided by her suggestions, and went to his bed being troubled with brain fever, the truth of which was attested by his wife’s triumphantly shaving his head, and indeed he took part in the second entrance of the Bourbons, with a melancholy face and a head like a scrubbing brush. The barber’s fee on that occasion was bon marche; so was the quiet adherence displayed by the widowed countess to the Buonaparte clique after Louis Philippe had had his conge; so were her friendly relations with the religious party; so was her adoption of Madeline—a bargain in which she got gratitude, affection, interest, reputation, and the possibility of extended influence through the means of her “capable” niece, in exchange for a little trouble, and the amusement of some scheming, a real diversion to this supreme intriguante, but no outlay of cash. Still, though seeing through her aunt, Madeline was really and warmly attached to Madame de Fontarce, who eminently understood the art of making things pleasant, and had a good temper and marvellously fine digestion for her age; moreover, she had never at any time been inclined to unnecessary cruelty, though she would unhesitatingly have sacrificed any or every one to forward a favourite scheme if it was necessary, and she had always treated Madeline kindly and considerately. This recognition of madame’s real character, in spite of her fair seeming, was no moral advantage to Madeline, especially as her aunt managed to keep up her kindly feelings, while she lost that half-poetic respect which the imaginative love so much to give to age; and the result of our young orphan’s sojourn under the patronage of Madame de Fontarce was a sort of vague notion that life was, to quote one of Mr. Dickens’ heroes—“a muddle,” and the best thing she could do was to snatch what enjoyment she could from its meshes.

Yet, to a heart instinctively noble as hers, this very idea destroyed the zest for enjoyment. The best proof of immortality lay within herself in the impossibility of selfish enjoyment. The annihilation of to-day by the forced recklessness of to-morrow—No! to toil for and tend some beloved or helpless one— to look to joys of the heart beyond all that this world could bestow, such was the life— such the tone of belief—that would have lent present pleasures a rapture and a glow; no mere irresponsible right to enjoy because the future had neither hope or fear could have ever given.

Whatever her deeper hopes or belief at this critical period of her mental history, she determined to lay the suggestions of her great singing master before the arbitress of her fate. In coming to this decision she was surprised to find how much less of fear and hesitation she experienced than on former occasions. ’Tis true, that to open any subject with Madame de Fontarce had never been the formidable business which similar undertakings were with the “respectable Redman.” Madame de Fontarce was always ready to listen at least with courtesy. Still the first intense and romantic respect and affection with which her aunt inspired her, rendered her reluctant to offer that well-bred relative anything save the readiest obedience. Once however, that first little minute point of the wedge circumstance had inserted itself in the barriers by which fancy shut out reason’s light, the illuminating process had proceeded rapidly, and with a diminution of that intense regard which had weighed her down somewhat, yet not unpleasantly.

The day after the conversation glanced at above, Madeline had quite made up her mind to the discussion, and for this purpose had hastened her toilette, intending to have a little more time before her aunt left her room, for Madame de Fontarce now remained longer than formerly in her bed, after the morning’s cup of cafe au lait.

Madeline was proceeding to ask for admission as usual, when Nathalie stopped her.

“Not just now, ma bonne demoiselle,” she said, “Madame la Comtesse is engaged with Madame Delille, and must not be disturbed. I will tell you when you can enter.”

“My aunt engaged with Madame Delille!”repeated Madeline, much surprised, “and so early!”

“’Tis even so,” said Nathalie, with an air of much superior information, and checked herself from saying more, a fact that struck Madeline, and suggested that more than once she had found .Madame Delille closeted with Madame de Fontarce, though never so early as on this occasion, and that when she had so found them, they had evidently changed the tone and conversation; and though Madame Delille had always been polite to her, she had been less impressive than on their first meeting, and never repeated her invitation to accompany her to the theatre. Madeline passed it all rapidly through the alembic of her brain, but made nothing of the analysis, so she retreated to her slip of a chamber over the archway, where, by the way, she now felt quite at home, and which she had very much to herself, Nathalie only entering it at night.

Here Nathalie found her some time after, and informed her that Madame la Comtesse was now at liberty to receive, so Madeline made her way once more to the side of the ornamented bed, where her aunt lay, her eyes very bright, yet looking exhausted.

“Ma belle enfantshe said caressingly, “I have been wishing for yon. I have had one of those palpitations, which visit me sometimes, it is nothing, however,” she added, seeing her niece’s expressive face cloud over with kindly sympathy. “It is hut a reminder that I am no longer young, that the sooner I can see my little niece settled, the better—” she stopped abruptly,^as though respiration was difficult.

“Do not trouble yourself for me, dear aunt,” returned Madeline earnestly, “except to give me that advice you are capable of bestowing. I was indeed anxious to tell you of some remarks which Signor G---made yesterday, and which tended to confirm me in an old fancy for my future career,” and she repeated them.

Madame de Fontarce frowned, smiled, and then turned a little uneasily on her pillow. .

“I am not so rampantly averse to an actress’s life as many of my birth and position would be,” she said at length. “I confess I would select it for you before the more respectable and infinitely more uncomfortable position of a governess. If nothing better offered, I should not too rigidly oppose your fancy. You might achieve success, respectable success, in England; that land of social contradictions, where they doubt the propriety of the drama, out admit actresses to their intimate life! And I imagine, that with training, you would make a tolerable actress; and you have some elements which would be an enormous help to you. But let us not think of this now. I am at length able to lay before you an eligible party, which, though at present not a great match, promises, I think, well,—the second son of Madame Delille, a Captain du Genie, of chasseurs a cheval. He has at present little beyond his pay, ’tis true, but I have promised that you shall have a little cadeau de marriage, in which, no doubt, the respectable Redman will assist. And I am not now without my influence near a certain illustrious individual, who will be pleased that one of his officers chooses to ally himself with the favourite niece of so firm a Bonapartist as myself. I mention this that you may feel reassured—and not that you are taken into any family without a reciprocity of advantages. I confess the affair presented many difficulties; but I had set my heart on your marriage. The position an actress may make for herself in England is, I am told, astonishing; nevertheless, as a married woman, the wife of a respectable man, with anything like capability, you start where she leaves off; and the open-ing for a clever, cool-headed woman, as the wife of Francois Delille, is excellent.” Madame de Fontarce paused again, wanting breath, having spoken with some excitement.

“My aunt,” said Madeline, in low, earnest tones, “this—this Monsieur Delille, is he—is he the gentleman who came to his mother’s box the night she took me to the Varietes?”

“The same,” replied Madame de Fontarce.

“Dieu des Dieux J” cried Madeline, with irrepressible horror. “Death, rather than such a marriage!”

“Mademoiselle is already rehearsing,” said Madame de Fontarce, with icy irony. “My dear Madeline,” she returned, in a more genial tone, “do not wrong yourself in my opinion by indulging in childish outbursts. I have always given you credit for a larger share of reason than is common at your age. Is it worthy of you to exclaim in such a fashion on a subject of which yon know nothing? Listen; I have made three distinct efforts to arrange your marriage, and this is the last and only successful one. In the first instance a sum of money was insisted on which I had no means of supplying; in the second, a difficulty of the same nature arose; and although I made Madame Delille’s acquaintance, and invited her to my little reunions, for no other purpose than to secure her second son for you, I cannot exhaust myself, in my weak state, by recounting the innumerable difficulties I have had to surmount; the principal point I have to mention is, that the futur himself has taken an extraordinary interest in the affair since your accidental meeting at the theatre, a rencontre, which I believe was purely accidental, for though much annoyed at the time by such a breach of les convenances, I quite acquit Madame Delille of any combination with her son, especially as your interview was likely to militate against her views. Another young lady was since proposed for Monsieur le Capi-taine, with, I am told, a small fortune—a very small one, I grant, but still more than yours, which is nothing. However, the future declined—nay, though it would not of course go for much had any serious embarrassment arisen, yet the young man has evinced a decided preference for you, and that surely ought to mollify some of your absurd insular prejudices, which I am disappointed to think you have not discarded;” and Madame de Fontarce paused after this long speech, partly for breath, partly for an answer. But Madeline merely bent her head in token of being ready to listen further. In truth, she had been struggling for self-control while her aunt spoke. She felt suddenly placed in desperate circumstances. Here were the horns of a dilemma. To marry this blue-bearded, hungry-looking Delille, was impossible!—to offend her aunt, fatal both to her prospects, and, what she thought of much more, her self-imposed sense of gratitude and duty. She therefore bent her head to gain time, before she committed herself to any reply—looking calm, but pale, while her heart beat painfully, and she silently ejaculated an earnest “God direct me!”

Madame de Fontarce paused a moment, and resumed—

“I am glad to see you are more ready to hear than to speak; it is the proper attitude of youth. Now, I acknowledge the inconvenience of having a husband absolutely in love with you. It is, of course, a restraint, and delays that settling down to an everyday condition which is so desirable; but, of course, it would not last long, and it might throw a good deal of power into your hands, though that is by no means certain. The capitaine is most anxious, if possible, ultimately to obtain a position near the emperor’s person, to whose fortunes he is wisely deter-mined to attach himself; and in the first steps towards this end, the mouse may help the Hon. I have one or two old friends near his Majesty; and my name, my fidelity, is not unknown. Imagine, my love, what a prospect opens before you!—a residence in this charming centre of civilisation—a possible position at Court—a further possibility of influence there! your children possibly peers of the new empire, which, should his life be spared, our present great ruler will make greater than it has ever been! Think, Ma-dehne Digby, think,” she concluded, with startling energy, raising herself on her pillows, her withered cheek flushing at the idea of such a triumph of bon march, “think of such a career for the penniless orphan of a ruined Irish cadet, the browbeaten dependent of that rich Redman woman!” And having sent home this last stroke with stinging emphasis, Madame de Fontarce sank back on her pillow.

“Dear aunt,” began MadeHne, hesitating and speaking low, “kindest friend, I can never thank you enough for the care you take of my fortunes; the picture you draw is brilliant. How shall I disappoint you when I say it possesses no charm for me.”

Madame de Fontarce raised hands and eyes in silent protest to her deity against such mental perversion. “Nevertheless, I am so anxious to bend myself to your views, so desirous to reward, in some way, your exertions on my behalf, that I will not yield to my first impulse. Grant me a few days to reflect— to weigh what you have said-”

“Ah! ciel cried her aunt, impatiently, “I have arranged that Madame Delille shall bring her son here on Thursday, the day after to-morrow, to make the formal demand modem etiquette now sanctions, if you are willing to ratify the engagement that has been made for you, and a refusal would be an unheard-of affront. No! you must decide now—or rather,” continued the old lady, vehemently, “you have nothing to decide. Do you mean to retract the solemn promise you gave me scarce six weeks ago, that you would commit yourself to my guidance? Do you intend to make me regret that I ever interested myself in you, or—” softening her voice artistically, u allowed, this wearied heart to repose in the belief of your affection?”

Madeline was touched, and melted into tears, but not quite so carried away as to forget that her whole future happiness or misery depended on herself and the next few days; she was shocked, too, to see the effect her opposition produced upon her aged relative.

“My dear aunt,” she said, “why did you not tell me what you were doing, and give me an opportunity of declaring my own sentiments? Now I feel I have the power to maintain myself, must I throw away the chance of married happiness, which, slight though it may be, I hold in common with others, for a chance equally slight of a position at the Court of France—a nod, two or three times a year, from his Majesty.”

“Ah! little foolish one,” whispered Madame de Fontarce, in a deep whisper, pressing her hand feverishly, “you know not, you dream not, the pleasures that await a married woman, possessed of the charms, the capabilities that lie dormant in you! But leave me; go, reflect; and remember, I have set all my hopes on this marriage.”

“Nay, dear aunt! but hear me;” began Madeline.

“No, not another word,” said her aunt, peremptorily; “I am quite exhausted, send Nathalie to me.”

Poor Madeline retired to her own chamber overwhelmed, yet not subdued; she owed a duty to herself as well as obedience to her aunt; she dared not, she must not, enter into this horrible marriage. How little she anticipated to what her unguarded promise to submit to her aunt’s guidance would commit her, and how to evade it! To this question she applied the whole force of her brain; she sat and pondered, gazing on each inanimate object in the cheerless chamber till it became painfully stamped upon her mind. The bare brown boards, the two small boat-like beds, the rude accessories of the toilette, especially the diminutive basins which had so distressed her at first. Oh! if she had one friend to apply to, one creature to whom she could turn to influence her aunt—but no! She thought of the good pere. Even he! Would he interest himself in such a matter? No, not unless she desired to take the veil, and Monsieur le Capitaine was almost preferable to such a living death as that. It was an awful strait, but chiefly she dreaded contradicting or agitating her aunt, whose health she saw terribly altered; yet she must devise some means of escape. Her subtle brain turned and turned for awhile in vain; no opening seemed to offer, save what involved a moral earthquake of some description. At last a desperate resolve suggested itself, was rejected, then returned again, was conned over, and at last decided upon. She would appeal to Monsieur Delille himself; she would confide in his honour ; she would .persuade him to make a difficulty, so as at any rate to gain time, and then time worked wonders. As it was, she knew enough of social life in France to he aware how soon the marriage took place after the formal acceptance,, and if she could do nothing to delay it her fate would be fixed. Had she not felt so bound to her aunt by gratitude and kindly feeling she would have fled, penniless as ever, for Madame de Fontarce never left a sous at her disposal. In the mean time sh6 would make a last appeal to her aunt, and display all the reluctance and dislike she felt at such a marriage; then, if successful in procuring its postponement or breaking it off, nothing, nothing should keep her from starting an independent career somehow or other. She was now nearly nineteen, and surely old enough to stand alone.

However, the future must take care of itself, the pressing difficulty of the present was to be met. Now, as to her scheme of throwing herself on the chivalry of Monsieur Delille. How was she to manage it? She would never see him alone until she was his wife; and besides the minor difficulty of procuring paper and ink to write, how could she get a letter conveyed? Nathalie, “bonne enfant” as she was, sympathetic and motherly, would as soon have dreamed of deceiving the Virgin Mary as executing any little manoeuvre undiscovered by Madame de Fontarce, in whose ubiquity she firmly believed, and besides, on this occasion, was thoroughly her mistress’s partisan. Of his (Capitaine Delille’s) address she was profoundly ignorant, and dared not hazard an inquiry respecting it. No, it was a desperate deed, and must be daringly executed. She would write a touching appeal, and during the momentous interview slip it unperceived into his hand, with a whispered prayer that he would grant her request. The present was a precious moment of liberty, so she at once sought for paper, and procured a pencil, all the writing materials she could find, and then poured forth the most earnest address her natural eloquence (of no mean order) could suggest, invoking all the better and higher feelings of which a man could be capable; then she folded it up carefully and placed it in her bosom, determined it should never leave her until she placed it in Monsieur Delille’s hand, and when she had finished she felt calmer.

Presently Nathalie came to tell her that madame was going out en voiture, and sent her love, and Madeline might walk with Nathalie if so inclined. But Madeline was not. “No, my good Nathalie,” she said, “I feel sad, sick at heart; everything is against me.

“Mais, fi donc /” cried Nathalie, plunging her hands into her pockets, and filling up the doorway with her jovial, handsome figure. “Mademoiselle ought to be ashamed to speak so, when all the world is her friend, and strives to make her happy. Come, then, put on your bonnet, and let us stroll down the boulevard, if only to see what are the newest modes, that the mind of mademoiselle may be prepared to choose her trousseau.”

And Madeline, feeling she could do herself no good by staying at home, and had little chance of securing Nathalie’s co-operation, consented.

CHAPTER XII

Thursday came with awful rapidity. Madeline had not failed to essay an appeal to her aunt’s feelings on the subject of the projected marriage, and had been met by a counter appeal. Madame de Fontarce’s little Madeline, her pet child, would not for a whim so defeat the favourite plan of her loving aunt, of her adopted mother, now that age and infirmity had left her so few pleasures! And here the astute countess had her niece at her mercy. Madeline gave up the contest, and put her trust in Providence.

The fatal Thursday was a gloomy sultry day, and Madeline rose early because she could not sleep; she was deadly pale, and dark shadows beneath her eyes gave her a haggard look.

Nathalie was in despair. “But mademoiselle! how perverse to look thus! when the most ravishing toilette de fiancSe had been prepared, and Madame la Comtesse had set her heart on seeing mademoiselle look like a beautiful princess. Hold, a cup of cafe noir would revive her, and then she should go into madame’s room, madame had signified that she would receive her in a little quarter of an hour.

So Nathalie hurried away to prepare the desired cup of coffee. Madeline took it thankfully, it seemed to revive her, and then Nathalie Went to her mistress; she returned almost immediately however, pale and agitated, her eyes staring with terror.

“Oh! mademoiselle, come!” she said. “My dear mistress is no more! see! come!”

Madeline, now equally alarmed, ran to her aunt’s room, and there beheld Madame de Fontarce, in her peignoir, seated in her easy chair, her head fallen back, breathing heavily, and unable to speak. Nathalie flew to the concierge, and entreated him to fetch the nearest doctor, while Madeline with trembling fingers sought to feel the pulse—hut in vain, she was icy cold, and the eyes were closed. Nathalie seemed quite bewildered with grief and fright, and Madeline scarce dared (in her ignorance) to suggest anything.

“Had we not better try and lay her on the bed,” she whispered at length; they spoke with bated breath, awed by the approach of the dread presence.

“God knows!” returned Nathalie, drying her eyes with her apron, but yielding naturally to the suggestion of a superior. With some difficulty, and the assistance of the wife of the concierge, who came to see what was the matter, they contrived to lay the helpless form on the bed, Madeline fanning her constantly, as she hoped it was but a swoon. After what appeared a long time to the watchers, though in truth with wonderful celerity, the doctor came, and in time, but not soon, the restoratives seemed to have the desired effect.

Madame de Fontarce slowly opened her eyes, the first object they fell upon was Madeline, and she muttered feebly, “How is it you are not dressed?” and relapsed into a sort of insensibility.

“Do not contradict her,” whispered the doctor, “and do not leave her alone on any account; I shall return in a couple of hours.”

Madeline therefore took her place beside the pillow, listening awe-struck to the low laboured breathing, until Nathalie, having made some necessary arrangements, was ready to relieve her.

She stole away for a moment and despatched a little billet to P&re Duseautoir informing him of her aunt’s seizure and begging he would come to her as soon as possible, as she felt terribly desolate and bewildered; this the concierge readily undertook to convey, the excitement of the moment and a vision of numerous pour boires rendering him unusually alert and obliging. Then Madeline crept back and ascertained that her aunt had lain in the same state since she left the room. She stood a few moments gazing at the ashen cheek, the changed features. Could that indeed be the same face that two days ago with such eagerness, such fire of expression, had with keen, well-chosen words, insisted on Madeline’s co-operation in a scheme of worldly advantage? What was the world to her now?— would it ever be aught to her again? As she gazed awe-struck at the wreck before her, madame partially opened her eyes, and said in a thick indistinct murmuring voice, “Ah! no; I will not remain. I will go to Paris!— the place for enterprise. There is nothing left me now; no, I cannot remain!” and then the voice sank into inarticulate whispers.

“Ah!” murmured Nathalie, “poor lady! she thinks she is at Bordeaux. Mais, mon Dieu! have you sent for the bon pere, mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” returned Madeline, in the same suppressed tone, “if he was at home he will be here soon.”

“The good God will bless you,” returned Nathalie, much relieved. For a moment die had doubted the Protestant tendencies of the young English stranger.

Then the hell rang, and Nathalie disappeared, and was some time absent.

“Is it not M. Duseautoir?” asked Madeline anxiously.

Nathalie shook her head, but did not say who had rung.

The priest, however, did not long delay, and his presence was an enormous relief to Madeline. He at once sent in a soeur de charite, who took command of the little household, and seemed to be doctor and nurse in one. The doctor called once every day, but could do little or nothing. Poor Madeline crept about bewildered, very quiet, patient, and obedient, hanging about the sick room in hopes of some recognition from the poor insensible form which lay there on the ornamented bed, that now seemed so cruel a mockery of the solemn presence hovering over it.

But once, and once only, the heavy eyelids opened, and the glazing eye met Madeline’s. A sort of change, it could, not he called a smile, passed over her face; but Madeline felt she was recognised, and stooping tenderly, kissed the poor helpless hand that lay outside the clothes. Madame de Fontarce closed her eyes, and never opened them again, though she continued to breathe for nearly twenty-four hours longer, and then passed away, they scarce knew when.

What an icy sense of desolation pressed upon Madeline’s heart, as the knowledge that her aunt, her only friend, was gone, reached her mind. Silently she knelt and shared the rapid but devout prayers poured forth by the soeur de charite.

M. Duseautoir had administered extreme unction several hours before. Now all was quite over, and while Nathalie bemoaned her loss with loud and violent grief, the attendant sister led Madeline to her little chamber, and bid her pray and sleep. Exhausted by her long watch and varied emotion, she did sleep long and deeply.

When she awoke, the kindly Nathalie soon came, pressing her to eat, and informing her that M. Duseautoir was in the chamber of death.

The next few days went by like a dream to Madeline. She never knew of what disorder her aunt died. The friendly priest said it was something connected with the brain, not an unusual cause of death with old people. Meantime she was penniless, and without any idea where to turn, for the apartment was constantly filled with officials, who made lists and opened boxes and secretaires, and poor Madeline was evidently an utter nobody.

And she could not bring herself to write to Mrs. Redman. Not yet. She must wait a few days, just to see what would occur.

Then the funeral took place, much sooner than it would have done in England, and at an earlier hour; and when it was over, M. Duseautoir took Madeline into the deserted salon, and, seating her by him on the sofa, said : “My poor child, you must leave these rooms. They are the proprietor’s, but the kind ladies of the Annonciades are willing to receive you.

I will take you there this evening. First, I must inform you that the late excellent lady, your aunt, with the true devotion which ever distinguished her life, has left her little for-tune—not much, a few thousand francs—with the exception of a small legacy to Nathalie, to be expended in masses for the repose of her soul, and her diamond brooch and earrings to the convent, which will receive you. Not knowing your circumstances, dear daughter, I have striven for you, and you shall have your good aunt’s clothes, her lace—very little, but of some value—and a few trinkets she usually wore. Nathalie has put them all ready for you. And now, think well. If you are, as I suspect, poor, and destined to win your own bread, elect to enter the fold of the only true .church, and I will place you well amid the best families of France.”

“Mon pere,” said Madeline softly but steadily, “I dare not deceive you; I shall ever remember the Annonciades and yourself with love and respect, but I cannot join your church! I do not think I ever shall, not now certainly.” The good father bent his brows and sighed as though disappointed. “Well, dear child,” he said, “you yet want shelter, and shall have it. I must leave you now, but will return for you in the space of an hour, when I shall remove you to the tender care of the good abbess, until you can communicate with your friends in England.”

It seemed incredible to Madeline that all was so soon over, that an event so important to her should be attended by so little change in the world which surrounded her. She felt, too, a little sore that her aunt, who professed so much love and tenderness for her, should have left the trifle at her disposal to purchase the esteem and approbation of that world for which she could exist no longer! and to buy that which the esprit fort of the defunct countess almost openly despised in life. Nathalie was remembered, a small sum equal to a couple of year’s wages being bequeathed to her, but no mention of Madeline. The trinkets, clothes, and lace of Madame de Fontarce, however, were great possessions, for though the wardrobe was not by any means extensive it was well-chosen and in good order. Moreover a young person can wear delicate greys and black, which were the prevailing colours, so as far as the gain went Madeline was satisfied; her heart would have been more content had she received these goods as a direct bequest.

Now all was over. Nathalie with many tears parted from Madeline—she intended returning to her native Bordeaux, there her little money would go further, and she thought of joining a brother in a wine shop—and again Madeline strolled and meditated in the still quiet convent garden, its repose rendered deeper by the dim echo of the distant roar of life. “ Madame la Superieure” was very kind and offered to receive her as a postidante. But no!—sad as it was, the hour of freedom had come, and Madeline determined never again to be dependent while health was spared her.

Of course Mrs. Redman’s reply to her letter announcing the death of Madame la Fontarce, and the disposition of her small property, was as sour a production as can well be imagined.

“So much for fine names and fine promises, which had utterly deluded Madeline, but which she, Mrs. Redman, had always seen through. Now, she supposed she would have Madeline back on her hands, after paying for her all these years, for Madame de Fontarce was not left to do all unassisted, as she had been. Mrs. Redman recommended her to return to London, and get a situation as governess as soon as possible, for which purpose Mrs. Redman supposed there was enough of the last quarter’s allowance left to pay her expenses back. Of course she would come to Abingdon Villas, there was no other place for her to go to,” &c.

“Ah,” thought Madeline as she perused this, “if worldliness must exist, give it to me rather in the French than English fashions she pondered over this epistle, a sister came to tell her that Madame Delille was in the parlour waiting to see her. “Madame ‘Delille,” repeated Madeline, colouring, and then turning paler if possible than before, “Is she alone?”

“Ah! I cannot say; la bonne mere sent me to you.”

So Madeline thought for a moment that there was no one to coerce or influence her now, and recovering herself, went quietly into the parlour. Madame Delille was there, with the sub-abbess, who rose as Madeline entered, and left the room. It was a warm day, May had melted into June, and the .large door-like, curtainless windows were open to the ground; some flowers lent their perfume and beauty to the cold room, with its white painted panels, dark floor, and stiff, meagre furniture. Madame Delille, who wore slight complimentary-black, was seated on what the girls used to call the guest’s sofa, being the only article deserving that luxurious appellation in the house. She rose to meet Madeline, embraced her on both cheeks, and placed her beside her with most studied and respectful politeness; then she made a short oration, in which the terrible bereavement of Mademoiselle de Digby, the virtues and manifold excellencies of the late your aunt, the grief and sympathy of Madame Delille herself, and her burning desire to assist Madeline in any possible or impossible manner, were neatly interwoven.

“Can she want to renew the marriage negotiation?” thought Madeline, schooling herself to be collected, and bearing in mind that nothing save a slight unpleasantness could arise from such a proposition. She therefore pressed Madame Delille’s hand in return for its pressure, and made a suitable little speech in reply (Madeline had profited largely by her short training in the salon of Madame de Fontarce), echoing, after the manner of such formalities, the sentiments of the first speaker.

Then Madame Delille paused and cleared her throat, and recommenced. She said it was with a heart tom by contending emotions she had dismissed her beloved son to his regiment—principle and duty must be considered before inclination and feeling; nevertheless, that dear Francis had been in despair, ready to do any deed of rashness, when he found the marriage could not be fulfilled.

“Madame Delille’s dear mademoiselle, though not absolutely French, was almost French in modesty, propriety, and sense, thanks to the admirable training of madame, her defunct aunt; she would therefore understand that her lamented decease must render the marriage, to which they had all looked forward with such gratification, quite 'out of the question. The most modest menage required money or interest to support it; and now (with an expressive shrug.) even justice to mademoiselle forbids the contemplation of such a union.”

Madeline listened, smiling inwardly to . hear Madame Delille so clearly convincing herself of the equity of her own proceedings; yet there was a degree of cynicism in her amusement which was melancholy at her age.

“Madame has perfect reason,” she said, when there was space for a reply. “I scarce expected or thought there was any necessity for an explanation. But it is as well, as it has procured me the pleasure of seeing madame. Your admirable system, too, prevents any suffering of the heart, by forbidding acquaintance while there is a chance of separation. Monsieur your son and myself can have therefore no poignant regrets, and can truthfully wish each other bon voyage and succass in life.”

“Nevertheless,” exclaimed Madame Delille,. charmed with this happy termination of an awkward interview; “I do deeply regret the loss of such a daughter-in-law; and I trust, if there is any service in my power to render you, you will not hesitate to tell me.”

“A thousand thanks,” returned Madeline, in the same calm, almost superior, tone she had maintained throughout. “There is nothing. In another week I shall return to my relations in England, leaving Paris certainly with tender regret.”

“Then,” said Madame Delille, rising, “you must he much occupied, and I will detain you no longer. Adieu, mademoiselle, and accept the assurance of my most profound esteem and regard.”

Again Madame Delille embraced Madeline, and swept out of -the room. There was a little courteous struggle to prevent Madeline from escorting her to the door, beyond which pupils must not pass; then Madame Delille glided away, and Madeline saw her no more.

The next day Madeline wrote a long letter to Mrs. Moorcroft, detailing her position, her wishes, and her capabilities as a teacher. She requested her, for the sake of their old friendship, to insert an advertisement in the Times, setting forth what she could do, that she had never been out before, and whatever else Mrs. Moorcroft thought it wise to insert; also what salary she ought to ask; and, finally, to permit an address to her house. She felt her spirits rise when she had accomplished this task. Here was a step towards independence.

Then she wrote to Mrs. Redman, and assured her she would no longer cost her anything, for she had determined to seek an engagement at once; and for her present wants she had enough, which was true, for after some reflection, she had begged the superioress to accept a costly piece of point d'Alenqon for the ornamentation of the figure of that lady’s patron saint, and thus won her help and favour in disposing of a sufficient portion of the delicate fabric she had inherited to supply her with the funds requisite to convey her to England. She would only wait Mrs. Moorcroffc’s reply to her letter, and then decide what day she would commit herself once more to the winds and waves of life.

The expected letter was rather long in coming, but when it did, it contained a most kind and pressing invitation to Madeline to come and stay for a few weeks with her friend’s mother, and decide there what to do.

This was an unexpected pleasure. Madeline hesitated, and then thought that she might accept for a short time; and if Mrs. Moorcroft would only allow her to stay as a boarder, what a delightful home-like protection it would be until she could find employment; and Jessie, too, would soon be at home. Yes, she would go there in the first instance, and then, by the aid of their friendly advice, decide on her future proceedings. So she wrote a most grateful acceptance, and then sought the lady superior, to announce her approaching departure.

CHAPTER XIII

It was a sultry July evening when Madeline, much wearied by her rapid journey, her past excitement, and the heat, stopped at the entrance of Ashley Villas, just four years after her first visit there. It looked as fresh as ever, and cool too, for the sun was off it, but silent and quiet beyond description, after the noise and animation of Paris. The place was improved too. The opposite row of houses was finished, and the road passable. To Madeline’s surprise the door was opened by Mr. Samuel Moorcroft, who, contrary to his usual calm fashion, rushed down the steps, to hand her out of the cab, hatless; he looked very hot too, but that was natural. Mrs. Moorcroft appeared in the doorway, smiling and serene.

’'ne felt more of joy in that moment than she had known since she had mourned over her father.

“How kind of you to take this trouble,” she said, giving her hand to Sam, as she descended. “How delightful to be among you once more.” Then followed, of course, a hearty hug from Mrs. Moorcroft, and the necessary plunge into the little living room in the basement.

It was curious to Madeline to go down there now. It seemed a wonderful dingy, mean place, with all its home-like neatness, after the lofty solemn chambers of the convent, and the Parisian effect of her aunt’s salon; yet she was right thankful to be there, and turned a radiant smile on her kind hostess, who was eager in hospitalities.

“What would Madeline take? she must be exhausted.”

“Oh, anything—first a glass of water?”

“Dear, dear, that is poor refreshment. I have a nice chop in the house, and a cup of tea.”

“A chop and ah English cup of tea! Ah how delicious!” returned Madeline, with the wondrous softness and repressed animation which gave such a charm to her manner. Mrs. Moorcroft bustled out of the room for a minute, and then returned to exclaim at the new shape of Madeline’s bonnet and mantle, and the absence of crape.

“They do not understand crape in Paris, you know,” said Madeline. “Mourning there is merely a black dress, bonnet, and gloves; and I shall adopt it, for crape is so expensive.”

“And how you have grown, my dear, not exactly tall, but so womanly and changed— your very voice. Don’t you think so, Sam?”—to her son, who had been sitting a silent spectator, apparently tongue-tied.

“Yes,” said Sam dolefully.

“I am changed in many ways,” returned Madeline with a sigh, “yet not in heart.”

Mrs. Moorcroft could not define in words what it was she recognised as new in her young friend, but she felt dimly inclined to apologise for the parlour in the basement and the servant’s bare arms when she brought in the tea. She felt that so elegant a looking creature as Madeline was out of place there; then she turned vaguely and angrily against that deceitful Frenchwoman. What right had she to take her niece and unfit her for common things, and then make no provision for her, but throw her back penniless on the world? Mr. Sam felt a similar oppression. He sighed and gazed at Madeline while she ate the chop, too absorbed even to cut her some bread and butter till reproached by his mother.

“You will find us dull, slow people after your life in Paris, Miss Digby,” he said at last, ruefully.

“Far from it. You little know the life of a demoiselle in Paris. It is something more monotonous than any English person can imagine; yet to those who are free what a charming place Paris must be!”

“I suppose so. I saw very little of it when I went to fetch Jessie, and she was miserable at school, and hated everything French.”

“Well I should have been like her, burning to return, had I had a dear mother like you,” taking Mrs. Moorcroft’s hand, and keeping it with tender grace, “waiting for me. Nevertheless I must ask you to be so far a mother to me as to help me with good advice, for I must set about finding some engagement at once. You know I have nothing in the world but my aunt’s old clothes!” and she showed all her pearly teeth with such a bright smile. “My poor dear aunt! she was so good to me, and I loved her too. It is grievous to think that her last feelings were those of annoyance.”

“How so, my dear?” asked Mrs. Moor-croft.

“Oh! I will tell you all about it by-and-by.”

“Well, I must say,” said Mrs. Moorcroft, shaking her head, “I think she acted unfairly by you. Why did she not leave you independent?”

“Because she could not!—she had nothing to leave!”

“Then why did she make a fine lady of you, and unfit you for earning your own living?”

“My dear Mrs. Moorcroft,” said Madeline, opening her great eyes, “she did not. I am much more fit to earn it now than before I went to her; and as to being a fine lady, I cannot think what you mean. That is a riddle I should never dream of attempting.”

“Well, well, we must do the best we can,” said Mrs. Moorcroft, ringing to have the tea-things cleared away.

“Yes, we must! and to-morrow I will go and see Mrs. Redman. I ought to report myself to her. She must never think I neglect the politeness due to her.”

Then there was a little exchange of intelligence. Mrs. Moorcroft told Madeline with pride- that Willie had been promoted, and was now stationed at Birmingham; that Samuel had gone as managing-clerk into a large wholesale business, set up by his former employer’s brother, and had hopes of being made junior partner, and both were such good boys —so ready to help their mother, that in another six months she expected to be able to dispense with a lodger. “What do you think of that, my dear?” she concluded, triumphantly.

“Jessie writes in the best possible spirits. Mr. Downing (such a gentlemanly young man, my dear) is a beginner you know, and they are only in lodgings. He is engineer in some railway—something to do with iron; but he hopes soon to get a better appointment. How sorry Jessie was not to have you for a bridesmaid!”

The contrast of Madeline’s second uninvited visit to her grandmother from the first struck her very forcibly. A poor, helpless, heartbroken child at the first, shrinking from the harshness of material prosperity, yet having nowhere else to turn. She was now a-woman, not a very prosperous one it is true, yet having something to give in exchange for her daily bread, with some knowledge of life and her own position in it, yet still, alas! terribly alone. However, she had now a tolerable estimate of her own strength and weakness, so she felt composed, even joyous, in her sense of freedom as she rang the bell at No. 13, Abingdon Villas, the day after her arrival in London. All was unchanged. The dining-room as neat and stiff as ever, Mrs. Redman’s cap as huge, while she herself did not look a day older than when Madeline left. Not so poor Miss Foster, who looked faded and worn, but sat in much the same position, and reading the Times aloud, as she had been the day that amiable villain Kit, alias Fitzwarrenne, had “bearded the lioness in her den,” and given an impetus to the fortunes of Madeline Digby.

On her side, Mrs. Redman could scarce believe her eyes or ears when the servant announced Miss Digby, and an elegant un-English looking lady, in most fashionable black, well gloved and well mannered, glided into the room. Insensibly the tyrannical old woman felt her reign was at an end.

The indescribable tone, the supreme good style of the young waifs manner and appearance, nay, the polished deference and politeness she evinced towards Mrs. Redman herself, put that severe individual in her right, or, as she thought, wrong position. On the persecuted Miss Foster, Madeline bestowed the warmest greeting, and Mrs. Redman evinced a true gossiping interest in all the particulars of Madame de Fontarce’s death and its results. She was sceptical and bitter about the old lady having nothing to leave. “Take my word for it, she had sunk everything to purchase a good annuity, and I am not sure she was not in the right. Take care of yourself and your friends will like you the better; and now I suppose you want money or something!”

How delighted Madeline was to reply that she did not; that she had sufficient until she secured employment, which she did not fear being able to do; that she was staying with Mrs. Moorcroft, and after this morning, which she had devoted to Mrs. Redman, she would be occupied placing her name on the books of divers institutions, therefore she could not call soon again at Abingdon Villas, but would report progress as soon as she could.

“Ton my word,” said Mrs. Redman, sorely vexed to see the girl slipping out of her grasp, “you seem to have taken the management of everything into your own hands.”

“And is it not time?” asked Madeline, with a smile. “Have I not been a burden to you, to every one, long enough?”

‘Madeline’s well-bred cheerfulness, her sweet voice, and high gentle spirit, at last began to tell upon the ill-tempered grandmother, who said somewhat more graciously, “Well, you caii stay and have some dinner with us, at least.” This Madeline readily accepted, and Miss Foster immediately proposed she should go up-stairs and take off her bonnet, thereby securing a private gossip, in which she showed, unintentionally, that she was much weakened in health and spirits.

Madeline was inexpressibly affected by the alteration in this her first and only friend in the respectable circle of Abingdon Villas. How ardently did she long to be rich, to be able to carry Miss Foster away to some bright country home, and cherish and tend that simple, gentle, fading creature. She felt inclined to cry over her; but this would do no one good, so she spoke to her with warmth and cheerfulness, and told her how much good she had done to herself, and how she hoped occasionally to come and see her wherever she was, till the poor companion quite brightened up, and began to think there was a bit of blue sky for her too, somewhere.

The dinner was a wearisome business, and soon after Madeline prepared to return, asking leave for Miss Foster to come with her to secure a place in the omnibus for Camden Town. This was reluctantly granted, and Miss Foster gladly availed herself of the permission. Madeline did not fail to enquire after and leave a message for Mr. John, who, Miss Foster informed her, had married a wealthy widow some months before. Madeline almost smiled at her own shrinking from the crowded omnibus, the vulgar details of English life, its unartistic aspect, its very homeliness of comfort. The whole conduct of life with Madame de Fontarce had been thrifty to meanness, yet there was not the smallest commonness in anything. Madeline was very seldom en voiture, but then she never entered an omnibus. There were no extraordinary distances to compel the use of this unaristocratic but most convenient conveyance; bit then the idea of being free to walk about alone was in itself a compensation for nearly all small annoyances.

CHAPTER XIV

Madeline’s hours fled rapidly while under Mrs. Moorcroft’s roof; she practised on Jessie’s little piano, the sound of which brought tears to Mrs. Moorcroft’s eyes; and she was much occupied in the intervals of visiting the various governesses’ institutions, where she had entered her name and qualifications, in remodelling and making her aunt’s dresses. Then Mrs. Moorcroft and Sam, between them, managed to dispose of some lace Madeline wished to sell, to much better advantage than she had done in Paris, so that, for the first time in her life, she found herself mistress of fifteen bright gold sovereigns and a good wardrobe.

“Why, dearest Mrs. Moorcroft,” she exclaimed, the evening the above sum was handed to her, “lam a millionaire! I shall next get a situation, and then I shall hoard my money until I am rich—so rich, that Mrs. Redman will not be ashamed to own me.”

“Well,” said Mr. Sam, with unusual energy, “if ever any deserved it, you do— I mean, success.”

Mr. Sam now came almost every evening to tea, and insisted on treating his mother and Madeline to the Crystal Palace, and would, have added other treats, had not Madeline been so intent on her search for employment. In truth, though she would not have said so for worlds, Mr. Sam and his treats were dreadful inflictions; with Mrs. Moorcroft she was always happy and content, but she shrank, with a feeling she could neither repress or define, from contact with men of Sam Moorcroft’s sort, as from a certain degradation. Yet she had not a trace of foolish pride. She was annoyed, and reasoned with herself, but in vain; instinct was stronger than reason or common sense, and she was by nature an aristocrat, though she would have laughed at you if you told her so.

She had been a fortnight with Mrs. Moor-croft, and was beginning to feel very anxious about employment. It was Monday, and steadily refusing an expedition to Hampton Court, planned and arranged by Mr. Sam,she went away, early, to the governesses’ institution, intending to ask the superintendent’s advice respecting the prudence of advertising. This lady had always shown her civility, and so far interested herself as to counsel her not to accept too small a salary;as a pupil of Signor G-’s, she ought to command a fair remuneration. There were not many candidates at the long table, whereon lay the books of reference, both for governesses seeking engagements, and ladies seeking governesses.

The superintendent was sitting at the inner side of the table, near a sofa, on which sat a lady who was speaking, not absolutely loud, but in a clear deliberate tone, that conveyed her words most distinctly to every one present.

She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, with a dark-complexioned resolute face, small dark eyes, iron-grey hair, and a wide thin lipped mouth. Her eyes fixed themselves keenly on Madeline, as she entered, with a little Parisian half-curtsy to the superintendent. She was well dressed, this lady— a rich watered black silk, a plain white bonnet, an Indian shawl, though it was warm, huddled round her, rather than put on; and a thick gold chain, to which hung a gold-mounted eye-glass—the said eye-glass being soon brought to bear on Madeline, who felt a little uneasy, for a moment, under its inspection. Madeline felt it difficult to assign this personage her place in the social world; there was not the slightest vulgarity about her, neither was there refinement; she was evidently a woman of position, and yet had not the dignity of rank. While Madeline stole glances at, and thought about her, she continued to talk in the same audible key, as though fearless or indifferent whether the whole world knew her affairs, or not.

“You see, I have but little time. I leave town on Saturday, positively; and I must take some one down with me. I despatched Miss—oh!—the last you recommended^—before I left; she was a monster of accomplishments, but her English was so provincial, that I would not have left her alone with my girls for three times her salary. I do not want them to be monsters of accomplishments, but I want them to be well-informed gentlewomen. You must help me Mrs. (I am ashamed to say I forget your name). I should be sorry to go anywhere else, for Lady Montgomery and myself are determined to uphold the institution in every way; so do the best you can for me. What have you at present?” “ Well, I fear we have scarce anything suited to your ladyship,” said the superintendent, evidently anxious to please this important personage; “you want good music?” “Yes,” returned her ladyship, turning over a hook of names, “I must have good music; you see, the next seven months we shall be in the country, and much can be done, or undone, in that time; besides, it’s useful in many ways. I must have first-rate music.”

“The young lady just come in,” whispered the superintendent, “is a pupil of Signor G-’s.”

“Oh! indeed!” returned the lady, in her clear tones, closing the book, and putting up her glass one more to examine Madeline. “But she wouldn’t do; she is too young. Anything else?”

“There is a French lady, who was disengaged yesterday—and-”

“No, no! I have had worry enough with French ladies. They are all very well in their own country, but they do not export good specimens.” Again looking steadily at Madeline—“If she was not quite so young! —ask her to come round and speak to me.”

Whereupon the superintendent, addressing Madeline, said, “Will you be so good as to come here, Miss Digby, Lady Templemore wishes to speak to you?”

Madeline immediately complied, and the superintendent resigned her chair to her.

“How old are you?” asked Lady Temple-more, abruptly.

“I was nineteen in April last.”

Lady Templemore shook her head.

“You look more, however, and that is fortunate. One of my daughters is nearly seventeen; I am afraid you would be like a playfellow to her.”

Madeline smiled.

“Where have you been before?”

“I have only taught in a school.”

“Then you have been trained to it; I fancied you were not. Mrs.-, I forget her name, tells me you are a pupil of G-’s.”

“I had thirteen lessons from him.”

“Good; I like accuracy. Why didn’t you go on with the other half dozen?”

“Because my aunt, who was good enough to procure them for me, died, and I was left alone.”

“Ha! What countrywoman are you? I fancy I detect a tinge of Irish in your voice.”

“My father was Irish, my mother English; both are dead. I have been educated in London and Paris.”

Lady Templemore looked at her watch.

“I have no more time now,” she said, “but if you like to call upon me this afternoon about six o’clock, I can speak farther to you. I may engage you or I may not, for I am afraid you are too young and inexperienced, so do not lose anything, meantime, for the chance of my closing with you. Don’t be late, for I have only a quarter of an hour to spare at that time.” Then taking out a richly ornamented card-case, she gave Madeline a card. “Good morning, miss. Mrs. Tucker—ah! that’s it, I want you for a moment,” and with a swift long step, she left the room, followed by the lady superintendent.

Madeline looked no farther through the books that morning, but putting away Lady Templemore’s card carefully in her pocket, hastened back to Ashley Villas, to inform Mrs. Moorcroft, who had been half offended at her persistent refusal to join the party to Hampton Court, of the chance she would have lost, had she not been firm.

“Well, my dear,” returned the kind-hearted matron, “I hope it will all turn out satisfactory, but I don’t much like your account of the lady, and she said nothing that I can make out about salary.”

“My dear Mrs. Moorcroft, I must sacrifice all that to get a start; I am determined not to lose any more time. What should I have done, had I not had a friend so kind and hospitable as yourself? You have been a mother to me!” and Madeline kissed her.

“Indeed!” returned Mrs. Moorcroft, with peculiar emphasis. “It is my wish that you should look on me as a mother, such are my feelings towards you.”

“Oh! cried Madeline, tenderly, “God is very good in raising me up such friends. He will reward you for your friendship to one so forlorn, as I would be without it.”

Mrs. Moorcroft, who was easily moved to tears, used her handkerchief audibly, and, patting Madeline on the back, set about getting dinner ready, that Madeline might be strengthened and refreshed for her long expedition in the afternoon. Lady Temple-more’s card bore the address “ Rutland Grate, Hyde Park,” some miles distant, and Madeline was determined .to start early, preferring to wait rather than lose her chance.

Lady Templemore had not come in when Madeline reached her residence. It was a large stately mansion, though partly shut up, —the furniture covered with brown-holland and silver-paper. A solemn clerical-looking man opened the door, and told Madeline to walk in, as he presumed she was the lady her ladyship expected; so he ushered her into a morning-room, on the entrance-floor, a little more uncovered than the other rooms, of which Madeline caught a glimpse as she passed.

It had pictures, and bronzes, and looking-glasses, bookcases, bright chintz furniture, a very business-looking writing-table, with rows of drawers to the ground, and an opening in the centre to sit at, a work-basket overflowing with knitting and embroidery, and a pile of letters and papers, journals and newspapers, completed the mixture of utile et dulce, remarkable in all the arrangements. The windows opened upon a large well-kept garden, the cool green of which was most refreshing to Madeline, after her long and dusty transit. She had not time, however, to do more than take in these details, when Lady Templemore entered rapidly but quietly, and walking straight to the chair before the writing-table sat down, saying “that’s right! nothing like being up to time. Now, you mustn’t mind waiting a few minutes longer. I have a line to write before post-hour, and there, there’s to-day’s Times.

Madeline took it, and covered her observation of the speaker with its friendly expanse.

Lady Templemore was dressed in the same attire she had worn in the morning. She looked a little tired, but proceeded with the same rapidity which distinguished most of her actions, to open and glance over several letters which lay upon the table; her countenance looked hard, as she was thus absorbed, but it was frank and bold.

Madeline did not fancy her especially, neither was she repelled. Presently, Lady Templemore seized a pen, scratched a few lines quickly and noisily, addressed and fastened the envelope, struck a bell which lay beside her, and handed the missive to the solemn man, who entered almost immediately, with the words “at once then”, turning abruptly on Madeline, said, “And you think yourself equal, at nineteen, to guide and control a girl scarce two years younger?”

“I am not at all sure of that,” replied Madeline. “A good deal would depend on the young lady herself. I might be a useful companion. At all events,” she added, “I have been taught self-control in a severe school, and that is something.”

“Where were you, and how long, in Paris?”

“At the convent of the Annonciades. I was nearly two years in Paris.”

“I hope you are not a Catholic?” said Lady Templemore, suddenly speaking in French— very fair French for an Englishwoman of her age. “I am not bigoted, hut it is a nuisance having one member of a( household differing in religion from the rest; besides,'ours is a very Protestant county, and it would never do.”

“I am a Protestant of the Church of England,” replied Madeline, “and more attached to Protestantism on leaving than on entering the convent.”

Then, still in French, Madeline’s examiner put a few leading queries on the subject of English literature, history, &c., showing herself possessed of a good general knowledge.

“You certainly have the true Parisian accent,” she said at last, returning to English. “Now oblige me by letting me hear you sing and play,” motioning towards a cottage piano which occupied one side of the room.

Madeline silently untied her bonnet, and then said, “It is rather a nervous affair, playing or singing under these circumstances. I beg you will not imagine I am doing my best.”

“It is trying,” said Lady Templemore. “I shall make allowance; but I cannot engage a governess in the dark.”

Madeline, of course, did herself great injustice. Nevertheless, Lady Templemore professed herself satisfied.

“You are young, too young,” she said, “still I will try you. My salary is sixty pounds, a year; but, as this is your first attempt, you ought to be satisfied with fifty.”

“I am quite satisfied,” said Madeline.

“Then as to references?”

Madeline gave her grandmother’s, and Mr. John Redman’s City address.

“This one will do,” said Lady Templemore. “I will get my man of business to see this Mr. Redman to-morrow; no doubt it will prove all right. I shall then write to you, and you must be ready to start with me at nine o’clock on Saturday morning from the Euston Station. Do not fear to acknowledge your inexperience, and if you are in any difficulty, come to me. I know my daughters thoroughly; and though I do not talk sentiment, I shall value a governess who proves really useful to them. You give me the idea of common sense, otherwise I would not get over your youth. I have two girls; they will he your care. Now, have I your address? Good; and here is your uncle’s. Now I must go. I have given you half instead of a quarter of an hour.” She struck the bell. “Here, Trussler, open the door for this lady; get her a cab, or anything she wants. I will write without fail to-morrow. Good morning, Miss Digby,” and gathering up some letters, she walked away, leaving Madeline to the care of the clericallooking individual who had shown her in.

Inexpressibly thankful of such an opening, Madeline walked on across the Park, unconscious of the many admiring glances bestowed on her graceful figure and carriage; an,d then, in her ignorance, got into the wrong omnibus, and so lost much time. It was nearly eight o’clock, and almost dark, when she reached Ashley Villas, a good deal tired and nervous at being so much alone.

Mr. Sam had arrived some time before, and Mrs. Moorcroft was on the look out for Madeline’s return.

“Well, dear, what news?” she cried anxiously.

“I think I have succeeded,” replied Madeline, smiling faintly; “but oh, I am so tired!”

Then a cup of tea ensued, and Madeline detailed her interview.

Mrs. Moorcroft thought Lady Templemore was somewhat awful, and shabby into the bargain, for taking off ten pounds in consequence of Madeline’s inexperience. But the effect of all this intelligence on Mr. Sam was very extraordinary. He sat in a brown study for some time, and then proceeded to stir his tea with the sugar-tongs. On being remonstrated with he became crimson, and covered with confusion. Then his mother asked him what he thought of Madeline’s engagement, for all considered it a fixed thing, and his reply was very singular,—

“If Miss Digby had only come with us this morning, all this affair might have been avoided; and it may be very troublesome, and it is not wise, to do anything in a hurry.”

“Why, Sam,” said Mrs. Moorcroft, laughing, “what in the world are you talking about? only I have been with you all day, I should think you had been taking more wine or brandy-and-water than was good for you.”

“But,” returned Sam, proceeding to spread bntter on the loaf vehemently with the butter-knife, “the choice between a home of one’s own, and residing with a screw like this Lady Templemore, none could hesitate to make; it is not grandeur, but sincerity and comfort, that make no place like home,” and with this lucid observation Mr. Samuel Moorcroft betook himself to his tea and silence, from which he roused to give his listeners an unusually frill description of his business prospects, his plans, and hopes of finding a wife to whom he would be the most devoted of husbands.

The mother looked serious, and threw in little sympathetic observations from time to time.

Madeline, after the-first passing amusement at Mr. Sam’s absurdities, seized the first opportunity to say she must write a line to her uncle, to prepare him for the application which would probably be made to him the next day, and. for this purpose went to fetch her writing book; on her return Mr. Sam had disappeared.

The whole of the following day was taken up in sundry preparations for her expected start on the ensuing Saturday, as Madeline proposed to devote the next day to a visit to Mrs. Redman, when she expected to be able to inform her of the final ratification of her engagement with Lady Templemore.

It was a pleasant day, the pleasantest Madeline had passed since she had parted with childhood. She was How on the high road to independence. She could save up, certainly, the next year and a half’s salary, and then be free to choose her own career. She might love her pupils, two nice young creatures, doubtless, who would love her. Lady Temple-more, too, seemed just, though hard; and Madeline knew, if she only got justice, she could satisfy the requirements of the position she had 'undertaken; so the day passed rapidly. Mrs. Moorcroft had gone out on some errand of her own, and Madeline, thinking it must be tea-time, descended to the common sitting-room, and found its only occupant Mr. Sam, who was walking up and down, and looking pale and uncomfortable. Madeline greeted him as usual, asked if his mother had not returned, and sat down; whereupon, to her astonishment and dismay, Mr. Sam burst into a declaration of love, jumbling up his feelings and finances in a very eccentric and ungrammatical fashion.

Poor Madeline was overwhelmed and grieved beyond description, especially v as Mr. Sam by no means appeared to anticipate a refusal. At last, however, she managed to make him comprehend that it was impossible she could accept him.

“But why not, Miss Digby? I always thought, and mother thought, you rather liked me. You know you let me have your photograph, and took my arm that day at the Crystal Palace, and I always intended to marry you—that is, to propose for you— ever since your first visit here. Now, do take time and consider the matter. Think of a home of your own.”

“It would only worry you if I were to take time. My dear Mr. Moorcroft, I am deeply flattered, but it is quite out of the question.”

“You don’t say so! And there, I’ve gone and written to your Uncle Redman; and we might have had such a good business connection through him. He was over at our place to-day, an uncommon fine man, and gave his consent, most gentlemanly. Well, this is a disappointment! Mother will be quite vexed;and, excuse me, Miss Digby, but you may repent it.”

“Perhaps you would, if I had accepted,” said Madeline, somewhat reassured by the tone her swain assumed. “But I am inexpressibly vexed to be obliged, however temporarily, to cause annoyance to any of you, kind and good as you have been to me,” and tears of vexation started to her eyes.

How unfortunate she was! She felt it was not in human nature, at least a mother’s nature, not to resent the rejection of a son, and she was truly grieved that anything should disturb her relations with the worthy Mrs. Moorcroft. She felt more alone than ever when Mr. Sam, with an irrepressible exclamation of intense vexation, rushed from the room. Madeline retreated to her own chamber and had a good cry; there she remained till Mrs. Moorcroft asked for admittance, and entered, looking very grave. Her first words, however, were sympathetic, though piqued.

“I am so sorry you have been worried, dear,” she exclaimed. “But never mind; dry your eyes and come down. I shall take no notice; it will pass over. I think Sam deserves a princess, which is but natural, you know, he is such a good son. I wish you could have married him.”

So Madeline came down, feeling like a culprit, and spent a miserable evening. Mrs. Moorcroft sighed a good deal, and called her Miss Digby.

The following morning, glad to leave the house, she started early for Mrs. Redman’s abode, having received the promised note from Lady Templemore, and was surprised by an unusually warm reception. Miss Foster, too, was full of “nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles.”

“I see you have heard of my good fortune,” said Madeline, warming to a gleam of sympathy. “I suppose Mr. John must have told you?”

“Quite right,” said grandmamma, absolutely relaxing to a smile. “And so it is all settled, is it? When is it to come off?”

“Oh! on Saturday,” replied Madeline, thinking the query curiously worded.

“On Saturday!” echoed Mrs. Redman, in a loud key of astonishment. “Well, that is quick work? Why it is scarcely decent! If you had acted properly, I was going to allow the marriage to come off here.”

“The marriage!” repeated-Madeline, in her turn. “There is no question of a marriage! I spoke of my engagement as governess to Lady Templemore.”

An explanation now ensued. Mr. John had informed his mother of Sam Moorcroft’s proposal; that he was a rising man, and that it was capital chance for Madeline, on whose acceptance all parties appeared to have reckoned. The announcement of her decided refusal called down a torrent of indignation and vituperation on Madeline’s devoted head. “What, was she keeping herself for the Prince of Wales? Since she had been with that impostor of an aunt in Paris nothing but countesses would do for her, indeed! Wait, however, and she would see the difference. What did she mean by refusing a respectable man, who was quite good enough for such a poor dependent creature as her?”

At last Madeline’s strong self-command gave way, or, rather, she deliberately chose to express her feelings for once. She therefore gave back Mrs. Redman’s insolence with a cool daring, a concentrated indignation, that astonished and for a moment silenced the respectable matron, and made Miss Foster turn pale with terror.

“How dare you speak to me in such a tone?” she said, in a low, clear voice. “What has been my error, save the misfortune of poverty? And is this to destroy my future, and bind me hand and foot in a marriage which might be my ruin? You deceive yourself with the names of things, and you have no right to be angry with me for refusing to accede to a repugnant marriage. It is time you should adopt another tone towards me. From this day forward I will never cost you a shilling. I regret that you compel me to feel the burden of an obligation without the gratitude that ought to accompany it.” And Madeline rose to leave.

However, Mrs. Redman recovered herself sufficiently to denounce and re-noun ce her granddaughter. She should never hear or see her more, and Miss Foster was also forbidden, under tremendous penalties, ever to hold any further communication with her. So Madeline was banished from Abingdon Villas.

The next two days were long and painful, though Mrs. Moorcroft was mournfully kind. At last Saturday morning came, clear and bright.

With many tears Madeline parted from. Mrs. Moorcroft, who positively melted at the sight of her distress. In due time Lady Templemore, with her maid and footman, joined her at the station, and greeted her civilly.

“Do not trouble yourself about your ticket; I will get it for you,” she said.

A few minutes more and Madeline was whirling away into a new phase of her life, but neither so joyously or hopefully as she would have done had she not inspired Mr. Samuel Moorcroft with the tender passion.

CHAPTER XV

Life now offered a totally new page to Madeline Digby, unlike all her previous experience, and there was much in it which delighted her at first.

, “The Grange,” Lady Templemore’s country seat, was situated on the Welsh border, within an hour’s drive of the old cathedral town of Greybridge. I say Lady Templemore’s advisedly, for her money bought it, and her will kept the family there during the principal part of the interval between the London seasons.

There was a Lord Templemore ’tis true, but then he was of no great importance to himself or any one else. He had some four-and-twenty years before sold his title and liberty to the wealthy heiress of Mr. Ephraim Grey, ship-owner and general merchant, Liverpool, a man of whose wealth the general public stood in awe; and on the whole, Lord Templemore made a very good thing of it.

It is true, from the nature of things, he soon found himself bound hand and foot by the will of his wife, but that would have been his lot whoever he had married. It is also true that she gave him a fair allowance of pocket money, of which she asked an account, but only when he wanted his quarter too much in advance. Then she was a well tempered woman, and “kept him comfortable” as industrious but humble matrons often do their ne’er-do-well spouses, and he must have felt that this was much better for him than squandering his last shilling on 'sharper friends of both sexes, at pleasant easy going German watering places and Italian casinos, which would infallibly have been his fate had not Miss Elizabeth Grey taken him “for better for worse.” He had uncommonly little of his own, however, to squander, a far-reaching line of Hibernian ancestors had lived too long like “rale gintlemen” on the family estate, to leave the subject of this sketch more than the hereditary situation of receiver for the creditors and victim-in-ordinary to the family attorney. Nevertheless Lord Templemore enjoyed life according to the ‘‘ eternal boyhood of an Irishman’s nature,” as some one somewhere admirably designates it. He was a tall, handsome, sandy-haired man, with a soft sweet womanish smile, a kindly heart, an easy, irresolute, rather self-indulgent nature, very fond and slightly afraid of his wife; he would probably have been unfaithful to a handsome woman who worshipped him, if he had not feared her. Doting on his children, whom he spoiled as far as opportunity was allowed, and much devoted to field sports, adored by the female domestics and popular with the men, who yet rather patronised him. He was a great catch at a hunt or charity dinner, as he could make an admirable speech, and put every one in good humour, and very popular with his neighbours; of no particular politics except his wife’s, for he did not care one straw for any thing that did not concern him personally, as he left all the trouble of life to Lady Temple-more, who desired nothing better.

Ah! what a man of business—what a committee man, railway director, and legislator,was lost to the country, when nature imprisoned the spirit of Lady Templemore in a female covering. Business of some kind was her only recreation, yet she was quite above meddling with any other person’s, nor had she a woman’s hustling enthusiastic affectation of business; she went at it with the calm thoroughness of a man’s vocation; she kept the most voluminous accounts; she held every line of her large expenditure thoroughly in hand; she could tell where to retrench and where to expand, were either alternative placed before her, in a moment.

Then she invested money in respectable undertakings, and had a vast correspondence with men of business, and she managed her large household liberally and economically, being a strict but just mistress. Besides all these occupations she had chalked out her children’s roads in life, and was resolved that nothing should be left undone to fit and train them for the lines and positions she had laid down. She was really a very admirable and useful woman, but perfectly free from weakness of any kind; tears were a mystery to her, kisses and caresses idiotic, and totally unnecessary indications of good will; sentiment, a sort of permitted lunacy, which in a more highly developed condition of common sense would lead to a keeper and an injunction giving the management of property to the next (unsentimental) of kin.

This well assorted couple had three children living. Lord Bracklyn, the only son, and the ladies Elizabeth and Agnes Grey Temple, for the business name was prefixed to that of the noble lord her servant.

Of course the children loved papa, and obeyed mamma, to whom she was a great ruling power who could be pleased with obedience only.

The Grange was an old place, with a new bouse standing on the slope of a hill, commanding a splendid view over a rich but flat plain, its principal features a winding river and the ancient cathedral towers. The woods surrounding the house were luxuriant and of old date, and the hill on which it stood crowned by the ruins of a Norman fortress built in ages past to awe the marches; from this the descent into a valley was abrupt, and beyond were a range of blue hills, and woods, and gentlemen’s residences, and on the right a view of a wide spreading river, and ultimately a glimpse of the sea.

Madeline had no idea of the order, the luxury, the exquisite fitness of all things in a house of this class, neither could she have imagined so much of form and routine in the bosom of a family. Her own and her pupil’s apartments were distinct from the rest of the family.

Lord Bracklyn had his bed and sitting-room at present unoccupied. Lady Templemore had her morning-room (she disdained the term boudoir) besides a dressing-room, both apartments devoted to business, though of different descriptions. Then “my lord” had his study, as it was misnamed., Then came family rooms and public rooms, to say nothing of housekeeper’s and servants’ rooms, and loci where Madeline never penetrated.

The stables and offices were an architectural village, and the array of servants conveyed to and from church in a species of omnibus, of a Sunday, enough to make the heart of a paymaster sink within him.

The bed-chamber assigned to Madeline was exceedingly pretty and comfortable, large enough to be also a sitting-room, with abundant wardrobes, a sofa, a writing-table, bright chintz curtains, and all the elegancies of a well appointed sleeping-room. The windows commanded a pretty home view at the back of the house, and it communicated with the room occupied by Lady Elizabeth, her eldest pupil.

Then the young ladies’ study was a delightful apartment, with all appliances and incentives to study; moreover she had a neat almost lady-like young woman to wait upon her, known as the school-room maid. Lady Templemore had clearly and shortly told Madeline the hours and routine of the house. When the family were alone, all breakfasted together in the small breakfast-room; Madeline and Lady Agnes would dine at the luncheon hour, Lady Elizabeth also when the house was full,' but with her father and mother when there was no company, at which time also the presence of Miss Digby and her youngest pupil of an evening in the drawing-room would be acceptable.

“Now,” concluded Lady Templemore, “all the school-room arrangements I leave to you; of course get the girls on with music, speak nothing but French to them, but make them read and get as much general information as possible. If you find any difficulties consult me, and if there is anything careless or uncomfortable in the service, complain. I hope, however, all will go well; whatever you do, keep the girls employed and wide awake.”

It was all very strange at first. The books from which the Ladies Grey Temple had learned were almost all new to Madeline. .However, she was quite equal to working with unaccustomed tools, and soon, with her pupils,settled into a routine of study and exercise not unpleasant, though very monotonous.

Lady Elizabeth was a lady-like girl, nearly seventeen, a weak likeness of her mother, cold as Lady Templemore, without her ability, matter of fact without her sense of justice. It was difficult to interest her in anything, yet she was not actively ill-tempered, though a little inclined to be sullen. Agnes, the youngest, was an interesting little creature, just emerging from childhood, not unlike her governess in appearance, especially in the pale gold hair. She was a nervous, impressionable, delicate girl, easy to teach but difficult to fix, very loving, very impetuous—she had generally been in disgrace with every one except her father, who loved her best. He first noticed the sort of likeness between his youngest daughter and the new governess; moreover, his lordship condescended to ask Miss Digby as to her family, saying in his pleasant way that ^he had some relatives himself of that name, but Madeline simply and truly professed total ignorance of her Irish relations, instinctive tact telling her that a possible connection with “my lord” would do her no good.

Madeline found too, she had a good deal of time to herself at this period, just before the shooting began; Lord Templemore was fond of taking out his daughters for long expeditions on horseback, and this exercise Lady Templemore approved, it was therefore permitted, and Madeline had the command of a piano, with abundance of new music; and also, which she valued more, an excellent library. Lady Templemore occasionally invited her to accompany her on various charitable and inquisitorial expeditions, just enough to lend the governess weight and consequence, and at first Madeline was inclined to believe, with the hopefulness of youth, that she was going to make fast friends, nay a real home, at the Grange, everything ran so smoothly and pleasantly. But as time rolled on she began to perceive that she never seemed to make any advance on the sympathies and interest of her employers. Lady Agnes, ’tis true, conceived a most ardent fancy for her governess, but this was by no means a point in Madeline’s favour with Lady Templemore—she hated all sorts of enthusiasm, and was almost indignant that any child of hers should be so impressionable and volatile as Lady Agnes, to whom perhaps she was more unjust than to any other creature.

However, the extreme calm of Madeline’s manners re-assured her ladyship, who little dreamed the fire which lay beneath that composed exterior, the ambition, the self-reliance, the strength, of that young, slight gentle girl.

The routine of the day soon fixed itself: there was an early breakfast for Lady Temple-more, before which Madeline and her pupils frequently enjoyed a stroll in the first freshness of morning round the gardens, and even the home wood, a piece of plantation near the house. Then came study and music, till the two o’clock luncheon, after which Madeline generally had some hours to herself, while the young ladies either drove with their mother or rode on horseback with Lord Templemore. In the evening, Madeline, with Lady Agnes, joined the circle in the drawing-room, where the new governess’s musical powers were frequently put in requisition by Lord Temple-more, who loved music, and had exquisite taste therein. He always enjoyed an Irish melody, a French romance, or a German ballad, when sung by Madeline, and even some of the simpler Italian airs. She feared his criticism too much to venture on any of the more difficult.

So time slipped by. Often the usual dinnertime was made earlier to avoid riding in the heat of day, and then Madeline had the whole evening to herself, and used to wander about the grounds, and sit and muse among the ruins of the old castle, reviewing the past and its various changes. How incredible and dream-like it all appeared! The old scrambling theatrical days with her father! After all, they were the mostly fondly remembered; though she did not deceive herself into imagining she would like them over again. For a love of all that is beautiful and refined was developing itself more and more every day. Ugliness, unsuitable dress, and ruggedness were utterly repugnant to her.

Then the sad sort of hopeless life at Miss Jones’s, the episode of a convent, the life with her aunt. How far gone by it seemed! and scarce three months had passed since the curtain had dropped upon that scene.

Now, how much more hopeful she felt; why, she could hardly say, save that her surroundings were more agreeable, and that she had made her first step in life; otherwise she was as much alone as ever. More so; for the Moorcrofts could not be to her what they were, since she had inflicted so much mortification and even grief, on that simple household. Then her grandmother was still incensed against her, so Miss Foster informed her, sub rosa, for that much enduring woman still continued furtively to correspond with her old protege. Yet Madeline was hopeful. She trusted by the end of a year and a half to be insufficient funds to maintain herself free of remuneration during a year which she calculated would train her for the stage. „ At least her loneliness gave her liberty. If none interested themselves in her, at least none had a right to control her; yet with all the marvellous strength she possessed, how often would she twine her little hands together and cry to G-od for love, even if it brought the strongest curb, for to her hitherto law and love had been divorced. Oh! the desolation of feeling the world was before her with no loving hand to direct her choice! She scarce dared allow herself to love Lady Agnes as she was inclined, certainly not to show it; yet when she looked at herself in the glass, dressed in her evening demi-toilette of rich soft black silk—for her costume was older than her years (her inheritance from her aunt, and Lady Templemore’s objection to her youth, fitting in wonderfully), she mentally measured herself, and recalled her aunt’s assertion, that though neither beautiful nor striking, she was seduisante. She would murmur to herself, “It will not he always thus. I have that in me to win notice and affection, and a place; I have not yet come to my real life.”

Madeline had been about six weeks a member of Lady Templemore’s family, when the eldest son, Lord Bracklyn, returned from a summer ramble in the Tyrol. He was his mother s favourite. She had hoped great things from him, because he was silent and impassive. She always expected to see him bloom out into something remarkable and practical, but Lord Bracklyn was now twenty-two, and had as yet given no sign.

One morning at breakfast Lady Temple-more, on opening one of her numerous letters, said to her eldest daughter (Lord Templemore was seldom up or down in time for his wife’s breakfast), “This is from Bracklyn; he will be here to dinner to-day.”

“I hope he will bring me some of those pretty carvings they do so wonderfully in the Tyrol,” said Lady Agnes, and no more notice was taken at the time. But in the course of the morning Lady Agnes observed—

“You have never seen my brother, Miss Digby?”

“Never,” replied Madeline.

“Then I do not think you will like him.”

“Why?” asked Madeline smiling; “don’t you like him?”

“Well no! not very much. He never seems to care for any one but himself, and one cannot like that sort of person.”

“How can you talk so foolishly, Agnes?” said Lady Elizabeth. “Mamma would he very angry with you if she heard it. Miss Digby, Bracklyn is very nice and sensible, and mamma thinks he will make a good figure in the House of Commons when he gets in.”

“His tailor will do that for him,” laughed . the irreverent Lady Agnes. “If he were a different sort of man he should fall in love with you, dear, darling Miss Digby; but you are a great deal too nice for him. You ought to have Ivanhoe or Brian de Bois Guilbert. Oh! I liked Brian de Bois Guilbert.”

Madeline absolutely shivered with horror.

“Lady Agnes, I shall he seriously offended if you allow yourself to talk in so unpleasant and rude a manner. What would Lady Templemore say if she heard you chatter so foolishly?”

But I am not going to let her hear me,” said Lady Agnes, kissing her governess defiantly. “Why do you try to scold me. You know you are not a stiff thing like all the rest.”

In the evening Lady Agnes was sent for to see her brother, and did not return, so Madeline spent it alone, not liking to intrude upon the family reunion, especially as she had not been invited.

It was the following evening before she met the heir of the house. She was with Lady Agnes in the drawing-room as usual before the rest of the family came in from dinner. When they came in, Lady Temple-more said slightly—

“My son, Miss Digby;” and a tall, thin young man, with a sallow- narrow face, and thin straggling whiskers, dark eyes with red edges, cold quiet mouth, and heavy jaw, bowed carelessly, and seating himself in a deep lounging-chair, applied his mind to the perusal of a morning paper. He had a look of his mother, without her quick intelligent glance or energetic manner. He reclined in this lounge the whole evening, sometimes bestowing monosyllabic replies upon his mother and sister, generally affecting to read the paper.

Lord Templemore asked Madeline to sing,both alone and with her pupils, and asked his son if he did not think Agnes very much improved in style and expression? And Lord Bracklyn said “Very.”

Lady Agnes asked him about travelling in the Tyrol, and he said it was like travelling everywhere else.f‘ I thought it was a mountainous country,” said his sister quietly, “but all the world is flat to you.”

“Agnes,” said her brother in a quiet voice, yet Lady Agnes started, do not be ill-bred and uncivil. Miss Digby blushes for you.” This was quite true, for dreading that this outbreak might be attributed to want of sufficiently severe discipline, Madeline’s cheek flushed, and when she looked up, she met Lor,d Bracklyn’s eyes fixed upon her from behind his paper, she fancied with an expression of contemptuous disapprobation, and she felt.altogether uncomfortable. However, the evening passed tranquilly over, and about ten Lord Bracklyn rose, yawned, and walked quietly away,

“Where is Bracklyn?” asked his father, shortly after.

' Gone to bed, I suppose,” said Lady Tem-plemore.

“Or to smoke,” said Lady Elizabeth.

“Well, I will join him in a cigar,” said Lord Templemore. “We have not had a word about the first of September yet,” and he bid them courteously good-night.

Several days passed, and except an occasional glimpse of an evening, Madeline saw nothing of the son and heir, whom she thought by far the most uninteresting personage of the family.

There was a great Sunday School fete and juvenile gathering, the first week in September, at a neighbouring magnate’s, and Lord and Lady Templemore, and their two daughters, were to grace it with their presence.

. Lord Bracklyn had gone into Wales to a bachelor friend’s, to enjoy the first of the shooting, and was to return when the party, regularly collected by his mother for the enjoyment of the Grange preserves, were assembled.

Madeline assisted to dress Lady Agnes, who, carefully secluded in general, was wild,with delight at the prospect of dancing on the grass, a band, &c.

“I wish you were coming, dear Miss Digby.”

But Madeline valued a whole day’s lonely freedom far too much to relinquish it readily. As soon as the party were fairly off, she enjoyed a long practise, then a long reading in her own room. A letter to Jessie Moorcroft ensued. Then dinner, served in the schoolroom, after which, she put on her broad-leafed grey straw hat, and strolled through the shady woods to the ruined fortalice at the top of the hill, where she sat and mused, and did a few stitches of her fancy-work, and revelled in the fresh air that came in soft sighs from the distant blue hills, visiting her cheek like a caress. Gazing on the mass of trees below her, all glorious with the first tints of autumn, at a distance, on an opposite slope, and under a large tree, with a sort of clearing round it, her eye was attracted by a large white stone, or heap of stones, and she fancied it might be a Druid’s altar.

“It must be easy to find my way to it, if I follow that path,” she thought, deceived as to the distance, by the valley which lay between.

So she started, following a path worn by rustic footsteps through the tufty uneven grass which grew luxuriantly under the delicious shade of the thick trees. She strolled leisurely along, stopping often to enjoy the effect of light and shade, to see the rich yellow sunbeams come quivering through the gently stirred leaves, and glance upon the smooth stems of the beech trees. Then she heard the distant refreshing music of a rivulet, chafing against stones, and presently she came to a brawling clear brown stream, hurrying over a small descent, raving round a large boulder or two, and making the big black stones on its margin wet and slimy; the tall slender trees springing from the hanks nearly met over the waterfall, and just over it was a little foot bridge, consisting of a single plank, and a broken rail at one side. How intensely Madeline enjoyed all this beauty! Her heart sprang up with a feeling of joyous thankfulness. Everything must come right in a world where the love of the Great Creator was manifested by its exquisite decoration. The beauty, the freedom, the pure air, produced their natural effect—physical exhilaration; and Madeline, secure in the solitude, sang aloud in the joy of her heart.

The path now led up a hill still embowered in trees, though the increasing light beyond warned the explorer that she was coming near the end of the wood. Soon she reached a stile, and then she was in a bare stubble field, without any view of the object for which she sought. To that succeeded a piece of pasture, which, seeing it was tenanted by sundry homed creatures, she did not like to pass, so she turned to the right, where a less beaten track led into a meadow, then into a potato field. Still no sign of a house, or any one stirring about; then she came to another bifurcation of the path, and so through a gate into a little country lane, with hedgerows, and here and there a large tree. She was now a good deal fatigued; moreover, she feared it was late, and so, after trying to remember how she had turned at various places, she took what she imagined the direction of the Grange, and walked a considerable time, principally up hill, till an opening in the hedgerow showed her, rather to her dismay, that the hill side on which she had looked from the ruins was still before her, but the large white stone considerably behind. She was therefore going from, instead of towards her goal.

If she could see any one to ask her way. It was singular this loneliness, and she felt a little alarmed. The sun was low, evening would soon close in. What if Lady Temple-more and her daughters returned before her!

How that lady would sneer at a romantic ramble; and worse, it might suggest to her that Madeline was an enthusiast, and therefore unfit for the guidance of a gushing creature like Lady Agnes; and Madeline was especially anxious not to lose her appointment so long as she chose to hold it.

While she stood thus hesitating what next to do, a party of sportsmen came round a bend of the road. The first was a tall, a very tall, gentleman in a shooting dress; his broad chest and wide shoulders, rendered more marked by the diagonal strap of his powder-flask. He wore a felt wide-awake hat, bent much out of shape, and rather turned up at the side furthest from the sun; under it was a noble, aristocratic face, with large dark blue eyes, and a profusion of auburn brown heard and moustache. He was a stately, soldierly-looking man, embrowned by exercise or travel, with the free step and lordly carriage of one who had never known a master.

Madeline smiled to herself, and thought that in armour he might have sat for the portrait of one of the Norman chiefs who in olden time had so often held the fortresses of the Marches against overwhelming odds of Welsh barbarians. Though she only stole a sly glance as he approached her, she would have liked a portrait of him, to gaze at so much grace and strength united, such as she had never seen before.

The sportsman was followed by two men, both dressed somewhat like himself, and bearing guns—evidently gamekeepers—and a boy carrying a game-bag. As they approached, the principal personage gave Madeline a quick, searching glance. It was certainly very unusual to meet such a figure in a country lane. Her pretty dress, and scarf of black and white muslin, just sufficiently displayed the outlines of her softly-rounded figure, and a wide-brimmed grey straw hat showed the white throat and little pink ear peeping out of a mass of pale gold hair, gently waved from the parting to the ends, and gathered up into a coil at the back. The whole attitude, from the little grey-gloved hand holding up the folds of her dress from the dusty path, to the neat little boot peeping from beneath a snowy petticoat, had in it an indescribable grace—a sort of tender charm—by which no quick observer could have been uninfluenced, and certainly not the man who now looked at her so searchingly, yet rapidly.

Making an effort over herself, she stopped the attendant nearest her as he was passing, and flushing over a delicate pink, asked—

“Would you be so good as to direct me the nearest way to the Grange?”

Before the man could reply, the gentleman in front, who had overheard the question, turned back, and lifting his battered hat with courtly grace, said with a pleasant smile—

“You have indeed wandered far. It is a long way back; you must retrace your steps for about half a mile, and then turn down a lane on your right, which will lead to a farmhouse; there they will direct you to a wood, through which you must pass.”

“Ah, yes! I know. I came through it this evening. It will be very dark,” she added, with a natural dislike to the loneliness, and glancing at the sinking sun seen through the break in the hedge-row.

“If,” returned the gentleman, “you will let me accompany you to the farm, I will make the owner send one of ‘his people across the wood with you, after which you will be in L'ord Templemore’s grounds.”

“Thank you very much,” said Madeline, most gratefully. “But perhaps were I to ask at the farm myself, they would send some one, and then I need not take you out of your way.”

“It is little out of my way,” replied the stranger, looking down into her eyes, and smiling genially, “and I fear our border Welshmen are not so polite as they ought to be. You had better accept my escort.” So saying he gave his gun to one of his attendants, adding, “You can go on to the Hall, Jenkins; say I shall be home half an hour after you.”

He then placed himself beside Madeline, and they proceeded along the path by which she had just come. The gentleman’s tone and manner was so perfectly well-bred and natural, so free from any affectation of gallantry, and withal tinged with something of an elder’s authority, that Madeline felt thoroughly at ease with him; presently the game-keepers turned down a lane on the left, and they were tete-a-tete.

There was no lack of conversation; perhaps for the first time Madeline was able to speak freely, and as she thought. How much she enjoyed it; she told her companion how she had been tempted to wander on in search of the white stone she had observed from the ruins, and asked if it was a Druid’s altar. He said it was a heap of white stones, but no one knew what brought them there; and as they had no meetings of the British Association in the neighbourhood, the mystery of its existence remained unsolved.

Then they spoke of many things, and the curious mixture of originality and tenderness in Madeline’s observations often struck her escort, and induced him to steal observing looks under the broad-leafed hat, and into the large dark eyes upturned to him in the interest of discussion. At last they came to the turn he had described to Madeline, and soon the roof of the farm-house nestling snugly in a hollow, came in view. You might have passed it a dozen times by the road, and not discovered it. Here a short pause occurring, the stranger suddenly said—

“Have I not the honour of speaking to .one of the Ladies Grey Temple?”

“Oh, no!” replied Madeline, with a sweet, frank laugh, as though amused at the idea,' “I am their governess.”

“Well, I ought to have supposed they would have known the country better; you must be very tired, you had better come in, and rest for a few moments.”

They had now reached a .large farmstead, in which there appeared to be abundance of agricultural wealth, including dirt.

“Halloa! Mrs. Thomas, are you at home. shouted Madeline’s companion, at the open door, as no one answered his knock. His summons, however, was replied to by the appearance of a russet-faced dame in a snowy rap and blue bed-gown, showing a striped linsey petticoat. She looked both cross and surprised till her eyes fell on the speaker, and then she smiled a wintry smile, and dropped a succession of curtsies.

“Would his honour and the lady come inside? They were just coming home from folding the cows.”

“This lady will rest for awhile, and then you must send some of your people with her through the Grange Wood to Lord Templemore’s. She has lost her way, and is very tired. Thank you, Mrs. Thomas,” he concluded, with kindly politeness; and making way for Madeline, they entered a large flagged kitchen, or living-room. A low red fire glowed upon the hearth, and over it hung a large black pot. There were settles at either side, and a large table, partly spread for supper.

The strange gentleman drew a three-legged stool forward, offering it to Madeline, who 'gladly sat down, while old Mrs. Thomas was profuse in her civilities.

“Would the lady haVe a drink of new milk and a slice of home-made bread?”

Madeline readily accepted the offer, for she felt faint. Her companion leant against the end of the large settle, holding his old felt hat. Madeline, feeling the kitchen warm, removed hers also, and sat at her ease, eating her bread, and smiling and talking as if the stranger had been an old friend, while the gleam of the red fire cast the ripples of her hair into wondrous light and shade. Suddenly the stranger exclaimed—

“I can see you across the wood myself, instead of waiting for this son of Mrs. Thomas.” “No, no!” replied Madeline, earnestly and frankly, “Lady Templemore would not, I feel, be pleased were I to permit you to come with me.”

“Why?” he asked, with a smile. “Has she a higher opinion of country bumpkins than of a gentleman?”

“I cannot argue about it,” replied Madeline; “I can only tell you what I instinctively feel. No; you must not come.”

“That shall be as you decide, then,” he returned, with grave politeness.

Just then Mrs. Thomas, who had been looking out for the return of her son, came in to announce he was at hand, and immediately after a stout elderly farmer entered. Louting low to Madeline’s companion, he professed himself ready to take the lady across the wood.

“It be a lonesome dark place, sure!” he added.

“Well, the sooner we go the sooner you will be back to your supper, which I am truly sorry to disturb, but I dare not delay longer,” said Madeline, rising. With gentle politeness she bid the ancient dame good evening, and re-assumed her hat.

The gentleman escorted her to the edge of the wood, and then took leave of her with evident reluctance.

“Good-bye, and thank you for all the help you have given me,” said Madeline, holding out her hand frankly.

The stranger took and bowed over it with profound respect. “Au revoir,” he said, “not good-bye, remember.”

“Pooh!” said Madeline, with a smile, and so passed into the shadow of the wood, closely followed by the sturdy Thomas Thomas.

“Pray, who is that gentleman?” she asked, after exchanging a few sentences with her guide.

“Eh! don’t you know the Colonel? Why he is Colonel Dudley Ashurst. He owns most of the land about here. He is my landlord. ’Twas his eldest brother as sold the Grange t’ould Mr. Grey, Lady Templemore’s father. Eh! they’re a grand proud lot, the Ashursts. I remember his father, and I remember himself a little boy. Lord, how he used to ride his pony through the ploughed fields—and all the mischief he used to do. But we’ve seen little of him since that day. He’s mostly away. Ah! they are a great family.”

Madeline made no reply. She wanted Thomas Thomas to hold his tongue. It seemed to freeze all the sunny sense of enjoyment that had filled her heart to have the immeasurable distance between herself and this courteous pleasant stranger thus thrust upon her. He was deferential to her because he was a gentleman; but what was there in common between a little friendless penniless governess and the head of a grand proud family—yet what was that to her? She was a goose! So she rallied herself, and began to chat to Thomas Thomas about cows and sheep, and a thousand things, quite merrily, till Thomas thought her a rare pleasant young lady, and that it was shorter than usual across the wood. So they reached the ruins where Thomas informed her Colonel Ashurst’s estate ended and Lady Templemore’s began. “This here old place belonged to his people long ago, it is said,” concluded Thomas.

“Then I need not take you any further. I know my way quite well now, and am so much obliged to you for taking care of me.” Thomas Thomas made a leg, and an awkward speech about being glad to do the Colonel’s bidding, and so departed.

Madeline ran hastily home, and to her infinite relief found she was in time; none of the parly had returned, so she smoothed her hair, and made Susan, the school-room maid, get her some tea. Then she sat down to read —to get quite cool and composed before meeting the inquisitorial eye of Lady Templemore.