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 XVI

CHAPTER I

Hugh Elliott had finished his dinner, and lay back in his easy chair before the fire, one foot on the hob, one hand supporting his head, the other hanging over the arm of the. chair, the forefinger separating the pages of a quarterly where, unable longer to fix his thoughts, he had ceased to read.

He had sat long, absorbed in thought, not in clear conscious reflection, as was his wont, working out some mental problem step by step, or weighing with the mixture of boldness and caution peculiar to him, the pros and cons of some doubtful speculation. Now a confused multitude of bright fancies, in provoking variety and unbidable pertinacity, kept rolling in a thousand wavelets over his brain, the two dominant ideas being, a certain dark-eyed, golden-haired vision of female grace and harmony, and a picture of masculine uncouthness; the first of course represented by Madeline Dierby, the second by Hugh Elliott.

Nevertheless, he had by no means a low estimate of himself — what successful man ever has ?—and hitherto he had felt a certain amount of easy security on the subject of marriage, not unnatural in a successful man. He had a decided intention to marry some day, for he had the usual wish to leave an inheritor of his name and property; but then his idea of a wife was a respectable well-dressed female, very quiet, and attentive to her business; a sort of junior partner, in fact, with a fair share of capital to put into the concern. She must be good-looking, for Elliott liked all his properly to be sightly; but as for that choice of the heart which makes one, and only one, indispensable, at least for a time—the deep-lying sympathy that “grows with what it feeds upon,” the quiet unspeakable joy in the looks, the voice, the touch, of one truly, heartily, warmly loved —he did not ask for such things: why should he? How could the mute man of the stoneage pine for the ornamental weapon of bronze? or the blind man complain of the want of colour he had never seen? These things were simply unknown to the cold, engrossed workman, raising with patient labour, stone by stone, the cairn of his fortunes. Yet, though cold, Hugh Elliott was not passionless—only the glacial period had not quite expired with him. An eminently practical man, the whole drift of omnipotent circumstances had tended to develope the material portion of his nature, while the warmer, the more imaginative, the better part, lay hidden under many a fathom of superincumbent strata. Silence, the habits induced by association with mere respectable animals, who did not absolutely conduct themselves like “Circe’s rabble rout,” simply because the aforesaid rout would at the present time have ended their saturnalia in the lockup, and total loss of character (which means cash) in the City, had suspended animation in the higher faculties, but they had not necessarily died out; one thing was immensely in favour of Hugh Elliott’s future, if his life was cold and dry, it was not sensual. He could laugh oi; thrill at a jovial or a warlike ballad trolled forth by some ruggedly musical shipmate, and he could drink deep too, but here he stopped, and would soon have renounced this last indulgence had it occasioned him any inconvenience, but he had a head of iron, I should say, a stomach of iron. And now the shimmering light from a new luminary began to throw its first broken rosy rays over the void of his moral world.

That first meeting with Madeline. How often he had recalled its very minutiae! The sudden start, the momentary look, betraying so much bitter disappointment, the brave resigned bearing, as she gathered herself up from the blow, and with gentle dignity hid the wounds.

Then what a strange longing to befriend her seized him, and over-mastered him. It was not (how often he told himself, and not altogether without truth), it was not because she was young and pretty, hut because he could see in her that most touching combination, a brave tender heart, a bold spirit, and a fragile frame, ready to bend under burdens that yet would be borne unmurmuringly.

For Hugh Elliott, like other mute men of action, had a-strange instinctive knowledge of character. And then his half disappointment to find her so independent, yet was she independent? She had evidently little but what she could earn, and that was a poor stay, yet she was well connected—that John Redman of Corbet Court was a man of substance, and of judgment too, for at the last colonial wool sales, did he not defer and bow down to Mr. Elliott’s opinion? Miss Foster too, her means of existence were a mystery to Hugh. He must find out all about them. It was curious how, in Miss Digby’s society, he felt himself unmoored, as it were, from his rightful anchorage. He was just as important a man as ever, yet he dwindled to nothing. He could not speak even with the small amount of fluency he usually possessed. While she—how graceful! how at ease! how friendly! yet how sub-tilely overpowering! He chafed against her; he felt half indignant with her; and yet in his heart of hearts how he pined for a glimpse of her. He looked at his watch—eight thirty —and it would be nine before he could reach Kent Terrace. No! it would be too late, he must give it up for to-night—but to-morrow! yes, certainly to-morrow.

Then Mr. Elliott threw away his quarterly, and after drumming with the top of his silver pencil case against his large, strong, white teeth, drew over a newspaper and began scribbling rough calculations on the margin.

He put only figures; but of course an author is in the hero’s confidence, and I am base enough to betray it. He was trying to arrive at some idea of the expenses of a married man and householder on a respectable footing. Alas! a thousand a year would go but a small way towards maintaining that reputation for wealth which (from no ostentatious motives), he was anxious to uphold: “It would be

madness to marry a woman without money— I cannot afford it, at any rate!” and he threw away the newspaper in disgust. While to show the folly of imaginary estimates, I reveal one item—for the future Mrs. Elliott’s pin-money, thirty pounds a-year. He should then have married an aboriginal Australian, she might have managed on it

The settlement of Mr. and Mrs. Downing in London afforded Madeline a new pleasure. To spend an afternoon with Jessie and her baby; to dance or rock the soft cooing thing, and enjoy the mother’s pleasure in it filled Madeline with a tender regret never to have known her own mother. And what a pang it must have been to that young mother to have left her child in the helpless, though kindly, hands of the ex-cavalry captain. “Yes, poverty is a great evil,” was generally the conclusion of her reveries on this topic; “ at least hopeless poverty.” And then certain grave pictures of her own possible difficulties would rise before her, and induce some immediate act of economy or self-denial; difficult to manage where the whole scale of life was frugal and self-denying.

The Downings had taken a pretty little semi-detached villa, not far from the more magnificent neighbourhood of Warwick Crescent, and here the modest furniture of Woodbine Cottage had been removed. It was a time of hard work, and I fear hard words, for Jessie; for Mr. Downing disliked outlay of all kinds, and also discomfort; then the baby wanted more attention than the over-tasked mother could well bestow. So Madeline was a “real blessing” when she could steal half a day from her proper avocations to share and lighten her friend’s labours, and often would she stay on to share Mr. Downing’s tea—albeit, by no means enjoying his society; but she generally managed to put him into good humour, for she had by some mysterious means been reinstated in that gentleman’s favour since a worthy citizen of “credit and renown,” like Mr. John Redman, had acknowledged her as a relative, and even asked her to a state dinner. There was little or no argument, or other disturbance between them, as Madeline always tried to rub him the right way for Jessie’s sake, caring too little about his opinions to contradict him. Miss Foster, too, was soon adopted by the friends as one of them, and quickly found favour in Mr. Downing’s eyes as a good sort of creature, which, being interpreted, meant that Miss Foster looked up to Mr. A. Downing as a fine young man, and altogether a superior being.

Mrs. Comerford’s account of Mrs. John’s entertainment afforded much matter of scandal and surmise to old Mrs. Bedman. That Madeline should have been invited at all was an act of deliberate and premeditated insult to her, the head of the house. “Well, it’s all very fine Mrs. John taking her up in that way, but when her recklessness and extravagance have reduced her to beggary, I wonder will she stick by her then,” said grandma’, nodding her head portentously. “She needn’t come to me, after throwing me off as she has done.”

“No, indeed, ma’am,” returned Miss Sharp, companion No. 2; a short, sharp, wiry little woman, with keen light grey eyes, tight cork-screw curls, and thin angular figure. “ I’m sure Mrs. Redman is just worn out with all the worry about Miss Digby, and how she bore up so long against the impositions of that Miss Foster, it’s a wonder to think of.”

“I certainly think that no one could be worse treated, and ugh! ugh!—” A troublesome cough interrupted the old lady; “Just run up and bring my lozenges, Miss Sharp!” she ejaculated.

“Rim up for your lozenges?” repeated Miss Sharp, with the keenest note of interrogation. “Well, ma’am, I think—considering you are well aware of the state of my heart—you might have spared me; however (with an air of resignation) I will ring the bell for Sarah! Your mother,” turning to Mrs. Comerford, “has been so used to a woman like Miss Foster, who doesn’t seem to have known what was due either to herself or her employer, that I never know what is coming.”

“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Redman, querulously, yet apologetically; “I never knew there was anything the matter with your heart.”

“And I’m sure I shall be delighted to fetch your lozenges,” said Mrs. Comerford.

“I understand the insinuation,” cried Miss Sharp, bristling up. "Whereupon both ladies apologised, and disclaimed in a breath, and after a while peace and tea were proclaimed.

“Well, and what had you for dinner?” asked grandmamma, returning to her mutton.

“Oh, it was really a sumptuous repast,” replied Mrs. Comerford, and plunged into particulars, concluding with “everything in the greatest style, I assure you; but nothing to surpass Madeline Digby’s dress : pearl grey silk, and such lace! worth a guinea a yard, if it was worth sixpence!”

“What do you think of that?” said Mrs. Redman.

“I am not a bit surprised,” said Miss Sharp, shutting down the teapot with a snap.

“Mrs. John was very fine, too,” resumed Mrs. Comerford; “so was Mrs. Blyth, and that noisy and racketty it was enough to make your head split—I mean Mrs. John; but I must say the way Madeline Digby carried on •with a Frenchman, whom it seems she knew in Paris, was extraordinary. I suppose it’s French manners; but I did not understand it. Of course she chatted away in French, and when he tried to speak to Susan Jane, told him he must speak English; and she understanding every word they said. Then Mrs. John made her sing; and she sang just like an actress, I declare—such an exhibition; and the Frenchman and a very strange man, a Mr. O’Keefe, went into such raptures. I’m sure I do not know where John finds such people. He never used to know them.”

“They are all her friends,” snapped Mrs. Redman. “His people were always respectable.”

“Well, what with new faces and new fashions, I felt quite out of place,” said Mrs. Comerford.

“I daresay you did,” returned Miss Sharp, with doubtful sympathy.

“It seems,” resumed Mrs. C., “that all these people are directors of that company John has joined.”

“I don’t like it,” said Mrs. Redman, seizing a piece of buttered toast. “His father never was in a company. It will end badly. But what I want to know is, how that poor creature Miss Foster, and Madeline Digby, manage to get on. I know that Miss Foster had a trifle in the Three per Cents.; but then lodging and living run away with a good deal of money, and dressing, too—as you say she dresses.”

Mrs. John says “Madeline has more pupils than she can attend to, and is ont every night in the highest society.”

“That’s all very fine,” returned Mrs. Redman; “but mark my words, they’ll come to want yet, and then they will fall back on me.” And if a sincere, though unuttered, desire could bring about the fulfilment of a prophecy, there were dark days in store for the unoffending partners of Kent Terrace, New Road.

CHAPTER II

Dinner was over in “The O’Keefe’s” consular residence—a modest pair of parlours in a small street off the Strand. And the great man was regaling himself with a cheroot, while a tumbler of his native beverage—whiskey punch—steamed at his elbow. His countenance bore an expression of calm content as he contemplated the light smoke-wreaths which floated round him. His tranquillity was broken by a loud and irregular knock at the front door, followed by a foreign voice, asking for “Mons. O’Keefe.” “It’s that racketty devil, Delille,” muttered the great “O’,” taking his cigar from his lips, and emitting a large puff of smoke. “There’s three first-rate Manilla’s as good as gone, to say nothing of a mountain of moonshine in the way of talk.”

“Halloa!” he cried, directly the head of M. Delille appeared at the door. “Enter always, my friend! Why, what have you? You look upset!” for M. Delille presented an angry aspect; his wild black eyes were flashing, his hands clutched, and inarticulate sounds, something like “’cre-re-re,” issuing from his lips.

“Upset, my friend!” he repeated, pacing up and down the narrow limits of O’Keefe’s front parlour. “I well believe it, but also insulted! insulted by that type of all that is detestable in British character, Monsieur John Redman. Listen, my friend! I will no more serve the company while that base tyrant is on the direction! More! you shall forthwith demand that he shall give me the satisfaction due to my offended honour!”

The O’Keefe gave a long whistle, and removed his legs from a chair which had supported them:

“Call out John Redman! Why, you might as well call out Aldgate pump, for all the chance there is of his coming! A City man fight a duel! faith it’s the best joke I’ve heard this many a day! There, don’t look as if you were going to eat me, but take a chair and a weed, and tell me what it is all about.”

“Ah, O’Keefe, my good friend!” exclaimed the Frenchman, relaxing from wrath into pathos, “ you behold the most miserable of, mortals, the sport of a cruel destiny, driven by the most adverse circumstances to desperation.”

“God bless us!” ejaculated O’Keefe, in English, while he occupied himself searching for a pin wherewith to pierce the end of a fresh cigar.

“You know the story of my first meeting with that angel of beauty and goodness, Mademoiselle Madeline; how perverse fate interfered between us, or she would now be my adored wife?”

“Or you’d have been adoring somebody else’s wife,” interrupted O’Keefe. “Yes, I know all about it. Haven’t you told me three times over already?”

“Imagine my feelings when the estimable Madame Kedman directed me to conduct her to the satte h manger. Mm Dieu J”

“I have imagined that three times also.”

“Monsieur,” said Delille, rising with dignily.

“Excuse me; I thought I was speaking to a sympathising friend.”

“Sit down, mon beau. Don’t be so hot and hasty. I am your friend, and sympathize with you from below the bottom of my heart; but if I am to cany a message to Mr. Redman, is it unreasonable in me to ask what it’s about? And if you go off raving about that charming Miss Digby (and I don’t deny that she is charming), how are you to explain? Now, sit down like a bon camarade. I’ve some first-rate seltzer water; have a little, with just a suspicion of brandy in it? Here” (opening the door, and shouting), “Maria, Theresa, Charlotte, Elizabeth — What’s-your-name? bring a bottle of seltzer and a glass; mind, the big glass.”

“Yes, sir,” returned the slip-shod slavey, running eagerly to do his bidding. Servants —female servants especially—doted on The O’Keefe.

“Now, be a good boy, and don’t mind me; I can’t help a bit of a joke. Ah! Delille, mm ami, the laugh and the joke have lifted me over many a crooked turn.”

“My friend,” returned the Frenchman, with effusion, “you are a good heart, though too cynical; but, if you had had patience, you would have heard how essential was the mention of Miss Digby. You know, then, that the vivid impression produced upon me by the one short glimpse vouchsafed to me of her in Paris, just two years ago, had partially effaced itself. I had renounced the project of marriage. I even told myself it must be an inconvenience—a sort of stupidity leading to many contretemps — to be passionately enamoured of one’s proper wife. The disturbance of passion is hardly suited to the tranquillity and pure esteem which should exist in the retirement of family life.”

“There’s a great deal of truth in what you say,” replied O’Keefe, gravely; (puff, puff) “you have reason; try the seltzer water. Time will show what he is at, I suppose!” he muttered in English.

“But ah!” continued M. Delille, rising and again pacing the room; “What chance has the voice of reason against the wild impulse of the heart? When my eyes encountered hers I felt that our fate was fixed. I say ours, my friend, for she reciprocates my love! I know it; though to her pure heart—innocent as it is—her own sensations are, no doubt, a mystery. O’Keefe!” cried the fiery Frenchman, suddenly pausing opposite his host, and trying to grasp his short hair, “will it be for me to reveal the mystery to that soft angel, whose divine simplicity is her highest defence T

“Faith, I’d advise ye not to try,” muttered O’Keefe to his tumbler; “your soft angel has a spice of the devil in her, or I’m much mistaken.”

“Speak!” cried his interrogator.

“How can I tell? I’m sure there couldn’t be a better interpreter.”

“Ah! you are a true friend,” said Delille, pressing his hand. “Listen, then! convinced that life was insupportable without the belle Madeline, and knowing my fortunes were still not assured, though I have the prospect of unbounded riches when the enlighted ruler of my country has time to consider my superb project of an iron road to Timbuctoo, I thought in an affair of this kind, even in this ill-arranged country, I should address myself to M., her uncle, I therefore presented myself at Warwick Crescent, and was well received by madame. M. Redman had just returned from the City, and on my requesting a private interview, he accorded it at onoe. I then explained my position and prospects, declared my profound devotion to his adorable niece, and begged to be informed what dot he would give on the occasion of her marriage. He is thick, that M. Redmans; and it was long ere he comprehended; then he broke out in language which, my faith! I tremble with fury to remember. He renounced that angel, he reviled her; he said it was a ruse between us to extract money from him; that he had nothing to do with her; that she was a beggar; that she had refused a good marriage for no sufficient reason, and that if she married me we should be a pair of beggars together; that he knew nothing about me—-me—an officer of the French army! and, a thousand thunders! showered insults upon me! Raise thyself, O’Keefe! seek out this brigand, and give him my cartel /” and M. Delille shook the great “O’” till his huge form vibrated.

“He is crazy,” thought the Irishman, looking with something like serious concern at the excited creature, who almost foamed at the mouth. “Hold!” he said aloud. “It is, indeed, unworthy conduct; but perhaps Redman was angry, and didn’t know what he was saying; any way, I’ll see him, and bring you an ample apology; will that do?”

“Ah, my friend, the worst is to come! I am ordered to proceed to the new mines in Brittany, to prepare a report for the general meeting of this accursed company; nay, more, to establish myself there for the permanent surveillance of the works. And I must leave her? No! Par Dieu! I shall renounce the infernal shackles of the tyrant Redmans—I will-”

“Hold a bit!” interrupted O’Keefe. u What do they pay you?”

“Five thousand francs a-year.”

“And what have you besides?”

The Frenchman sat down, covered his face with one hand, and waved the other despairingly.

“I thought so. Well now, suppose you try what change of air and scene will do for a short time; you know you couldn’t live on two hundred a-year with a wife. You go away for a while, and when you come back God knows what may have happened; you may be able to marry, but whatever you do don’t quarrel with your bread and butter. Try another bottle?”

The Frenchman shook his head, but seemed to listen to his friend’s representations, for O’Keefe continued to impress the folly of his intentions on M. Delille. At last he exclaimed, “But the belle ange herself!—what will she think of me leaving like a dastard ?”

“Why, she can’t think much of one interview.”

“One interview,” cried Delille. “Why, I have met her several times since at that little engineers, M. Downing’s; he has a wife the most interesting.”

“Whew!” whistled O’Keefe.

“Nay, more. I have penetrated into the sacred privacy of her apartments, with Madame Downing — and — and — she must know it is my intention to demand her as my wife. There is an estimable lady of a certain age resides with her, and a dog of a cousin, a true John Bull, hard and stiff, like a log of oak, was visiting this lady, a M. Elliott—he would not be a pretender, eh! O’Keefe?”

“Is it Elliott of Size Lane? Not he! he is engaged, to my certain knowledge, to Miss Grainger—Grainger, Gubbins & Co. — the great banker’s daughter; he has but two, and they have a million between them. What do you think of that, Delille? Suppose you go in for the other one?” If I could get him on a new tack, thought O’Keefe.

“Do you also mean to insult me?” he returned, with melancholy deliberation. “ My destiny is fixed—only I am the victim of circumstances. How—how shall I explain my departure to Madeline?”

“Just write her an elegant letter; tell her you are tom to pieces, and all that, that you go to make a fortune and will return to claim her; you know you are neither bound to make the fortune nor to return.”

“Ah! what a counsellor,” exclaimed the versatile Frenchman. “I will,write even now; but stay, would it not be better to see her.”

A long discussion ensued; but. at length O’Keefe persuaded the enamoured Gaul to write, to make up his mind to obey orders, and to depart on his mission immediately.

“Thank God he is gone!” said the great O’,” when at length alone, as he put the cork in the brandy bottle and rang for Charlotte Elizabeth to clear away. “I’ll be glad when he is off; there’s something mighty quare about him; old Everard Digby’s granddaughter look at him, set him up, faith!— I wonder how she came to be related to those mushroom Redmans. I must find out. Any how she is a real darlint, and no mistake. If I was sure Donna O’Keefe was under the sod I wouldn’t mind trying my own luck. Well, it may be mighty inconvenient to be in love with your own wife, but it’s a deuced deal more inconvenient not to know whether she’s dead or alive. Here, Maria Theresa! bring me my best boots and some warm water. Til justlook in at Mrs. Blyth’s ‘ small and early/ there’s a perfect treasury of widows, snug and warm too, to be met with at that house—but where’s the use of wishing?

CHAPTER III

Spring had now advanced a stage, and Madeline and Miss Foster were rejoicing that a fire was no longer necessary, except for their evening meal. The partners were strict economists, and had spun out their little capital of thirty pounds wonderfully. They had been together for very nearly three months — the three happiest months (apart from stings of memory) that Madeline had ever known—and now some of her pupils were leaving town; consequently, she began to receive the sweetest morsel that can be enjoyed in the shape of income—money honestly earned. Miss Foster, too, had received her magnificent half-year’s interest of fifteen pounds, which was religiously put away to meet the weekly rent.

“I have only two lessons to give this morning,’’ said Madeline, as she assisted Miss Foster to put away the breakfast things; “so I shall be back quite early; let us look over our accounts, and set all things in order.”

“Yes, certainly,” returned Miss Foster, with remarkable alacrity. “I will have the books and all ready when you return.”

“Why, aunty, you look tremendously significant! I am certain you have a fortune concealed somewhere.”

Miss Foster laughed gaily; a very different laugh from the nervous simper that used to make her worn face more sad at Mrs. Redman’s. And Madeline went away happily enough.

On her return she found her writing materials and account book duly set forth, and the two friends set to work to examine it. The sum total was soon arrived at.

' “Now for the funds,” said Madeline, gaily. “Give an account of your stewardship, aunty.” “Well,” returned the elder partner, “I have only five shillings left of our thirty pounds!”

“And I have two, and six postage stamps,” added Madeline. “However, we have the rent secure for nearly six months to come, thank God; let nothing touch that; and here are five pounds paid me yesterday.”

“And here,” cried Miss Foster, almost trembling with joy and eagerness, “are three more, which I earned myself. Oh! I have had such work to hold my tongue, that I might surprise you, but I did.”

“Why you mysterious aunty,” said Madeline, kissing her. “What have you been doing? Robbing a church?”

“Well, you see, dear, I used to feel it very much, your going out slaving yourself, and I sitting at home idle. So one day I was speaking to Rumble, she happened to mention that her daughter, before she was married, used to earn nearly ten shillings a week making gimp and cord trimmings; so I went to several places in the City and had great difficulty in getting anything; but now I am considered a first-rate hand, I assure you,” said Miss Foster, with honest pride, “especially in shoulder trimmings.”

“Dearest friend!” exclaimed Madeline, taking her thin hand tenderly and reverently in hers, “I am so glad for you, that you should share my pleasure in providing for our natural wants; but indeed, indeed, you must not work yourself too much; you know you are but frail, and you know, too, how precious and important your life is to me, so be careful.” The tears stood in Miss Foster’s eyes.

What merciful guiding was this of the Great Ruler of life, to lead her out of the stony howling wilderness into so warm, and verdant, and sheltered a nook as Madeline’s genial loving nature made of their poor lodging? There is marvellous beauty in the tenderness sometimes (though rarely) shown by strength and ability to mediocre weakness —the broad and just acknowledgment that the huniiblest and poorest (intellectually) have an indisputable right to their individuality; not the mere material generosity that would cast them “food enough and to spare,” but the beneficence that treats all that is good in them with respect, lifting them up in their own esteem; setting them, as it were, on their own feet, and assisting to keep them there, not letting them think they are too unsteady to stand upright or alone—the minute forbearance that will not break the bruised reed! This is ideal justice, the fruit of self-control. “Lord of himself, that heritage of woe,” sings our great cynical poet; that most noble heritage, rather—“lord of himself,” in the sense of self-command. What grander position could, any man attain? with passion, pride, avarice, physical strength, and its attendant appetites —self-love, ambition'—for servants, and what servants? like the crown vassals of some feudal monarch: a magnificent following, but loyal only in proportion to the iron will that rules them—the strength of the commonwealth— each indispensable, and hurtful only when in excess.

Meantime Madeline released Miss Foster’s hand, and resumed her pen :

“We have then eight pounds in the treasure chest, and there are nearly ten due to me; the coming quarter is almost provided for, independent of my new pupils (for I have another engagement offered me, aunty). If we can but keep out of debt, and have a little put by for the dull “out of season” time, we shall do well. I must increase my clienteUe. You know Lady Bawson is so good, and works so hard for me. I wish, aunty dear, that poor Jessie was as happy as we are! but there is no rest in her life; and that, that poor coxcomb of a husband. No! I cannot help despising him! He is so tyrannical and exacting; it does vex me to hear him at rare intervals, when he is in good humour—not when she specially deserves it—throw her some crumb of notice or approbation, which she is ready to crawl on her hands and knees to pick up. It’s not right; she cannot be happy!”

“I think she is, dear,” returned Miss Foster. “She quite adores Mr. Downing. (He really is a most agreeable, clever young man.) And then she has the baby.”

“Well, I hope she is! Poor Jessie! I used to envy her in days of yore. I would not like to change with her now.”

“Yet I should not like you to be an old maid, Madeline dear!”

“No, of course you would not,” said Lady Rawson, in her clear, cheery voice; entering unperceived by the friends, she caught the last remark. “Spoken like a woman of sense and of the world. Nevertheless, this Madeline is likely enough to be one if she yields to her natural eccentricities as she does. What is the meaning of your refusing my little party, madam?” she continued, shaking hands cordially with Madeline.

“Ah! Lady Rawson, I am so glad to see you! It is so long since we met!”

“ Well, I really have been in such a whirl ever since "I came back to town after Easter that I have not even had time to write you a note; so I was determined to have a good long talk with you to-day, and came over in a cab. Now I will just take off my bonnet—these April days begin to be warm.”

So Lady Rawson took off an ethereal arrangement of tulle and green foliage, and settling herself into an old horsehair-covered tin-easy chair, faintly disguised by an elaborate anti-macassar, proceeded to put Madeline through a cross-examination.

“You see I did not forget you. The Wandesfordes wrote to you? Yes, they are quite pleased! The children say they never enjoyed music lessons before. And how is the grandmamma? Has she made any sign yet? What a hardened old woman she must be! You have beeD counting out your money, I see. My dear girl, I trust you are getting on well. Life is a rude battle for a young thing, yet it is better then than when you are old. Anything more of the omnibus man? I imagine he is a trump.”

“My cousin, Mr. Hugh Elliott,” put in Miss Foster, with gentle and pardonable exultation, “is most kind and attentive. He often comes in of an evening, on his way from the City. He likes to converse with me on our mutual relatives, and to hear Madeline sing Scotch ballads.” “I dare say he does,” returned Lady Raw-son, thoughtfully. “I dare say he does.”

“And I am succeeding wonderfully,” said Madeline, drawing a chair by Lady Rawson’s side. How much of that success I owe to you! What a valuable friend you have been to me! Ah! dear Lady Rawson, what a different light success, even in my small way, throws on the world.”

“It does, indeed, child! But all this time, what have you been doing? and what do you mean by refusing my invitation? Little Fitz reports that the last day he called he encountered a terrific Frenchman, of tigerish aspect, who interfered with your practice, and made eyes at ‘ mademoiselle!’”

“Yes,” said Madeline, laughing; “M. De-lille, the gentleman to whom my French aunt wanted to marry me!”

“Ah! ah!” cried Lady Rawson. “And your English aunt,” waving her hand towards Miss Foster, “is she going to take up the same line of action?”

“I imagine not,” returned Madeline; “at least, I think she would find it difficult to arrange, especially now that Monsieur knows I am sans dot''

“That is very likely. Now, Madeline, you must come to me on the first. You may with safety,” added Lady Rawson, with a significant nod, which called the colour to Madeline’s cheek, and made her compress her lips as with sudden pain. “You shall be free from all offence.” She stopped abruptly, catching a puzzled expression in Miss Foster’s face. “You know it will be of use to you, for though you may not be sufficiently known to get evening engagements this year, they may come next season.”

“You need say no more,” said Madeline, quickly, “I shall be most happy to do your bidding.”

“Well, you had better meet little Fitz and Signor Leonidas at my house on Wednesday, and arrange a programme.”

“Certainly,” returned Madeline. “Perhaps” —but her further utterance was cut short by the entrance of “Hemma,” with a letter.

“For you, Madeline,” said Miss Foster, handing it to her.

“It is a square foreign-looking thing, and on thin paper,” she replied.

“Open it, and don’t speculate,” returned Lady Rawson.

Thus exhorted, Madeline broke the seal, and, glancing at the signature, exclaimed, in much surprise:

“Alphonse Delille! What can he be writing?” Then, spreading the letter before her, read aloud as Beautiful and adored angel! with a heart tom by contending emotions I address thee, not having the courage to behold thy beauty again before exiling myself from the heaven of thy society. Fate has destined us for each other; and though once more cruel circumstances separate us, I go; but to return again. Thou must have seen the profound and tender passion which consumes me. Nay, more; I feel it is regarded with gentle consideration by thy noble soul. I therefore desire to place under your eyes the motives which actuate me. I have still my fortune to make, and how could I, who would fain lay worlds at thy feet, ask thee to share my poverty. But I have hopes the most brilliant. I go to realize them. In another year I shall return with those hopes fulfilled—and then,—if thou, adored one! will but keep thy faith to thy devoted and distracted Alphonse, he will then' hasten to lavish his wealth upon thee, and make thee his own. The reputation I bear in the French army, and also with thy uncle, through my connection with the renowned company which he directs, will be my guarantee. To thy sympathising ear I confide it, that though magnificent in design, the I. C. S. Company accord but the miserable salary of five thousand francs to their capable and faithful officer. Judge then if I be not desolated. Adieu, my beloved! Pray for thy adoring lover, and

“Believe ever in “The unalterable devotion of thy

“Alphonse Delille.”

Madeline on concluding her lecture, laid down the letter with an air of bewilderment; looked first at Lady Rawson, then at Miss Foster, and burst out laughing. In this she was quickly joined by Lady Rawson, who then exclaimed—

“You must have been flirting outrageously with this unfortunate man, Madeline.”

“No, indeed, no!” cried Madeline, earnestly. “1 had not the most remote idea—I mean serious idea—that he thought of me. I was amused at meeting him at Mrs. John’s, and then he came to Downings two or three evenings when I was there, and used to look at me uncomfortably; but I never dreamed of his proposing.”

“Proposing!” echoed Lady Rawson. “He does nothing of the kind, he looks upon you as already his own—he only begs you to wait patiently, and to be constant.”

“How audacious!” cried Madeline, yet more in mirth than anger.

“It is as well he is gone out of the country though,” said Lady Bawson, gravely; “ he might be embarrassing and compromising. A girl’s reputation is such a delicate morsel, especially in yourt position. I would have no objection to a French husband for you were he better provided with the ‘ wherewithal.’”

Conversation flowed-on this topic for a while, and then Lady Bawson proceeded in her frank friendly way to question the partners as to their amount of capital, and financial condition, which was as frankly replied to.

“My dear, it is hut a small provision,” she said.

“But enough, dear friend,” returned Madeline, “till more comes in.”

“Yes,” returned the woman of the world, “so long as you are in health, and your clothes don’t wear out; but just think of appearances, and the price of a silk dress; why it is appalling! Well, Madeline, when ever you are desperately hard up, you know where to come for a five pound note.”

“You are too, too good,” returned Madeline, her eyes filling; “but I trust in God never to ask alms.”

Never lose sight of common sense,” said Lady Rawson, impressively. “I hate everything morbid; and an opportune loan from one who can spare the money, is not alms; besides, my dear child, I owe you that much for the sake—” her ladyship stopped, pulled up as it were on the edge of a precipice, and then added with a slight laugh, “for the sake of ‘ Auld Lang Syne.’”

Madeline coloured with the force of her eager desire to divine what lay below the brink on which Lady R. stopped. Though too well-bred even to hazard a spoken conjecture as to the amount of acquaintance or connection between her father and her friend, she had pondered the matter over and over again, longing, with a great yearning, to speak of that dear, weak, erring father, to one who had known him under happier auspices. Her eyes, with all their mute eloquence, met Lady Rawson’s, who slightly frowned and shook her head. Miss Foster, who was busy regulating and putting away the papers, money, and account-book, which lay about the table, took no heed, and Lady Rawson, after a few more suggestions respecting the musical arrangements for her party, and advice touching Mons. Delille and his pretensions, took leave of the friends, leaving as usual a sense of light and colour, cheerfulness and energy, behind her.

CHAPTER IV

The London season was quite over, the session breathing its last, and every soul gone out of town—that is every individual supposed to have a soul. All Madeline’s pupils were in this category; some expected to be back towards the end of September; others were uncertain; some had gone to winter abroad; so her days were quite unoccupied, and not allowing herself the extravagance of a library subscription, she felt a little triste from want of occupation. However, by practising diligently, and clearing off all arrears of necessary needle-work, she managed to fill up her time, besides learning to make gimp and bead-work from Miss. Foster—but even on this humble trade the season tells, and this was quite a “slack” time, as it is technically termed.

Mr. Elliott, too, was of late almost a stranger, and it was wonderful how much they missed the visits of the grave, earnest Northumbrian. He had become so much at home in their humble lodgings, they felt him to be such a true friend. His opinions had a certain weight, even with Madeline {who was by no means largely gifted with veneration), for they bore the stamp of patient honest thought, and there was even a sort of pathos about his lonely struggle, and slow, steady, upward toiling—his hard work and poor reward —Madeline thought. Then of late he had been less stony and more sympathetic—less contemptuous in his estimate of pleasure and pleasant trifles, and more inclined to combat Madeline’s antagonistic views in a candid, inquiring spirit, as if it were quite possible she might be right sometimes. To Miss Foster his manner had always been kindly and gentle. And so the partners missed him much: Madeline even talked of writing to him they had some hooks of his, and to ask what had become of him.

She had many other things to think about, however, and not always pleasant things. She thought that they had funds enough to manage for two, or even three months; but if, by that time, she was still without pupils, or had only recommenced, there was an abyss of debt before her and the gentle creature she had taken under her protection. Often did she ponder how this was to be avoided, and anxiously did she watch for returning signs of life in the deserted quarter where they abode, determined at the first symptoms of animation to advertise at a cheaper rate than she originally taught, in order, by any means, to fill the dwindling purse.

But she was young and hopeful, and it was only at intervals that these uncomfortable anticipations oppressed her.

It was the end of August. Hugh Elliott had for some weeks been greatly engaged— first' with the wool sales, which proved unusually profitable, and next with a careful examination and analysis of his own financial position. He looked carefully and narrowly into things, and behold they were very good! This examination was not merely a prudential measure—it was dictated by an object which had grown to be the object of his life. He now revolved the question of marriage in a far different spirit from that in which we saw him scribbling calculations on the margin of a newspaper a few months ago. Other considerations besides solidity and a reputation for wealth now presented themselves and overpowered their opponents.

This slight girl—this little moneyless! Madeline—had cast a spell upon him, with her curious mixture of intellectual fire, and womanly softness—her golden hair, and great dark eyes, out of which the bold frank spirit looked with such tranquil daring—her varying voice, that could ring with such a silvery expression of contempt, or melt into tones so tender that each word was a caress—with her alternations of brightness and langour—she it was who had changed the whole complexion of things.

Hugh Elliott had for some time resolved to try and win her, and this with his usual deliberation. Nor, she have read his heart, was the love and life he was about to offer, unworthy of her or of himself. He was not the less ambitious, but he felt that she was a woman to help him by sympathy and understanding in the path he had marked out. And then, however high he might climb, there was no position she would not adorn, and no triumph that would not be barren without her.

If she would but love him! Ay!—there was the doubt—would she love him?

Well, this warm, glowing, yellow August evening, Hugh finished his work, and put away his books early. A strange elation seized him as he reviewed his life, and the wonderful success which had hitherto attended his undertakings. He felt that Madeline could not refuse him—that perhaps some colder motives might influence her at first — the security of a comfortable home—the rest from toil and uncertainty—but once let him enjoy the privileged intimacy of an engagement, and dare to speak out all his heart, and show his real self to her, she would soon learn to love!

Alas! Hugh Elliott little thought how well that lesson had been taught before. But not knowing it, he went home to his lodgings in a most enviable frame of mind. The lines about his mouth and brow were relaxed, his grave eyes had a kindly, genial look, very different from their old expression, and after trying to eat his dinner, he sallied forth, intending to stroll through Kensington Gardens to Kent Terrace, to enjoy one of the delicious contests of thought and opinion with Madeline, which had opened up to him such a new mental life.

Hugh Elliott then sallied forth with a sort of glow and sparkle pervading his spirit, and a sense of coining happiness; very delightful, nor always deceptive, as a mood like this often ensures its own fulfilment.

It was a glorious evening, the yellow level sunbeams striking in between the foliage, and streaking the dark trunks of the trees with gold. Very like the September sunset under which Madeline first met Dudley Ashurst. And now all that seemed to her as if it had happened in some other life, while she sat under a wide-spreading elm in the grand old gardens, watching with a dim sense of pleasure the drops of sunshine flecking the grass, as the faint breeze at intervals stirred the leaves. “It was gone, it was all passed by yet she could scarce blame herself. She had always been conscious that there was a great social gulf fixed between herself and a man of Ashurst’s rank. She knew he could not marry her; but then, she could not avoid his seeking her; and as to avoid loving him, she might as well strive to annihilate her proper nature. Yet, how inferior in quality was the love he had offered her. Was she, then, a thing so much beneath him that all his rank and power could not raise her? “Had he married me, I should have proved to be the proper stuff of which to make a countes#,” she thought, as a smile half-sad, half-contemptuous, moved her lips, while she reflected how rare was the knowledge of true values. “Yet there can be no standard for such things, each one has his own.” She was a very charming picture as she sat thus: her gauze blue barege dress, black lace shawl, and little hood-like bonnet, also of black lace, with daisies and bluettes, making an effective toilet. She rested one elbow on the side of the seat, supporting her head on a small, well-gloved hand, while the other held a parasol, with which she musingly traced figures in the gravel. The whole attitude bespoke langour and fatigue, and her eyes looked very dark and dreamy. Hugh Elliott thought fortune had specially favoured him when his eyes fell on her. He paused a moment to observe her, unnoticed, and thought with pride how fair she was; of how proud he would be of her. What a proud, soft, daring, timid darling she was; and so, with a glowing beating heart, that would speak out in his eyes, he drew near and took her hand almost before she perceived him.

“Miss Digby, all alone! Where is Miss Foster?"

“Ah, Mr. Elliott!1 You have deserted us in a base and cruel manner,” she returned, with a tranquil-weary sort of smile. “We have had serious thoughts of following your example, and advertising for you. What have you been doing?”

“Oh, a great deal, I assure you! but I am freer now, and ready to bestow more of my company on you than perhaps you would care to have.”

There was something different from his ordinary tone in his voice, which made Madeline look up with more of interest than she had as yet either felt or shown. “Were you coming to us now?” she asked; “I think Miss Foster will have returned by the time I get back. She went to do some shopping in the cool of the evening, and I walked over to Mrs. Williamson, to ask when her school reassembled. Will you come with me, Mr. Elliott T

Yes, Mr. Elliott would with pleasure; so they walked leisurely towards Edgware Hoad; not talking very fluently, for Madeline’s thoughts were wandering, while Elliott was concentrating his, determining that, if on arriving at Kent Terrace Miss Foster was still absent, he would seize the opportunity and ask Madeline to be his wife. These thoughts made the long walk seem alternately shorter and longer; but they reached their destination at last, and Miss Foster was still out.

The sitting-room felt cool and fresh; there was a perfume of flowers, and general air of feminine refinement, of graceful homeliness, pervading it, which always charmed Elliott.

“Pray sit down,” said Madeline, herself sinking rather wearily on the sofa. “Miss Foster will be here soon, and would be vexed not to see you.”

So saying she proceeded to remove her bonnet, and in doing so unfastened her profuse golden hair, which fell in bright masses on her shoulders. She was not in the least embarrassed, but removing her gloves, proceeded to twist it up, talking all the time. “I was very much obliged to you for those two quarterlies, Mr. Elliott. "When one has not much time to read they give you such a good general idea of what is going on in the literary world.” Elliott made no reply. His eyes were fixed on the little white round hands, busy rolling up the wealth of hair so quickly and dexterously. “But I have quite done with them, and will give them to you tonight.” Still no answer. Her words scarce reached Elliott’s sense; he was thinking should he ever dare to take those little hands in his; and looking down into those eyes, that seemed sad to-night, read love and trust there for him? He was surprised at the wild beating of his heart, and the species of resolute courage which had risen, from the fire of his own emotions, within him; he, who usually felt painfully, timidly, self-conscious in her presence. Yet how little she seemed to be aware of the tempest in his heart. Why did she not instinctively sympathise with his feelings? Still silent, he rose and paced the room. His silence, his unusual manner, startled Madeline. What had gone wrong? She watched him anxiously take one or two turns, and then said softly, “What is the matter with you, Mr. Elliott ?” He stopped opposite to her, for a moment, his arms folded, drawn up to his full height, his sombre eyes alight with a glowing tenderness, his stern mouth quivering, a marvellous beauty transforming his whole face. “There is nothing the matter,” he said at last slowly; “except that I love you, love you so much that I cannot speak itand without seeming to expect an answer lie resumed Ids pacing up and down. Madeline was struck mute. She flushed all over, and then turned deadly pale. A wild sort of terror seized her. Was this man, this rich, rugged man, going to insult her also? If he dared, she would shiver his assumed superiority with hitter scorn, and cover him with contempt. Again he paused, “lama rough, uncouth fellow, and perhaps I have been too abrupt with you, dear; but surely you are too bright, too clever, not to see there is something better below the surface. I fear you do not care much for me now; but try, Madeline. I know I could make a happy home for you.” Madeline did not reply; she pushed back her hair, and looked up at him with almost painful earnestness. She did not yet feel certain of his meaning. “Speak to me,” he said at length, clasping his hands together, and holding them out towards her with a gesture of unutterable entreaty. “Say that the idea of being my wife is not repugnant to you.” Madeline drew a long breath, the colour came back to her cheek, tears sprang to her eyes. How can I answer?” she said. “It is such an astonishment to me, that you should wish me to be your wife. 1, who have nothing. And alas! I- do not love you. I dare not accept you! How grieved I am to grieve you; but I cannot, I cannot be your wife and she covered her face with her hands, feeling guilty, she knew not of what.

“You think so now,”cried Hugh Elliott, all self-love and pride forgotten in the intensity of his desire to win her; “but if we were indeed engaged, and you could see how you have become the world to me, how the right to he your friend and protector is all I care to live for—ah! Madeline, dear Madeline! surely you would learn to love me.” All this was said almost in an under-tone, with a kind of repressed passion, wonderfully impressive. He did not dare to touch her hand. He stood before her, his arms folded, quiet in attitude, yet what wonderful force, in this controlled eagerness and fire.

“Alas, alas!” cried Madeline, “I too am unfortunate not to love you as you ought to be loved, for you are good and true! Do not distress yourself and me; leave me, and in your many occupations you will soon forget your present sorrow. But I will never forget you! There is at least one who could love me for myself alone! and I cannot love you in return.” There was an inexpressible sadness in her voice, but also something in its tone that seemed suddenly to convince Elliott of the hopelessness of his suit.

“Is it all over then?” he said bitterly; “am I so distasteful that you prefer the toil and uncertainty of your present life, to a safe home and shelter in my arms.” He stretched them out as he spoke towards her.

“Better anything than to mock you with the seeming I could not feel. No! Mr. Elliott you deserve better things than that.”

“Well, I will intrude on you no longer,” he returned gloomily, the light all fading away from his face, and leaving a dusky paleness behind. “I must e’en go back to my old life again,” and he heaved a hitter sigh. “Goodbye dear, good-bye,” he took her hand in both of his, and held it first with almost painful force, then softly drew it towards him, and said, with a sad smile, looking down into her face, “Ah, Madeline! little slender thing, how will you fight the battle of life alone? If matters go hard with you, send for me! forget all about this, and if I keep away, as I will, I must! do not think that I would not come to help you with my whole heart, dear; my whole heart!” then he dropped her hand and went quietly away.

Madeline threw herself into a corner of the hard old sofa, and wept bitterly, passionately. This man whom she had passed by mentally, as a mere respectable money-getter, had seen through her proud brave bearing, seen, what at times she felt so keenly, that with all her wit and courage she was but a poor weak girl, who ought to be grateful for the protection of those stronger than herself! and now, even before the echo of his words had died upon her ear, she felt that she had acted unwisely. Yet she could not do otherwise! How could she take him into a heart still warm and glowing with the image of another! u Would to God I had met him first; he at least has a true heart! But I will never seek his aid come what may, and I feel as if all sorts of misfortunes would come.” Here Miss Foster entered with a scared face. “My dear! what has happened? I just met Mr. Elliott looking like a ghost, and all he would say, was, ‘ ask Miss Digby.’”

“Oh! aunty,” cried Madeline, throwing herself into her arms, “I am so miserable.”

Of course a sobbing broken explanation ensued.

Miss Foster’s was a cruel disappointment, she had always anticipated a proposal from Hugh Elliott, but she had hoped and expected it would be by letter, when she thought she aright have persuaded Madeline into at least considering the matter. Now her especial hero, the relative of whom she was so proud, had gone and overturned all her schemes. It was not like him, either, this precipitancy, and how foolish of Madeline to refuse! what could be her reason? of this, however, Miss Foster was too tender-hearted to say anything in Madeline’s present distress, distress so great that Miss Foster began to gather hope. Possibly she was already regretting her hasty decision, and if so, it would not be difficult to lure Hugh Flliott back again, so she soothed and petted Madeline, and when they were calmer both sat down to that source of feminine comfort, a cup of tea.

“Aunty,” cried Madeline suddenly, after looking at her attentively for a moment. “I am a selfish wretch to let you wait on me in this way, for you are looking ill and exhausted yourself; you change colour, indeed you have looked ill these two days, but to-night much worse. How do you feel?”

“A little faint and dizzy,” returned Miss Foster with a languid smile, “but I often do in hot weather. It will pass off, a good night’s rest will set me up.”

“I trust you will get it,” said Madeline, . u last night you slept very little.” And she was on the alert instantly, poor Hugh and her distress about him forgotten, for she felt an instinctive alarm, far beyond what the cause seemed to warrant. She tended her gentle companion with all her little skill, she summoned Mrs. Bumble to council. That potentate came with alacrity. Her second floor . lodgers were decided favourites, though it is true that their frugal hoard left hut little legitimate profits or pickings for a landlady, but then they paid with such regularity, their acquaintances were of so high an order of respectability, that, although it might have puzzled her to express it in words, Mrs. Bumble felt that their presence raised the character of her house, and was in itself a first-rate recommendation.

“I feel uneasy about Miss Foster, Mrs. Bumble,” began Madeline in her unconscious tone of superiority and gentle command. u You have, no doubt, much experience! what would you recommend? she appears to have a cold, she shivers and feels hot and cold, don’t you, dear?”

“Yes! It’s just a bad cold,” said Mrs. Bumble magisterially, as one who had a right to speak; “and every one’knows a summer cold is much worse nor a winter cold. Now, I would just bathe her feet, mum, and when she is in bed gj> her a strong glass of gin-and-water, as hot as she can bear it.” Poor Miss Foster, burning with heat, shuddered at the prescrip tion. “A good perspiration would carry it off at once.”

“Thank you,” said Madeline. “We shall certainly bathe her feet, but about the gin-and-water? would it not be very unpleasant this warm evening?”

“Barley-water would do as well,” put in the victim.

“Well, ipay be so,” said. Mrs. Bumble with solemn disapprobation, “but mind, it’s not my recommending—a nasty, weakening, sloppy, tiresome thing to make.”

“Oh!” said Madeline, catching the clue to her objection. “Will you then ask Emma to bring up some water for Miss Foster, and if she will light the fire here, I can get anything she wants. I have some idea of invalid cookery.

So poor Miss Foster had her barley-water; and by keeping the window and door of her sitting-room opeu, Madeline managed to preserve a tolerable temperature. But it was a restless night, and next day the invalid felt such an increased difficulty in breathing, that she ceased to oppose Madeline’s wish to send for a doctor.

Mrs. Rumble was again called upon, and recommended her doctor, and an urgent message was despatched to Dr. Thome, who fortunately lived in the neighbourhood. He was out, so more than an hour elapsed before he answered the summons.

Miss Foster had struggled to get up, in the vain hope of throwing off the tremulous weakness which oppressed her, but she could only lie back in the large chair, and watch Madeline as she moved about in the restlessness of anxiety. At last “Hemma” rushed in, exclaiming eagerly, “the doctor!” and immediately enter a little, spare, wiry man, with sandy hair and sharp eyes.

He entered unceremoniously; evidently not expecting to find very distinguished [patients in Mrs. Rumble’s second floor front. “Now then! how are we? ghat’s the matter?” he said, in a cheery voice, and rubbing his hands; but as his eyes fell on Madeline and her companion, an undefinable change passed over him, he bowed and took the chair Madeline placed for him beside the invalid. His well- put queries soon elicited all necessary information; then he produced his stethoscope; finally, he counted her pulse very carefully, and then ordered her to bed immediately. He himself prepared a mustard blister, and sent a prescription to a neighbouring chemist, to save time, he said.

The patient being made as comfortable as could he managed, the doctor retired to give special directions as to the nursing.

You think her very ill—I see you do,” said Madeline, anxiously.

“Yes; it is a sharp attack,” he returned, always cheerily, “hut she’ll pull through if (strong emphasis) her strength he well kept up. She must have strong beef-tea and port wine; a little champagne occasionally, just to give a fillip; and constant watching, at any rate for a few days. Know any one who could relieve you, at night, for instance?”

“No!” returned Madeline, appalled at the programme laid before her. “But for a short time, I could manage quite well myself.”

“My dear young lady, you can do nothing of the kind! You must not make yourself ill attending on—your mother? No: I thought not—well, your friend; in a day or two you will be asking me for a nurse. I have one in my eye that will just do.”

“Doctor,” said Madeline, determined to put matters in their true light—“I have youth and strength, but not much money. All that is essential shall be provided, but let us avoid expense as much as possible.”

“I understand,” he returned, “but I don’t know how you will stand it You must eat and drink too. She’s gone off into a dose,” he continued, peeping into the bed-room; “try and have some beef-tea ready when she wakes. I’ll call round this evening and see how she goes on.”

Shaking Madeline’s hand cordially, the doctor hurried away, and Madeline, after a moment’s pause to collect her thoughts, followed him down-stairs, to give directions and make arrangements with Mrs. Rumble $ then she returned to her post beside her friend: to think of the terrible affliction that had befallen them, to count her slender resources, and reflect on the misfortune of Lady Rawson’s indefinite absence—for Lady Rawson was the one friend on whose assistance she could count, or would accept—and then, how her heart melted with tenderness, as she looked at the delicate, worn face, hushed into an uneasy slumber. Was there much suffering before her? and was there danger for the humble, simple life, that had never harmed and yet had suffered ?”

“Oh!” thought Madeline, “If it is God’s will to take her from me, I shall be indeed, desolate! but I will not think of it; I will hope and be brave. Thank God—thank God —ehe is with me, and not tortured with the knowledge that she is an unwelcome burden to Mrs. Bedman.”

Here Miss Foster woke up and Madeline became absorbed in removing kthe mustard blister, and then had two or three runs up and down before the beef-tea and dry toast could be prepared, and when it came it was greasy, and Madeline could have cried with the vexation she must not speak.

Thus was our heroine plunged into all the trials, mental and physical, which attend a sick room under any circumstances; but, when the difficulties of poverty are added, the trial is indeed great. To contend with disease is had enough; but to find in every item of the day’s life an enemy, is more than any strength, even the divine strength of love, can cope with. And Madeline was nurse and servant; ay, and cook into the bargain. As the weary days prolonged themselves into weeks, and still the friend so dear to her lay prostrate, her every breath an agony (for she was suffering from that painful complication, inflammation of the lungs and low fever), Madeline trembled for her own strength: if this terrible strain continued, what was to become of them! Even if she could hold out till Miss Foster recovered, what could she do if in turn her own health failed? And if she lost that dear, gentle, suffering, patient creature! But, from the desolation of this picture she wisely and resolutely turned. No! the taste of home she had known in her partnership with Miss Foster was so delightful, that she could not support the idea of its loss! So she endured; tending the sufferer with marvellous skill and forethought, bearing up bravely under great fatigue, and striving with wise consideration to keep up her own strength.

Their landlady, though a cold and calculating woman, was willing to earn a character for humanity and motherliness—as cheaply as she could, ’tis true—still the desire made her of some use to Madeline, whose mid-day watch she was always ready to relieve, and thus enable her to snatch a couple of hours of sleep. But a dark shade fixed itself under her eyes; her face grew wan and haggard; and though her lips retained their colour, they acquired an over-anxious, tremulous expression, most touching to the experienced eye of the doctor, whose care and attention were unremitting.

But the deepest of her secondary sources of anxiety was the rapid melting of the little hoard which was to tide them over the fruitless “out of season” period. Oh! those bottles of good port wine at tavern prices; those Calves’ feet, and the sherry and brandy combined. What sums they cost; and how short a time they lasted! to say nothing of smaller, but very perceptible drains, in the way of fees to the hard-worked servant, charges for the additional charwoman, gifts of tea to the same, and the doctor’s bill looming in the distance. There were times when these accumulated burdens seemed to weigh Madeline to the earth; and then she would rouse again, and tell herself that she must perforce leave the future to take care of itself, and concentrate her whole being in the effort to bring her friend through the sore illness which lay upon her.

Yet Madeline was not neglected by her kinsfolk and acquaintance during this trying time. Mrs. Moorcroft and Mrs. Downing brought offerings of abundant sympathy, and oame and sat in the sitting-room, now a me re ante-chamber to the sick room, and covered with the insignia of nurse-tending, where they wept over Miss Foster and impeded Mar deline. What more could they do? Madeline would have starved before she would have named her sorest anxiety to them. True, Mrs. Moorcroft offered to share her toil and watching, with true motherly kindness; but, alas! the cost of another mouth would more than counterbalance the value of the help; so the friendly offer was gratefully declined. Mrs. John Redman came also, and exclaimed, “Law! how unfortunate 1” and reported grandmamma Redman’s view of the case, which was, that Miss Foster’s illness was a just judgment on the partners for their contumacious contradiction and defiance of her (Mrs. Redman’s) wishes, ideas, and principles. Moreover, after two visits, Mrs. John reappeared laden with a small basket, and radiant with consequential benevolence. “Here, Madeline, here are two bottles of most particular port I made John put out for Miss Foster; I’m sure I hope she’ll get over it” (she meant the illness, not the port), “if if was only to reward you for all the trouble you take and Mrs. John extricated from her basket two dusty bottles with big white marks, depositing them triumphantly on the table, without suffering the smallest conscientious discomfort from the very decided misrepresention she had just uttered; for it was Mr. John who of his own free will originally suggested them, and put them out that very morning. So Madeline thanked Mrs. John, and opened one shortly after, pleased at the attention and temporary relief, but, taking the precaution to taste before presenting a glass of it to her patient, found it to he an execrable compound of liquorice and alcohol, substituted by Mrs. John for the costly and particular port which she thought would better suit her own snug little luncheons with one or two especial favourites, than the inexperienced palate of a “poor thing” like Miss Foster. “I may be wrong, but this tastes like poison,” thought Madeline; “I will make Dr. Thome taste it.” And, accordingly, the doctor issued particular orders that not a drop was to pass the patient’s lips.

And poor Miss Foster herself, sometimes unconscious, sometimes feverishly alive, how eagerly she clung to Madeline. How her filmy eyes watched her; and how the soft cool touch of her young nurse’s hand soothed and comforted her.

How often a wordless prayerful blessing on her -tender steady strength went up to heaven from the simple heart that so utterly trusted her.

At last the worst was over, and Madeline had her reward in seeing the disease stand still first, and then retrograde; the sinking strength revive, and the balm of convalescence spread itself over the weary frame and spirit.

Then Madeline knew how shaken she was herself; and the good doctor, who had lavished care and time upon his patient in the “two pair back,” with that practical benevolence which pervades the medical profession more largely, perhaps, than any other, pounced upon her one day, and insisted on feeling her pulse. “We will have you in bed next if we don’t take care,” he said in his sharp stinging way; and thereupon ordered her tonics, port wine, and change of air if possible.

Port wine, indeed! when poor Madeline knew that all which lay between them and destitution was twenty-five shillings and some pence. So she smiled on the doctor, and with gentle satire asked him if he did not think she ought to take horse exercise, or engage a carriage by the month and drive every day! He replied, laughing, in the same tone; but cautioned her gravely to be careful as he went away.

CHAPTER V

It was a week since Miss Foster was first lifted out of bed, to have it made, and she was at tea with Madeline in their sitting-room, once more restored to its ordinary neatness, and beautified to the utmost of its capabilities, in honour of their again taking tea together.

The invalid was propped up as comfortably as could be arranged in the one arm-chair which the room boasted. And Madeline, in her neat home attire, flitted to and fro; a bright smile on her lip, though she could not quite banish the look of care from her wan cheek and anxious eyes.

Not yet, however, dare she divulge their pressing necessities to Miss Foster, though while she waited on her with loving cheerful words and serene air, she resolved in her mind .where she might best dispose, either by sale or pledge, of her few trinkets, and what fine lace remained to her.

Miss Foster was still in that happy state of weakness, which accepts without care or question the present, and its absolute relief or comfort.

“There is your tea, and a nice poached egg,” said Madeline, arranging the plate and -cup in the fnost convenient way, “and thank God I • have you back to share my life, once more.” “Yes, thank God!” murmured the invalid,“and thank God for you, as well as for life.” She had scarcely uttered the words,when “Hemma” made her appearance with a card,—“Please’m, the gentleman wants to know if he may come up.” Madeline looked at the card, and flushed all over; it bore the name of Mr. Hugh Elliott!

Since that unfortunate evening when she rejected him, and Miss Foster’s illness first showed itself, his name had never passed her lips, but he often occupied her thoughts: in those long midnight watchings, when Miss Foster lay half in sleep, half in unconsciousness, the only idea which drew her from her painful financial contemplations, was Hugh Elliott. Not the sombre rugged man whom she had at first watched with a sort of idle intellectual interest, but the man who had spoken out his heart to her with such unmistakable truth, such deep tenderness. How he had ennobled himself in her eyes; with what deep respect, what warm sympathy, she thought of him; and how she regretted that she had not known him before memory had raised a barrier between them, for she felt that if heart free, she must have been won by a character so real, so strong, so loving, when once roused. Oh! with what bitterness she reflected on the evil that Dudley Ashurst’s fancy for her had wrought; but how charming to eye and ear he was; how different in the perfection of voice, and look, and manner, from the half-awkward shyness or rugged decision of Hugh Elliott! So she would work round and round the vexatious contradictions of her lot. Now, when the name was suddenly brought before her, she recalled, all fresh and vividly, the circumstances of their last meeting, and coloured all over with nervous shyness. She could scarce command her voice to say, with sufficient composure, to Miss Foster, “Mr. Elliott, can you see him?”

“Yes, certainly,” was the prompt reply; and a minute or two later Hugh Elliott was standing before her. He looked thinner, browner, more sombre, and more rugged than ever. He took Madeline’s hand in his, neither warmly nor coldly, but he looked beyond her to the invalid, to whose side he quickly passed. ‘‘ I am truly grieved to hear of your severe illness,” he said kindly, “I only knew of it to-day; I have been taking a holiday, a rare thing for me, and on my return was much, occupied; this morning I met John Redman, who told me you had been laid up these six weeks, but you are better V

Poor Miss Foster was quite overjoyed to see him; she held his hand long in hers, and feebly told him how she had suffered, and how lovingly and devotedly Madeline had nursed her.

“I can imagine it,” returned Hugh Elliott, with one grave wistful glance at her, and growing pale as he spoke. She shivered with an emotion she could not control; what did it mean—that glance? Was it that he quietly, forgivingly resigned her? Well, she was sure he would soon console himself; indeed, he seemed to have done so, or tried, already,.or what did this rare holiday mean; besides, he was not the stamp of man to whine or fret long about any woman, and Madeline was glad of it. at least she told herself so. And then they fell into talk about Miss Foster’s illness and the doctor’s kind care, and Mrs. Rumble’s praiseworthy attention; and Elliott was not so embarrassed as Madeline, he did not often address her, but when he did, with a sort of grave softness. He said he had gone to visit his old Northumbrian home, and had seen Miss Foster’s nephew. He had found few changes, nevertheless he spoke of everything wearily, though he said he should like to have a summer retreat among those rugged hills and moors,—“ They give such a feeling of wholesome strength, absolutely reviving, after the heat, the rush, the crowd of the City. I believe that we hard-working money-earners are utterly mistaken; what does our life give us after all?”

“That has been my theory,” said Madeline, u but you always disputed it.”

‘‘ Well, in theory you are right, perhaps,” he returned, “but if we cannot get anything better than a barren success, why, we must take it and be thankful.” And Madeline was silenced. Then Elliott, after stirring his tea moodily, said in a sudden way to Miss Foster, " She is looking a good deal cut up, you must make her take care of herself.” Madeline knew that she was, herself. “I will try,” replied Miss Foster. Soon after, Elliott rose to say good-bye. “You will come and see me again?” said Miss Foster, feebly trying to tie up the broken links. Madeline’s heart beat with vexation, and an ardent desire to silence her friend; but Elliott shook his head,—“Not for some time,” he said, smiling sadly, “I shall be hard at work, by-and-by I hope to be freerthen he shook hands with Madeline, and, as if suddenly remembering it, returned to Miss Foster, and laid a letter beside her, saying—“No answer,” then he left the room. Madeline and her friend looked at each other after he had gone. Miss Foster said “I am so glad he came.” Madeline made no reply; her head was bowed; her hands played idly with the ribbon of her apron. “But this letter,—what can it be? read it for me, Madeline.”

“Perhaps he would not like it: perhaps he meant it for your eye only,” said she, hesitatingly.

“My dear! he knows I tell you everything, and no doubt it is all about yourself.”

“I am sure it is not,” said Madeline, with an air of sincere conviction.

“Well, I cannot read it,” returned the invalid, lying back, and with an invalid’s petulance.

So Madeline broke the seal, and read as follows:—

“My dear Miss Foster,

“Yon have been long ill; and illness is costly. I do not seek to pry into your affairs, but I know you must need help, and I claim a kinsman’s right to give it. Enclosed are thirty pounds, and there’s more where that came from, if required. If it pleases you to consider it a loan, do so; but repay me how and when you like. I would prefer your using the money and forgetting all about it. If I can ever be of use to you, don’t hesitate to write to me; but I cannot come and see you: do not, however, attribute this to any want of kindly feeling on the part of your

“Cousin and sincere friend,

“Hugh Elliott.”

A business-like flourish distinguished the signature, and three ten-pound notes dropped from the letter as Madeline turned the page. When she ceased reading, her cheek was crimson and her eyes cast down. “Good gracious me,” exclaimed Miss Foster, with feeble energy. “How kind! how generous! how nicely it .will come in! Do you know, Madeline, I have been thinking and thinking hsmever you have managed; and I get quite in a tremble whenever the doctor’s bill comes across me; but now we can manage : do see and pay him at once, dear! Ah! what a friend the good God has sent us!”

“Yes,” returned Madeline, her bosom heaving; “yes, most generous, most considerate! but, oh! so oppressive!” and she burst into tears. “My dear love,” said Miss Foster, with uneasy gravity.

“Oh, I know I am foolish, very foolish,” sobbed Madeline; “but I cannot help feeling humiliated to be obliged to take his money. He knows it will be gall and wormwood to me. He knows you and I are so closely linked, that good or evil to one falls equally on the other, and-”

“And,” interrupted Miss Foster, with a sort of pettishness she would never have shown in health, “you would have him neglect a relation he regards, for fear he might offend you.”

“No,” returned Madeline, “I know he has done wisely and well. Moreover, I have no business to quarrel over a present to you; but I lament our poverty on this account more bitterly than I ever did before. But, dear aunty, I tell you what; when Lady Bawson comes home, I will borrow part of this horrid thirty pounds from her, to make a beginning, and then strive to earn the rest as fast as we can, and pay it back.”

“Whatever you like, Madeline; but it seems to me that it would be as well to leave the whole debt in the hands of so kindly a creditor, instead of asking a loan to pay back what is certainly not wanted in a hurry.”

“My own dear aunty, forgive my petulance; I do not-feel quite like myself to-day. Yours is, no doubt, the common sense view of the matter, so let us talk no more about it— until we can act; but, please God,” she concluded, almost religiously, “please God, we will repay him.”

“Oh, I daresay we shall,” replied Miss Foster, with comfortable indifference; “and now, Madeline, dear, I am very tired: I must go to bed.”

Although Madeline felt keenly the discomfort of being under an obligation to a rejected suitor, a man, too, of whose inferiority to herself she had been vaguely convinced until their last painful interview, when she caught glimpses of a substratum of character, where the granite of strength was marbled with the gold of truth and tenderness.

Keenly, then, as she felt this discomfort, she could not but acknowledge that the subsidy which caused it was a most seasonable relief: she could pay the doctor’s bill, a few other small matters, and yet have enough in hand to keep them for a month or six weeks, till old pupils returned, or fresh ones were found.

Lady Kawson was still absent, but about this time Madeline received a kind and characteristic letter from her, full of friendly interest and ofFers, and stating the writer’s intention to pass the winter at Naples, where she found very pleasant society, among them the Tem-plemores, who were wintering there for the health of their youngest daughter, and she would probably not be in London until spring. Madeline felt her absence greatly; there was more than the ordinary interest and good feeling of a great lady for a protegd between them; while she was in London Madeline always felt that sense of “ backing up” which is such a stay to moral courage. Besides, her mysterious knowledge of the deceased violinist and ex-captain never left Madeline’s memory, and she always looked for the long-promised revelation of their acquaintanceship.

October had now nearly reached its close. It had been a month of glorious weather; once the invalid had been able to go out and taste the fresh air she had improved rapidly.

. At last Madeline was summoned to resume her lessons in a family where she taught both French and singing; and, a few days after, a note from her friend and patron, the German music master, informed her he had some junior pupils for her in the neighbourhood of her residence, and she gradually slid back into her old life and business once more. Yet she was less light-hearted than formerly; the memory of Hugh Elliott—the forgiving affection that so heartily promised to befriend her, though she wounded him, would ever and anon rise before her mind’s eye with a painful, uneasy sense of some good irretrievably lost. And they missed his visits, the two partners— missed them socially—though they had ceased to mention his name, for he never came again after the evening on which he left the letter with Miss Foster. So autumn deepened into winter.

Mr. John Bedman was a fair specimen of the middle-class Englishman : good-natured, where good nature did not interfere with his own comfort or interest, full of prejudice, but not without a certain sense of justice; this had originally been exercised on behalf of his niece, and feeling a little proud of his conduct towards her had given his mind a friendly leaning. He, like Englishmen in general, had a sincere respect for honest, hard-working independence, especially in a woman, and though by no means clear as to Miss Foster’s means of support, she had risen many degrees in. his estimation since she left his mother’s service.

Now that Madeline and her partner had not only lived without asking alms for nine whole months, but come through a severe trial of sickness without any application for aid, he began to think they were very respectable individuals. In former days he might probably have made Madeline a present on the strength of his convictions, but under existing circumstances regard for the interests of his infant son, and a wholesome dread of Mrs. John, who disapproved on principle of the outlay of money, except on herself, forbade the rash act.

Mrs. John, however, was very friendly towards Madeline and Miss Foster. So as soon as that lady was well enough, Mr. and Mrs. John Eedman invited them to dinner, and “took the opportunity” to quote Mrs. Eedman (as if some difficulty attended it) of asking Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Downing to meet them. In fact, Mr. John doubted if Mrs. Downing was a sufficiently elegant and important person to be admitted to those more costly and ceremonious entertainments, where the keen eye of the fashionable Mrst Blyth, or the aristocratic eye-glass of the honourable director, might detect deficiencies.

Miss Foster and Madeline were quite willing to go; the first because she never could forget her old Abingdon Villa views of Mr. John’s grandeur and importance, and therefore felt notice from that quarter as most flattering; and Madeline, though always bored by her aunt, because she had always cherished a feeling of gratitude to Mr. John for the faint friendliness he had shown in those bitter days, the memory of which made her shudder.

It was a “friendly dinner,” as a repast without entries, or an attendant greengrocer, is justly termed, in contradistinction to the grandeur of an entertainment when those ceremonies, in addition to the removal of the loose covers, are observed.

Miss Foster and Madeline wore their morning-dresses, and availed themselves of the “Cheap and nasty” convenience of an omnibus. They found Jessie already arrived, but Mr. Downing was to accompany their host from the City. She looked very pretty and lady-like in a well-made black silk, and white lace collar and sleeves, and kneeling on the carpet to play with Mrs. John’s little boy, who began to creep about. Mrs. John herself was magnificent in a scarlet French merino, much braided with black, and a Zouave jacket.

“Glad to see you out again, Miss Foster. I declare you are looking better than before you were ill, and Madeline, you are looking worse. Mr. Redman has not come in yet.”

Mrs. Downing was truly pleased to see Madeline, especially as she felt her to be a sort of defence against Mrs. Redman’s rather overpowering finery, for Jessie felt Mrs. John to be quite a personage of rank and fashion. They had not, however, exchanged many words, before a loud ring, and the trampling of several pairs of boots, announced the arrival of the host; almost immediately Mr. John entered, exclaiming, “Here, my dear, I have brought another friend to see you, Mr. Elliott.” And enter Hugh Elliott, followed by Mr. Downing.

“I am sure I am delighted to see him,” said Mrs. John, offering her hand in her jol-liest style (she piqued herself on fascinating at first sight), and she had heard of Mr. Elliott as a man of sufficient mark to make his name a desirable addition to the board of the I. C. S. Company.

And Madeline! At first, how she wished the floor .would open and let her down to temporary companionship with the cook! Then she rallied slightly, and felt angry with Elliott for putting them to the embarrassment of meeting. He was looking dark and ill, and when his eyes encountered Madeline’s his cheek flushed, and a look of pain passed over his face, which went to her heart. Mrs. John attributed his emotion to the overpowering effect of her appearance, and took him into favour at once; then he greeted Miss Foster with much cordiality, and just touched Madeline’s hand.

“Oh, ah! Yes, to be sure,” said Mr. John, vaguely, “You are some sort of a cousin to Miss Foster?”

“Yes; a near relation,” returned Elliott, kindly. Whereupon Miss Foster rose a thousand per cent, at once.

At dinner, Madeline sat between her uncle and Mr. Downing, and Mrs. John showered smiles and small flatteries on Hugh Elliott, who was very quiet and grave. Yet Madeline could not help observing the immense superiority he possessed over his friends. Hugh might not be polished, but there was an unaffected manliness, a sort of broad, sturdy simplicity about him, that lent him dignity, when compared with Mr. John’s would-be lordliness, and Mr. Downing’s sharp-set assumption. His long, thin, muscular brown hands attracted Madeline’s eye, as they often did, for they had much character, and she thought how much patient labour they expressed, and how hard it was that the one bit of love and sunshine he strove to win was denied him. “And how generous he is,” she continued to think. “He cared as much to befriend me after he knew he could be nothing to me as before.” Involuntarily she felt that had he been Dudley Ashurst, he would either never have spoken to her of love, or have taken her in the face of the world. “Yet, I do not know,” whispered her heart, pleading for the old love, “the influence of rank, of social training, is so strong.” From her musing with down-cast eyes she was roused by the name of “Delille, that impudent French fellow,” pronounced rather indignantly by her uncle.

“I by no means approve of him as an agent,” continued Mr. Bedman. Madeline trembled, she knew what would ensue. “He is sharp and suggestive, decidedly suggestive, but his schemes are so wild; good ideas here and there, but quite mad on some points. I shall never forget his audacity, coming to me to ask me to give little Madeline here a marriage portion, indeed! to enable him to provide a proper establishment! What do you think of that?” And Mr. John paused in virtuous indignation. Madeline turned pale with vexation, and Hugh Elliott looked at her for a moment with an expression of sad surprise. She did not know what to do or say; it would be too, too bad, if he thought for a moment that she had preferred the flashy Frenchman; and yet her good taste and good feeling would not permit her speaking disrespectfully or slightingly of any one who had professed a liking for her. She, therefore, said, “French ways and French ideas are very different from ours on these points.”

“Very, indeed,” returned Mr. Downing, with a sort of echo of Mr. John’s tone, “and then the Frenchmen are such mercenary brutes.”

“Shocking!” agreed Mrs. John, “would never think of marrying except for money.” Madeline could not hold her tongue any longer : “I fancy the principal difference between an English and a Frenchman is, one acts silently on his motives, the other avows them.”

“I thought you would take Mounseer’s part,” said Mr. Downing, laughing, “Miss Digby is quite a Frenchwoman.” Madeline felt, with unspeakable annoyance, that Hugh Elliott’s eyes were upon her. And now Miss Foster struck in to complete her confusion,— “I’m sure Madeline was quite vexed and surprised, the evening she got his letter—let me see—quite six months ago, and when she read it to Lady Bawson and me-”

“Oh! law,” cried Mrs. John, interrupting her, what fun! I never heard of the letter before; why Madeline, what a sly puss you are to have kept it so quiet.” Poor Miss Foster saw she had made a mistake; she had quite forgotten that Madeline had never mentioned the letter.

“What, had he the impudence to write to you, after my giving him a piece of my mind?” cried Mr. John.

“It was a mistake,” said Madeline, indulgently, determined not to turn against poor M. Delille, “but it was one I had no right to betray.”

“Bravo!” said Mr. Downing, who was only too glad if he could tease Madeline. “Come, Mr. Bedman, the young lady evidently takes the Frenchman’s part; If you would he just obliging enough to bestow a small fortune on the happy pair, we might sing—‘ Haste to the Wedding.’”

Madeline could have willingly seen Mr. Downing temporarily choked; yet she knew how any display of temper would give the game to her adversary; so she tried, and not unsuccessfully, to laugh as if much amused, but she changed colour, and to her surprise, Hugh Elliott, who had sat a silent listener, came to her relief,—“Well, I do not see what else Miss Digby could do but just be silent about the letter; I do not fancy she is a sort of girl to hold up a poor devil to ridicule, because he mistook his wishes for hopes.”

“There, Madeline, you have found a champion,” said her friend Jessie.

“To whom I am proportionably grateful,” returned Madeline, laughing lightly, yet sending a glance of meaning to Elliott, which made his heart beat, and yet filled him with pain: true, he had come to her rescue, but how did he know that some latent tenderness for this wretched foreigner was not at the bottom of her refusal of himself.

“How did we come to employ this Delille?” asked Mr. Downing, with a magnificent air,— he had visibly increased in importance since his connection with the I. C. S. Company, and laid down the law in a way that was instructive to observe.

“Well, he is a friend of O’Keefe’s, and O’Keefe led us to believe that he was one of the first engineers in the French service, and made us fix him at a far higher salary than he is worth; indeed, Shuttlecock was only saying to me yesterday, that he had a nephew much better suited to. the appointment.”

“Don’t you mind the general, he and Job-lings are trying hard to split up the board into two parties; now, if we could get one or two sensible men like Mr. Elliott here, on the direction,” &c., &c.: and “shop” being the order of the conversation, Mrs. Redman gave the signal for the ladies’ retirement sooner than usual, as there was evidently no chance of her securing that amount of admiration and attention which was necessary.

The dinner had not been successful; Madeline was pre-occupied; Mr. Downing too presumptuously dictatorial; Mrs. Downing too mousey; and as to Mr. Elliott, he was a monster of insensibility. After dinner was not much better; the gentlemen sat too long: Madeline sang when she was asked, but was spiritless, and had but one moment of vivid feeling, when Mr. Elliott came over to the piano, and said in a low voice, “I had not the least expectation of meeting you, or beh’eve me, I would not have come; I am going now, good-nighthe took her hand for a moment. Madeline could have found it in her heart to exclaim—“Stay, have patience with me,” but a sense of regret, of painful obligation, of sympathy and regard, seemed to choke her: so Hugh Elliott went on his way, and she saw him no more for many days.

CHAPTER VI

A dark, foggy, November afternoon was fast drawing a damp curtain of mist over the great city, and especially over Sutherland Street, Strand, as it debouched upon the river; the gas-jets illuminating No. 13, Messrs. Harridge and Blyth’s office, had been lit foil two hours before their ordinary time: the board of directors of the International and Colonial Iron Shipbuilding Company (Limited) had risen after a prolonged and somewhat stormy seance (the temporary offices of the Company were at No. 13), and nearly all had dispersed to their divers destinations. Mr. John Redman and Mr. O’Keefe however remained, discussing one or two points over a bright fire in Mr. Blyth’s snug private office. That gentleman was writing busily to catch the post, and paid no attention to “ Joblings is really a drag on the concern,” Mr. John was saying,—“what profits can we hope to make if we will not take the slightest risk?”

“Just so; faith, you are right,” said O’Keefe, planting a huge muddy boot on one hob, and thrusting his left hand well out of his coat sleeve, the better to rumple his red hair, “He’s a narrow-minded naygur.”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Blyth, sharply, “I think him a prudent steady fellow—an acquisition to the board.”

“Well, there’s some truth in that,” agreed The O’Keefe, who was remarkably open to conviction. “But what do you think, Redman,” he continued, “I had a fire and fury letter from that quare fellow, Delille, only to-day; he says he has entered into a speculation that will magnificently enrich him in three months, when he will return to espouse that angel of goodness and beauty, Mademoiselle Digby.”

“Pooh!” said Mr. Blyth, in rather a peculiar tone.

“He is a-fool,” ejaculated Mr. Redman.

“Well, he is and he isn’t, the crature,” said O’Keefe, compassionately.

“Pray, wasn’t Miss Digby’s father’s name Edward?” asked Mr. Blyth, who was rummaging amongst some papers.

“I really do not know; I believe so; why?” said Mr. John.

“Because—ah! here it is; a good deal depends on it. Here is a little abstract of her case, which I drew out at the time you employed me to look her up at Thames End. I frequently make notes of peculiar cases. Yes, father’s name ‘ Edward Digby, late of the 31st Light Dragoons.’ Well, Mr. Redman, I fancy your niece is going to turn out an heiress.”

“Is it joking you are?” cried O’Keefe.

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. John.

Mr. Blyth’s answer was to take up a Times of four or five days before, a good deal doubled up, and pointing to an advertisement marked by a cross in red ink, Mr. Redman with a puzzled air read as follows: “General Edward Digby, formerly of the 101st Royal Irish Carbineers, and also of Killycoolan, Ireland, deceased: the next of kin is requested to communicate with W. S. Payne, solicitor, Old Jewry.”

“Well?” said Mr. John interrogatively, looking at his friend.

“Well,” echoed Mr. Blyth, “I mean to say, that next of kin is your niece.”

“Hoorah!” cried O’Keefe, “the darlin’! I am as glad as if I came into a fortune meself.”

“But how do you make it out?” asked Mr. John Redman, still bewildered.

“Come, I will tell you the whole story,” said the attorney, with benevolence. “Payne is an old friend of mine, and long ago he mentioned a queer client of his, a General Digby, a man near eighty, the greatest old miser and vagabond in existence—did not give himself proper food, or clothes, or shelter. Payne was ashamed to have him coming to the office, but he was rich, he lent money at high interest and was awfully keen in extracting the uttermost farthing; as to Payne’s bills, the battles over them were tremendous, still the old fellow stuck to Payne; he used to say, ‘ they are all as bad as you are, and I know your doubles.’ He lived over Kennington way, and had a lot of houses let in rooms, wretched places, but latterly he realised a good deal and placed his money in mortgages and railway debentures. We got our promotion money from him. Well, one day, more than four years ago, Payne was complaining to me of the bother he had with this old miser, and how he could not get him to make a will (I think Payne expected to be remembered) or to look up any of his relations. ‘ Now,’ said Payne to me. ‘ He has taken it into his head that he saw a girl he would like to find out about—he met her in a Kennington omnibus —she told him her name was Madeline Digby.’ I pricked up my ears at this, but held my tongue, and when I inquired next time, the general had forbidden Payne to advertise or make any inquiries about the girl. ‘ Who knows what army of poor relations I might bring down on myself,’ he said. Since I met Miss Digby at your house last spring I have made a few inquiries of Payne, and found the old gentleman had an elder brother Tom, who was married to a Blake of Ballyshanahan.” (“I know them well!” ejaculated O’Keefe in a parenthesis.) “He left two sons: the eldest was killed in a duel in Germany, the second, Edward, went into the army and was lost sight of, it was supposed he died unmarried in America. Now this man was the father of your niece, Mr. Redman.”

“God bless my soul!” said that gentleman much surprised, having listened with breathless attention to Mr. Blyth’s narrative.

“It’s as plain as the nose on your face! How much may the property be worth, sir ?” shouted O’Keefe.

“I cannot exactly say. I have not as yet communicated with Mr. Payne. I thought it right first to mention the matter to you, Mr. Redman, as you are Miss Digby’s nearest relation; with your sanction I shall take the necessary steps, and should litigation ensue, we shall carefully guard the charming minor’s (she is not of age, eh?) interest.”

“Litigation!” cried Mr. Redman, a little alarmed at the portentous word. “I hope not! It is foolish to throw away good money after bad.”

“Still fifty or sixty thousand pounds are worth trying for, eh, Redman?” said Mr. Blyth drily, “besides, no man in his senses would attempt to set up a case against her, except illegitimacy. By the way who has her papers, I mean the packet I looked at nearly five years ago?”

“I fancy my mother,” replied Mr. Redman, half stupified at the immense change impending, while O’Keefe, profoundly interested in his fair young countrywoman’s fortunes, muttered exultingly:

“Fifty or sixty thousand pounds! Oh Lord! More power to ye!—ye dark-eyed darlin’.”

“Well, the sooner we get them,” said Mr. Blyth, speaking of the papers, “the better, and with all my proofs in hand I shall call upon Payne. You may be sure there are half-a-dozen claimants already.”

“I thought the old general had no relations,” remarked Mr. Bedman.

“An advertisement of this kind,” said the attorney, tapping the paper, “developes kindred to an extraordinary extent. However, it’s getting late, and I must go homewards; endeavour to get me all the papers bearing on the subject of Miss Digby’s parentage, if possible to-morrow, and I will draw up a short statement for Payne’s consideration. By the way, who was the old lady she was with in Paris?”

“Oh! I can’t remember the name, but perhaps my mother has not destroyed the letter she wrote about Madeline Digby. I fancy she mentioned in it one of the names you repeated just now—Bally something.”

“Ballyshanahan?” asked Mr. Blyth. •• “Yes, something like that. But I’ll go straight up to my mother’s to-night and see what I can get from her. This is a most extraordinary affair, really, but there cannot be a better little girl than my niece!”

Ah! from henceforth Madeline would be niece, and grandaughter, and cousin, and bone of their bone to the Redman faction, if only this dazzling vision be realised.

“Do,” said the attorney, gathering his papers together, locking his desk, and generally preparing for departure. “The less time lost the better in an affair of this kind.”

So Mr. John Redman found himself obliged to say good evening and descend into the street, instead of remaining to relieve his mind by questioning and wondering conjectures as he would like to have done.

O’Keefe accompanied him. “Come into my place (it’s close by) and take some soda-water with a sketch of brandy in it,” said the hospitable Milesian, who was especially national under excitement. “A turn of this kind is apt to upset the stomach.”

“Nonsense,” returned Mr. John, a little bluffly; “much obliged to you all the same; but I think a turn of this kind raises the spirits, and sharpens the appetite, so I’ll go off to my dinner.” '

“And who is to tell that chyarming niece of yours the good luck that is come to her?”

“Oh, I don’t know!—it’s time enough. I’ll lay any money my wife will be with her as soon as she’s had her breakfast to-morrow.”

“Faith, rn go meself,” said O’Keefe, with an audacious swagger; “ain’t I her next of kin, after yourself?”

“You!—how?” asked Mr. John, with indignant scorn.

“Didn’t I explain it to ye at your elegant little dinner last March! Look here, now,” and stopping at the corner of Sutherland Street and the Strand, O’Keefe laid hold of Mr. Redman’s lapel with one hand, and enforced the points of his discourse by energetic gestures with the other, to the edification of the passers by. “My great grandfather, Miles O’Keefe of Rawcrawn, married a Blake of Ballyshanahan; well, his second son, Hyacinth O’Keefe, married a sister of Costello of Ballybough, who had the honour of being grandmother to your humble servant; that very Costello married a Digby—I’m not sure whether of Killycoolan or Loughmacrew, no matter, they are the one family—so that makes a double relationship; don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t!” said Mr. John, rather testily. “How the deuce can this Mr. Costello be your grandmother I’d like to know?—Here! hansom!—I must say good evening; Mrs. Redman will be waiting dinner!”

The O’Keefe nodded to Mr. Redman, as he drove off, but remained standing where he had left him. Slowly he introduced the forefinger of his left hand under the rim of his hat, tilting it considerably on one side, till it assumed a thoroughly “jolly dog” aspect, and then gently rubbing the roots of his abundant hair, he reflected: “Costello my grandmother! God help your muddle-head! It’s wonderful how niggardly nature has been to these English in the matter of brains; deuce a thing they can do but make money, tho’ faith! that same is a grand compensation. Any how, I’ll go see Miss Digby; she’ll understand that, at all events, we are nearly connected. Let me see, where is she to be found? Kent Terrace, somewhere. Here, cabby! go to Kent Terrace; in a jiffey, mind ye!”

“Kent Terrace, New Road, sir?”

“That’s it, me boy! I knew it was somewhere west; shove along!”

It was nearly half-past seven o’clock before the energetic O’Keefe surmounted the difficulty of searching for a dweller in apartments without knowing the number, or the name of the landlady. But the great “O’” was not easily daunted, he knocked or rung at every door till he found Madeline’s abode. She was at the piano; she took refuge from her thoughts in music more frequently of late; for, from some unexplained cause, a sombre hue always coloured her musings; she looked forward less, and was more wearied with her work than of old.

Always tender and lovingly patient with Miss Foster, and her occasionally little teasing ways (for a woman of the one calibre must at times be teased by a woman of the other), she was more silent and less expansive than she used to be; in short, she was passing through one of those transitions that come to the mental as well as to the physical constitution. And she was dull: she missed Lady Bawson’s cheerful, wholesome strength, she missed the society she used to enjoy at her house, and that of some of her pupils; and she missed the bracing effect of her intellectual conflicts with Hugh Elliott; so she sat down to the piano more frequently, and played dreamily. Miss Foster, now quite herself again, was doing some needlework by the light of a moderator lamp, shaded with pink cut paper, when once more “Hemma” appeared with a card and the question, “Shall the gentleman come up?”

“The O’Keefe; what can he want?” said Madeline, with languid curiosity. “You will be amused with him, aunty. Yes, ask him to walk up, Emma.”

Soon a ponderous, creaking step was heard, and the great “O’” entered, beaming all over his round, joyous face, like an animated sign of the “Sun in splendour.”

“Miss Digby, your most obedient; I’m proud and happy to pay me respects to you— especially when I’m the bearer of pleasing intelligence.”

“Very happy to see you, Mr. O’Keefe; let me present you to my friend, Miss Foster.”

The O’Keefe made a huge bow, and laying aside his hat, accepted the chair which Madeline indicated, and which gave audible indication of his weight.

“What can he want?” she thought, brightening up under the excitement of curiosity.

“Ahem!” said O’Keefe, unbuttoning his overcoat, and rumpling his hair. “I have done meself the honour of calling upon you, because as your nearest of kin on the father’s side at present in town (as I think I explained to you at Mrs. Redman’s charming little pawrty last spring), it is my duty, as well as a pleasure, to inform you of some important facts that have just come to my knowledge; ahem!”

O’Keefe looked almost fierce in his attempt to assume a dignified and impressive aspect.

“You are very good,” said Madeline gently, imagining he paused for a reply.

“No, I’m not,” returned O’Keefe, fairly bursting with his subject, “but I expect you are; and, I’m sure, when I look at ye, and see the stamp of a noble race in your air and bearing! and the stamp of a noble spirit on your face, and in them diamond eyes! and think of a Digby, and a beautiful, elegant creature like yourself, living up two pair of stairs, with a slut of a. servant to wait on ye, or, much more likely, keep you waiting, me blood would boil, if it didn’t turn cold in me veins! Well, me business here this evening” (a thump of his shut hand on the table), “is to tell you that’s all over now! and you’re one of our greatest heiresses! Your grand-uncle, General Digby, has been good enough to die and leave you between sixty and seventy thousand pounds, no less!” a short side nod of the head and semi-wink, indescribably knowing, formed a rather undignified termination to this eloquent outburst.

Madeline drew a little nearer to Miss Foster, fairly frightened, for she thought the great “O’” must be either mad or intoxicated.

“Really, Mr. O’Keefe, I cannot understand; who did you say had left me a fortune?”

“Your uncle. I mean your father’s uncle; that is, he didn’t exactly leave it. He left no will; but you are uncontrovertibly the next of kin. We have overwhelming proof. ’ “Oh!” said Madeline, “if it is anything to be proved in law I will never get it, so I had better not think about it, eh, Mr. O’Keefe T

She was not in the least disturbed, for his words were to her but idle tales, some extrar ordinary delusion of his vivid imagination.

“Come, now, I’ll tell you the whole ins and outs of the story, and you shall judge for yourself,” resumed O’Keefe, releasing his coat tails (which he had sat down upon) by a series of jerks and oscillations, which threat-' ened destruction to the much-enduring chair.

“Blyth (you know Blyth?), not a stupid fellow for an Englishman, he says to Redman an meself this afternoon (we were having a little chat after the board at Blyth’s office),

Look at this,’ says he; ‘ maybe that’s some relation of your niece.’ With that he handed us a Times three or four days old, with an advertisement in it for the next of kin of General Digby, late of some regiment, and of Killycoolan, Ireland. I pricked up me ears at this, and went into the whole pedigree, proving beyond a doubt that he was your late father’s uncle, consequently that you were the sole heiress. Redman got fearfully excited, and Blyth quite lost his head (for he happened to know the old fellow’s attorney, and says he was a millionaire—a millionaire, faith!) So, says I, keep yourselves cool, for God’s sake. Collect all the authentic documents you can, and we’ll lay them before this Payne (that’s the man who advertises); prove our case to demonstration; and put the young lady in possession of her property before a month is out!”

Another thump on the table at this triumphant climax.

“What an extraordinary story,” said Madeline, still incredulous, though a little moved by the fact that two such common-sense men as uncle John and Mr. Blyth should be mixed up in it.

“Strange, but true,” ejaculated O’Keefe. “Now,” lowering his voice mysteriously, “I foresee that fellow Blyth will be trying to get the management of your property into his own hands; and though I’m sure a more upright man never walked, the chances are he’ll make ducks aud drakes of it. And your uncle, a most suparior fellow! he’ll be for curbing you right and left! Now I know a first-rate man, and a countryman, just starting in London on his own account, Cornelius Doolan. He’d manage your business first-rate. And as for meself”—a magnificent wave of the hand—“I’m sure I needn’t say I am your most devoted, and place meself entirely at your service.”

He paused, and wiped his brow with a red and yellow pocket-handkerchief.

“Really, Mr. O’Keefe,” said Madeline, quietly, and smiling, finding her kinsman’s eloquence irresistibly amusing, “It sounds like a fairy tale. I trust the morning will not prove it to be but the baseless fabric of a dream.”

“You don’t believe me!” cried O’Keefe, indignantly.

“Pray do not be offended,” exclaimed the trembling Miss Foster.

“Well, now! what do you think of this?” said O’Keefe. “Do you ever remember meeting a shabby,old fellow, that looked like a miser, in an omnibus?”

“In an omnibus?” repeated Madeline musingly. “Yes! many.”

“Ay! but this one asked you your name.” “I do, I do!” cried Madeline, a sudden flash of memory beaming in upon her, and placing that first journey in a London omnibus clear before her eyes. “It was more than four years ago, near Kennington Grate.”

“The same,” said O’Keefe, solemnly. “That old gentleman was your grand-uncle, the late Greneral Digby; and he was struck with you and your name, mentioned the rencontre to his solicitor, Payne, who mentioned it to Blyth, and thus he got hold of the first link of the chain,” concluded O’Keefe pompously, quite forgetting the different version of the story he had told a few minutes before.

“Well, Mr. O’Keefe,” said Madeline, feeling indistinctly called upon to say something, “ I am much obliged to you for the kind interest you have shown in me; and however this strange affair may terminate, I shall not forget your friendliness.”

“Yes, I am sure you are very good,” said Miss Foster, dying to get rid of him.

“Faith!” cried O’Keefe, laughing, “you don’t believe a word I’ve been saying. Well, no matter. Remember, I was the first to bring you the good news. I must tell me young friend Delille the great event. Ah!

Miss Digby, ye riddled that poor fellow. If ever a crature went away broken-bearted, Delille was tbe man. How often he has implored me for tidings of his belle ange (Finno-cence et de beaute /”

“What a shame for you to neglect his commission,” said Madeline, laughing gaily, “for I can tell him you never came to inquire after me.”

“Ah, then! maybe I had the sense to keep myself out of harm’s way,” returned O’Keefe, with such an air of devoted admiration, that Madeline burst into a hearty and undisguised fit of laughter.

“Then having done my errand I shall retire,” said O’Keefe, rising with dignity. “You have my card, a line to that address will always find me ready, ay, ready! to do the impossible in your service! Miss Foster, I’m proud of the honour of your acquaintance. Miss Digby, your most obedient!” And The O’Keefe strode away highly satisfied with his own performance.

“What an extraordinary person, dear,” exclaimed Miss Foster, as soon as he was out of hearing. “Surely he cannot be a relative of yours?”!

“I am sure I do not know,” said Madeline, still laughing. “If he likes to think and say so, I have no objection.”

“But what do you think of his strange story?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“If Mr. John believes it there must be some sense in it.”

“Yes, if he does! But why did, he not come and tell me himself, instead of leaving this strange, droll, incomprehensible man to make such an announcement. That alone throws doubt upon the matter in my opinion. Dearest aunty, let us try not to think of it, at any rate not to-night. It would be dreadful to believe such a fairy tale and be disappointed. If there be any truth in it I shall hear from uncle John to-morrow; if not, we have still the prospect of a few months’ peaceful existence before us; let us be content with that.” But in spite of her reasoning and resolution Madeline’s fancy could not help wandering to the golden vision held up to it. Sixty or seventy thousand pounds! She could not at all realise an idea of such, magnitude. But what she did realise was the delight of daring to think of next week, next month, next quarter, without that sinking of the heart, that quiver in the region of the pocket, so trying both to nerve and temper. But turn from the subject as she might, she could not silence Miss Foster, who would break out, after short intervals of enforced silence, with exclamations:

“Well, Madeline, suppose this extraordinary story is true, where would you live? I suppose you would take a house and furnish it?”

“Most probably,” returned Madeline, laughing, “or—”

“Madeline, I have been thinking what mil Mrs. Redman say!”

“Very likely that she never knew my worth before, that is, if the tale prove true.”

At last Madeline persuaded her faithful friend and ally to go to bed—where both of them dreamed dreams, and saw visions, alternately depressing and delightful.

CHAPTER VII

Breakfast was over next morning, and Madeline had her bonnet on ready to start on her morning’s avocations a little earlier than usual, intending to do some shopping on the way, when the door of their sitting-room was flung hastily open, and—enter Mrs. John Redman, in her Sunday bonnet and cloak, followed by her husband, looking overwhelmed with his own importance.

“Well!” cried Mrs. John, who was in a radiant condition, seizing Madeline by both her hands. “Was there ever such a funny business! Why, child, you’ll be one of the greatest catches going! Sixty thousand! I could not let your uncle come up without me. I was always so much interested in you, you know, and I’m sure none of your friends can rejoice more truly at your good fortune than I do! What on earth will Mrs. Redman say? But did O’Keefe really come up and tell you last night! It was like his impudence!”

“,Come, come!” said uncle John, with more of his old superiority than usual. (The accession of wealth and importance to a niece threw additional lustre even over Mr. John.) “We npist not lose time. What did O’Keefe tell you?—or did he tell you anything?”

“Yes,” said Madeline, extricating her hands from Mrs. John, and giving her a chair. “ He told me an extraordinary tale about an old General Digby dying and leaving a quantity of money, and that I am to inherit it. But indeed I did not believe him.”

“There is some truth in it, however,” returned her uncle. “And I went off last night, directly after dinner, and got the certificate of your father and mother’s marriage, and your baptism, and your father’s letter to my mother, but I should like something more, some proof that he had actually been in the regiment in which this old man’s nephew was said to have been. Have you any documents which could throw light on this point?”

“I do not think I have,” returned Madeline, still calm, yet beginning to experience a strange sensation of uneasy hope. “I have his picture—stay, it is in uniform—that may throw some light on the subject. I suppose every regiment has its own uniform.”

“Oh! they change, they change,” said Uncle John, disparagingly. “Now, I will just tell you the whole case, and then you will see whether there are any papers or documents in your possession bearing upon it.” And Uncle John, in a few words, recapitulated Mr. Blyth’s history, disregarding Mrs. John’s audible asides to Miss Foster, and her naive wonderings—“If Madeline really gets all this money, what will she do with you?”

Madeline of course listened with all her ears. “I know but one letter amongst the few old ones which I found my father had always kept, and I have still by me,” she said. “It is one from my mother written before they were married. In it she speaks of the sudden shock he must have received by the death of his brother under such distressing and dreadful circumstances, and also regrets that the family estate should be seized by creditors, as it will add to the obstacles to their union.

“And you think it alludes to his brother who was killed in Germany?”

“I think so—the date will tell.”

“Let me have both the letter and the picture. I will give them to Blyth to-day; he will, I believe, call on Payne this afternoon, and I shall know the result of the interview to-morrow.”

“And let me know, pray!” cried Madeline, “for as you may suppose, though I can scarce believe it, I am a little anxious.”

“Well, I dare say you are, and you shall have a line from me, or—,” suddenly remembering that his niece was no longer an insignificant item—“I will call. Just get me the picture and letter, and I will go.”

Madeline left the room to bring her treasures forth to light. She sighed as she reverently turned over the old yellow papers with faded writing; typical of the life and love there recorded, now past and forgotten! She felt a species of reluctance to part with this memento of the mother she loved without having known!

Meantime, Mr. John put his hands behind his back, and his back opposite the fire, and whistled meditatively, in deep thought. And Mrs. John continued her conjectures.

“I wonder where she’ll live and who she will live with! Wasn’t it fortunate she did not marry that Sam Moorcroffc? She ought to marry a man of rank now! Indeed, I always said—and you’ll bear me out in it, John—that she was an ornament to any room. I wonder what Mrs. Blyth thinks! I suppose Blyth tells her everything.”

Here Madeline entered with the ’miniature in a faded, much-rubbed, red morocco case, and the letter open in her hand.

“Let me look, Madeline,” cried Mrs. John, seizing the miniature : “dear me! now really, he was a very handsome man—eyes like yours, Madeline; but dark hair. In the dragoons, I see 1”

“You will take care of them and return them to me,” said Madeline, addressing her uncle.

“Certainly, certainly,” returned that gentleman: and placing both the letter and the picture in his pocket, he bid his niece and Miss Foster good morning.

Mrs. John, however, stayed for nearly an hour after him, till she talked herself hoarse, and almost exhausted even Madeline’s large stock of patience. She offered advice and suggestions on all possible topics—from dress and household management; the weeding of Madeline’s acquaintance; up to the choice of a husband, and the disposal of Miss Foster. She, with much effusion, offered Madeline a home under her maternal care; “for, indeed, your own uncle’s house is the most proper place for you.”

“Thank you,” said Madeline, rather drily, as she drew on her gloves. “Miss Foster and I have got on so well hitherto, that I do not think we shall give up our partnership, even if this ‘golden legend’ be realised. Eh, aunty! you can contrive to bear with my company a little longer?” and she gave her a hearty kiss, for she fancied she could see something like depression and uneasiness steal over her friend’s countenance while Mrs. John was settling all things so volubly, and to her own satisfaction.

“My dear, you must just do whatever is best for you in this—this awful change,” returned Miss Foster, tremulously.

Madeline laughed.

“I must say good morning,” she continued to Mrs. John, who looked contemptuous disapproval at this testimony of regard to her companion.

“Where are you off to now?” asked Mrs. John, a little annoyed at the seance being broken up.

“To my pupils, in Oxford Square,” replied Madeline, “and I fear I am late.”

“Law, my dear, how can you! don’t you feel it disgusting?” cried Mrs. John, with lofty sympathy.

“It would be far more disgusting to find myself next week without either pupils or fortune, perhaps,” returned Madeline, “so adieu—au renoir F’

“Well! that is the most extraordinary girl —I may say the most unsatisfactory girl—I ever met,” said Mrs. John, emphatically. “She just seems to care as little about her chance of getting a princely fortune, as if my husband had not picked her out of the mire! not,” continued Mrs. John, checking herself, and certain, according to her low psychological code, that Miss Foster was ready to pounce on any word or token whereby she might introduce the point of the wedge “discord” between Madeline and her natural protectors —“not that I wasn’t always foolish about her; she is such a nice creature; but it is aggravating to see her take this great news so coolly.”

“Why, you see,” urged Miss Foster in extenuation, “she does not half believe it, and as everything is uncertain as yet, it is better she should.”

“Well, I am certain it’s all right,” said Mrs. J n,and if it is not, I will be ready to tear that meddlesome Blyth’s eyes out. Now I’ll just go. and call on grandma. Law, what a life that Miss Sharp does lead her! You see what it is to have a little spirit, Miss Foster,” concluded Mrs. John, in a morally approving tone, as if the strength to torment and domineer over one’s fellow-creatures was a proud possession.

Mrs. John’s departure was a great relief; and yet poor Miss Foster scarce knew how to pass the time,—to endure its leaden slowness until Madeline’s return.

She longed to see that gentle face, those soft dark eyes that always looked so kind, so true, so stedfast. She felt no apprehension that Madeline, whom she knew so well (so far as she could comprehend her), would throw her off; but there must be a terrible boule-versement in consequence of such a change, and she did long to hear Madeline’s voice.

And at last she came, looking a little weary and very grave. She unrolled and placed her music in the stand, untied and removed her bonnet without any word, only greeting Miss Foster by a smile and a pressure of the hand; then she put hack her hair behind her ears, and said, “It is all so bewildering, dear aunty : I try not to think of it, and yet I can think of nothing else. I hope they will soon put me out of pain, or I fear I shall deteriorate mentally and morally. Ah! if it is a reality, this fortune, why, why did it not come a few months sooner? all would have been so different!”

“Better late than never,” returned Miss Foster, with an attempt to be cheerful; but Madeline did not hear her: she rested her clasped hands on her knee, and was lost in thought; one or two large tears trembled for a moment on her long lashes, and then rolled slowly over, as if loth to stain so fair, so young a cheek with their sad traces.

“My dearest Madeline,” cried Miss Foster, her sympathy up and awake in a moment, “don’t ciy; it’s very trying, but don’t cry.”

“You make me feel how silly I am,” returned Madeline, rousing herself; “if my aunt, the countess, was alive now, what a struggle I should have for an independent existence. If anything would have tempted her to visit this barbarous capital, it would have been to appropriate and administer my fortune.”

“Dear me! you don’t say so,” said Miss Foster, much shocked.

“Oh! I didn’t mean that,” returned Madeline, smiling, and answering her suspicions rather than her words, “Madame de Fontarce would have done her very best for me; hut then I would not have been permitted to meddle— good heavens!—with such material as fifty or sixty thousand pounds. What would not the countess have done? Transformed me into a princess at least. I should not have liked to have been poor Mons. Delille in her way, if she had succeeded in marrying him to me.”

“Do you know, I feel very much for that poor young man,” said Miss Foster, pensively.

“Do you?” said Madeline, with culpable indifference, her thoughts far away. “And then,” she continued, “Madame de Fontarce would have done it all so pleasantly, and tenderly, and elegantly, that it would be like conferring a favour. Poor thing! she was very good to me in her way. But I tell you, dear aunty, liberty is very, very sweet; and I cannot help thinking that, if this wonderful fortune does come to me, how delightful it will be to go away in the bright spring weather from the glare and noise of this great place into some sweet fresh country, where we shall have great cool shady trees, and violets and primroses, and green mossy grass, with big black stones all wet with the spray of some little brook chafing by (them; while you, dear aunty, shall get so strong, and lead, oh, such a peaceful life! and I,—what shall I do?—I shall learn to ride on horseback, and send my dear M. Duseautoir a little something pour les pauvres every Easter. And, oh! I must find out Kit—poor dear Kit! Fancy the delight of seeing Bat again, aunty. I feel that I must kiss him.” And Madeline laughed so joyously, with something of the bright infantine mirth which at first contrasted so strangely, in Miss Foster’s estimation, with her precocious' earnestness. “But I must not let these charming visions delude me,” continued Madeline, covering her face with her hands. “I shall wake, I must wake, and find them baseless fabrics.”

That evening’s post brought a letter from The O’Keefe, informing our heroine that he had informed himself carefully how matters stood; and that, although her claim to the estate, real and personal, of the late General Digby was incontestable, a formidable party was going to contest it, namely, the Earl of plemore, backed by all the power and of a bloated aristocracy and a venial bar; and that nothing but the courage, skill, tact, and ability, of his young friend Doolan could extricate her from so formidable an opposition; and, therefore, he would bring that ornament of the legal profession, and present him to her on the following day.

“He shall do nothing of the kind,” said Madeline, resolutely.

Another letter was brought by a special messenger from Mr. Blyth’s office :

“To Miss Digby. (Yourself and the Estate of the late General Digby.)

“Dear Madam,

“We this afternoon laid copies of the various documents bearing on your identity, and that of your late father, before Messrs. Payne and Co., who have of course requested time to consider, and also to take counsel’s opinion. We understand the only other claimant who possesses any title is the Earl of Templemore. He claims through bis grandmother, who was aunt to the late General Digby; but your title is plainly direct.

“We have the honour to be, Madam,

“Your obedient servants,

“Harridge and Blyth.”

Enclosed was a note in a different hand:

“Dear Miss Digbt,

“Accept my sincere congratulations. I have been so hard at work in your affairs, that I have scarce time to send you a line, just to relieve your mind. Your case is perfectly proved; it will still take a little time to complete formalities, "and then I hope to see you in possession of nearly three thousand a year. Meantime, if in want of a present supply, I shall be most happy to act as your banker. Mrs. Blyth will take an early opportunity of calling, and will be delighted if she can be of any service to you.

“I am, yours very truly,

“Frederic Blyth.”

“Well, he believes in my heirship,” said Madeline, after reading this note aloud, “ and gives the strongest proof of his faith; but no, I shall not put myself under the slightest obligation to him. I have never borrowed any money yet, except-”

She stopped, coloured visibly, while the tears rose to her eyes, and she remained silent.

“Oh no!” cried Miss Foster, hastening to her rescue, knowing perfectly what was in her thoughts, “that was given to me, and certainly not borrowed, for no one asked for it.”

“And how badly off we should have been without it,” added Madeline, thoughtfully. “Ah, aunty, how good he was for us! I wonder what he is doing now.” Miss Foster ventured no reply to this; so Madeline sat down to her writing-table, as she politely termed a little deal washstand without a basin hole, which she had disguised by throwing a gay cloth over it, and wrote a polite little note to The O’Keefe, declining the services of the accomplished Doolan, and stating that, for the present, she was in the hands of Messrs. Harridge and Blyth. This she despatched by the hands of a special messenger.

It was a distracting period, this interval between poverty and riches; and though Madeline strove to fix her mind on her business, her pupils, her imagination would not rest. It was constantly suggesting pictures grave and gay, while •each day had its little event. That following the one just recorded was especially distinguished.

In the afternoon Madeline had sat down to write a long letter to Lady Rawson, who had written, inquiring kindly about Madeline’s affairs, more than ten days previously, when the door was opened slowly, and enter grandmamma Redman in a capacious black velvet bonnet, a velvet mantle, and the perpetual black satin dress. She leant one hand on Miss Sharp’s arm, and rested the other heavily on the handle of the door. She seemed rather exhausted, and considerably wbeezy. Madeline felt almost stunned by her extreme surprise at such an apparition; but Miss Foster, true to her old habits, sprang forward to assist.

“Dear me, how high up you are to be sure,” began Mrs. Redman, with something of her old querulousness, though in a much less acidulated tone than usual; and sinking into a chair which Madeline politely placed for her reception.

“Quite up in the skies,” added Miss Sharp, catching up one nostril with a slight disdainful snuffle, as was her habit. She looked as iron-grey and steely as ever, and wore a black stuff dress, a shepherd’s plaid shawl, a black and white straw bonnet, trimmed with grey ribbons in the most rigid fashion, while her pepper and salt curls looked like cushion springs, slightly relaxed. “Quite up in the skies,” said Miss Sharp.

“But most desirable apartments, nevertheless,” replied Miss Foster, gently.

“I hope you are pretty well?” asked Madeline, with the tone of quiet politeness she generally adopted to Mrs. Redman.

“Well, so so; but you are looking better than ever I saw you before. And, really now, you have your place very nice. Quite genteel, I declare. Very much to your credit. And it’s your doings, I am pretty sure; for I know Miss Foster of old.” And Mrs. Redman stopped to cough.

Miss Sharp gave a^ short scornful laugh, and sat down almost in Mrs. Redman’s pocket.

“Well,” recommenced Mrs. Redman, after waiting for her granddaughter to speak, “this is an extraordinary piece of luck; who’d have thought it? I am sure when John came in the night before last, wanting your papers, and told me all about it, you might have knocked me down with a feather. I am sure there is no friend so truly rejoiced as myself. And after all, none could take so great an interest in you as I do, having reared, and educated, and cherished you when no one else would take you up, and I have never regretted it! For I will say you are a credit to me!” And the old lady blew her nose.

Madeline’s short, proud-looking upper lip curled into a contemptuous smile, of which she was probably unconscious, “You are very good,” she said.

“And finding you did not call round yesterday,” continued Mrs. Redman, as though her granddaughter and herself had always been on the most friendly terms; “although I felt far from strong, I sent round to Collins, and ordered a brougham, just to come and see you and talk over matters.”

“Did you, indeed?” said Madeline, with naive sympathy. “Why did you not wait a day or two, to ascertain really how the affair will turn out, before you incurred the expense and trouble? after all, I may not get the fortune!”

There was not a shade of acerbity in Madeline’s tone, and she uttered the words with a gentle smile, but they struck home. Old Mrs. Redman’s pale cheek flushed slightly, while Miss Sharp snapped out a “Well, I declare,” like a short war note. “There’s gratitude,” ejaculated Mrs. Redman, yet more in sorrow than in anger; she could not find it in heart to be savage to a sweet young creature, the possible possessor of sixty thousand pounds? so she continued, in a touching strain, “Who fed, and clothed, and educated you? Where would you be but for me?”

“Quite true,” said Madeline, coolly. “You did me good service, and I cost you a large outlay, which, if my present hopes are fill-filled, I shall refund, for I can repay you”

“That is all very fine,” retorted Mrs. Redman, growing angry, i.e., beginning to he less certain that Madeline would turn out a great heiress. “But, as you say, it may prove a take-in, and then you will he as badly off as ever, and sorry for the way in which you have spoken to me.”

“No,” replied Madeline, quietly, “it is because my fortunes are still uncertain, I speak as I do; were they assured, I should have hesitated to speak so; but I do want you to know that I like reality, and that allhough I readily acknowledge my obligations to you, and wish always to treat you with respect, we must understand that whether I am rich or poor, there can be no tender heart-effiisions between us. Let us say no more on so unpleasant a topic; but allow me to offer you a glass of wine. I have still a few left of some very curious port, Uncle John was so kind as to send Miss Foster when she was Old Mrs. Redman gasped; Madeline’s cool collected tone took her breath away. It was what she did not expect! She thought that, with her coarse adulation and personal praise, she could paint out the dark cold colours in which she had hitherto clothed herself, that Madeline would be all fluttered at the prospect of so golden a destiny; and, beyond this, the old mammon-worshipper was perfectly sincere in the sudden regard she had expressed for her granddaughter. She would always have love4 her tenderly had she possessed sixty thousand pounds, or been indifferently well-disposed towards her had she cost her nothing, but a poor relation, and a burden into the bargain, was more than Redman flesh and blood could bear.”

All these conditions of mind appeared perfectly natural and normal to Mrs. Redman; and if anything struck her as remarkable, it was her own magnanimity in so quickly forgiving Madeline for her previous poverty!

“Well, I’m sure!” said Miss Sharp. •

“My dear Madeline,” remonstrated Miss Foster.

“Now hold your tongue, do,” said dear grandma,” turning on the last speaker from force of habit and the strong necessity of venting her feelings. “Don’t you be putting in your talk; as to myself, I know of old there is very little gratitude in you, Madeline Digby; but I am an old woman”—she called it “ooman,”—and willing to forget and forgive; you’ll know better some day. I was going to have a snug little party to tea, and a bit of supper; yourself and Miss Foster, the Comerfords, and Mr. and Mrs. John; but I suppose you are too grand to come.”

‘‘Wait for a week or two,” said Madeline, good-humouredly, “and then I shall be most happy to accept your hospitality; at present I should feel as if I were obtaining it under false pretences:” and Madeline laughed, joyously and sweetly; it was from sense of the drole more than any revenge that she spoke, and the dismay depicted on her grandmother’s face—the tigerish anger on that of Miss Sharp, were too much for her gravity.

“I’m going,” said Mrs. Redman, rising solemnly; “I never thought I’d be spoken to like this.”

“No! no! Pray stay. Rest yourself, and take a glass of wine,” urged Madeline. “I hope we shall always be very good friends.”

“It is no fault of mine,” returned Mrs. Redman, “if we are not.” She was wonderfully placable. “But I have one or two places to call at, so I’ll say good morning.”

“And Fm sure how your patience has held out I don’t know,” said the irascible Sharp. Mrs. Redman accepted her arm, and they went slowly and silently down-stairs, pausing on each landing, and followed by Madeline, who saw her grandmother to the door with punctilious respect. The exit was respectably managed; nevertheless, it was a total rout.

CHAPTER VIII

Some weeks dragged on rather heavily. Difficulties arose, and after being judiciously enlarged upon by Mr. Blyth, who came out brilliantly in the character of a paternal attorney) were smoothed down. There was a little stilted talk on the part of Messrs. Barker and Layton, Lord Templemore’s solicitors, about disputing Madeline’s claim by a question of her parents being legally married. A peremptory mandate from Lady Templemore, however, put a stop to this. And at last, after many fluctuations of opinion and favour in Abingdon Villas, Madeline, accompanied by her uncle and Mr. Blyth, attended sundry dingy authorities in dingy ink-stained .offices, and took affidavits, and went through sundry formalities which she could not understand; and then there was a little fuss about having his niece’s rule, as was natural, for Madeline was both resolute and reasonable.

“Let me see,” returned Mr. Payne, assuming his favourite attitude; I should say (rising on his toes), two thousand a year would not hurt you. No! (He fell back on his heels.) Two thousand would leave a very good margin.”

“Is it possible?” said Madeline, almost appalled at the magnitude of such an income. “ Could you tell me what that is a week? I am not accustomed to such large sums.”

“Humph! Fifty-two into two thousand. Ah! Somewhere about thirty-eight pounds ten shillings.”

“What! every week T said Madeline, and relapsed into silence.

“Are you thinking how you shall ever spend it all?” asked Mr. John, jocularly.

“No, indeed,” said she, laughing; and then turning to the attorney, “I am going to give you some work at once,” she said. “I want you to advertise in the Times, and elsewhere, if necessary, for a Mr. Christopher Fitzwar-renne, to apply to you, where he shall hear of something to his advantage.”

“And what may that be?” asked Payne.

“Whatever I, with your and my uncles advice, may decide on doing for him,” returned Madeline; “after he expounds his own views. He was my only friend when my father died. He is a poor actor, with a large family, and I want to help him.”

“Oh! if that’s the line you adopt, you will have no difficulty in spending two thousand a year,” said the attorney, drily.

“Yes, that is my line, in this particular instance,” returned Madeline good-humouredly, but decidedly. And after discussing the terms of the advertisement, she took leave of her new solicitor.

“Look, dear aunty,” she said, when about an hour after she entered their sitting-room, for they still occupied their humble lodgings. “Look, what I have brought! A hundred pounds of my oion, oum money; and this—” holding out an enigmatical scrap of paper.

“What is it?” asked Miss Foster.

“It represents a box at the Olympic Theatre. Mr. Downing is out of town, so we will go over for Jessie to-morrow, and make her dine here and go with us.”

Then she fell into profound musing; suddenly she exclaimed, “I think you ought to write and tell him!”

“Who, dear?” asked Miss Foster, demurely.

“Mr. Elliott,” returned Madeline, steadily, though she coloured and looked away. “ He was so kind and good to us, that I should not like to stand on any foolish punctilio. Write to him, dear aunty, and tell him from me that I know he will rejoice at my good fortune.” Again she lapsed into thought. How vividly she saw Hugh Elliott, and heard his voice, even as he looked and spoke when she had rejected his love. How tender and considerate he had been in his conscious strength! How painfully tight he had pressed her hand in his! And then she thought of those longfingered, brown hands of his, that looked so strong and capable, without a shadow of coarseness; and the impression of silent perseverance and endurance they always conveyed to her. Suppose she had been heart-whole when she met him—his love, so evidently of a high and unselfish order would certainly have won hers. Probably, by this time they would have been engaged, so that he would be obliged to take her fortune; and then he might have bought some place near his native village and had plenty of horses to gallop about the country, after his Australian fashion, for at least part of the year. “How grand it would be to fill the life of one, deservedly dear, with perpetual sunshine and delight! He has toiled so hard, too, and seems to have enjoyed so little. What pleasure it would have been to .have shown him the way to enjoy, had I been able to love him. Ah! his was real love!” And then, naturally, her thoughts turned to the different class of love offered her by Dudley Ashurst. She was surprised to find how far off all that appeared,, and that some disenchanting spell seemed to have been breathed over the fascinating memory of her first lover. He was certainly graceful and impassioned—a girl’s ideal lover —but he wanted the intense earnestness which gave a certain dignity to Hugh Elliott’s comparatively rough exterior. Dudley Ashurst, the spoiled darling of fortune, always borne aloft by sparkling waves of success, how could he—where could he acquire the mingled energy and patience, resolution and self-reliance of the successful sailor-boy, who, from his early submergence under the dark waters of life, had raised himself unaided to the surface by his own strong will and steady purpose ? “Had I once admitted that I loved him, nothing but death would have separated us; but then I could not! I could never love another.” And so she sighed deeply, and roused herself to talk to Miss Foster, yet she was languid and depressed all the evening, and made Miss Foster re-write her note to Hugh Elliott twice, before she would permit it to he posted.

After all, it only produced a written reply, penned in a frank and kindly spirit; but some weeks passed over and he never came to see them.

Madeline Digby to Lady Rawson.

“23, B----Street, Hyde Park,

"Jan. 24, 18—.

“My dear Lady Rawson,

“I am displeased with myself for having left your kind letter so long unanswered, and my own promise to write more in detail unfulfilled; but I have been so busy. It is really a serious undertaking to quit the ranks of poverty and obscurity, and clothe, lodge, and fit oneself for a place among the ‘upper ten thousand.’ I have found it a heavy task, and at each step in the way regretted your absence. You would have been, and I hope still will he, invaluable to me—for you will soon return, will you not? I have, since I last wrote, been put in formal possession of the poor old general’s fortune, and we have left our plebeian quarters in Kent Terrace (which. I shall always remember with gratitude and affection), for very handsomely furnished apartments in this convenient neighbourhood, for which I think we pay an enormous sum; but there — my ideas on the subject of expenditure are as yet unemancipated. To be sure the price includes .the attendance of a solemn and aristocratic-looking man, the master of the house, who oppresses Miss Foster and myself terribly at dinner-time, as we feel quite at his mercy, not liking to trouble him for anything he does not voluntarily offer. I am getting bolder and more accustomed to him; but, dear Lady Rawson, when regularly established I will not have men-servants, except in the stable, for Uncle John and my solicitor (does it not sound droll, my solicitor?) inform me that I may keep a carriage. I am trying to be my own mistress, and find it no easy task, as every one seems to think they can judge for me much better than I can myself. My grandmother’s tender anxiety that I should not waste my money is touching; and the delight she appears to take in my society perfectly incomprehensible to me when I remember the sort of loathing the very tone of her voice used to express; and I feel quite sure her present liking is not assumed, but a real attachment. Indeed, the affectionate interest evinced for me by the whole Redman family is almost troublesome; they absolutely quarrel over me, and worry me, and are always, in some side way, reminding me of all I owe them, and hinting that I ought to separate from Miss Foster, nor allow any stranger to obtain undue influence over me; and they are perpetually intruding on our tranquil life. Uncle John I find useful and obedient, but his wife is intolerable.

“The three most distinct sources of pleasure which this unexpected turn of fortune has enabled me to enjoy, though scarce fit to be named together, are, first, the discovery of poor Kit, of whom, I am sure, you have often heard me speak—my only friend when I was first an orphan; secondly, the lodging in my grandmother’s bank, to her credit, some three hundred pounds; and lastly, having a nice, bright, tasteful little Parisian lady’s-maid, who enjoys her business.

“I have, thank God, been able to be of great use to poor Mr. Fitzwarrenne. He had been ill, and was evidently at the lowest ebb in finance when we found him. His projects are, I must say, wild; but we have arranged for the present, and put his. two girls to school. Miss Foster is looking so well, and is so happy, only she makes me cross sometimes by her sympathy with her old tyrant, who is, in her turn, utterly subdued by her present companion. Finally, I have bought a house at Richmond. You know how charmed I was when you so kindly drove me down there last summer. One morning, about three weeks ago, I saw a house advertised to be let or sold there. I went down, saw it, liked it, and its old-fashioned furniture; thought that there the Redmans could not come in at all hours; consulted ‘my solicitor,’ who told me it was ‘ not dear,’ i.e., a complete bargain. The owner wanted money immediately, and I had some ready; so I have agreed for it, and the title (they call it) is being made out. I shall have a modest establishment—a cook, a couple of housemaids, and my bright little Online. And ah! how delightful to have you for a guest when you return!—only I shall never have things nice enough for you! In March, or early in April, we hope to take up our abode at Richmond, and enjoy the beauties of spring. There is my history. I am thankful, and yet I do not feel the joy that this strange turn in my fortunes would have given me two years ago.

I sometimes sit and repeat to myself my history. And lo! I am still much alone. Miss Foster, my kind and gentle friend, is very dear to me; but then she is my child, and I have no one near whose strength could uphold me, and to whose judgment I would defer. Am I asking too much when I say I hope you will supply this want? I have so much confidence in your sense and your sincerity! Do you see much of the Temple-mores? Is it not curious their turning out relations of mine? I wonder if we shall ever meet again, and I wonder, too, what is before me. There are so many chances and changes in this mortal life. But I am content to enjoy the present, only I wish I could forget some things.

“I am writing an interminable letter; yet I must not omit to mention that M. Delille has made his appearance once more, and annoys me very much. I perpetually meet him in this neighbourhood. Immediately on his return, he wrote me an absurd, magnanimous letter, stating that in my altered fortunes he would not bind me to our engagement, but that he nevertheless offered himself afresh as a suitor for my hand. I replied decidedly that I never was affianced to him, that he had no claim upon me, that I had not answered his first letter because I did not know his address; and, after thanking him for his expressions of devotion, told him my intentions were not matrimonial. He looks rather ferocious, and always gives me a cold shiver when I meet him. Adieu, dear Lady Rawson! Write soon, or better still, come home soon.

“Ever yours,

“Gratefully and affectionately yours,

“Madeline Digby.”

A few days after the despatch of this letter Miss Foster made an expedition into the City. The evening before Madeline had laughingly presented her with what she termed the arrears of her salary, which consisted of oei> tain crisp bank-notes in a very pretty purse. Miss Foster had exclaimed and remonstrated, but Madeline put all her objections affectionately aside. Consequently Miss Foster made an expedition into the City. Her destination

was No. —,-Chambers, Sise Lane; and

she succeeded in her object. Hugh Elliott was in his office, and she was immediately admitted to his presence. He came forward to greet her with unmistakable cordiality; he took her hand with kindly warmth, and drew a chair by the fire for her. But how gaunt, and dark, and hard he looked! And after the first welcome was over, he seemed inclined to fall into a kind of dreamy silence.

“I have come to you, Mr. Elliott,” said Miss Foster, with an attempt at sprightliness, yet a little nervously, “as you will not come to me, to return you your most kind and timely loan. Indeed I do not know what we should have done without it just at the time!” and she placed three notes on his desk.

“Ah!” said Hugh Elliott, “she has scarce touched her fortune before she hastens to rid herself of so hateful an obligation!”

“Now, my dear Mr. Elliott, how can you say so? She knows nothing about it!—not even that I was coming here to-day. I have a salary now, and I wish to pay my just debts. Miss Digbv never said a word about it.”

Hugh said nothing for a moment, and then burst out abruptly:

“How is she? How does she stand this sudden change?”

“Oh! you would not see the slightest change in her! She is just the kindest, the most considerate, the most sensible!—indeed I don’t think there is any one in the world like Madeline Digby.”

Elliott smiled indulgently at this sally; but his smile was very sombre.

“I was obliged to you for giving me direct intelligence of her good fortune. It was friendly.”

“I did so by her express desire; and I think she expected you (I know I did) to call.”

“I did not see any object in calling,” returned Hugh Elliott, gloomily.

“Well, I think you might. It would give both Madeline and myself the greatest pleasure.”

“Hum,” said Elliott. “And you yourself,” he continued somewhat bitterly, “are you comfortable? Miss Digby does not show any disposition to throw you off as a troublesome reminder of her former poverty?”

“Oh, Mr. Elliott!” said Miss Foster, colouring with wounded feeling. “How can you speak so!”

“I am an uncouth savage,” cried Elliott, with frank penitence. “And I beg your pardon. No! she is made of no common stuff; and I am much obliged to you both for wishing to see me. I will call some day. What is the proper hour, for I suppose no one may drop in of an evening now except by a special invitation?”

“You would always be welcome, I am sure,” returned Miss Foster. “There is our address,” handing him a card. “We always dine at half-past five, any time before that! but I trust we shall be all good friends, and without formality.” Miss Foster stopped abruptly. She felt that between her desire to conciliate, and her anxiety not to commit herself, she was growing incoherent. “Well, I am taking up your valuable time,” she resumed, seeing that Elliott was lost in thought, and did not attempt to assist her. “So I will just say good morning, hoping to see you soon again.”

“No,” returned Hugh, “you are not taking up my time. Have you seen Downing lately? How is the famous company getting on?”

“I know nothing of that. Mr. Downing often calls on a Sunday, and .Mr. O’Keefe comes also; he often wants Miss Digby to take shares in the ‘International,’ what do you call it? but she always laughs at him.”

“Don’t let them persuade her,” said Hugh. “I have not seen Downing for a long time. I hear that he has started as a consulting engineer, and is doing well. I hope so, if only for his wife’s sake. What has become of that French agent or engineer? What was he? we used to meet him last summer at the Downings.”

“Oh! he has returned to London; we sometimes see him.”

“Indeed!” said Hugh Elliott, bending over the fire to hide the expression of pain which he felt was upon his face. Silence ensued for a moment, and then Miss Foster rose and held out her hand, saying, “I must go now.”

“Good-bye,” said Elliott, taking it cordially. “I am very glad I was in. I am very glad to have seen you; give my kind regards and best wishes to Miss Digby. I shall come and see you both. Do you know I have some idea of returning to Australia?”

“You don’t say so!” cried Miss Foster, aghast.

“It is only an idea as yet,” he replied. “I am not quite satisfied with the way things are going on there.”

“Goodness gracious! I am surprised!” said Miss Foster.

“It is nothing to an old sailor,” returned Elliott, who then escorted her to her cab, and took a kindly leave of her.

“Going to Australia!” ejaculated Miss Foster, as her vehicle threaded its way through the crowded thoroughfares. “What will Madeline say?”

CHAPTER IX

One afternoon, a few days after the interview described in the last chapter, Madeline was sitting alone reading over the fire, when her aristocratic-looking landlord, with a species of enjoyment in the title, announced “Lady Templemore.” Madeline was greatly astonished; but rose with alacrity to receive her.

Lady Templemore was looking precisely the same as when Madeline last saw her—the same substantial style of dress and address— the same air of complete occupation without hurry. “How do you do, Miss Digby? I suppose you are surprised to see me.”

“I am, indeed, Lady Templemore. I imagined you at Naples.”

“Well I am scarcely a week returned. I have left Lord Templemore and Lady Agnes there; but Lady Elizabeth accompaniedme. It is very inconvenient in every way to be away from town during the session, and yet I am afraid of it for Agnes in the early spring. So I went down to the Isle of Wight the day before yesterday, and took a little villa at Yentnor for four months. I can come back and forward easily, and so can Lord Temple-more and my son. .1 shall have all ready by the time Agnes arrives. And now, Miss Digby, what do you think I have come to see you for?”

“I am quite at a loss to imagine,” returned Madeline, smiling.

“I suppose so,” said Lady Templemore.

“Well, in the first place, I wish to tell you that we have not a shadow of unfriendly feeling towards you in consequence of your having gained a fortune to which I confess I always -looked, as I was aware that General Digby was nearly related to my husband, and he has been known to say, ‘ He supposed Temple-more would have it all.’”

“I am very much obliged to you,” replied Madeline. “To be an object of unfriendliness would be most painful to me.”

Far from it,” resumed her ladyship, “you had an undoubted right to the money. Had I not thought so I should have strenuously opposed your claim. Individually I always liked you—you conducted yourself with great propriety while in my employment, though I think the governess I have at present has a more sedative effect on Lady Agnes.”

“Really, Lady Templemore,” said Madeline, with a sweet low laugh, “it is charming to hear you speak so naturally, and not affect to ignore that I was once in a sense your dependent. I have been so sickened with the opposite tone which people adopt, as though I had been an heiress all my life.”

“Oh! that is very stupid! of course we shall all work into our places by-and-by,” said Lady Templemore, “but that is another point I wanted to touch upon. How are you off as to entourage—what chaperon have you? You know it is a pity to let your advantages slip for want of proper management —you really have great capabilities.” Lady Templemore stopped abruptly.

“You are very flattering,” said Madeline, smiling.

“Nay—but answer seriously—have you any presentable chaperon?”

“I will tell you exactly how I am situated,” said Madeline, as you are good enough to interest yourself in my affairs. “I have a lady of ^oodjfamily and pleasing manners living with me, but she is too poor to have any social standing; nevertheless we are very happy, and I am quite content.”

“Pooh! nonsense!” returned Lady Tem-plemore. “You think so now, but you will want social success, if it was only for variety, by-and-by. Now, I think your best plan is to put yourself into my hands. I have a good circle about me. It is true Lady Rawson might bring you out very effectively, but I do not think it would be so useful as the actual acknowledgment of relationship from us.” Madeline’s lip curled slightly—the acknowledgment of the Templemores was of small importance to eyes so accustomed to look upon realities as hers. Nevertheless, Lady Temple-more meant well, and Madeline knew that nothing was so absurd in the estimation of a worldly woman as Quixotism of any kind. She therefore answered civilly, “I am very much obliged, but what do mean by putting‘myself in your hands? Do you mean to say you would take the trouble of being my chaperon?” “Yes,” said Lady Templemore, straightforwardly. “I should bring you out with my own daughter—put your name on my cards.” “It is, no doubt, a great advantage,” replied Madeline, gravely; “and I shall, if you will permit, avail myself of it to a certain degree, reserving the disposition of my time and the cultivation of my own friends. Suppose you allow me to make my debut at your house—then if your friends like me and chose to call upon me, I might go with you to their houses. This would, I think, leave us both more unshackled than if my name was upon your cards.”

“As you like,” returned Lady Templemore. “I think the more you are identified with us the better for you. Let us settle nothing definitively before the first drawing-room, meantime come and dine with us en famille to-morrow. Only Elizabeth, Bracklyn, and myself— come en demi-toilette, and we will talk matters over.”

“Thank you—I shall be very happy.”

“Well, good morning! I have fifty things to do before dinner, and barely three hours to do them in.”

Lady Templemore shook hands in a friendly manner and departed.

“Well, aunty! who do you think has been to see me?” asked Madeline, when Miss Foster came in half an hour after.

“How can I tell—Mr. Elliott?”

“No, indeed,” said Madeline, with a slight sigh; and she detailed Lady Templemore’s visit.

“Well, it is the most extraordinary thing,” exclaimed Miss Foster

“Yes, it is curious,” said Madeline, thoughtfully. “Lady Templemore is a just woman— at least I have always found her so—yet she has so little abstract benevolence that I find myself wondering what the object of civilities to me can be. I shall accept them so far as they suit me, aunty. What a wonderful thing this money is! What a road of velvet it makes of life’s otherwise rough path—yet I do not feel exhilarated—I wish we were quietly settled at Richmond.”

The next day was Sunday, and a bright tempting afternoon. Miss Foster and Madeline went to take a turn in Kensington Gardens. Here they were joined by The O’Keefe and M. Delille, who were attired in the height of the fashion, the latter in lemon-coloured gloves, so tightly buttoned at the wrist as to suggest the idea of impeded circulation.

“I am fortunate in meeting mademoiselle to-day,” said M. Delille, in hissing accents. “ She is never at home when I call.”

“I am out a great deal,” replied Madeline, simply—conscious she had given orders for his non-admittance—half frightened at the wild menace in his tones.

“I shall hope to be more successful on another occasion,” he returned, significantly.

“Don’t mind him, Miss Digby,” said O’Keefe. “He has been heart-broken these three weeks, but he’ll be all the better for the gleam of sunshine he has got.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Delille, “if it be not a deceptive ray.”

“Monsieur,” said Madeline, with sudden frankness, “do you wish to be my friend?”

“Without doubt,” returned the Frenchman, startled at the change in her manner, and they dropped behind the others.

“Well, then,” resumed Madeline, “be content to be only my friend—as a friend I am willing, nay, proud, to receive you; but in any other light, no! I will not see you,” and Madeline put up a pretty little hand before her eyes. Mons. Delille was silent, thinking in his sudden way if he could not turn this compact to account.

“Yes or no?” said Madeline, with playful impatience, and turning a beaming smile upon the would-be suitor.

“Yes,” frankly returned Delille, assuming a chivalrous air. “Let me but bask in your smile and I will be what you like.”

“It is an affair agreed then,” said Madeline.

“And you will permit me, comme fibre, to offer for inspection some drawings of the wild coast of Brittany I made while exiled there.”

“But yes! certainly.” Here Mrs. John suddenly meeting them, paused in herstately career, and called upon Madeline to give counsel respecting a grand party she, Mrs. John, intended giving, and the details of which occupied them till it was time to go in. On their return home they found Mr. Hugh Elliott’s card. “Oh!” cried Madeline, a look of positive pain contracting her lip and brow, “how unfortunate!”

“It is provoking,” said Miss Foster, quite depressed.

“And a card too,” said Madeline, with a sad smile. “I really did not think he had one; we never saw any at Kent Terrace. Poor old Kent Terrace! how far away those days seem now. Yet there was much pleasure in them, aunty,” and Madeline’s eyes looked suspiciously dim. Soon after Miss Foster went away to drink tea and go to church with Mrs. Downing; indeed she (Miss Foster) came in for a good deal of stray attentions, now that it was generally acknowledged she was the favourite factotum and right-hand woman of Miss Digby, the charming heiress, though neither Madeline nor Miss Foster were ever conscious of the slightest change in Jessie. They had been fast friends always, and though she rejoiced in her former schoolfellow’s good fortune, not a shadow of envy or worldliness troubled the pure waters of her affection. Madeline was still Madeline to her—the cleverest, boldest, kindest, prettiest girl she had ever known, but not a whit cleverer, kinder, or prettier, than when she sallied forth to seek her fortune at Lady Templemore’s.

With the elegant Arthur it was far different. To him the General’s heiress was altogether a more interesting, well-informed, right-thinking person than little Miss Digby, “out” for a holiday from her work at Lady Templemore’s, with unorthodox and irregular views on all subjects, and a bad habit of expressing them in an impressive and defiant way. Moreover, the air and manner so unsuited to her humbler fortunes fitted in remarkably well with the present aspect of affairs.

All these thoughts floated through Madeline’s mind as she sat alone waiting till it was time to dress for her dinner with Lady Templemore. She was clear-sighted as to the motives of others, but without a shade of bitterness. The schooling she had had was not calculated to raise her standard of human nature. She had no heroine-like, ready-made belief in the goodness, disinterestedness, and generosity of every one she met. Nevertheless, she had faith in the undying unconquerableness of good—of its predominance in life, and a ready, hearty, glowing gratitude for any kindness shown to herself; and so she sat and thought dreamily, her hands clasped on her knee, as the cold early spring evenings closed in. How grieved she was not to have seen Hugh Elliott, he who alone had shown her true love; for she had seen deep enough into his character to be aware how strong must be the affection which could overcome monetary considerations with him—and his love was so unselfish! What if he went, as he threatened to do, to Australia, and she never saw him again!—“Never again,” she uttered aloud, and startled at the pang which shot through her heart, at the solemn reverberation of these dirge-like words. What! was this unattractive man, with his cold inarticulate exterior, grown of such importance to her that, unseen, she had given him the love she had held back from his spoken prayer? “Can it be?” she asked herself, and her true heart answered, “It is! I long for a glance from those deep-set, thoughtful eyes, to see that grave, strong face, to hear the ring of his honest voice, and oh! more than all! for the clasp of his firm hand;” and then she blushed crimson, though alone, blushed with shame at her own fickleness. How, how could she thus change? Alas! one of youth’s bitterest and most depressing lessons is the mutability of its affections—; to feel a love fading from us, and know that by-and-by we will replace it, and then to feel another dawning, and know there is a chance of its following former defunct feelings to the grave of oblivion. What desecration there is in all this to the young! Vexed with herself, disappointed and dissatisfied, Madeline obeyed the warning conveyed by Mademoiselle Celine, that there was scarce time to dress, and attended very listlessly to the duties of her toilette, and then drove away in a most unpromising mood for Lady Templemore’s plans, for her ladyship had plans.

“Well, aunty,” said Madeline, when they met next morning at breakfast, “I had rather a pleasant morning with Lady Templemore; I was very much amused, she is so candid and transparent in her worldliness; yet she is a woman. I respect. I do not think anything would tempt her to injure another.”

“An excellent character, I am sure,” replied Miss Foster.

‘‘She put me through a severe cross-examination however,” resumed Madeline, “and, on the whole, rather approves my plans and intentions, so you see there is one more added to the list of self-constituted directors, who are good enough to superintend my affairs. I think Lady Templemore ought to be chairwoman though! she may really be useful to me if 1 come to care about the outsides of things, and you know that must not be quite overlooked.”

“No, certainly not,” said Miss Foster, who was by no means clear as to what her young friend meant.

“Nevertheless I shall not think it right to use her too unsparingly,” continued Madeline, “as I have discovered her object, and intend to frustrate it.”

“Dear me! what does she want?”

“To marry me to her son, Lord Bracklyn, and so secure the Digby treasure trove to the family!”

“Well, it’s not unnatural!”

“No; far from it. I have no doubt Lady Templemore thinks she is arranging the happiness of all parties, but I don’t agree with her. Fancy being tied for life to such a refrigerated piece of emptiness as Lord Bracklyn!”

“I am sure I do not know, Madeline, dear. I never saw the young gentleman—I mean the young nobleman; you are so very hard to please!”

“No, indeed, aunty! Only I should like a rational human being for husband, if I ever marry—something stronger than myself; for I am a wretched, weak, fickle creature”—she added, with a hurst of self-contempt.

“My dear Madeline!”

“Ah! I am nothing like so good as you think I am! But last night it was very amusing to see the change in Lord Bracklyn. He used to stare at me long ago in such a stupid, persevering manner, that I often felt tempted to startle him by some audacious speech; as to speaking to me, he never dreamed of such a thing. Last night, indeed, he said very little, but that little was addressed to me; and his mother took him into counsel, and in a way they appropriated me. Lord Bracklyn said I ought to ride; and I said I had already arranged to take lessons, and intended to ride a good deal when we went to Richmond; and then his" lordship said, ‘ Richmond—ah! not a bad idea.’ So Lady Templemore observed she was sure Bracklyn would be very glad to look out for a nice lady’s horse for me; and he said, ‘ Very happy, indeed.’ However, I kept out of authorizing him. I do not want to be hampered with the Templemores, or any one. I want peace and rest!” and she paused suddenly. Miss Foster stole a glance of anxious affection at her countenance; certainly she looked less bright than in the old times of difficulty and struggle, but she said nothing. Presently, Madeline resumed: “Lord Bracklyn put on my cloak, and took 'me down to the carriage with the utmost care; and what do you think, aunty? as I was stepping in, I saw that troublesome Monsieur Delille leaning against a lamp-post, looking—oh! looking so wicked and revengeful. I wish he would go away : though it is foolish to be afraid of him! Come, this is a charming spring-like day; and Mr. Payne writes to me that the papers are all ready for completing the purchase of our Richmond house. We will go to Mr. Payne first, and drive down there after, and arrange about everything—the garden and the furniture, you know; and then as soon as the days are a little longer, we will take up our abode there. You will like it—will you not T “Yes, Madeline, I am always happy with you; but it will be quite delightful to live in such a beautiful place.”

“I wonder I have not heard from Lady Rawson,” said the heiress, thoughtfully.

“Perhaps she is coming home. I wish she would. I have great faith in her.”

While Madeline and Miss Foster enjoyed a tranquil drive and prospective planning, The O’Keefe was doing what he considered a hard morning’s work in his little dingy parlour. O’Keefe was a man of many and varied occupations, and like the performer of “odd jobs” in humbler life, found the same discrepancy between the emoluments of a distinct trade or profession and intermittent employment which exists between the steady supply of the poultry-yard and the chance success of the sportsman. O’Keefe always asserted he had been called to the bar; then he had certainly been engaged on a morning paper; he had gone out to South America as-superintendent of mines—never having seen one before; he had resided in Paris; and now united the various avocations of consul, periodical writer, director,-with a little commission business (sub rosa). Thus he eked out a somewhat precarious existence. This morning he had written divers letters, and covered sundry sheets of paper with wild-looking caligraphy. At the moment I have selected he was rumpling his hair and groaning in spirit over a column of figures which would not come right. Arithmetic was not Mr. O’Keefe’s forte, except, perhaps, the rule of division, and he was usually compelled to spend a good deal of time hunting for half-sovereigns, ay, and whole ones also, which would not render account of themselves. On the present occasion he was en robes de chambre—a good deal dishevelled, and generally unfit for the reception of visitors. Yet his privacy was broken in upon by Maria Theresa, who informed him that “the French gentleman wanted to see him.” “Oh, when am I to have any peace!” muttered O’Keefe. “Yes, to be sure, let him come in.” Whereupon enter M. Delille. “Aha! mm amil what’s in the wind now?”—for the officer looked fierce and moody; he was deadly pale, and unshaven.

“My destiny is still adverse,” returned Delille, in a deep voice, speaking between his clenched teeth. “She turns from me now that fortune smiles upon her. And I, doomed as I am, I am ordered by that abominable board —the tools, no doubt, of her intriguing uncle— to return to my exile, amid the desolation of their newly-acquired territory. No, O’Keefe, never! They know not this heart!”—a vigorous thump on his chest. “I have set myself free; I have sent in my resignation; I am no longer the slave of their vile tryranny! I-”

“Why, mille tonneres J” cried O’Keefe, pushing back his chair, and throwing his black stump of a pen into the grate, “you have not been and gone and cut your own throat?”

“No, my friend,” returned Delille, gravely, and grasping his windpipe as if the idea was a fresh one, and not unacceptable. “No; ha \ ha! if I had I should have cut some one else’s first!”

“Don’t talk like a lunatic,” said O’Keefe, impatiently, “if you act like one. What are you going to do now? What do you intend to live upon?”

“My wife’s fortune,” returned M. Delille, sullenly, with a dull sort of glare in his eyes. “I shall have a right to do so, you know,” striking O’Keefe’s shoulder with unpleasant force. “How joyfully I would have placed realms at her feet, and thought myself amply rewarded had she condescended to accept them!”

“Faith, he’s mighty troublesome,” thought O’Keefe, who mortally hated trouble or unpleasantness. “But, mm cher,” he said aloud, “you havn’t got them, and her guardians will be after asking for settlements, and the Lord knows what. You had better just get over this crotchet, and I’ll take care your resignation is not accepted.”

“Ah, ha! O’Keefe!” cried Delille, with a ringing, uncomfortable laugh, “are you, too, a traitor? Guard thyself, for I have staked my soul on this venture! And she—she who ought to have been my wife years ago—she wavers—she is changed—ohJ false heart!” And M. Delille shook his clenched hand at .some fancied antagonist.

“Come now, my good fellow,” said O’Keefe, soothingly, “be reasonable. Miss Digby never gave you any encouragement. As to her silence respecting your letter giving consent, how the deuce was she to write when she did not know where you were? And, at any rate, you do not know but she might take a fancy to you yet,” concluded O’Keefe, caring only to get rid of the present moment’s discomfort, and regardless of what materials for future storms he might be heaping up.

“You think, then, that all is not yet lost?” cried Delille, a blaze of wild delight shining in his fierce eyes. “Oh, my friend! you talked of guardians just now. Pooh! could I win her I would defy them. And she is, she must be mine! See, O’Keefe, the contract was all but signed; another week and she would have been my wife, if death had not stepped in and carried off her aunt. Ah! had my mother but heard my prayer!” And M. Delille stopped abruptly, and struck his brow. '

“Faith, there’s nothing so hard to deal with as a ’cute old woman,” said O’Keefe, sympathetically.

“Madame, my mother,” returned Delille, with dignity, “is still in the prime of life.”

“Is she? Oh, Lord! I beg your pardon.”

“But, O’Keefe, my friend, I have immense difficulties to contend with, and rivals—sacre nom de Dim—without end. Last night I strolled for an hour by Lady Templemore’s hotel. You remember she told the amiable Mrs. Redman she would dine there. At last she came out, leaning on the arm of an accursed aristocrat—I believe the son of the house— and he closed the carriage door, and leant in and spoke, and then laughed—an idiot laugh. Ah! mon Dim! I could have struck him dead as he turned to re-enter his luxurious house.” Certainly M. Delille looked very truculent as he uttered these words, and his dear friend very heartily wished him at the bottom of one of the company’s new iron mines.

“Well, Delille, you can’t expect that a chyarming crature like Miss Digby, with a big fortune to boot, won’t have heaps of pretenders. You must just take your chance with the rest, only never say die, my boy. And now I have a most particular appointment, or I’d stay longer with you.”

“Ah, ah!” cried the Frenchman, stretching out his clenched hand, and then opening it wide; “I am tortured! Why—why am I to take chance with the rest: I who first loved her when she was poor and unknown. Ah! mm Dieu! when I again beheld her, now almost a year since, at Madame Redman’s, what a wild life passed into my heart, and has burned there ever since. I should have shared a dukedom with her gladly when she had nothing. And now I am told to take my chance with the rest—fools and good-for-nothings that sought her not till she had gold —gold. And I love her! Ah! heavens!” agonisingly. “But, no! she shall never be another’s—never! Death to her and to me first!” And Delille wrung O’Keefe’s hand with painful force.

“Now, my good fellow,” returned that individual, half bored, but whole uneasy, and anxious to get rid of him; “keep yourself quiet. You can try your chance at Mrs. Redman’s ball on the 12th. But I declare you take a wrong view of the subject. See, now, I’ll manage to have your resignation refused. We mustn’t cut off a safe' retreat eh? You keep up your spirits, and don’t talk like the hero of a melodrama.”

“Ah, you mock me!” cried Delille. “No matter; we shall see,” and catching up his hat, he walked quickly out of the room, slamming the front door after him with startling violence.

“Faith, this is a pretty business,” soliloquized O’Keefe, gathering his papers together, and thrusting them into a drawer in his writing table. “You’re more trouble than you are worth, me boy. Any way Miss Digby shan’t be bothered with you. I’ll give her a hint.” Then, making a short, energetic search in the chaos of his pockets, and on the invisibility of the floor: “the devil go with you for a key, I never saw the like of you for getting lost. But sure it’s no matter. Who’ll care to look into my papers, and it’s little they’ll find if they do. Three o’clock, by Jove! The plagues of Egypt were a trifle to you, Delille!”

CHAPTER X

As the weeks rolled on, Madeline found business engagements multiply around her. It was true she bought house and furniture ready to her hand, but then there were many small addenda to be supplemented, and servants to be hired, and arrangements to be made, for she grew anxious to be at home in her own house. And although the weather was still cold, there were intermittent glimpses of spring, which made both Miss Foster and herself long to be settled in Richmond in time to see the first outbreak of spring foliage and flowers. Lady Templemore proved very useful at this period. It is true that she endeavoured to reduce Madeline to a mere paying puppet, and to organize her establishment on a footing somewhat similar to her own; but our plucky little heroine stuck with remarkable tenacity of purpose, though amiability of manner, to her own ideas on this subject, and had her own way. But in the matter of establishing a dressmaker, arranging for a carriage and horses with a job-master, and purchasing some articles of furniture, Lady Templemore’s advice and assistance were invaluable. As to purchasing a riding horse, Madeline still declined Lord Bracklyn’s services. She hardly knew why. She said she did not yet know whether she should like riding sufficiently to keep a horse, that she would not give Lord Bracklyn needless trouble, &c. And so she kept her own counsel, and pursued her riding lessons very successfully, for she was light, active, and courageous, with the courage of youth, health, and common sense. Lord Bracklyn sometimes spoiled her rides by sharing them, evidently under orders from his mother not to lose sight,of her. Lady Elizabeth Grey Temple exerted herself to be very friendly, and the two girls soon discarded the formalities of “Miss Digby” and “Lady Elizabeth.”

Madeline, when she was alone, which was not often, used sometimes to go back in meditation to her early days of mean and pinching poverty, and contrast the “low estate” of those trying times with the ease, the success, the smiling aspect of all things in the present. “I am not one iota more deserving now than formerly,” she thought, “perhaps less, for I fear I think too much of myself. Yet how fond every one is of me, and how ready every one is to smooth a path already smooth enough. God grant me wisdom and largeness of heart,’ and keep me from the errors of riches! But, thank Heaven, there are two. or three who have always loved me, and trusted me. As to the rest, non nobis Domine, not unto me be the praise, but to that poor old man who toiled, and starved himself, morally and physically, that I, to whom he probably would not have given a farthing, might enjoy. I wonder will Hugh Elliott ever grow so blinded with money-worship as General Digby? Oh, no! I think not.” And then she would rouse herself when her reverie reached this point, which it did not unfrequently, and set about some needlework or music to drive away a bitter regret that often intruded itself, and helped possibly to preserve the balance of her mind through the great trial to which it was being subjected.

“I had a letter from Lord Templemore this morning,” said Madeline’s self-constituted chaperon, as they drove down Piccadilly on their way to do a heavy morning’s shopping. He and Agnes start to-morrow for London. They will travel quietly, but I expect them within a week.”

“I am very glad,” said Madeline. “I shall be delighted to meet dear Lady Agnes again.” “She is like you, decidedly like you,” returned Lady Templemore, looking steadily at her fair young companion. “Lord Temple-more always saw it, and I think it was one of the reasons he liked you. By-the-by, he desires to be remembered to you, Miss Digby. (Her ladyship never was familiar.) And he says Lady Rawson intends travelling home with them,” she added.

“Indeed, that is good news,” exclaimed Madeline, joyfully. Lady Templemore coughed slightly.

“Yes, Lady Rawson is a very pleasant person, and has a very agreeable house; but I would not have you too much with her.”

“Why, Lady Templemore?”

“Oh, because she has not that kind of solid' reputation and assured standing—that—that —I have,” said her ladyship, nonplussed for an example. Madeline laughed to herself—“No doubt her position is totally different from yours; but still she is a woman of some weight, and much popularity.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” returned Lady Tem-plemore, quickly, “indeed, die has always conducted herself with much discretion, but then she is for ever having some wonderful attraction at her house, as if she must draw people, instead of standing on her rights towards society—music and charades, and notorieties, and all that—a little flighty, you know.” “Well,” returned Madeline, smiling at the doctrine that it is undignified to make one’s house attractive, “is it not meritorious to render amusement intellectual and less stereotyped than it is usually?”

“Perhaps so, but you must cultivate a different set if you want to make a really good marriage, which I suppose is your object.”

“No, indeed, it is not,” returned Madeline. “I give you credit for more sense than a mere missish disclaimer,” said Lady Temple-more, coolly; “then may I ask what is your object?”

“I doubt if I have any,” replied Madeline,laughing merrily and sweetly, “I only want to enjoy myself, and live not altogether selfishly.”

“Hum,” said Lady Templemore; “the religious evangelical line might Suit you, they are a very high and influential set still; however, you must just feel your way, but believe me, you will find matrimony essential to position, unless, indeed, you had been a member of some powerful family. By the way, I promised Mrs. Mackenzie Dashwood to take you to her dancing party on Tuesday next; you will come, of course?”

“Thank you, yes,—but stay, what day of the month will Tuesday be?”

“Oh, the 11th.”

“Very well, I can go, and shall be most happy.”

“Why,” asked Lady Templemore, sharply, “have you any engagements?”

“Mrs. John Redman gives a party on the 12th, and of course I must go.”

“Well, Miss Digby, you know my advice to you has always been to make a stand against these Redman people at once; they will only be more difficult to get rid of the longer you let them hang about you, and may prove a serious impediment to your making a good solid settlement.”

“My dear Lady Templemore,” returned Madeline, a little warmly, “it is impossible I could throw off such near relatives as an uncle and a grandmother, in the short, sharp, and decisive manner you suggest. It is true they never were very tender or considerate to me, still I owe to them what I am. I shall not let them either dictate to me, or intrude upon me, hut neither will I neglect them, nor cut them.”

“You will please yourself,” said Lady Templemore, coldly, somewhat struck by the decision of Madeline’s tone, thinking she would not, probably, prove so submissive a daughter-in-law as might be desired. But Messrs. Attenborough’s was now reached, and in the search for some tiny old cabinet, wherewith to fill up an especial nook in Madeline’s drawingroom, all differences were forgotten.

Mrs. John Redman’s ball was a source of much excitement in her not very extended circle. There the event of Madeline’s accession of fortune had proved an inexhaustible source of conversation and wonderment. She had inherited a hundred thousand pounds— half a million—an estate in Scotland—a principality in Germany. She was affianced to a French nobleman; she had long been engaged to a very respectable young man, a clerk at the London Bridge Railway Station, and her unde wanted to break it off; she was an angel of sweetness, she was a demon of determnation, &c. &c., according to the divers dispositions of the gossips. The wide-spread rumour that this interesting heiress was to be publicly visible at Mrs. Redman’s ball, made every one not merely anxious, but ravenous to be invited.

The Abingdon Villa worthies, who were considered too slow by Mrs. John for a place upon her visiting list, were positively spiteful about their exclusion; while their friend and highly respected neighbour, Mrs. Redman, positively enjoyed their discomfiture. She even discovered that “she liked to see young people enjoy themselves,” and declared her intention of honouring Mrs. John’s entertainment with her presence; and to that end, ordered a monstrous turban-like edifice of lace and velvet, and beads and feathers, which the wildest misapplication of nomenclature could scarce term “a cap.” As to Miss Sharp—she sniffed, and hinted, and bullied her submissive, though reluctant, paymistress into giving her a. new black silk dress, that she might present a creditable appearance.

Mrs. John toiled hard, as the important evening drew near; scarce a morning passed that she did not rush into Mrs. Comerford’s or Mrs. Redman’s house, exclaiming—“I say, Susan,” or “I say, grandma’, can you lend me a card table, or a couple pairs of candlesticks, or your best big salver; or would you mind sparing your large red velvet sofa; I’ll take great care of it.” “Since grandma’ will come,” she said confidentially to Miss Foster, who had gone over early on the important day with a whole basketful of lovely flowers—a contribution from Madeline, “I am determined she shall be of some use, so I’ve got near all her plate, and the supper table will look uncommon rich, I can tell you. I suppose Madeline wouldn’t bring her music, now? No, it wouldn’t be right, perhaps, to ask; indeed, we see so little of her, since she has taken up with the Templemores, that I scarce thought she would come to mefor of course, Madeline was a bone of contention to her relatives’ new friends.

Somewhat tired, from having been late the night before, Madeline looked paler and softer than usual, as she entered Mis. John’s very crowded rooms on the eventful evening. She wore a rich soft white silk, made softer still by a quantify of white blonde lace, a bouquet of fragrant brilliant hot-house flowers in her bosom; her own rich hair arranged in a coronet studded with large violet velvet pansies, with which flowers her sleeves were also looped up, and a piece of violet velvet clasped round her throat with a diamond star, the only piece of jewellery she had purchased. She leaned on Miss Foster’s arm, and both seemed and felt more diffident than on entering the brilliant assemblage where so different a society had been gathered the evening before. There, she felt she was an insignificant item—here, she was the, cynosure of all eyes.

Mrs. John, resplendent in an emerald green velvet, with a head-dress of gold and pearls, and red feathers, kissed her audibly at the door in the face of the whole congregation, and told her she was looking charming; and that half a dozen people were waiting to be introduced to her; that dancing had begun, but that she had a nice partner for her, &c. &c.

Madeline looked round and seemed to see all the people she had ever met at Mrs. John’s assembled before her. There were Mr. and Mrs. Blyth, who had for some time ceased their civilities, and Mr. and Mrs., Miss and Master Comerford, Captain Featherwig—more limp and dislocated than ever, and, towering above his compeers, the broad jovial countenance of the great O’Keefe: while close to him, with folded arms, and leaning against the side of a window—the gloomy melodramatic figure of M. Delille. All were recognised at a glance; but there was one figure absent, on whose presence Madeline had counted, in an instinctive, unreasoning manner; and that one she could not perceive. Mr. Downing was there looking rather out of his element, and Mrs. Downing, in a quiet black moire—very pretty, but a little homely; to her side Madeline attached herself, and felt a little less uncomfortable. There was an atmosphere of simple goodness and truth about Jessie that was always soothing. Presently Miss Foster, who had been patronised by uncle John himself, came to inform Madeline that “grandmamma” was in the diningroom (which was devoted to dancing), and wished to speak to her. Madeline accordingly was routed out of her quiet comer, and her progress soon impeded by Mrs. John, who, somehow or other, always gave the idea of a world in motion, so great was the rustling of garments, rattling of trinkets, and waving of plumes which heralded her approach. She led with her in triumph a tall, well-set-up, military-looking man, bearded and moustached, fair, good-humoured, and somewhat vapid-looking, showing big white teeth when he laughed, which was rather continuously. This was a Captain Lawson, whom she had known in her old Rockville days, and had with marvellous pertinacity hunted up, in order to catch him for her ball. Him she now, with much exultation, presented to the heiress, her niece. The gallant Lawson bowed, and had just opened his mouth to demand the honour of the next quadrille, when M. De-lille suddenly glided between them, and with a rolling permettez—anticipated him. Madeline, anxious to soothe her old admirer by any small civility, graciously assented, and the light infantry captain was left gazing after them, his mouth open and a partially uttered “by Jove!” on his lips.

“Well! that was quick,” cried Mrs. John. “Never mind; you just go on and secure her for the next, it will be a waltz.”

Meantime, M. Delille said, in deep, dramatic tones, to his companion, “At last, at last!”

“How, Monsieur,” she returned coldly— for she was vexed at having a scene every time she met him—then, without waiting for a reply, she continued, “I must speak to my grandmamma, Mrs. Redman, before the dance begins.”

“What!—the English grandma’ of whom I have heard Madame la Comtesse—your aunt, my friend!” (slightly emphasized) “speak?”

“The same,” said Madeline.

“Ah! you will present me perhaps?”

“Certainly, if you wish it; but she does not speak French.”

“N’importe” returned Delille, defiantly.

Grandmamma was reduced to that not uncommon condition with her, viz you could knock her down with a feather,” when she saw Madeline approach leaning on the Frenchman’s arm; hitherto she had been in an unusually serene and complacent frame of mind—shining as she was with actual and reflected lustre, and much inquired after by the solid heads of families present. She had been placed early in the evening on a large sofa, which occupied a recess intended for a sideboard; here she sat, not a bad emblematic figure of pomp and state in the caricature sense. But to behold her darling grandchild, the heiress, leaning on the arm of a man who, besides the inherent vices of being a Frenchman and poor, had been designed by that arch imposter, Madame de Fontarce, to be the husband of the richly gifted creature before her—was more than she could hear with equanimity.

“Well, and how are you?” she said, in more acidulated tones than Madeline had heard for a long time. “I am sure it can do no one good to come into a crowd and heat like thisand she glared through one glass, and over the other, of her spectacles at the obnoxious Frenchman.

“I daresay you do feel the heat and crowd unpleasant, unused as you are to such things,” said Madeline, soothingly. “M. Delille begs to be presented to you,” she added, a good deal amused at the unmistakably antagonistic aspect of the “respectable Redman.”

“I have so often heard the aunt of mademoiselle speak of madame,” said Delille, endeavouring to make himself agreeable. “That I imagine I already know her.”

“You’re very much mistaken then,” retorted grandma’ shortly, “for she knew very little about me, nor I about her, but that little was enough.”

Delille looked inquiringly at Madeline, who felt personally wounded by this rudeness.

“Mrs. Redman means she never had the plea-sure of meeting Madame la Comtesse.”

“You are never going to dance in that mob?” asked Mrs. Redman querulously as the dancers began to assemble.

“It does not seem very wise,” returned Madeline laughing, “but I suppose I must.”

“And who is to say, ‘ must ’ to Miss Digby, I'd like to know,” said O’Keefe, pushing through the crowd, and presenting a vast expense of white waistcoat, while he seemed to have tied a tablecloth round his neck.

“Ah, Mr. O’Keefe! that inexorable thing called circumstances, which we must all obey.” “Well, if circumstance wasn’t a female, which I contend it is, it would be, like meeself, your humble servant, especially if it had eyes this present minit. Ah, ha, Delille! mon ami, mademoiselle has had a Parisian modiste. I can see she likes all things French.”

“Est ce vrai,” whispered Delille, with an eager glance.

“To a certain degree,” returned Madeline with a smile, while O’Keefe addressing himself to grandma’, exclaimed,

“Faith I needn’t ask if I have honour of addressing Mrs. Redman, the likeness speaks for itself. It’s a gratification to see a lady of your age and experience taking an interest in the amusements of the young. Allow me to present myself. I have the honour of being a connection of yours through our charming young friend here, besides being the particular friend of your excellent son.”

“Hum,” said Mrs. Redman still ruffled, but smoothing down, under the judicious treatment of the great “O’” “I am sure I do not think I ever heard him speak of you, hut I am glad to know you.” At this juncture Madeline was obliged to take her place in the quadrille, but through the changes of the dance could distinguish The O’Keefe stilltalkingand gesticulating magnificently to Mrs. Redman, whose countenance gradually assumed a placid expression, even Miss Sharp seemed to relax under the oily influence of Hibernian “soft sawder.”

M. Delille was far from an agreeable partner. He seemed to speak only with his eyes, and they said considerably more than Madeline liked; she had hoped, by frankly accepting the friendship he had offered on their last meeting, to disarm him, but she now plainly perceived it was but a ruse to avoid her forbidding him her presence; while she meditated how best to free herself from his persecution, she missed The O’Keefe from her grandmother’s side, and a few minutes after she caught sight of him again, he was speaking to a thin, square, bony, brown-looking man, with the strong jaw and deep melancholy eyes she knew so well! Her anticipations did not deceive her, after six months of separation she saw Hugh Elliott once more! what a light danced in her eyes! what a glow came upon her cheek! Delille understood it, and looked fiercely round for his successful rival, but he only recognised O’Keefe, who nodded patroni-singly to the heiress, and seemed to point her out to Elliott, who looked at her steadily and gravely. Suddenly it flashed upon Madeline, could O’Keefe, in his strange style of misrepresentation, be recounting the story of her entanglement with Delille, and would Elliott connect it with her defence of him on the occasion of their last meeting in that very room; she could have cried aloud with vexation at the idea, and then Elliott disappeared, and the remaining few minutes of the dance seemed interminable, at last it was over.

“Help me to find Miss Foster,” she said to her partner.

“What! am I so distasteful that you will not accord me a moment’s conversation,” said Delille sullenly.

“No, monsieur, but indeed I am weary, I was late last night.”

“Ah mademoiselle! you are cruel, why do shun me?”

“If,” returned Madeline, with grave displeasure, “you kept to the tone of friendship you promised, I should be pleased with your society, but-”

“I cannot, I cannot,” exclaimed Delille quickly, and with a glance in which there was as much anger as admiration.

“Then,” she returned, “I must indeed leave you,” perceiving Miss Foster at this moment, to her infinite relief, she disengaged herself from the mortified Alphonse, and took a seat by her friend’s side. M. Delille retired moodily, and Madeline quickly forgetting the annoyance he had caused her in a more engrossing interest, exclaimed. “Dear aunty! Mr. Elliott is here!”

“Indeed! where? I am so glad!”—as she spoke Hugh came into the room looking sharply round, as if seeking something, then his brow cleared, and a kindly smile played for a moment on his lips and in his dark eyes, as he perceived the two friends, and the next moment he held Miss Foster’s hand in his.

Madeline longed to hear him speak, yet she felt unaccountably embarrassed. The last words she had heard from his lips were an assurance that had he known he was to meet her he would not have come, was that the case now?

“I am very happy to see you again,” he said cordially to Miss Foster, and then, turning to Madeline, bowed and observed, “this is the first opportunity I have had of congratulating you, Miss Digby. I do so most sincerely.”

“Thank you,” returned Madeline, with a soft, shy, upward glance, and holding out her hand with a frank grace all her own. He took it kindly, but did not hold it one second longer than was absolutely necessary. Yet, through all this quiet self-possession, what abandonment to the joy of the moment reigned in his passionate though controlled heart! How after the steady self-denial of months all had been swept away by the temptation of the moment to go to Mrs. John Redman’s hall, and gaze upon her once more, and hear her varying voice! Once more, only once! he said to himself—and now he was beside her. She seemed embarrassed, ill at ease— was she annoyed to meet him? No, he did not quite think that, so he was silent, and she thought in vain for some suitable phrase. . At last she said—

“I am so glad you are here, for we go to Richmond to-morrow, and that is so far off I suppose we shall never see you.”

There was a little under-current of pique in her playfulness which puzzled Elliott greatly. He answered gravely, “If I can be of any use to you and Miss Foster, I shall be happy to ride down any day to see you.”

“Do you ride now?” asked Madeline, recovering her old familiar tone. “That is a great improvement, eh! Mr. Elliott?”

He smiled. “It is the only thing I care much about,” And almost involuntary he dropped into a chair beside her.

“Yes it is a charming exercise,” resumed Madeline, feeling a strange lightness and sudden appreciation of the excellence of all things. “I, too, ride, that is, I take lessons. Ah, Mr. Elliott, what a wonderful change •for me! And I have bought a house at Richmond. What do you think of that! A whole house 1 All my own! You know I was so long poor that I can only learn that I am Hch by little bits.”

“Yes, I can imagine it,” returned Elliott, unable to keep his eyes away from the sweet, frank, bright face turned to him.

“This new state of things has taught me much,” continued Madeline, looking down and playing with the tassel of her fan, “especially the value of those who showed ns kindness and consideration when we were poor, eh, aunty?”

“Yes, indeed, dear,” said Miss Foster.

Elliott made no direct reply. “And so you ride. Have you a good horse?”

“I have none. I do not like the riding-master to buy me one, because he never has a nice one himself, and /do not know how to choose.” “It is not easy to get a good lady’s horse,” said Elliott, gravely. Madeline made no answer.

“I suppose,” said Mrs. John, sailing up at this moment, “it would hardly be fair to ask you for a song, Madeline?”

. “I will sing with pleasure,” returned Madeline, too happy to refuse.

“Dear me, how kind of you! Here, Captain Lawson, take Miss Digby to the piano.” Madeline turned a laughing glance to Elliott, and said, partly to Miss Foster and partly to him, “What shall I sing?”

“Anything you like, dear,” said the former. “There was a song of yours about dreams,” said Elliott, suddenly, as if impelled by some irresistible impulse, and stopped abruptly.

“I know,” returned Madeline. “Rather too good music for the general public, but I will sing it.”

And, followed by Elliott, she went to the piano. Seldom has Salaman’s exquisite song, “I arise from dreams of thee,” been more deliciously sung. The soul of the songstress seemed to breathe itself forth in that ardent prayer for love, and the last low note was prolonged with subdued sweetness infinitely touching. Elliott felt almost giddy with the renewed force of his feelings, and wished, with a last parting glimpse of mental sobriety, that he had stayed at home. Then he gave himself up to delight. It is true that his opportunities for speaking to Madeline were few and scattered. She was always going to dance with some one, or somebody was being introduced to her. Then The O’Keefe had a profound talk with her, over which she looked very grave. But at last he contrived to take her down to supper, and in the course of that ornamental meal found himself offering to choose a horse for her—an offer which she, in the frankest manner, immediately accepted. Then he took her to her carriage, and her last words were, “ Remember Auburn Lodge, Richmond! And be sure you get me a nice horse as soon as possible!”

CHAPTER XI

The day after Mrs. John’s ball, Madeline and Miss Foster removed to Bichmond. This was a very happy period. There was an internal spring and revival in Madeline’s heart, which would have strengthened her to endure sorrow, how much then of additional sunshine it lent to her pleasant surroundings may be imar gined.

Auburn Lodge was an old-fashioned house; its entrance was a wide low door in the roadside wall, which admitted into a long porch. Within was the hall door proper; this was the back of the house. In front a small velvetlike lawn studded with a few flower-beds, and shaded by large trees at the sides, sloped to the river. It was a roomy, unpretending house, with bay-windows and innumerable cupboards, and had lately been renovated for some expected inmate with a good deal of taste. The old-fashioned furniture supplemented harmoniously; the windows draperied with clean, cool-looking chintz, and the fireplaces decorated with coloured tiles. It was a warm, elderly-looking, red-brick house; the rubicund front softened and partly covered with clematis.

To Madeline it seemed at once a splendid domain and a paradise! Then it was charming to be received by two exquisitely neat, good-looking, young women, in caps quite as dainty as grandma’s parlour-maid wore, with the deference due to a mistress—to sit down to a simple but elegantly served little dinner, and after to inspect the careful putting away of a very considerable stock of pretty dresses and clothes in the wardrobes and chests of drawers by Mademoiselle Celine, who gently, but decidedly, disapproved the change of residence. Then it was equally delightful to examine into the state of Miss Foster’s accommodation, and see that she had all possible comforts, and felt herself at home.

“Was it not a happy idea, dear aunty, to take this nice old house. I do not think I shall ever tear myself away,” said Madeline, as she poured out the tea, the evening after their arrival. “Though, to be sure, there is Lady Templemore’s great party on the 22nd, to which I am pledged, that will entail a day or two in town,” she added, laughing.

“So much the better,” said Miss Foster. “It would never do to bury yourself, and you will enjoy your home all the more when you return.”

“I dare say you are right! how incredible it all seems! yesterday, as it were, we were pondering if we dared lay out four-and-six-pence in buying a metal teapot, and to-day, lo! I have a silver one—a French maid, and a villa at Eichmond. Ah, dear aunty! let us never lose that dear old teapot. What a source of pride and satisfaction it was at the time. And God grant me sobriety of mind.”

“Amen,” said Miss Foster, softly. “It is an excellent gift,” there was a short pause.

“I tell you what we will do,” resumedMade-line. “Mr. Downing is going to France on some engineering mission next month, and we will have Jessie and the baby to stay here all the time he is away. It will do them so much good. By the way, Lady Eawson ought to be at home now,—at least Lord Templemore and Lady Agnes were expected yesterday.”

“It will be very nice for you to have Lady Eawson back,” said Miss Foster.

“Yes. I think we must drive in to-morrow and inquire about her.”

The next day was bright and warm. It was a peculiarly fine spring, and already the first delicious flush of green was stealing over the large trees, and bursting fully forth over the hedges and small shrubs; the river was already gay with boats, and all Richmond bright with that indescribable air of pleasure and prosperity which it generally wears in fine weather, from early spring till the leaves have fallen.

The friends had agreed to have an early dinner, and to drive into town afterwards. It was nearly one o’clock. Madeline was writing some notes on business, of which class of writing she had a good deal. She sat in one of the bay-windows, which was open, and framed in a pretty drawing-room landscape of the lawn with its shrubs and flowers, and a peep of the river beyond. The room was fragrant with spring blossoms, and had a pleasant home-like look, as though every day life went on there with quiet refinement. Miss Foster, who understood something of the management of a garden, was in deep consultation with the gardener in a little green-house, which was hidden behind one of the shrubberies.

Madeline thought she heard the front door bell, but scarce heeded it; when suddenly LadyBaw-son was beside her, and pressing a hearty kiss on her forehead, “My dear child! Here I am! only arrived the day before yesterday, and had not one moment to myself since; but' I was determined to see you to-day.”

“This is joy, indeed,” cried Madeline. “We were going in to inquire after you today. How good of you to come out.”

“And this is your own house, Madeline! You are monarch of all you survey! How do you stand it, little one?” And Lady Bawson placed her hands on Madeline’s shoulders, and held her back while she looked into her face with a keen, searching glance. “I see traces of the same spirit I left behind. You must not think me a wretch for writing so seldom and so shortly. I hate writing; I never write, and now I want to know everything. What a charming room. What a pretty dress! how evident the blaze of prosperity that shines upon you.”

“Yes,” returned Madeline, drawing her to a sofa, “it is indeed a mighty change. I seem to have scarce got my breath yet. It is almost too great for happiness at first. But now you are come I shall be all right. I have wanted you so much; for you have both worldly wisdom and a heart—two essentials in a counsellor.”

“I thought Lady Templemore had taken you in hand,” said Lady Rawson, untying her Bonnet; “and she is a very sensible woman.” “Yes; but she is all sense, and nothing else. You will stay to luncheon; that is, our early dinner?” continued Madeline, delightedly. “How charming to have you as a guest.”

“I think it is charming to be your guest,” said Lady Rawson, patting her cheek; “ so ring the bell, and I will send word to the coachman to put up till eight o’clock. I shall have a cup of tea then, and go home.”

“I left Lord Templemore in Paris,” continued Lady Rawson, “with Lady Agnes. She is very delicate: quite knocked up with the journey and unable to come on. She is a sweet thing—a diluted likeness of yourself; by the way, she is quite enthusiastic about you, and eager for a meeting: they will be back on the twenty-first—the day before Lady Templemore’s ball. I suppose you are to be there? In short, if you like, you may be the fashion.”

“I do not care one straw about it,” replied Madeline, with perfect sincerity; “I want to be quiet, to be happy, to make up for the gaps in my life. Is it not curious, dear friend, how insensibly the bitterness of memories exhale their rancour in the warmth and glow of such prosperity as mine? I know that I have had cruel moments, but I seem to remember them in a dim unreal manner; as if they no longer touched me personally.”

“It is true,” returned Lady Kawson, thoughtfully; “I know it from experience; and mine have been far more bitter memories than yours could possibly be!

“It is better it should be so,” said Madeline, as if to herself; “better and more healthy that sunshine should dispel the gloom and disperse the mist, than to keep a reserve fund of uncomfortable recollections to draw upon, nominally for contrast, but in reality to spoil the bright present.”

“Well said, young philosopher,” returned Lady Rawson; “and here comes Miss Foster, an excellent example of your system, looking severa years younger than when I saw her last. Miss Foster,” rising and shaking hands with her cordially, “I am truly pleased to see you.”

. “I am sure so am I, to meet your ladyship once more. And isn’t Madeline looking well. Ah, Lady Rawson! I owe my life to her! I had such an illness; and she nursed me!—I can’t tell you how she nursed me!” Then they talked of various people and things : of Lady Rawson’s winter at Naples, and the people she met there; and Madeline gave a humorous description of the sudden love the Redman family had evinced for her; and then came a delightful interlude of dinner :— a slice of salmon; a delicate shoulder of lamb, with delicious fresh salad, cut that morning in Madeline’s own garden; a cold chicken pie; and a rhubarb tart, with cream. Madeline’s pretty parlour maid waited on them deftly; and there was a fresh daintiness about all things that enchanted Lady Rawson, used as she was to life “en grand tmue” “Really, Madeline, I like the line you have adopted amazingly: you understand and do it well: and then there is something so wonderful now-a-days in the total absence of pretension, something so revivifying in real comfort, without a crowd of useless, embarrassing luxuries, that I should not be surprised if pretty girl waiters, and menages h la Madeline, became the rage, to the immense relief of our finances.” “I adopted this style,” returned Madeline, “because it was a little within the range of my powers: I tremble at the idea of a butler and footman.”

“No; you must wait for a husband to manage such small deer. Eh! mademoiselle?” with a sharp glance.

“And as that is at present a mere possibility,” returned Madeline, coolly, “I shall deal with the materials I understand.”

“The carriage is at the door, mem,” said the servant, suddenly.

“Not mine?” asked Lady Rawson.

“No; one I had ordered to go and inquire about you, dear Lady Rawson,” said Madeline.

“I think I shall take advantage of it to do some of the shopping we had planned,” observed Miss Foster; “and I shall also call on Mrs. Redman.”

“Hear her!” cried Madeline, laughing, “I assure you, my grandmother exercises the most extraordinary fascination over her. She cannot keep away. I am always in fright lest she should renounce me, and resume her chaihs.”

“Well, my dear, you know I lived so long • with Mrs. Redman.”

“The last reason I should imagine for wishing to see any more of her,” returned Madeline, still laughing. “However, do exactly as you like, dear aunty; but say something civil for me.”

When Miss Foster was gone, Madeline put on a broad-leafed grey hat, which gave a Charles the Second style to her toilet, and they strolled down the lawn to a sheltered seat, from whence the wide bend of the river, gay with boats, and rich with surrounding foliage, lay before them.

“This is delightful,” said Lady Rawson; “and how English! this orderly, but toilsome amusement, with its tone of healthy strength, contrasted with the fiery, languid, passionate, indolent picturesqueness, with which I have' been familiar for the last six or seven months, is like the play of grown men compared to the sport of spoiled children. But cara mia you are very fortunate in that Miss Foster of yours; she is a gentlewoman, and though a simple soul, has the tact of a true heart; she is gone to see that Redman woman just to leave us tite-h-tete, and I’m much obliged to her. I shall cross-examine you forthwith, for God knows when I shall have such another chance.”

“Speak, and I will answer,” said Madeline, smiling.

“First, what is your disposable income? real income, mind; for I must warn. you against believing any sum inexhaustible, which is a common creed with persons who have suddenly been raised from poverty to riches.”

“I have no doubt you are right. Mr. Payne my cross, but, I believe, honest old lawyer, says I may safely spend two thousand a year; and as I begin to understand my own affairs, I think he is right.”

“A very pretty little property, upon my word. How you will have to ’ware fortune hunters!” Lady Rawson paused for a moment, and resumed rather thoughtfully: “ Have you ever seen Ashurst—I mean Lord Hexham—since my memorable party a year ago?”

“No,” said Madeline. He has passed out of my life—almost out of my memory.”

“That is well; though I suspect he has been supplanted, or he would not be so readily forgotten. I saw him at Naples in the winter: he is certainly very agreeable and handsome; they say he was very closely lied with the Marchesa di Carrara—she was a Pole, a most fascinating personage—but I don’t know if' it was true; not unlikely, you know.”

“Is it possible?” said Madeline, vaguely; mortified and humiliated to think how nearly she had sacrificed her life for the passing fancy of a man like this.

“‘ Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do,’” said her ladyship. “If men are not in business, they are in mischief; especially if they are of the right sort. My dear Madeline, I fondly hope it was my warning that fine September evening at the Grange, that saved you.”

Madeline smiled a little bitterly: “I do not think it Was, dear friend; I scarce know what kept me back; I was so alone; my life was so uncongenial. I tell you I had sat down deliberately to write my consent to his schemes, when something I could not define traced the opposite words from what I intended to write; and so I am here, fit to associate with you and the rest of the correct world.”

“With me,” returned Lady Kawson, with a curious smile.

“You know,” resumed Madeline, “I do not think I really loved Lord Hexham. He dazzled me a little, and I shrank from the life which was before me.”

“And” interrupted Lady Bawson, looking at her keenly, “you have since learned what love—real love—is!”

“Perhaps so,” said Madeline, steadily, while her cheek crimsoned, and then slowly paled.

“I trust in Heaven,” cried Lady Rawson, a little impatiently, “you are not going to make a fool of yourself! there is scarce any man worth being loved; and I hoped you would make a judicious marriage, where a sound worldly position, and quiet mutual liking, might make life smooth and comfortable!"

“Ah!” cried Madeline, passionately; “can youth, and something of good looks, the power to give and receive pleasure, a true heart, and a brave spirit—for these thingB are mine—bring me no more than quiet mutual liking? Must I forego the sparkle, the crown of the cup, to drink such dregs as this?”

She covered her face with her hands as she spoke. Lady Rawson looked at her with a sad, but sympathising, expression.

“You would be quite right to reject the dregs if you could get anything better—but suppose you can’t?” said Lady Rawson. “Believe me, there is very little of what deserves to be called true love in the world—I mean among men, women here and there are capable of it—and I would have you take care how you give good gold in exchange for forged notes.”

“Better waste paper in exchange for one’s, gold, than to shut it up and bury it under-ground, like a miser; it might be many a long day before one discovered that the notes were not genuine.”

“Yes! it is natural that should be your doctrine,” returned Lady Rawson, thoughtfully. “I do not know that warnings are of much avail; nay more, it is somewhat against my grain I utter them; but it is so disappointing to form a high ideal of men, indeed, of almost any man, and then find out what the raw material is—believe me it is very raw—they always show their most rugged side to the Women who are tied to them. Madeline! 1 feel so inclined to do what I do think I never did before for any one—recapitulate my history: not by way of a warning or a lesson, for no one ever learns by the experience of another, but simply because I should like you to know it; and because' I think you are safe.”

“I think I am. And oh! dear friend! with what interest I shall listen.”

Lady Rawson patted Madeline’s cheek; and leaking her head on her hand, sat for a few minutes gazing away, seemingly at the river, but really back up the stream of her own life; her great black eyes looking like deep wells of memory; then, without moving, she began, speaking slow and softly:

“I was a country girl. My father was a Yorkshire farmer; a stout, hale, thoughtless, sporting man. Oh! so kind and pleasant. Always ready to make his child’s present happy, but utterly reckless of her future. My mother died when I was a baby; and from the. time I can remember anything I was the queen of my home, rough as it was. We had a sort of a cousin, on my mother’s side, who lived in one of the large manufacturing towns. He used to come to us in the hunting season and the shooting season, and was always the crack rider and the crack shot. (He was not town-bred, you know, though he then lived in a town.) He was a good deal older than I was, though a young man. Ah, Madeline! how handsome he was! A tall, fair, powerfully-made man, with such a careless, bright smile, and brilliant teeth, and keen, light-blue eyes, that never overlooked anything. He was very popular, and my father’s right-hand. As to me—he was the God of my idolatry! How I worshipped, him and believed in him! And with what transparent wiles I strove to hide my adoration and seem independent! Well, he fell in love with me. Yes! He certainly did love me in his way; and one evening he raised me to the highest pinnacle of earthly glory, by asking me to be his wife! My father was highly pleased — wonderfully pleased — and rather in a hurry' to marry us. Dick (that was my intended) seemed ready enough, only he said that he should like to furnish a house first. He was an attorney in Leeds, and considered a rising man.

“My father got over all these difficulties, and it became soon known in our little world that I was to be married in a month. A few days before the wedding, Dick and my father had been closeted for a long time together, at last he came to me in my little sitting' room, where I was busily sewing my wedding clothes, and he sat down by me. There was something curious in his expression, hard and set. ‘By Jove, Madge,’ he said, ‘you are right to do all you can for yourself. You are a poor man’s daughter, and you are going to be a poor man’s wife! ’

“‘ You have enough for all I want,’ said I, laughing; ‘but I. can hardly think you can call my father a poor man.’ I thought, every one thought, he was rich and myself an heiress. Dick laughed an unpleasant laugh.

‘ That is all you know about it Your father has not really an acre he can call his own! The farm is deeply mortgaged; the interest is unpaid; and the mortgagees on the point of foreclosing! Pleasant, eh, Madge? The old man might have confided in me a little sooner. Never mind; you are worth something in yourself, and’—with a deep oath— ‘nothing shall rob me of my gipsy’ He always called me a gipsy, I was so dark. Then he caught me to his heart, and kissed me over and over again; hut his kisses were more alarming than soothing, and I felt strangely disturbed. Yet, innocent as I then was of life and reality, I never dreamed of releasing him from his engagement. So we were married. For a fortnight or three weeks he was almost fiercely fond; and that ecstatic period, as it is generally supposed to he, was to me, young and utterly inexperienced, a most uncomfortable time.

“To my father he was implacable. To the careless, kindly, generous old man, he was simply brutal. By the time I was two months a wife I had learned the real stuff of which my idol was made. He was a hard, sensual, clever, avaricious man; full of ambition, with great natural ability. Had he lived he would have risen high, very high. But, oh! my G-od! how he ground me to the dust. And how long, how long after the scales had begun to fall from my sight, I held them forcibly, as it were, to my eyes, shrinking from the deadly desolation of the truth. I longed so for his love! Poor fellow, he had none to give. It is true that he would still, when in the mood, caress me, and twine his fingers in my hair as if it gave him pleasure (he never praised me), or suddenly call me to him and kiss me, if I had on something new, or looked different from usual; hut his very caresses were hard! Let me go to him ever so yearning for kindness, his touch would wither it all. And as for coming to him when I' felt low and sad, for the comfort of laying my head against his breast, or feeling the silent sympathy of a hand-pressure, I soon learned I was not to think of such things. No! when bright and well-dressed, a pretty acceptable toy, I might give and receive caresses; but when sentimental or weak, or anything but in the highest health and spirits, away with me, out of sight, to fight my own battles single-handed. What right had a slave to tease her master with her fancies?

“Then, though a moment before I had been held passionately to his heart, if the slightest error in household management or economy attracted his notice, he would swear at me as he would at the rudest groom, and curse the day he was betrayed into an imprudent marriage. I had not the least bit of sacredness in his eyes; nothing had that was neither rich nor successful! But how clever he was; and just and true too, to outsiders. It is easy for the bold and strong to be true; and his character for prudence, and conduct, and integrity spread and grew, and great men of the country came to place themselves in his hands, and I dwindled morally day by day under the horrible mingling of his bitter harshness and his insulting caresses. He had worked hard to bring my father’s affairs into order, and done it well; all creditors were paid, and the poor old man had a trifle left, barely enough, with intense management, to keep life and soul together, and be couldn’t manage a bit; so I had him on my hands, mb rosa almost, for he was scarce allowed into the house. Ah! how broken-hearted I was! How I used to pray for death. What a poor, terrified, lying slave he made me! How I crawled at his feet, and gave up my individuality to earn his approbation, and made a puppet of myself. And yet all the time what a frank, good husband he seemed to outsiders. He never went from home without me; he always made me dress well, our home, though small, was well kept and appointed! Oh! how marvellously well he knew the value of money; when to save and when to expend. How cleverly he kept his shabbiness from all eyes but mine, and mine were not worth blinding. How handsomely he could subscribe to some county undertaking; and how instantaneously detect the diminution of a decanter, left half full the night before, if I dared to take a glass of sherry at my early dinner.

“At last, when I was more than two years married, I had a little girl. This was a great delight—not that T wished for children, but he did—and I thought it would soften him; but no! He was passionately fond of the child, was tender beyond measure to it, but now that I had brought it into the world, I subsided into my normal condition of insignificance.

u I interfered very little with the baby. I hardly felt as if I had any right to do so; and the dear thing did not love me, but took so lovingly to her father, much to his triumph! It would make my story far too long were I to tell you all I suffered on my poor father’s account. Beally if that man, my husband, could have realised what he inflicted, I do not think even he would have done it.

“When my baby was about two years old, she seemed suddenly to turn to me; and, ah! what a delight she became. How my whole soul concentrated itself in her. I said to my aching heart, ‘ There is life, and hope, and joy before us yet.’ But by the time she had been about six months this source of pleasure, a terrible fever seized her, and in a week I was once more alone.

“It is long, long since I have given this memory utterance! And, gracious God! how my heart aches and quivers again as I reopen its wounds. I have had great success. I am rich. I hold a higher social place than my wildest dreams ever pictured. Yet it seems as if a handful of dust and ashes had been given to me in a mocking exchange for my golden-haired darling.”

Lady Bawson stopped abruptly, clasped her hands together, and then wrung them slowly apart, as if some positive pain had seized her.

“Neither the sweet child’s life or death drew us together,” she resumed. “For a few days my husband was beaten down and dependent upon me, and therefore kinder and more tender. The hard, hard crust which enveloped the small morsel of humanity within him was rent by the violence of affliction; but it soon closed up again. The day after my little love was laid in the grave I was very weary and exhausted; for, indeed, I had been in constant attendance on my husband, seeking to. soothe him, and he had now returned to his daily business. The servant kindly urged me to take a glass of port wine; I did so. After dinner that day he looked with his keen, searching, blue eyes at the decanter. ‘Some one has been meddling with my wine.’ No, dear,’ I said, fearing he might accuse the servant, ‘ I took a glass to-day, feeling much in need of it.’-‘ Hum; I see, I must take to locking up my own wine,’ was the reply.”

“Can it be true!” ejaculated Madeline.

“True enough, child. Well, another eighteen months of barren existence dropped in leaden drops away, and then I was a widow. Our town was scourged with cholera and my husband was among the victims. It was strange to look at his handsome face, so gentle and noble in the repose of death, and think what he had been! I shed few tears; I had buried the bright, handsome, winning man I once loved so much, long before, and in truth I felt glad to be free. But I was very poor; my husband had always contrived to make both ends meet, but had only just begun to lay by; so after all little debts were paid, I had scarcely fifty pounds in the world, and my poor father to keep. I had little or no education, and less taste, for the part of a governess, so I turned to the stage, and got on very well. Gradually, the quick growth of mind and feeling fitted themselves to their new circumstances, and hid the jagged ruins of the old life out of sight, though they were there still; and I was successful. It was not a nice life exactly; there was a good deal in • it to wound sensitive delicacy; but as desperate and dangerous illness sometimes- renovates the constitution, so I seemed to have become hard and strong from trial and disappointment. I could stand alone, and not a whisper was ever breathed against me. It was at this period, Madeline, I knew your father.”

Madeline’s profound interest in Lady Raw-son’s vividly told tale could scarce be deeper yet it grew more intense at these words. “I have so longed to hear of your acquaintance with him,” she said.

“I was playing with the company in which I had been first engaged,” resumed Lady Rawson, “and in a garrison town. The officers of a very gay regiment of cavalry patronised me, especially the major, a cold, keen, selfish roue, who thought all women fair game, actresses in particular; but he met his match in me. I was as hard, and as cold, and as daring as himself; so after a little fencing, he discovered the real flow of the current, then he hated me. We broke the buttons off our foils, and it was thrust and parry in real earnest. Your father was captain in the regiment. Grod he with him! he was a real gentleman, though even then halfway gone to the dogs. Poor fellow! a judicious friend at the right time might have saved him, or a wife, like myself, for instance; hut he was terribly extravagant and unsteady. Curious enough, though a great admirer of beauty (I was a beautiful woman then, Madeline), he never made love to me, but he always treated me with a tender respect, that was like oil and wine to my sore, strong heart. He must have been a charming lover, for he was full of that innate chivalrous delicacy towards women which elevates both the giver and the receiver. It would take hours to tell how he stood my friend against that vindictive, evil-minded man, who did his best to injure me. At last he left the regiment. I had left the town some time before. Once again we met. I was then in London, and drawing good houses, strangely enough, by my performance of comedy. He then told me he was on the eve of marriage with a charming girl, who had lots of money. I heard incidentally after that he had gone to pieces and become a ‘ total wreck.’ I had almost forgotten him, when I fell in with you at the Grange; then I seemed to know you instinctively.

“To make a long story short, I had not been long in London when my poor father died. He had shared the vicissitudes of my dramatic life, and we had been very happy together. I did my best for him, thank God! I think I succeeded in gathering much comfort and gladness round his declining years! Well, it was terribly lonely when he was gone—only myself to strive for—only outside excitement and amusement; I began to weary of my work. The real enthusiasm which lends such a charm to life and its pursuits had been burnt out of me. In my inmost soul I cared for nothing, and believed in nothing, but rest and material comfort. I liked to read queer, dry, scientific books. I know more than I ever let out, Madeline. Society does not like blue women. Just about this time a grave, respectable stockbroker, who had wandered, in some unaccountable way, out of his orbit and into mine, asked me to marry him. He had a nice house at Clapham and a neat brougham; he seemed quiet and reasonable; he offered to settle four hundred a year upon me; and I said ‘ Yes!’ I can tell you I looked to see that the lawyers made all safe! I did not care about the man; but he was not disagreeable. My future was provided for, and I was grateful to him for the sincere regard he had shown for me, and his disregard of my profession. So I was again married. He was greatly older than myself; however we got on remarkably well. I made him very comfortable; and this time I made no stupid mistakes about looking for sympathy and support and guidance, as from a superior being, and all that. No, I trusted to myself, and managed him capitally. I was always well-dressed, well-tempered, sociable, and ready to meet his wishes so far as was compatible with my own. I seldom contradicted him, scarce ever spoke out my real thoughts, and so gained the most complete control over my second husband. He was a very good sort of man really, and I dare say time and habit would have attached me to him, but when we were about three years married, he had an apoplectic fit and died. It turned out that he had made a will, leaving me residuary legatee—a loose sort of a document, for he scarce knew what he was worth; but it seems he had just bought a lot of shares in a concern that suddenly rose in public estimation, and I found myself a millionaire—at least it seemed so to me. Then men found it out, and flocked round me, and women came too, and gradually I got floated into society. Pleasant, intelligent people used to come and see me, and praise the originality of my views; and I grew to like this sort of thing, and heed it, and to fill up the heart-void with such rabble as this. One day a nice, well-turned, clearheaded, epigrammatic politician, Sir William Rawson, offered himself and the wreck of his fortune (to do him justice he had paid his debts) to my acceptance. Again I said ‘ Yes.’ Do not look shocked, Madeline! at your age I should have shrunk as you do from such a succession of husbands; now it seemed a mere sensible, suitable arrangement. There was very little sanctity of feeling left in my heart after the long desecration it had gone through. Society and position had become an undefined need to me. I liked politics, too, and I liked the candid, gentleman-like way Sir William proposed for me. ‘ My dear lady,’ he said, one fine spring evening, on the eve of a general election, as he sat in my pretty little drawingroom in Park Lane, ‘ could we not join forces? You would make such an admirable helpmate to a politician. It is true I have nothing to offer you but a name and my tolerable reputation. Nay, more, I would not, and could not, dream of marrying a woman without money; yet manner and looks are nearly as essential to me. You combine all. I can only promise that you shall settle everything your own way if you will help me in the coming struggle; and I think I am not unsuited to you, or I should not enjoy your society so much.’' Well, we were married, and I managed him as well as I did Number Two. He was older, and more of an invalid than I knew. Nevertheless we were very comfortable, and I had his whole confidence. Our connection was much more like a partnership than a marriage, and though a little difficult sometimes, he was really a gentleman. We had a charming society round us, and I was very useful to him. Poor man! he had been the making of a fine fellow, but the rottenness of the rSgime to which he belonged spoilt him! He had a lingering, painful illness, through which he was always patient and well-bred; and I hope and believe I was a comfort to him to the last. He is dead about five years, and I am as firmly fixed in London society as if I had been born in the purple, and had never shed bitter tears over the socks I darned and the shirts I mended for my first tyrant, the country attorney! What a curious coil life is! I was twice as much valued, and loved, and respected, by the two men whom I managed—held my own with, and occasionally lied to—than by the first, who had the whole truth, and faith, and earnestness of my better, my best, self laid lovingly at his feet! Indeed I have observed that, as I have deteriorated within, so have I succeeded without! Nevertheless, dear Madeline, strange, empty, sinking sensations at times creep over me, and show me the dry bones of the things among which I live; and then I long for the quiet tenderness of a home, with children and children’s children round me! Yes! I have been successful—wonderfully successful! I have had plenty of lead, and wood, and composition, surprisingly well gilt, in my life; but of true gold, only one little bit—very pure—and how safe in that treasury ‘ where neither rust nor moth doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through and stealand oh! with what truth I can add, ‘ where my treasure is, there is my heart also!’ Come, dear child, I have

lived through thirty years in-” looking at

her watch. “Is it possible!—nearly two hours!”

CHAPTER XII

Madeline was deeply moved by the story to which she had listened. “Ah! dear Lady Rawson,” she exclaimed, “what bitterness you must have known! How hard it seems that a heart like yours should never have known the luxury of real love.”

“Few women, or men either, know that,” said Lady Rawson. “But let us go in, it is growing colder, and I want to get into a new train of thoughtthey rose and went slowly towards the house; when about half-way across the lawn the parlour-maid met them—she presented a card to Madeline who, taking it from her, asked “Is the gentleman waiting?” “Yes’m. He is in the drawing-room.” “Say I am-coming.”

“Found out already?” cried Lady Rawson. “Who is it, Madeline?”

“Some one of whom you have heard,” she replied, with a soft sweet smile. “The hero of the omnibus, Mr. Elliott.”

“Ah!” returned her companion, with prolonged emphasis, “I shall be glad to see him.” Hugh Elliott was standing by Madeline’s writing-table when they entered, and looked better than when she last saw him, having exhilarated himself by a rapid ride from his office to “ Auburn Lodge.”

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Elliott,” said Madeline, frankly. “I had begun to fear you had forgotten my commission! Let me present Mr. Elliott to you, Lady Rawson!” Elliott bowed.

“I have not forgotten your commission, Miss Digby, and I have come out here to ask if you remember or still care about it, for I think I have seen a horse that will suit you. I should have brought him with me only it was late. However, if you will let me know what time will suit you to-morrow I will send him out.”

“Oh! thank you! you are so good. Mr. Elliott has kindly undertaken to chose a horse for me, Lady Rawson. You must know I have been learning to ride, and Mr. Elliott is a great judge of horses.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Elliott, with a pleasant smile. “I am scarce competent to choose a lady’s horse. However, I have tried this one twice, and he seems' spirited and gentle.”

“How do you intend to manage here; who are you going to ride with?” asked Lady Rawson.

“There is a very smart riding-master here,” replied Madeline, “and I shall take lessons from him, which will provide me with an escort.” Hugh Elliott seemed on the point of speaking, but checked himself; then the question of a groom was discussed, and Lady Raw-son said she wished she was not too old to ride, whereupon Elliott exclaimed: “But you are not,” with a hearty sincerity that disposed her ladyship most favourably towards him. Soon after Miss Foster came in, full of the quantify of business she had done, and the wonderful bargains she had made; she was delighted to see Elliott, and they all sat down, pleased with each other, to enjoy some tea and sallyluns.

“I am sure I am so glad to make tea for you once more, Mr. Elliott,” said Miss Foster, kindly, “it seems quite like old times.”

“Thank you,” he returned, smiling; “but I think it very unlike old times! No doubt Miss Digby considers it a pleasant change!”

“In many ways, yes,” returned Madeline, colouring slightly. “The change of circumstance is pleasant, especially when friends remain unchanged.”

“And how did you find dear grandmamma, Miss Foster?” asked Lady Rawson.

Well, rather nervous,” replied that lady, hesitatingly; “you see Miss Sharp insists on going to see her friends twice a year, and Mrs. Redman is quite alone, for Mrs. Comerford is gone to the sea-side with Johnny, so Mrs. Redman feels rather low, and somehow seems to blame me for it all; she says I destroyed all her comfort; I am really very sorry, but you know I could not go hack.”

“I should think not,” cried Madeline; “you belong to me now, aunty! I have a vested right to her, have I not, Mr. Elliott?” turning to him with the bright sparkling smile that always beamed upon her face when peculiarly happy or successful.

“I imagine Miss Foster will not dispute it,” returned Elliott, a sort of indulgent tenderness softening his habitual gravity.

“I can so well imagine the sort of conversation or monologue to which Mrs. Redman treated you,” resumed Madeline; “confess the truth, were you not charmed to get away from the sound of her voice?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“I should like to meet this grandmother of yours, Madeline,” said Lady Rawson; “ she must be a great characteran expression of contempt flitted over Madeline’s face for an instant.

“She is not amusing, dear Lady Rawson. She is simply a dull, selfish, avaricious old woman. She would bore you! Were she ever to want help I would give it, and with that provision in my own mind I write her off (that’s the correct term, eh, Mr. Elliott?) out of my life!” “So much for Buckingham,” said Lady Rawson.

“Now there is Mrs. John Redman,” resumed Madeline. “She is rather amusing; and my uncle—I like him. He really always treated me like a human being, though of a somewhat inferior order, in old times. Oh! I am not ungrateful, Mr. Elliott!” (for Hugh’s eyes were on her in grave thought.) “I can like and dislike, but I do not hate—hate is active— dislike with me means passive avoidance.”

“Then you never intend to allow any one to annoy you,” asked Elliott, drily, yet with a certain meaning.

“If I can help it, no!”

“Well, I must go home,” said Lady Raw-son, rising. “I have spent a delightful day.

I shall come again soon, Madeline, to philosophise and eat salad. Such delightful salad!”

She said good evening to Miss Foster, and held out her hand to Elliott.

“So, that’s the man that has banished Lord Hexham,” said Lady Lawson, as she tied on her bonnet in Madeline’s room.

How do you know?” asked our heroine, meeting her eye steadily, though she turned a little pale.

“I don’t know, my dear child, but I have a shrewd guess. Am I not right?” Madeline was silent. “You know he is quite a different stamp of man from that proud paladin; much less of an ideal 'lover, and quite unconventional,” continued Lady Rawson; still, he is not a common man.”

“Certainly not,” replied Madeline; “unless truth, and honesty, and respect for the rights of others, are common.”

“He is the man then. Well, my dear, you might do a great deal better.”

“Hush!” said Madeline, a look of pain contracting her lip for a moment. “I shall do nothing in that direction. Mr. Elliott does not think of me.”

“It is hard to say what such a grave, self-contained man thinks or wishes,” returned Lady Rawson. “My advice is, don’t trouble your head or heart about any of them—men, I mean. If they are bold, and strong, and successful, they are generally hard, tyrannical, of cruel. If they are tender, considerate, and loving, they are generally weak, and go to the wall, which is not a pleasant position. Just enjoy yourself as long and as much as you can without them; they offer but a choice of evils.”

“Ah! good heavens!” cried ‘ Madeline. “What a hateful picture you give of the world. Can it be that one half the human race dare not trust the other?”

“The weaker half, certainly not,” replied her ladyship.

“I don’t believe it,” said Madeline, earnestly. “Society could not hold together if your views were correct; and if they are, still /will not believe them.”

“Well, do not, if they make you uncomfortable. But you are too nice for this Australian. Good night, dear Madeline. God bless you! for there is a Providence that shapes our ends.” Lady Rawson pressed her hand, and departed.

When Madeline returned to the drawingroom, she found Miss Foster talking on her favourite topic, the north country and her relations there. Elliott was listening dreamily, but roused up when Madeline came in.

“How well Lady Rawson looks!” said Miss Foster.

“Yes,” replied Madeline, “she has the eternal youth of a good, warm heart.”

“She is handsome,” said Elliott; “a fine, strong face. Well, Miss Digby, you have not asked the price of this horse. It is a bargain.”

“What do you call a bargain?” asked Madeline.

“Sixty guineas.”

“.Sixty guineas! what a quantity of money, and all for myself. Do you know I do not think I will buy it.”

“Well, the horse is worth it, if you really want one; and, I think, if you wish to part with him, you can always get your money back. Have him on trial for a week.”

“Yes, that will be charming. I will see the riding-master, and make arrangements tomorrow.”

“There is the address of the man who wants to sell the horse and Elliott handed Madeline a card with rather an air of washing his hands of the business. And Madeline took it silently. Laying it down beside her, she turned the conversation on their mutual acquaintance, the- Downings, and then other topics suggested themselves. At last Elliott rose to say good night.

“And about this affair,” said Madeline, showing the card, and smiling shyly. “I am afraid I am very troublesome, but really you must help me through. You know I never could write about it, or manage it myself.”

“As you like,” returned Elliott, in a grave, kindly tone. “I shall arrange the whole thing, and”—hesitating, the colour coming into his dark cheek—“if you would care, that is, if I could be useful to you in trying the horse—come down, and ride with you, I mean —I shall be very happy; that is, if the evening hours will suit you.

“I shall be greatly obliged,” returned Madeline; “the people here are quite strange to me, and,” looking up in his face, with a sudden frank gleam of confidence, “I know you.” She had given him her hand while she spoke, and involuntarily he pressed it tightly in return for that sweet glance.

“Then what day shall we fix?” he said. “Tuesday next? I can get away a little earlier.” “Ah, it is provoking, but I am going to Lady Templemore's on Tuesday.”

“Wednesday, then?”

“That is the day of the great ball.”.

“Well,” returned Elliott, moodily, “as you are so much engaged, you had better write and say what day will suit you.”

Madeline coloured. “You are so good to have patience,” she said. “I shall be at home on Thursday, and if fine, shall we ride on that evening?”

“Yes,” returned Elliott; “it will do.”

“Very well; I will settle everything with Mr.—what is the riding master’s name, aunty? ”

“What a fool I am!” thought Elliott, as he rode back through the fresh, cold, night air. “Iam only a useful animal to her. If I was distasteful, worse to her than toil and poverty in days gone by, what must I be now, when she seems launched into the highest society of London. Yet she makes me very welcome— that is her gratitude! she is a true-hearted girl; perhaps she fancies I will he satisfied with her friendship! No! I can take no such poor exchange as that!” Then he remembered, dreamily, having spent a day with the family of one of his captains, long ago; and how the wife had said she was glad to have her old man back, and leant over him in his easy-chair and kissed his brow,

That was what Hugh wanted, to see that sweet face bending over him of its own accord! No ! he would not be content with any crumb she chose to throw him; her love, her whole self, or nothing! Yet he knew there was little chance for him; nevertheless, he could not refuse to help her riding scheme. “Why am I never to enjoy,” he thought. “I will just taste the delight of a ride or two with her; a few more glances from those soft speaking eyes, and then back to harness again; work will teach forgetfulness when absence helps.” So he struck his horse and rode sharply into town.

Lady Agnes Grey Temple bestowed an enthusiastic greeting on her former governess. She was quite an event in the young girl’s life—a real bit of romance. “I was so delighted to hear the fortune was all yours,” she said, when they retired for the night, which was early because of Lady Agnes’ fatigue; though she had only come from Calais that day. “I always thought you would turn out somebody, and now you are really a cousin. I wish mamma would let me go and stay with you, instead of going down to that stupid Isle of Wight. Do you know Lord Hexham always said I was like you. He was so surprised to hear about your being an heiress; you remember him, he was Colonel Ashurst? We used to see a great deal of him at Naples. He was so good to me.

“Yes, I remember him,” said Madeline, dreamily, as she played with her ex-pupil’s golden hair. “Is he still at Naples?”

“Oh no l he is in London; he will he here to-morrow night.” And then Lady Agnes yawned, and exclaimed, “I am so tired; I must go to bed. Stay with me, dear Madeline, till I am in bed; I hate to be left alone.”

Lady Templemore and Lady Elizabeth had gone to a musical party, and afterwards to a ball, so Lady Agnes had Madeline all to herself, much to her delight. Lady Agnes was a striking instance of the power of race. She was as thoroughly Irish as if no drop of the Grey blood had mingled with that of the Temples. Bright, loving, impulsive, she had long ago set up Madeline on the altar of her heart as her ideal woman, and very tenderly did her new-found relative return her affectionate regard. She was grieved to see how slight and delicate she looked; how fearfully exquisite her complexion, and how feverishly bright her eyes; and how, wearied out, she fell suddenly asleep—some loving words on her lips, and Madeline’s hand in hers. Madeline sat thus for a long time, without the slightest movement, reviewing the tangled web of life around her. How little the smooth surface of society showed of the passion, the struggle, the agony, or the joy beneath! Who could imagine that a rich, popular, laughter-loving widow like Lady Rawson had a store of such memories as she had unfolded? And when she herself met Lord Hexham the following evening, with all the polished courtesy suited to their mutual position, who could dream that but for some mysterious influence, some instinctive womanly modesty, she might then have been his mistress, unworthy of associating with the fair young creature now sleeping peacefully, happy in holding her hand so closely clasped? Nothing showed Madeline so strongly the difference between her past and present as the feeling with which she now regarded Lord Hexham’s audacious proposal. “What ruin it would have been!” she thought. “No fortune, no after success, would have redeemed me. How dared he think of it?—ay,” whispered conscience, “how was it that you entertained it?”

The ball was brilliant and well managed, and Lord Bracklyn danced the first quadrille with Madeline—Lord Templemore doing duty with some lady of high rank. A good deal of notice was bestowed upon Madeline, as the same basis of human nature supplied the polished materials of Lady Templemore’s assembly as ’ had furnished forth the more excitable and demonstrative company at Mrs. John Redman s party. Lady Templemore was not sorry to see that Madeline attracted so much attention. She could bear looking at too—she had the “air nobleand dowagers of high standing pronounced her “very nice indeed!” “So amiable of dear Lady Temple

more to take her up.” “Such a nice arrangement to marry Lord Bracklyn puts all claims right.” “They say he was desperately in love with her while she was governess at the Grange, and she refused him three times.” “Quite a chapter of romance. Who is that speaking to her?” “Oh! little Fitzharris, the singing man: he seems in high favour.” “Well, really, Lady Templemore is the best manager in London. A hundred thousand pounds, and the air of a countess, not to be had every day.” Such were a few of the comments which reached Lord Hexham’s ears as he slowly won his way to a position where he could see the dancers.

The first figure that attracted his notice was Madeline’s. She was again dancing with Lord Bracklyn—her dress, perfectly simple and unadorned, conveying an idea of grace and harmony, without one salient point to interfere with the general flowing outline: but no simplicity could suppress the air of distinction bestowed by the exquisite setting on of the small head; the slope of the fair, creamy shoulders; the rich coils of golden hair; the broad brow; the dark liquid eyes; and the mobile, red-lipped mouth, with its smile always sweet, however arch or bright. How vividly Lord Hexham remembered every delicate trait! and as he looked, how all his old, half-forgotten feelings of love, and unsatisfied longing, rose up again! He fretted to see her give her hand to that “ wretched cub, Bracklynbut he had no objection to see her half turn round, in the intervals of the figures, to chat pleasantly with little Fitz, who appeared in a great state of glorification. Suddenly an indefinable change passed over her face. She did not colour, or look confused, yet Lord Hexham knew she had recognised him, and felt a thrill of gratified vanity at this indication that he still held some power over her. When the dance was finished he waited till, with the rest, she passed slowly by him on her way to the refreshment-room—still -admiring the undisturbed serenity of her expression—and as she passed he bowed low, with his usual courtly grace, saying: “May I hope that I have not quite escaped Miss Digby’s memory?

“Certainly not,” she returned, smiling with frank gaiety, which yet piqued the accomplished, all successful earl, and giving him her .hand as she would any one else, not blushing or trembling as he expected,

“And you have inherited treasures of gold and silver since we last met,” he continued. “ I must congratulate you. I was very glad to hear of it.”

“Thank you,” said Madeline, quietly, and she passed on without another word. So Lord Hexham felt posed. Nothing could be more friendly and well-bred than her manner, yet it implied the death and burial of all warmer feeling. He was to have the excitement of a fresh chase, then! for what, he scarcely knew. He had no decided object in seeking out this girl about whom he had once been so bewitched, unless for a passing excitement.

So he strolled away, generally finding himself in the same room with Madeline, and bestowing his august notice, first on some lady of high rank or fashion, then on another, everywhere most flatteringly received; and Made line saw it all, she was never alone, either Lady Agnes was nestling to her side, or she was in close and animated conversation with Lady Rawson, or Lady Templemore was saying a few confidential words as though she was a daughter of the house, and indiscriminate young guardsmen were being presented; and through all this she wore the same natural, easy expression. Lady Rawson, who looked remarkably well, as if life had been one blaze of sunshine, after a very few words, said quickly:

“So, Lord Hexham is here!”

“Yes,” returned Madeline. u I wish he was not, he has rather spoiled the evening for me.”

“You look perfectly well and composed.”

“Yes, forewarned is forearmed. I knew he was coming.”

“That was fortunate, I like to see you show your strength.” Madeline smiled, but was silent, her eyes fell upon Lord Hexham; at that moment he was standing beside a lady who had just come in—a tall, haughty, noblelooking woman, who seemed too proud to have a glance for the general company, yet could smile sweetly upon him. “That is the Marchioness of Dunmore. The handsomest, proudest woman in the peerage,” said Lady'Rawson.

“They look well matched,” thought Madeline, as she gazed with admiring eyes at Lord Hexham’s splendid form and lordly air, and then quietly measured him with Hugh Elliott. How brilliant and magnificent the former was in comparison! How every sort of success and distinction appeared to have been lavished on him. Rich, noble, winning and handsome, with enough generosity and kindliness to make him loveable, what a wreath of goodly gifts! while Elliott, crushed by circumstances in early youth, had to fight, with patient endurance and lonely fortitude, for a standing place, and was hardened in the incessant struggle, and when, after long toil, he had won a name and riches, did he not offer all to her? he had had a dream of heart-sunshine in the midst of his cold success, and it was refused him! How her heart turned to her true lover even while her eye was filled with the other’s stately grace, and longed with unspeakably tender pity and regard, that she might clothe the remainder of his life with beauty and warmth, such as affection can give, “hut gold can never buy!” and as she thought her countenance changed, an expression of pensive softness came over it, noticing which, Lord Hexham thought within himself she is thinking of me!” and leaving the haughty beauty he crossed to where she sat, and spoke for a while to her and Lady Lawson. He could say but little to Madeline, save on the most commonplace topics, but his eyes constantly sought hers, and met them, which encounters produced much mystification to his lordship. Her eyes were so clear, and frank, and fearless, there was no dislike or antagonism in them, neither was there that timid, tender avoidance so pleasing to man’s vanity.

The ball proceeded with remarkable success, and perhaps the pleasantest part of it to Madeline was a quadrille she danced with her noble and jovial host. He was ready witted and natural, and Madeline felt he had a personal liking for her; as this dance was finished, Lord Templemore descried some dowager of rank in the act of saying good-night, and turning to MadeUne exclaimed :

“I must put you somewhere, and go down with old Lady G-resford.”

“Allow me, then,to take care of Miss Digby,” said Lord Hexham, suddenly presenting himself.

“Ah yes! that will do,” returned Lord Templemore; and Madeline found herself transferred.

“I am by no means sure that you are obliged to me,” said Hexham, leading her through the door of the dancing-room, towards an exquisitely-illuminated conservatory which led to a Turkish tent where ices were distributed. Madeline’s heart beat; reason as she would, she could not tone down the sensation of painful embarrassment that disturbed her, while feeling indignant with Lord Hexham for his audacity in seeking her so pertinaciously.

“Where are we going?” she asked, as soon as she had regained command of herself, and felt she could speak steadily. “I want to find Lady Agnes; she is not to dance any more, so I can sit by her.”

“Do you think, then, I intend to leave you suddenly alone in this mob?” said Lord Hexham, in the tone she knew so well, half-admiring, half-jesting, as to something infinitely younger than himself. Her heart beat: ah! why had he not been as true as he was charming!

“No, of course not,” she returned, with a bright smile; “but I am tired, and would like to sit down.”

“Madeline,” said Lord Hexham, in a caressing tone, and pressing the hand that lay on his arm; it was quietly withdrawn, to lift her fan, which dropped at that moment: Lord Hexham picked it up quickly.

“Thank you,” said Madeline, quietly, and continuing exactly in the same tone, neither piqued nor angry, or assuming dignity or coldness, but in a natural, almost friendly manner, “except to a few intimates, I am Miss Digby.”

“Indeed,” returned Lord Hexham, astonished beyond measure at the force and mental muscle of the young, slender, suddenly-enriched waif, who so unhesitatingly put him in his place. “I shall not require a second lesson,” and in silence they looked for Lady Agnes, to whom Lord Hexham had much to say in a pleasant, almost fatherly manner, and ultimately took leave of Madeline with a profound bow, and a look more respectful than she had previously seen in his eyes.

CHAPTER XIII

Not all the caressing entreaties of Lady Agnes could induce Madeline to prolong her visit. She had friends coming to stay with her, she said, and she must be at home to receive them. So with many promises to go and visit her young friend at their Yentnor villa, for which locality Lady Agnes was to start the following morning, Madeline bid her goodbye, and returned to Richmond in time for an early dinner, and to receive Mrs. Downing, who arrived to pass a few weeks with her old friend.

Miss Foster was somewhat fidgety and mysterious; and after the servants had retired, and the nursemaid taken Master Arthur Downing to play in the garden, exclaimed, “Now, my dear Madeline, that you have had your dinner, I must tell you of a very curious event, rather startling indeed—not that you need be frightened, still I would certainly tell Mr. Elliott or Mr. Payne.”

“What is it?” asked Madeline, turning pale?

“Well, yesterday afternoon,just as I had finished trimming a straw bonnet, to wear about the roads, you know, Mrs. Downing, when Mary (the parlour-maid), came in and said there was a foreign gentleman wanted to see Miss Dighy, and would not go away; would I see him? While I hesitated, in walked Mr. Delille, in a dreadful state of excitement, and looking, to say the least, not clean—not shaved, you know, and he accused us of telling lies, and said you were in the house hiding, because you had ruined him; and then he seized on the pens and ink, and wrote a quantity in French, and left it with me, and went away in such a fury! I really thought of sending for the police.”

“How strange! how distressing!” said Madeline. “Let me see his letter.”

It was a wild, incoherent mass of reproaches, accusing her of being the cause of some misfortune, and solemnly claiming her as his wife; calling down terrible curses if she was false to him; and altogether a mad, but alarming production.

Poor Madeline shook all over while she read—not in any fear; hers was a brave spirit, but from grief at being the cause of such severe mental suffering. “It is most unfortunate,” she ejaculated. “I wish he would go away. I shall certainly show this letter to Mr. Payne, and more, • ask Mr. O’Keefe to reason with him—they seemed good friends; hut,” she added, “oblige me by saying nothing, absolutely nothing, to Mr. Elliott.”

So the matter dropped for the present, and the three ladies descended into the garden.

Jessie thoroughly enjoyed her visit; she thought it was the complete absence of domestic cares which made her feel so light-hearted and free. She would have been horrified had any one whispered to her that the secret of her enjoyment was her husband’s absence, freedom from the perpetual anxious thought, “am I doing right; shall I please him?” And how glad Madeline was to have her and the boy, to pet them and lap them in a small elysium!”

Elliott, punctual to the appointed time, found them collected on the lawn, engaged in the exciting amusement of inducing young Master Arthur to stroke a pet cat.

Madeline met him with much internal satisfaction; the glitter and fascinations of the evening before had not shaken her wiser, calmer preference; she had been true to her better-self, and this was consoling, even if Elliott had forgotten his former fancy for her, which she still thought might not be the case.

“You are very good to come out all this way, and I will go and put on my habit, and be quite ready when the riding-master comes; there are three or four ladies to be of the party, but we need not trouble about them.”

“Very well,” said Elliott, content with anything when she spoke so confidentially, and looked so kind.

Madeline’s toilette was always quickly performed, and she soon returned, looking so slight and small in the tight fitting habit, that Elliott was surprised, and thought she had suddenly been dwarfed into childhood again, until a few stolen glances showed him the exquisite proportions of the rounded, supple, womanly figure, and he perceived it was the absence of flowing drapery that took from her height.

“Let us go and see this famous horse,” she said, “while we are waiting for Mr. Martin.” And accordingly Elliott accompanied her to the front door, where his groom was walking the two horses up and down. Both were fine creatures; but Madeline’s the lighter and more graceful, a dark chestnut brown, with black legs, tail, and mane, square-cut nostrils, and a gentle, intelligent eye.

“What a beautiful creature! I shall make it a great pet. What is his name?” asked Madeline.

“Not a very romantic one,” returned Elliott, smiling. “Brown Stout.”

“Dreadful! If I buy him I shall drop the first part; Stout is not so bad.”

But the ostler from the livery-stables now came up, with a side-saddle, and Elliott was absorbed in seeing to the safety of the girths, the proper adjustment of the bridle, &c., with a silent care, that brought Madeline’s softest, sweetest smile to lip and eye.

Before many minutes passed the riding-master, with the rest of his fair flock, appeared, and Elliott, not considering himself competent to mount a lady, gave way to the accomplished Mr. Martin.

It was a lovely evening, and the equestrians thoroughly enjoyed their ride through the charming, smiling scenery of Richmond and Bushy Park.

Mr. Martin found himself relieved of all trouble as regarded Miss Digby. Her grave, dark cavalier, whose first-rate seat and hand rather surprised the suburban riding-master, was always close to her side, full of the most watchful care, and also the most uncompromising corrections.

It was a delightful ride, though somewhat silent and quiet, and when they returned Elliott just came in to say good-bye to Miss Foster and Mrs. Downing. Then an appointment was made for another evening, and Elliott departed, with a sort of glow, as of re-kindling hope in his heart, which he tried in vain to reason down.

The current of Madeline’s life seemed at this time to have found a smooth and pleasant channel, unexciting, but deliciously tranquil. Occasionally she went with Lady Temple-more to some brilliant fete or assemblage; oftener she passed a day or two with Lady Rawson; but chiefly she enjoyed the graceful repose of her Richmond home, her garden, her books, the happiness of Miss Foster; above all, her rides with Elliott, which were steadily pursued. He seemed to have fallen into his old position of friend and mentor, and satisfied, fully satisfied with the peace and comfort of the present, Madeline wished and asked nothing beyond. The only drawback to the delicious repose of this breathing-space was the visits of Lord Bracklyn, who was on two occasions accompanied by Lord Hexham. Miss Foster was greatly delighted with that accomplished nobleman, and, enlightened by some undefinable instinct, had (after his first visit) put some timid queries as to whether he had not somehow or other been in love with Madeline formerly.

“No, I do not think he was,” said Madeline, quietly.

“Well, I cannot help thinking he is now,” returned Miss Foster, shaking her head, sagely, “and I am sure you would make a very nice countess.”

“No ehance of that, aunty.”

Madeline, with due and proper hospitably, entertained Mrs. Redman, and Mr. and Mrs. John, at somewhat wide intervals, but to the latter’s decided disappointment, no earls or countesses, or other grandees, were to be met with at these quiet reunions, to which The O’Keefe was the greatest enlivenment. Once Lady Rawson was of the party, and afforded Mrs. John subject-matter for many brilliant descriptions, and effective allusions. But although there was nothing in Madeline’s conduct of which the Redman family could complain, they had an uneasy feeling that she was not as conscious of her enormous obligations to them as she ought to have been.

June was almost over—a gorgeous glowing June—and all the world was talking of leaving town. It had been a most brilliant season, and its votaries were almost exhausted. Lady Rawson, who always seemed a little impatient of Madeline’s love for her Richmond retirement, had insisted on carrying her off to a splendid fete, beginning with a concert and ending with a ball, at a well-known ducal mansion. Madeline had greatly enjoyed the music, and afterwards had not enjoyed the honour of dancing with Lord Hexham. Elis pertinacity offended her—and yet how charming he was! Madeline’s nature was too artistic not to be keenly alive to the fascinations of maimer. Yet she felt dispirited on this particular evening. A vague anticipation of something unpleasant oppressed her, and gave an air of supreme languid high breeding to her air, usually so quietly animated.

“What are you going to do with yourself, Lady Rawson, this summer?” asked Lord Hexham, as they waited for that lady’s carriage to be announced.

“I scarcely know, I am tired of the Continent. If Miss Digby would accompany me, I think I should like to explore the "West of Ireland.” “I daresay it would be very fresh and pleasant. Why not try Norway? I fancy it is beyond the reach of excursionists. Are you and Miss Digby to hunt in couples?”

“I am so fond of Richmond,” replied Madeline, “I do not think I shall leave it all the year.”

“Ah! I suppose you return there to-morrow,” said Lord Hexham carelessly, yet giving diligent heed to Lady Rawson’s answer.

“No, she stays, because I have asked T., whom she was anxious to meet, to dinner— though you must be on your own resources all day, remember, mademoiselle, for I must go to the City.” “Lady Rawson’s carriage stops the way!” and in a few minutes they

were driving towards --gate.

“On the whole I think Lord Hexham a very exceptional man,” said Lady Rawson, as they rolled easily onwards. “I am almost inclined to believe he has a heart.”

“Yes, I think he has, and the skill to make the most of it,” said Madeline.

“How? What do you mean?” asked Lady Rawson.

“The skill to show it pleasantly, and derive pleasure from it himself.” Lady Rawson looked at her sharply, but made no reply.

The next day was showery, and cooler than any that had been experienced for some time. Lady Rawson had an early luncheon, and started to see her solicitor, and perform a large amount of business, which she said she had allowed to accumulate. Madeline rather enjoyed the rest and silence, after the excitement of the night before. Lady Rawson’s principal rooms looked to the street, but a delightfully cool back drawing-room opened on a conservatory, full of fragrant plants and ferns, from whence came a softened light and fresh perfumed air, which created a delicious atmosphere, so Madeline sat down to the piano, to dream and sing, and while away her friend’s absence, in perfect quiet. It was not unlikely, she thought, that her old friend Mr. Fitzharris might call, and she wished to see him, and ask him to her house, or show him, in some way, that she did not forget his former partisanship.

When the door opened, therefore, she rose easily and smilingly, and was not a little startled by the announcement of “Lord Hexham.”

She felt instantly that some kind of trial was before her—some struggle for which she strove to nerve herself. If so accomplished a cavalier could seem awkward, Lord Hexham did, on this his first t£te-a-tite interview with Madeline, since the day on which he had pressed his lips to hers, and fancied she would be his. Yet his mind was made up, and a certain resolution characterised his expression. After a few matter-of-course observations, Madeline remarked that Lady Rawson had not yet returned.

“No,” replied the earl, “I did not expect to find her. I seized the chance of speaking to you alone. __ Why do you seem to shrink from me, Madeline?” for she had started slightly at this bold opening. “Let us speak candidly to each other. I am no hot-headed boy, and you are womanly beyond your years. It is this that makes you so attractive—to me, at least, for I am as utterly bewitched by you as I ever was! Well! I am conscious that the worst mistake I ever made was not securing you two years ago as my wife. A mistake I have bitterly repented—but you—can you not forgive it? Cannot your broad, strong sense understand that all through, though blinded by a base, conventional, unmanly worldliness, l loved you truly, heartily, and—forgive me, Madeline—but you loved me, you know you did. Why then turn from me now? We might have some years of delicious happiness yet, dear Madeline!” He took her hand with the utmost tenderness.

She withdrew it gently—“Yes,” she said. “I understand it all—and I have no right to be angry with you, for even now I hardly know what kept me back from you, but it is inexpressibly painful to be reminded of all this. Why—why do you vex me with it,

Lord Hexham?' she added, with a burst of impatience.

“Because I want you to forgive me—and to be my wife,” returned Hexham, dwelling with fixed gaze on the' charming mobile face before him.

M How is it you do not see the impossibility of such a thing?” cried Madeline, her eyes all alight with her animated rejection of the idea, and pushing back the braids of her rippled hair from cheek and brow. “Do you not know that it is impossible to take up that which we have once laid down. We should be miserable married. What mutual respect have we to go upon? You would always remember that I was for a moment tempted to be your mistress. I, that failing to secure the bargain you first proposed, you came to my terms, and perhaps on reflection doubted your own wisdom.”

“These words are unworthy of you,” cried Lord Hexham, stung by their truth. “You know how fondly and truly I love you—you do not suppose for a moment that I am actuated by any thought of your accession of fortune.” “Of the money? no, not the least—by the change of position—yes,” returned Madeline, “and not unnaturally. It would have seemed so quixotic to have raised an humble breadwinner to be your wife—your countess. Yet, oh! Lord Hexham, it would have been truer wisdom, for I did love you! It is a chance if you are ever so much loved again; even still I do not like to wound you or say harsh things to you; yet what a bitter cup of humiliation you made me drink, it has flavoured all life since! but why blame you, you acted only a common part—the laws of the society you move in forbid a mesalliance—only it is a pity that men such as you think that all things should exist for your gratification.”

“I did not know you as I now do,” said the earl, much moved, “I classed you with other women. Do not say that I embittered your life.”

“No!” returned Madeline, “not altogether, for when in my lowest estate—another, not so great as you, but §till much above me, and rich with wealth of his own hard earning, offered all to me, and somewhat healed the wounds you made.”

“Ha!” cried Lord Hexham. “You love another—and I have lost you!” he breathed quick and deep.

“I refused him,” continued Madeline, “because the shadow of my love for you made my heart cold even then.”

“Ah! Madeline,” said the earl, kneeling beside her, and passionately kissing her hand. “ Look at me! forgive me! I have bitterly regretted my own folly. I have found all things void without you: my heart aches for you!—my fondest hope, my waking thought and sleeping dream, is—that you will let me read love in those sweet eyes, and hold you to my heart;” his rich voice faltered with passionate emotion, and he looked so thoroughly a girl’s ideal chivalrous lover that Madeline’s purpose faltered for a moment, her old yearning for his love came back in a sudden tide of possible tenderness or weakness. It was but for a moment, and then looking beyond and above him she conjured up Hugh Elliott’s dark pale face and earnest truthful eyes, remembering the look and tone with which, when she had rejected him, he asked only to be of use to her, and feeling despite his silence and guarded reserve that she would turn his heart to stone if she were to accept another. No! this man had enough. She was not essential to him; her heart, her better-self turned to her true, though rugged, self-made lover, whose life she so much wished to beautify and soften; and Lord Hexham saw, by the distant outlook in her eyes, that she had escaped his influence. “No, Lord Hexham,” said Madeline, slowly and dreamily, and again withdrawing her hand. “It is gone by now—we can be nothing more to each other, not even friends —we feel too much for that, so let us part! Thank Grod we have no more serious cause for mutual reproach; for my part I heartily forgive you any pain you may have caused me, and bid you God speed on your road through life, but let us not meet again if I”

“And is it all over then, Madeline?” said the earl, sadly, standing before her, his arms folded, his head bent, “I thought I had a place still in your heart.”

“Why?” asked Madeline, quietly resting her clasped hands on the top of a prie-dieu. “ Because having lost all sight of you, from the day I rejected your terms, for nearly two years, I happen, when we meet again, to strike your fancy once more, am I therefore to feel the same? I have thought and suffered much in the interim, Lord Hexham. My reason has matured—my heart grown calmer—you have less chance with me now than when I was alone, with the bitter memory of a poverty-stricken childhood behind, and the desolation of a lonely struggle for bare existence before me. But go! say good-bye. I wish you all good —and you will be happy—wounds like yours soon skin over! Time heals worse hurts quickly. Let us part good friends.”

“Hood-bye, then,” said Lord Hexham, taking her hand once more. “G-ood-bye, dear Madeline. I shall not soon look upon your like again! You are the only woman who has ever, in my experience, united tenderness and strength. It wrings my heart to leave you, but I feel that you are lost to me.” Again he pressed her hand to his lips, and turning abruptly away, she saw him no more.

When Lady Rawson returned Miss Digby was reported to be lying down with a bad head-ache. The room was darkened, nevertheless Lady Rawson’s keen vision detected that Madeline’s eyes were red, as if with long weeping, and her ear that Madeline’s voice was tremulous, as though she had been deeply moved.

CHAPTER XIV

The day but one after this rather trying interview had been appointed between Madeline and Hugh Elliott to ride over to Hampton Court; Miss Digby had now added a second horse and a groom to her establishment, and was independent of riding-masters, indeed, she had become acquainted with one or two families in the neighbourhood, and the young ladies appertaining thereto frequently joined her in her rides; but on this especial evening Elliott was to be her escort.

Never had her Richmond home appeared more charming in her eyes, than on her return from Lady Rawson’s. Its peace, its refreshing silence, its fragrance and simple elegance, delighted her, and perhaps anticipation of the evening’s ride, its companionship and exchange of thought, and the deepening interest which each successive meeting with Elliott developed, helped to enhance the beauties of Auburn Lodge. Then she was satisfied in having parted with Lord Hexham, and on the terms she did; she had left him the lasting impression that she was no toy for an idle moment, but his equal, so far as nature and petty prejudice will permit woman to be with man, and thus, her amour propre saved harmless, she thought of him indulgently. She had had the nearest approach to a quarrel with Lady Rawson that could occur, where one party was entirely pacific, for her astute friend quickly discovered, by a few dexterous queries, that the brilliant and fascinating earl had been rejected, and was excessively wroth. But Madeline was passive and dispirited, so the flame of Lady Rawson’s anger died out for want of something to feed upon.

“Mr. O’Keefe called here yesterday,” said Miss Foster, as she and Madeline were sitting together at the open window after their early dinner. Miss Foster never would understand that it was not an unwarrantable liberty to call him “The O’Keefe.” “He sat a long time and made himself most agreeable; he told me a great deal about his family, and really it is very sad to think how badly treated they all have been.”

“Have they?” said Madeline? “Who by?”

“Well, you see I am not very quick at understanding things, so I do not exactly know. I think by the English government, and the people who bought their property.”

“I fancy they would have been still more badly treated if no one had bought it,” returned Madeline, laughing.

“He mentioned M. Delille amongst other things,” continued Miss Foster. “I said how much he had frightened me that day he called here—oh! more than two months ago—and how you had gone to Mr. Payne and Mr. John about him; but that we had never heard or seen anything of him since, and Mr. O’Keefe said he had been away in France and had given up some appointment in that great company your uncle was a director of, and indeed the company is given up too. But it seems M. Delille has been in London for some time and dangerously ill, with brain fever, or something dreadful; indeed Mr. O’Keefe was quite mysterious about him.”

“I am very sorry he is ill,” said Madeline; “I feel as if I had brought him into trouble. I wish-” Madeline’s wish remained un

spoken, for the servant entered and presented her with a letter, a large letter, directed in a mercantile hand.

“Any answer’m?” asked the servant.

“Madeline opened it. It was a few brief lines from Elliott, written on large blue office paper—he said—

“Dear Miss Digby,—An unexpected press of business obliges me to forego the pleasure of riding with you this evening. ^ I hope to call in the course of next week.

“Yours very truly,

“Hugh Elliot.”

“No answer, except my compliments; we are sorry not to see Mr. Elliott this evening,” said Madeline—there was something sad in her tone that made Miss Foster ask “ Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” returned Madeline, with a sigh, handing her the note; “only it is not pleasant to ride alone; let us take a walk together instead,” dear aunty.

A week, ten days, passed over, and nothing more was heard of Elliott. Madeline felt ill at ease and depressed in an unaccountable manner; she strove to occupy herself as usual, but it was an effort. Miss Foster seeing the usual routine suspected nothing. Her sympathy with Madeline was more of the heart than the head, and on many points there was a great gulf fixed between them.

During this dim uneasy interval, Madeline had two visits from Lady Rawson, who was avowedly anxious and curious to know what she was about.

“I cannot forgive you, Madeline, for your stupidity in refusing Lord Hexham, one of the best matches in England. It would have been such a settlement for you. I know you have taken up some crochet about that horrid bushranger! My dear child, one man is as good as another in some ways. If Mr. Elliott had been in Dudley Ashurst’s place he would have made the same proposal in all probability.”

“I do not think so,” said Madeline, impulsively; “Mr. Elliott never would have thought the whole world made for him alone, that if he could not make you his wife, then he would suit his convenience and take you for a mistress.”

“Well, there are none so blind as those who will not see; but I think you would have been as happy as any one ever is, in a marriage with Hexham, and see what a position your children would take! now you will just sink into a sort of household drudge of the better kind, and consort with fat and greasy citizens all the days of your life. You will never emerge from obscurity as this man’s wife.”

“Probably I shall never be his wife. I am not aware that he has the slightest intention of asking me,” returned Madeline coolly.

“Yes, of course he will! these City men have a keen scent for money. He will never let yours escape.”

“Some City men, however, can overlook the want of it, and dramatic difficulties, too,” retorted Madeline.

“Well hit,” said Lady Rawson, laughing good-humouredly, “I suppose I had better let a wilful woman have her way; certainly I have no power to stop you.”

“.No,” said Madeline, taking her hand affectionately, “yet your opinion will always have weight in my eyes, though you cannot persuade me to accept wood, or straw, or composition of any kind, however well gilt, for the gold itself. Have these substitutes satisfied you, Lady Rawson?”

“Nay, if you can get true gold, for God’s sake secure it,” returned her ladyship; “meantime let us not go to war for an idea. I heartily hope that life may not prove a mistake to you as it has done to so many.”

Lady Templemore also paid Madeline a short visit, It was to say good-bye, as she was going to join Lady Agnes at Yentnor, intending to remain a few weeks, as Lord Templemore wished to entertain some yachting celebrities during the expected regatta. Lady Templemore was much hurried, the chief object of her call was to arrange with Miss Digby her long promised visit to Lady Agnes, and it was finally agreed that Madeline should join them on the —th, which was nearly a fortnight off. She felt a strange reluctance to assent, yet had no tangible excuse to offer, and so Lady Templemore carried her point, and went away rejoicing.

The evening after this interview, Madeline and Miss Foster were sitting as usual in their favourite window, and after a few desultory remarks had glided into their favourite topic, conjectures and wonderings, “What could have become of Mr. Elliott?” when that gentleman was announced.

The moment Madeline’s eyes met his, she felt, to use a common but expressive phrase, “ that something had happened.” He looked worn and haggard, yet there was an unusual fire in his glance and animation in his face. His voice, too, had a ring in it, unlike its ordinary quiet tone, as though the inner depths had been stirred, and all the imprisoned lightnings of the higher spirit let loose. Madeline rose to meet him, with a glow on her cheek and a smile on her lips that spoke a warmer welcome than her words, and she noticed that he took her hand with a stronger firmer grasp than he had ever bestowed on it before. His greeting to Miss Foster, too, was more openly, genially cordial than he was in the habit of bestowing.

“I hope I did not keep you waiting the other evening,” he said, “I expected to the last that I should he able to come, and then found it impossible. Now, what do you say to a ride? the evening is delicious, not over warm, and by the time you are ready my horse will have rested, I told my servant to put him up and call for orders.”

“I had promised to drive with Miss Foster,” said Madeline, hesitating a little, she scarce knew why.

“She will let you off; do not refuse to ride with me to-night,” urged Elliott with remarkable earnestness.

“Yes, of course,” cried Miss Foster readily; “you have not had a ride for some days now, and I know you will enjoy it.”

“Yes; it is a beautiful evening, and I shall enjoy it, I daresay. I will go and dress, if you give the orders, Mr. Elliott.”

During Madeline’s absence Hugh Elliott was somewhat absent, and replied vaguely to Miss Foster’s conversational attempts. At last he said, “Have you heard or seen anything lately of that Frenchman who used to persecute Madeline—I mean Miss Digby?”

“No,” said Miss Foster; “but how do you know he persecuted her?”

“Why, her uncle Bedman mentioned it; and old Mr. Payne, and that queer fellow O’Keefe—every one knew it. I saw him yesterday, by accident, in the City; and I never saw a more dangerous-looking fellow— there was madness in his eyes.”

“Dear me! How dreadful! I assure you we have heard nothing of him for weeks and weeks.”

“Miss Digby should be warned never to see him alone; but I will speak to Bedman myself,” said Elliott, thoughtfully.

“I am quite terrified for her,” ejaculated Miss Foster.

Elliott was silent—gazing away into the garden, as though looking at some far-off future. But suddenly rousing himself, “I will go and look after the horses,” he said, “or we shall lose time. I shall see you again, Miss Foster,” and left the room.

Madeline was ready when the servant came in to say the horses were at the door, and Mr. Elliott waiting; and she descended with a nameless, nervous feeling of expectation, which yet thrilled her with a certain pleasure. Elliott was looking carefully to the girths of her saddle when she came out; and, on her groom advancing as usual to mount her, put him aside suddenly, saying, “I think I can manage to mount you to-night,” he easily lifted the slight girlish form of his companion to her seat, and, arranging her reins and habit with his usual grave care, was soon in his own saddle. G-athering up his reins, and touching his horse with the spur, he put him on his mettle, as though he needed some movement, some material expression of the novel temper which stirred him. The animal plunged and curvetted a little, enough to show his rider’s skill. Elliott always looked to advantage on horseback, as all men do who ride well; and feeling this instinctively, he was more at ease when in the saddle than elsewhere. This especial evening, however, all diffidence and coldness seemed to have been exorcised; yet there was no visible excitement in his manner—only he spoke out his thoughts, and took the lead in conversation. His eyes too frequently sought and met Madeline’s, with an earnest, longing, penetrating glance, as if he were learning her face and thoughts by heart. She remembered that evening long! It seemed that, although full of love and admiration for her, he was resolved not to speak it; and, with a strange perversity, she sought, gently and distantly it is true, still sought, to draw forth the declaration she half longed-for, half feared. It was a delicious dewy evening, and as they rode along, the springy tread of the horses imparting a delightful sense of elasticity, the sunlight sprinkling the grass beneath the trees with gold, and making the foliage transparent—sometimes talking of the beauty round them, or of Elliott’s adventures in other lands —sometimes lapsing into expressive, sympathising silence, or exchanging a glance of sudden understanding—they tasted a few moments of that rare and exquisite happiness which life, here' and there, can show—when ruder, coarser cares are hidden for a brief space—when the discordant tones which vex the spirit are hushed awhile, and the soul, thirsting for love and comprehension, pausing on the brink of what seems to he living waters, whispers to itself, “Now shall my longings be satisfied, and I shall never thirst again.”

The evening was closing in when they rode through the park on their return. The fresh dewy air stole round throat and cheek like a caress, and the stillness of coming night sank down upon them with all its suggestive tenderness. Instinctively Elliott drew closer to his companion. She looked pale, very pale in the fading light; and her figure swayed to the movements of her horse with a languid grace; her long lashes drooped over her cheek, except when raised to answer some observation of Elliott’s, and then she always turned so as to let him look into her eyes— and what liquid depths of quiet feeling he read there!—and still he spoke of things apart from her. He talked more than he had ever done before of his past life; but no word of love passed his lips, save that the inflexions of his voice bespoke intense controlled emotion. “Do you feel the night air chill?” he said suddenly, after a prolonged silence.

“No,” said Madeline; “rather refreshing.”

“Then let us stop here for a moment,” he said, laying his hand upon her rein, and touching hers, “I want to learn this scene by heart; and I am reluctant to pass out from, this paradise into the common world.” .

The spot where they stood was that which commands the famous view of the river flowing royally through the rich plain below, while the glorious sunset hues had not quite faded from the western sky, although a crescent-moon was shimmering on the tree-tops beneath the brow of the hill on which they rested.

“There,” said Elliott, drawing a deep breath, “I must look no longer”—but his eyes rested on Madeline as he spoke—“and Miss Foster will he uneasy lest some dire mis- fortune has befallen us,” added Madeline, feeling uneasy at his unusual tone. They moved on, therefore, and reached Auburn Lodge almost in silence.

“You will come in?” asked Madeline.

“Certainly,” said Elliott, dismounting; and then lifting Madeline from her saddle, for one instant pressing her to his heart. It was but an instant, yet she could not be mistaken.

Miss Foster was quite ready to receive them. The lamp was lit, the tea-table set in the open window, the room—so cool and redolent of flowers—looked deliciously inviting. Madeline felt strangely happy; she was satisfied she was loved—truly, earnestly, honestly loved—yet the consciousness subdued her to a sweet gravity. Elliott was quietly agreeable during their light repast. When it was over he glanced at his watch, and then asked Madeline to sing—“That is, if you are not tired,” he said.

“Not too tired to sing,” she replied, rising and going to the piano, her habit gathered in one hand, her profuse golden hair somewhat loose and disordered.

“Thank you,” he returned; “you know you ought to sing to me. You first taught me what music is.” So she sang; but perhaps with less spirit and expression than ordinary. Then Elliott rose up; and, looking pale and dark, said “I must go now.”

“There is something the matter, something wrong,” exclaimed Madeline, impulsively. “ What is it? Tell us. Are we not friends? ’’

“I think we are,” replied Elliott, looking at her with a strange paired look. “I had intended to write to Miss Foster; but I will say good-bye instead.”

“Good-bye?” repeated his hearers in a breath.

“Yes,” said Elliott sadly; “I am about to return to Australia. I fear I am a ruined man, so far as money goes.”

“How? how?” cried Madeline, clasping her hands.

“It is a long story. I have an agent at Sydney who has the command of funds to a large amount, in order to remit to me, or freight vessels. I calculate on the receipt of these to meet certain demands. Well, he has speculated, and failed, and defrauded me and others. I have sufficient to pay all here in full—that done, I have little left, and therefore return to Australia; partly to see what I can make of this defaulter, partly because I think I can start there best afresh. It is hard to have the toil of years annihilated at a blow —hard to give up hopes-” but, interrupt

ing himself, “I must not whine over what is inevitable. I am no worse off than many others; not so bad as some, for I have neither wife nor children. I had just got this news a day or two before my appointment to ride with you, Miss Digby : I determined immediately to wind up my affairs in London, and found it impossible to get here in time that day, so I worked away to clear the wreck! My passage is taken—T sail from Southampton next week, taking the overland route to Ceylon, and so by steamer to Sydney.”

He stopped abruptly, and walked once or twice up and down the room.

Madeline sat down on the sofa suddenly, as if stunned; and Miss Foster, with tears in her eyes, exclaimed, “Oh! my dear Mr. Elliott! how dreadful! how grieved I am! You, who were so good and kind!”

“Yes,” said Madeline, eagerly, nervously, “You, who helped us at our greatest need— can I not—may I not—be of some use to you now?” and she blushed crimson.

Elliott shook his head, and stretched out his opened hand with a gesture expressive of utter rejection. He looked so thoroughly resolved, so completely master of himself, and dictator of his own line of conduct, that Madeline dared not proceed; she therefore stopped abruptly, and stood, her clasped hands pressed to her bosom, her eyes full of entreaty—a picture of graceful submission. Elliott looked at her, and turned away with a contraction of lip and brow; then controlling himself, he said, smiling pleasantly, “ Of course you are ready to give me the half of your fortune, because I was once of some slight service to you; but such romantic generosity is of little credit to the receiver, or indeed the giver. I did not intend to say all this. I only meant once more to have one or two hours of delight before I went away into a totally different life, and then to write good-bye; but you see I am weaker than I thought, and very properly suffer for it, for it is harder to say good-bye. Nevertheless it must be done.” He looked paler and darker than ever. As he took Miss Foster’s hand, “Take care of yourself, cousin,” he said kindly: “I shall return some day, and then, probably, Miss Digby will have a beautiful home of her own, and will spare you to keep house for me.”

The blood seemed to rush back from Madeline’s cheek to her heart, and fill it to bursting, as she listened to these words, by which he seemed to renounce her for ever. She stood still in the same attitude, utterly silenced; and then Elliott took her hand in both of his, holding it tightly, painfully, while he said, a little huskily, “G-ood-bye; God bless you!” and turned quickly away. The next moment they heard the ring of his horse’s hoofs, as he rode rapidly towards town.

CHAPTER XV

Miss Foster was overwhelmed at the wild burst of agony with which Madeline threw herself into her arms, as these sounds died away—

“He is gone!” she cried, “he is quite gone —gone to brood over the ruin of his life’s work—and no one near to tell him that while love is left he has wealth still! Oh ! I know so well how relentlessly he will torment himself. His very strength increases his capacity for suffering, and he is quite alone! Why has he rejected me? Why will he not let me do something for him? He must know I love him, and ah! he turns from me! I can do no more! It is all over, I feel it. We shall never meet again. He has thrown away the happiness of both. He must be utterly indifferent to me! Speak to me aunty! tell me I have not lowered myself in his eyes! that I have not too plainly offered myself to one who does not love me!” And she burst into quick sobs, though few tears came to her relief.

“My dear Madeline,” exclaimed her distressed companion, “you may be quite sure he values you and loves you most sincerely; but he is too proud a man to offer himself to you when he has lost his fortune. Do compose yourself my love! He is not gone yet, who knows what may happen, sit down—and —have a cup of tea!”

Madeline in all her grief could not refrain from a smile at this recommendation of the old maids’ panacea, and there she sank upon the sofa burying her face in her hands, striving to think, but in vain. The haggard pained expression of Elliott’s face haunted her; she could only picture his solitary combat with untoward circumstances, she could only say to herself that she had been deceived, that he did not care for her, and now how hard, how stony he would grow. How the opening blossoms of geniality and softness, which his character had begun to show, would wither and die away! Alas! alas! and about all this she could not speak to Miss Foster, she could not understand her peculiar grief! So Madeline forced herself to be exteriorly calm.

“It was a shock, dear aunty,” she at last quietly, though tremulously, replied. “It is so sad to see one we regard and respect meet so undeserved a disaster. I will go away to bed. I have been over-tired and nervous, and fear I half frightened you, pray forgive me.” And kissing her kindly, Madeline hastened to her room.

Here she sat long in deep thought, reviewing all the obstacles to her longing desire to help Elliott in some way, to prevent his leaving England. And her mingled delicacy and good sense showed her they were almost, if not altogether, insurmountable. If Elliott had been an old man, or a married man, the attempt would have been more feasible. But she well knew — and her cheek crimsoned as she thought of them, the observations that would be made—the motives that would be attributed to her. Then Elliott, if he knew the source from which aid came, would undoubtedly reject it. Still she could not relinquish some attempt .towards this end, and there was only a week in which to accomplish it! That Elliott’s feelings had changed towards herself she did not doubt. He had seen some one else probably when still sore and mortified by her rejection, and his heart was caught in the rebound; but even as her bosom heaved in bitter agony at the thought of having thrown aside what she now so much valued, at the idea of another being preferred before her, she nevertheless truly and warmly felt for the aggravation such a state of feeling would be to his grief and mortification.

Madeline suffered for a couple of hours all the torture of indecision; at last she resolved on a line of action, and then sank into a deep dreamless sleep.

When Mademoiselle Celine descended from her mistress’s chamber next morning, she brought directions to the groom to order a carriage to be at the door at half-past nine, as Miss Digby wished to go into town.

At breakfast Madeline announced to Miss Foster, who looked unusually grave, that she was going into town to consult Mr. Payne about some matters of business. “I will tell you all about it, dear aunty, when I come back,” she said, and Miss Foster was quite content and went about her household duties as usual—though frequently giving both sighs and thoughts to her admired and valued kinsman’s misfortunes—while she cherished a kind of latent hope that Madeline, in whose resources and powers she had implicit confidence, had gone into town to devise some means to extricate him from his troubles.

But Madeline returned in about three hours with a very sad, settled expression. She tasted very little dinner, and when the servants had left, she held out her hand to Miss Foster, and letting it lie in her friend’s clasp, said, with her own peculiar noble frankness—“My heart is very low, aunty! No doubt you have guessed what took me into town! I went to consult Mr. Payne if it were possible to help Mr. Elliott at his need, and I fear it cannot be done. I am almost sorry I did, for it only exposed me to some humiliation and accomplished nothing.”

“How, Madeline dear?”

“Why,” returned Madeline, the bright blood mounting to her cheek, “of course the old gentleman, in his driest and most cynical manner, gave me to understand that he considered my anxiety to return Mr. Elliott’s benefits a foolish woman’s weakness for the object of her fancy or passion. I had nerved myself to meet this, but he quietly showed me the impossibility of either persuading a man like Hugh to accept help from me, or to blind him into believing that it came from any other quarter. ‘The only way I can see to manage it said Mr. Payne at the end, is by your marrying him. I can carry him a proposal to this effect if you wish/ he concluded, evidently thinking it was not at all certain it would be accepted,” added Madeline with a slightly bitter smile. “Of course I laughed pleasantly, and said my spirit of self-sacrifice did not carry me quite so far, to which he replied drily, he hoped not.’ In truth the consciousness of my own feelings made a coward of me. I know what I feel for your cousin, aunty. I am not ashamed to tell you; but be it reasonable or not, I shrink from laying that corner of my heart bare to others! If I was quite certain he did not care for me at all, that he loved some one else, I should still, Grod knows! wish to help him—but I feel that I could bear the pang, and that the wound would heal—but to think that he is perhaps throwing away his own happiness is terrible—none—none could ever be to him what I could be.” She stopped abruptly, with a sudden choking in her voice. Miss Foster pressed her hand affectionately, “Yet I can do nothing more,” she resumed; “there is nothing left but sit still and endure. But it is sad to feel that the highest happiness is drifting away from us both, because we will not stretch out our hands to grasp it. However, I can do nothing! save to fold the cloak of concealment about my heart, and let it die —like Caesar—with decency.”

She rose as she spoke and left the room; nor did the friends meet again till tea, when Madeline, though very pale, was quite composed, and spoke on different subjects with languid self-possession.

So that gulf was crossed 1 and soon, marvellously soon, the event behind it. The moral earthquake which had caused it seemed to have been put hack centuries ago in the heart-history of the two friends.

The Sunday after, Mr. and Mrs. John Redman paid them a visit, arriving just in time for dinner. They found Lady Rawson seated in her favourite how window, in a ravishing violet and white muslin, a black Brussels lace shawl, and a violet areophane bonnet with tufts of apricot coloured marabout feathers inside, and violet velvet pansies outside. Her ladyship’s gloves, trinkets, parasol, and even pocket-handkerchief, were objects of hungry curiosity, and admiration to Mrs. John.

“We thought we would look you up, Madeline, it is quite an age since I saw you,” said Mrs. John.

“Thank you,” returned Madeline, as she shook hands cordially with her uncle. “Mr. and Mrs. Redman,—Lady Rawson.”

“I have had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Redman before,” said her ladyship, coming forward most graciously. And a great deal of gossip ensued. Lady Rawson, for some reason of her own, was in excellent humour, and satisfied the hungry soul of Mrs. John with endless good things of fashionable intelligence—who was going to he married, who to be divorced, what husbands had run away, what young ladies were suspected of private marriages with their grooms or riding-masters, &c. While Mr. John basked in the smiles bestowed upon him by the fair dame, until he imagined that had fortune only given precedence to the charming widow, his via-a-vis, instead of the one providence allotted him, he would now be a man of fashion, as well as a man of fortune, in right of his wife.

Dinner passed over agreeably enough, without any effort on Madeline’s part, when suddenly Mrs. John turned upon her and exclaimed, “What a dreadful business this is of Mr. Elliott’s!”

“Yes, I understand he has lost a good deal of money,” said .Madeline, quietly.

“Some scamp of a partner has cheated him, I am told,” observed Mr. Redman. “However, he pays twenty shillings in the pound, and will start fresh. He is quite a young man, and bears a very high character. He’ll do well enough yet.”

“Still, it is a terrible blow,” said Miss Foster, gently, “and then he is obliged to go out to Australia.”

“Much the best thing he could do,” returned Mr. Redman. “He will do more with the bankrupt partner .than any one else, and his time will be more profitably spent than in the City. I must say he looked dreadfully cut up the day he called on me.”

“This is our bush-ranging fiiend,” said Lady Rawson, who had been listening with deep attention, but downcast eyes. “So he has come to grief, and is obliged to return to his original occupations. Well, I am really sorry for him; there was a sort of independent strength about him one respected.”

“Well, Madeline, I always maintain he was smitten with you,” put in Mrs. John, with an indescribably knowing nod of her head, “though it was not easy to make him out, and his last visit to John was about you.”

“Indeed?” said Madeline, her throat feeling strangely dry, and her cheek deadly pale.

“Yes! it seems he thought that unfortunate man, Delille, had some design against you, so he warned your uncle to look after him; Mid what can he do?”

“I asked O’Keefe what he was about, and O’Keefe said he was all right now, and was going away for good,” remarked Mr. John.

“I must say,” said Miss Foster, “that French gentleman was very alarming; how could he imagine any English lady would like him—and a girl like you?”

“Ideas differ,” observed Madeline, an unusual bitterness tinging her tone. “Once he and his people thought me an unequal match for him. I have to thank General Digby for the revelation of my many merits and attractions, save in one instance,” and she sighed deeply.

Poor Miss Foster coloured painfully, fancying the speech levelled at her, and struck dumb by such an unexampled instance of petulance in her adored Madeline.

Mr. John rose, and looked out of the window; Lady Rawson opened and shut a fan she usually carried in her pocket, and Mrs. John, unsubdued as ever, turned a radiant face upon the speaker, exclaiming, “Goodness gracious, Madeline! don’t put me to the blush! I certainly always did appreciate you, and it’s pleasant to meet with gratitude; but we needn’t talk about it.”

Lady Rawson spread out her fan to the widest to hide the irrepressible smiles that curled her lips, and Madeline’s sense of humour coming to her aid, she recovered her natural tones. “Yes, Mrs. Redman,” she said, “we were always good friends.”

Soon after Mr. and Mrs. John departed, and Lady Rawson proposed a stroll by the river.

As soon as they were clear of the house, Lady Rawson said, “So he is going to the Antipodes, and you are inconsolable?”

“I am,” returned Madeline shortly.

“Believe me, it is all for the best,” returned Lady Rawson. “You are now suffering from the same brief madness that made Titania adore the soulless weaver; by-and-by you will be thankful that you have not acted the part of a lunatic, that you are still free to accept rank and riches, instead of being tied to the results of a vanished illusion. Believe me, men are all alike, and it is wiser to choose reality.”

“What is reality?” asked Madeline sadly. “Is it more real to turn from the love and companionship which satisfies one, even for a while, to the wealth and rank which also only satisfies for a while? But there is no use in discussing the subject—what must be must be.”

“I had no idea you were so severely hit,” said Lady Bawson, knitting her black brows. “I thought you had more strength, from your conduct to Lord Hexham.”

Madeline turned away in silence, with a gesture expressive of weariness; and when she next spoke, it was on some indifferent subject. But conversation languished, and Lady Bawson at length took leave of her.

The next morning’s post brought Madeline a short but friendly renewal of Lady Temple-more’s invitation to Ventnor, and a long and most loving effusion from Lady Agnes, imploring her beloved Madeline to come to her the ensuing Thursday. The Yacht Club was mustering, the Court was at Osborne—there would be a week or two of delightful excitement, then she was to he carried away to that stupid old Grange.

Madeline handed the letters over to Miss Foster, and said languidly, “What shall I do, aunty?” to which her faithful friend made her usual reply, “What would you like to do,' dear?

“At present I should like to mope here, and tease myself with fruitless regrets and wishes, so I had better accept, and go silence these murmurs with the constraints of society. Yes! I will go down on Thursday, and you, dear aunty, will stay here, I suppose, and receive my grumbling letters—do not expect pleasant ones. I shall like to be with Agnes, but dread being bored with Lord Bracklyn.”

“Well, dear! it is the best thing you can do.”

“I shall not stay away more than ten days, remember, and then take you away somewhere quietly to the sea-side, somewhere we have never been before. For you are looking pale, aunty, and I have teased you, so I must try and comfort you; and try to be happy. Ah! what a difficult task!”

Then Madeline left the breakfast-table, and proceeded to instruct Mademoiselle Celine as to their approaching journey, and the probable necessities of toilette requisite for such gay retirement as that to which she was invited.

Celine listened delightedly. Here, at least, was emancipation from the triste monotony of Auburn Lodge, and a fair chance of appreciation, if not admiration, among the distinguished gentlemen’^ gentlemen who would naturally be assembled at Milord Templemore’s. She was quite voluble in her descriptions and anticipations to the rest of Madeline’s modest household, while, with an air of respectful but impressive gravity, she presented her mistress with a long list of absolute necessaries written in a funny zig-zag hand (and including a quarter’s wages to herself in advance), without which it was impossible a lady comme il faut could present herself in such a society.

Madeline smiled, gave her the desired wages, cut down the list considerably, and ordered a carriage for the following day to execute mademoiselle’s commissions, and pay a visit to her old friend and solicitor, Mr. Payne, who had grown wonderfully fond of his bright, quick-witted, sensible young client, who took his ruggedness and peculiarities with such unaffected good humour and sympathetic comprehension. And the object of Madeline’s visit was one often intended, but never before fulfilled, to give instructions for the immediate drawing out of her will. “If I die intestate, you know, Mr. Payne, poor Miss Foster will be thrown on the world again.”

On the whole, Mr. Payne did not find a great deal to “pooh-pooh” in her disposition of her property, and promised to have the document ready for her signature on her return.

Then Madeline called on her grandmother, whom she found in a grumbling frame of mind, trying to read the newspaper, as Miss Sharp complained of a nervous headache, and was lying down, after having had some beef-tea and a glass of port-wine served in her own room.

“I am going to stay with the Templemores in the Isle of Wight for a few days,” said Madeline amiably, and rather at a loss for subject-matter.

“Hum! well, fine friends are very pleasant, I dare say. I wonder what they would do for you if you wanted help?”

“As much as any one else, I suppose,” returned Madeline, laughing. “And you,” asked Mrs. Redman, turning sharply on Miss Foster, “are you going to stay all the time in that big house alone? You had better come to me; I shall be going to Margate, and you can come too, FU pay your fare; then Miss Sharp may go see her friends, and pay for herself, so it will come to the same thing, and really though latterly you were a poor thing, your health is better than hers. I’m sure I don’t know what is come to people now-a-days, they’re always ailing.”

“My dear Mrs. Redman,” cried Madeline, before the confused, frightened Miss Foster could speak, “I really cannot agree in your excellent arrangement. I shall be away only a week or ten days,.and then Miss Foster accompanies me to the sea, or abroad, or somewhere.”

“Ah! Miss Foster is like the rest of the world, always ready to turn off an old friend for a fine new one.”

“I fancy she has a little heart though,” returned Madeline playfully, and after a few more discontented growls from grandmamma,, they departed.

“Ah!” said Madeline, laughing, as they drove away, “what rigid poetical justice is being inflicted in that house! how thoroughly is Miss Sharp avenging your wrongs, and how certainly the bully and the coward are united in character. Miss Sharp will do Mrs. Redman good by constantly reminding her that she cannot have things always her own way.”

When the friends reached home, the smart parlour-maid informed them that “the French gentleman as was here once before had called early, just after missis and Miss Foster had gone, and seemed so vexed at missing them, that he forgot his English, so she called Celine, who had a long talk with him.”

Celine was sent for, and reported that M. Delille, a distinguished gentleman, though a little wrong-headed about mademoiselle, had been desolated to learn that all the world had gone out. He said much in his excitement, and wished to fix day and hour when he could see mademoiselle, and that she (Celine) had informed him that was impossible, as Mademoiselle Digby left town directly for Lord Templemore’s villa.”

“Why did you tell him?” said Madeline, a little uneasily. “I hope you did not say what day we were to leave.”

“But no, certainly not! Celine had told him to-morrow. Yes, she was sure she mentioned to-morrow.”

“Why did you object to M. Delille knowing when you left town?” asked Miss Foster. “I can scarce tell, an undefinable, indescribable fear, even now, doubting Celine, (for I am certain she told him the real day). I will write to Lady Templemore, and ask her to let me go down on Friday instead of Thursday. I cannot account for my fear of that man, except that Hugh—I mean Mr. Elliott—infected me.”

CHAPTER XVI

It was a bright warm morning that memorable Friday. Madeline had decided on travelling by the 3:10 express to Southampton, as it would give her time to drive into town after luncheon.

Mademoiselle Celine occupied an inside place, hut there was little or no conversation between her and her mistress; indeed, Madeline was unusually silent and depressed.

They stopped on the way to make some trifling purchase, and found themselves later than they expected when they arrived at the Waterloo Station. However, Celine so bestirred herself respecting luggage, &c., that Madeline found all ready by the time she had taken the tickets. They were obliged to take their places in a carriage almost at the end of the train, as all those first attached were full.

“I am glad we did not miss this train,” said Madeline; “for Lady Templemore will have some one, no doubt, to meet us. I suppose we are the. very last.”

“Non,” said Celine, looking out; “there are one or two gentlemen coming. Tenez! there is Monsieur—Monsieur—oh! you know who I mean, mademoiselle.”

“No, indeed, I do not,” returned Madeline, smiling. As she spoke a dark face looked in at the window, and, as the carriage began to move, the door was pulled open rather violently, and to their dismay M. Delille sprang in. Immediately a porter slammed the door to, and they were away at speed, shut up with the formidable Alphonse.

He looked pale and wild, with a haggard, neglected air. He removed his hat silently, with a bow to Miss Digby, slung it in the straps of the roof, and folding his arms settled himself into his comer.

Madeline’s heart seemed to stop for a moment, and then beat wildly and suffocatingly. What evil was coming, and how should she meet it? She turned the leaves of her ‘ Bradshaw,’ and saw with dismay that there was no break in the journey before Basingstoke, and that was an hour’s run. She felt certain that Delille meant mischief, and he had her at his mercy for a whole hour! What help could poor Celine afford her? Meantime, should she warn the Frenchwoman, or leave her in composed ignorance? She decided on the latter, principally in order to avoid attracting Delille’s attention by any whispers to her companion. Now the Yauxhall Station seemed to fly past them. Then the houses grew thinner—they were flying over the flat fields and gardens of Battersea. Still no word from Delille: his eyes were half-closed, yet Madeline felt he was watching her from under his lowering bushy eyebrows. On past Clap-ham, and further still into the open country l Madeline grew a little calmer. Habit so soon begins to exercise an influence that the first startling strangeness of his presence began to pass away. “’Twas silly to feel such terror,” she thought; “perhaps he is returning to France by way of Havre, and our Meeting is accidental.” Here her eye fell on Mademoiselle C&ine, who looked very uneasy — even guilty—and the tide of terror swept back over Madeline’s heart. She looked at her watch; the hour of trial was abridged by twenty minutes. So far good; but, alas! what an abyss of time were the remaining two-thirds! A few minutes’ longer silence—:how long Madeline could not judge, for she felt stupified — and then Monsieur Delille, unfolding his arms, darted into the seat beside her with the most alarming suddenness.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, in a strained high-pitched voice and with a sort of laboured composure, “I am fortunate at last to secure an interview with you.”

“I did not expect to have the pleasure of seeing you,” returned Madeline, with surprising self-command, seeing it was necessary to soothe him; and, rightly judging that she was in danger of some kind, felt that time was everything.

“We do not always readily avoid that which is a pleasure,” returned Delille, gloomily; “and you have steadily avoided me for months.”

“Far from it,” said Madeline, readily. “I happened twice to he absent when you called; but I have never avoided you.”

“Ah, ah! would I could believe thee, little traitress!” said the Frenchman, glaring upon her with an appalling mixture of hatred and admiration.

“Monsieur is not polite,” returned Madeline, striving hard for composure while her soul sank within her.

“No, Madeline; politeness and biensSanee and social observance, all are gone out of my life! Thou hast destroyed me, fair-haired demon that thou art!”

“Nay, M. Delille, I am sure you are under some wrong impression, or speak in jest. I have never injured you I Even now, if I have unconsciously worked you any harm, tell me how I can repair the evil, and I will!” “You will!” shouted Delille, seizing her hand with painful force. “Then you will he mine! You will be my wife! You will come direct to the altar when the train stops; she will be the witness”— pointing to Celine; “and then, when we arrive in Paris, my mother will ask the Archbishop to perform the ceremony according to her faith, and the Empress will come! Say, wilt thou thus repair the ruin thou hast wrought?” He spoke with the wildest vehemence, and so rapidly, as to be almost unintelligible.

“Yes, certainlyreturned Madeline, fighting against the faintness of horror that nearly deprived her of voice and power.

“You will? you will?” shouted the unfortunate Delille, “Then heaven opens! Earth is gone past—see, we fly through the air— and the baffled devil is lurking below-"

He continued to rave and pour forth a torrent of incoherent rhapsodies to his terrified listeners. Mademoiselle Celine rather injudiciously tried to soothe him by expostulations, and being told sternly to hold her tongue, sat down in mute fear; while the excited De-lille sang wild discordant snatches of triumph. Madeline, not daring to look at her own watch, and thinking the awful hour must be nigh exhausted, called in a low tone to Celine, “For Gods sake, how goes the time?” But, low though she spoke, and Delille seemed absorbed in his own uproar, he caught her words with the preternatural quickness of insanity.

“Ha!” he cried, turning full upon his victim, repeated in low hissing tones, “How goes the time? Why? Art thou impatient to be mine—my bride—or art thou impatient to betray ? Ah! ha! thou shalt be mine! or —Come,” he exclaimed, as with a sudden bright thought, and rising, he seized Made line’s wrists, “prove thy truth. I wish at once to leave this carriage. Come with me; if we survive, I will wed thee—if not, we shall be one in death!”

Here Celine, seeing they had come to the last extremity, poured forth piercing shrieks; while Madeline, utterly hopeless of help, and shrinking with unutterable horror from the fearful fate before her, strove to release her hand from his iron grasp, gazing with agonised anxiety at the wide landscape, which showed no sign of approach to a town or station. Suddenly Delille let her hand go; it was to open the door wide with deadly determination, and still they flew on with undiminished speed—the bright sun streaming over the peaceful fields, with the cattle and sheep lying down, or lazily feeding, as if violence, and grief, and madness, never sullied the radiant face of nature!

“Through the window, Celine! scream through the window!” gasped Madeline, her breath almost failing her, as Delille, turning from the door, which swung to and fro with the rapid motion of the train, seized her again, this time by both wrists—his eyes glaring with the wild fire of insanity, his lips streaked with foam—“Come, Madeline,” he yelled forth, “I will prove thee now!” She struggled despairingly, uselessly, and felt herself slipping towards the fatal door, while the clamour and the speed of the rushing train went on still the same! Suddenly a shadow came across the swinging door; a dark figure appeared, stretching past to catch at some support, so as to let it fly back and permit him to enter. Gould it be that her mind was overturned by the agony of terror; or was it Hugh Elliott’s face that was before her? Yes!—and his

voice, with resolute ring in it, said, “Madeline, darling, I will save you yet!”

At the sound Delille dropped Madeline’s hands, and with a yell of fury threw himself upon Elliott. An awful struggle ensued; the Frenchman strove with his whole force to thrust his antagonist from the carriage, while Elliott put forth his full strength to resist, and more than his full strength, for his muscles were braced to that species of impassioned action, where the intense power of the will lends them irresistible force. A new agony was given to Madeline; she was saved, for nothing could separate the two men from their deadly embrace. Her terror was now for Elliott, for him whom she thought she had lost for ever! Foot to foot, eye to eye, Delille and Elliott strained one against the other—a fearful silence replaced the wild confusion that had reigned before. Elliott’s dark face was turned to Madeline, and bent with an expression of locked resolution on Delille.

The large heads of perspiration stood upon his brow, as they swayed to and fro.

The women with tacit consent hung on Delille’s arm, to make some diversion in their champion’s favour; and still the train sped on. Oh! what leaden moments! What an unspeakable age since Elliott’s figure had darkened the doorway! At last, dare she believe it? the speed relaxed! Yes; it could not be fancy. There! she saw the commencement of some boarding—slower yet! Here is the platform—the porters crowding at the renewed shrieks of Celine. They stop; there is a confusion, a number of men drag Delille from the carriage, and away out of sight. Passengers alight: every one asks every one else what is the matter.. The station-master sends for the inspector of police; and Elliott, lifting Madeline out, feels her arms with unceremonious haste and anxiety, exclaiming, “Are you safe; are you uninjured?”

“For God’s sake,” she said faintly, “see that unfortunate man is taken care of!” then everything seemed to fade away in a sort of deadly darkness, and she heard no more.

. When Madeline came to herself, she was lying on a horse-hair covered settee, in the little waiting-room, and she was conscious of a delightful darkness and quiet. “Thank God,” said a voice she knew well, “she opens her eyes.”

“Yes, I am better,” said Madeline, still faint and dizzy, “where is Celine?”

“Your maid?” asked a respectable-looking sympathetic female, “she is greatly upset, and was in such hysterics we had her removed to the station-master’s room lest she should disturb you. When you are able, the gentleman says he would like to speak to you,”

“The gentleman who saved me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

‘‘In a moment,” replied Madeline, just leaning back to think for an instant of the awful peril through which she had passed, and that she owed her life to Hugh Elliott; but above all, the idea most vivid to her, was that he had not gone yet! that he was still near, and the sound that rang on her over and over again, but never too often, was the tone of passion, forced as it were from the depths of his heart, with which he had cried “Madeline darling.”

“I am ready now,” she said, sitting up and hastily smoothing her hair.

The attendant opened the door, and Elliott, who had been waiting outside, came in softly; he looked pale and exhausted, and the hand in which he took hers trembled slightly. “This has been a frightful affair for you,” he said gravely. “You must rest; I have telegraphed to Miss Foster to come down at once to the principal hotel here, where you had better pass the night. I have also telegraphed to Lady Templemore, simply that you cannot be with her this evening. Celine told me your destination, she will he with you presently, but has been in a dreadful state of excitement. Now when you can move, you had better let me take you to the hotel, rooms are ready for you there and a carriage at the door.”

“You think of everything,” said Madeline, “and I will do as you bid me; but how frightened poor Miss Foster will be; you will not leave till she comes?” concluded Madeline, with a strange clinging to the thoughtful friend whose consideration seemed to supply all her needs.

“No, certainly,” he said, “I will see you safe in her hands before I leave.”

The tears and bewilderment of Miss Foster, when she arrived some three hours later, may be imagined; her mental confusion, however, was strongly dashed with ‘triumph in Elliott’s prowess, that her cousin had been (as she phrased it) “sent” to protect and save Madeline!

To her, in confidence, with many penitential inteijections, Mademoiselle Celine avowed that overcome by the protestations and sentiment of that devil of a compatriot, she had permitted him to inform himself of the day and hour of Miss Digby’s departure. She thought it was only a case of true love crossed by mischief-makers, and that Delille was only anxious for an opportunity of explaining himself. This it was deemed prudent not to communicate to Madeline at present.

The sleep which stole over our little heroine’s perturbed nerves at last, was profound and dreamless. Morning was tolerably advanced when she opened her eyes, gazing with an almost painfully puzzled feeling at the strange room and unaccustomed furniture. The first clear idea came with the sight of the watchful Miss Foster. Hugh’s words returned sharply to her memory, he said, “I will see you safe in her hands before I leave.” Now she was in her hands, and perhaps Elliott might he gone! It was an awful instant of suspense, she felt that she had just one chance more, and might have lost it. Her only word, and that whispered low and interrogatively, was “Mr. Elliott?”

“He is not quite finished breakfast,” returned Miss Foster prosaically. “And if you feel equal to it, I wish my love you would get up and dress, for he says he would like to shake hands with you before he goes, and he must take an early train to save his passage. He was going to embark at Southampton jyou know, and that’s the way he happened providentially to he in the next carriage to you! There was no one in it but himself, and if you had not been so far from the engine he might never have heard Celine scream. When he thought he heard a scream he looked out and saw the next carriage-door swinging open, so he thought something must be. wrong, and as he always carries a railway key, he let himself out. How your door came to be unlocked he can’t understand; but I had better send Celine to you.”

“Yes, yes!” said Madeline, who had risen while Miss Foster spoke. “I tremble, I cannot hold anything. Gro, dear aunty, say I will be down directly.” “Only one hour, perhaps less,” she thought, as Miss Foster left the room, “to fix my future, and it rests with myself! How shall I act! what can I do?”

Celine was shocked to see how unnerved her mistress was, and nothing save the recollection of Elliott’s stem injunctions kept her from making a scene and demanding pardon for her unhappy treachery.

At last the toilette was accomplished, and leaning on Miss Foster’s arm Madeline descended to a small sittiug-room on the ground floor, with a couple of windows looking on a garden. It was furnished stiffly and coldly, after the fashion of hotels, with a large array of glasses and decanters on a heavy sideboard. It boasted an easy chair, however, which was placed near the window, and in this Miss Foster deposited her charge. “I will tell Mr. Elliott you can see him,” she said, and left the room.

When Hugh entered, a few,minutes after, Madeline was still reclining in the large chair. She wore a white muslin morning-dress very thin, and floating in full folds, fastened with violet ribbons, and a violet band tying back her golden hair. She looked deadly pale, her hand trembled almost painfully as it lay in Elliott’s, she could scarce command her voice and her whole frame felt weak and helpless from her eager nervous anxiety to stop the fatal flight of time to prolong this important interview, yet she felt bound as by a chain. She did not attempt to rise, but let Elliott take her hand while she lifted up her eyes to his, as if even that were an effort. Elliott was evidently ready to start by the next train; he had his travelling bag slung over his shoulder, and only laid aside his hat as he entered the room. “You are terribly unhinged,” he said anxiously, looking at her earnestly as he drew a chair beside her. “ Why you are worse by many degrees than when you came over here last night. You really ought to have medical advice.”

“I have to thank you for my life,” said Madeline faintly.

“Oh! any man would have done what I did for any woman. But as it had to be done for you I am glad the rescue fell to my lot. I have sent for O’Keefe, the only friend of that unfortunate Frenchman we know of, to come down and remove him, and he will be all right; you may make your mind easy.”

“Thank you,” said Madeline, still very faintly leaning her head against the side of the chair. The precious minutes were slipping away, and how, how could she tell him she loved him, if he would not ask her?

“I am much obliged to you for seeing me,” resumed Elliott uneasily, “especially as I see you can hardly bear anything. I ought not, perhaps, to have asked it.”

Madeline murmured something, and then a long silence ensued. “And you are to sail to-day ?” she said at length.

“Yes; I shall just catch the steamer.”

“You must go, I suppose?”

“Certainly; I have no choice.” It was of no avail! he was slipping from her. Here Elliott rose, looked out of the window, and glanced at his watch. “I have stayed too long,” he said, “and tired you, I will say goodbye. Miss Foster has kindly promised to write to me, so I shall hear of you. Good-bye, Miss Digby, God bless you!” he took her cold, trembling hand, and from unselfish consideration for her compelled himself to speak evenly and composedly; while she, reading him, understanding him, could not free herself from the spell that chained her tongue. He turned away—his hand was on the door, another moment and he would be beyond recall. While Elliott, with the blackness of darkness in his heart, was holding himself from turning to have another look, her voice fell on his ear with a strange agony in its tone—

“Hugh, dear Hugh! Do not leave me!”

He sprang back, stunned for a moment with an unexpected rapture. She had risen, and stood with her hands outstretched, her head slightly bent and averted, a picture of sweet and most modest entreaty.

“Madeline,” cried Elliott, checking himself in his impetuous approach. “Do not play with me! do not call me back unless you mean to give me all I want. I will be satisfied with nothing but yourself! your whole heart! and yet I ought not to ask it.” He put his hand to his brow, the first flush of delight dying -away. “You must remember I am a ruined

man, that I--ah! Madeline, you do love

me then J” and for the first time reason, prudence, all forgotten, he clasped the slight, trembling frame to his heart, most tenderly, most passionately! for the first time his mouth sought hers, and clung to those dewy mobile Kps!

She made no reply, nor was reply needed! The very abandonment with which her supple figure leant against his was more eloquent of love than the best chosen sentence!

“But Madeline,” said Elliott, at last holding himself slightly hack to look into her eyes. “How? when did you learn to love me?”

“From the hour I refused you,” said Madeline, with a long deep sigh of relief and content.

“Ah!” cried Elliott, almost playfully, “you have to atone to me for many a despairing moment.”

A knock at the door brought the lovers back to earth. “Come in,” said Elliott, savagely.

Enter boots : “Just time to catch the 12.30 train, sir.”

“Oh, thank you! never mind! shan’t go by that train.”

“All right, sir; only as you was so particular not to miss,” and boots vanished.

“I can afford to wait another steamer,” said Elliott, with one of those rare sweet smiles which only rise from a satisfied heart, and seating himself by Madeline possessed himself of a little hand. “And we must arrange everything before I sail.”

“If you must sail,” returned Madeline, laying another little hand on his so as to imprison the long brown fingers—while the colour rose pn her cheek and the old light came back to her eyes—“I must go with you! Ah! Hugh remember how nearly we have lost each other from a mere mistake, a little overstrained feeling—let us run no risks again!”

There is little more to say. The joy and triumph of Miss Foster can be easily imagined. The cool disdain of Lady Templemore, the grumblings of Mrs. Redman, the good-natured submission of Lady Rawson.

Mr. Elliott did not return to Australia.

Although the bulk of Madeline’s fortune was settled on herself, a certain portion was left, as Mr. Payne contemptuously phrased it, “to her husband to make ducks and drakes of.” His ducks and drakes, however, proved such domestic fowls that they always returned home, and increased and multiplied in a most satisfactory fashion. Mrs. John was greatly disgusted with the wedding, which she designated a sly affair, with only one bridesmaid —“though, to be sure, she. was an earl’s daughter.”

The Richmond house was for some time the home of the “happy couple”—in this case no mere conventional phrase—for Hugh and Madeline were happy in a love that had its roots in strong esteem, full knowledge and sympathy, perfect trust, dashed with the salt of passion, and warmed with the gentle glow of tenderness.

Time has rolled on, and Hugh Elliott has bought back some of the old border land, and is now Elliott of Elliottsdale; while little brown-haired and fair-haired children tyrannise over Miss Foster and rummage her choicest treasures unrebuked; old Mrs.Redman has been laid under a handsome monument in Kensall Green, and left the largest part of her savings to her beloved granddaughter, “Madeline.” Mr. John Redman has grown corpulent and wealthy, and Mrs. John is devoted to district visiting and evangelical: curates. Sam Moorcroft is married to Miss Comerford; Mr. Downing is one of our principal engineers, and with diminished leisure and increasing means less oppressive to his wife.

Lady Rawson is a yearly visitor to Elliottsdale, and so is little Fitz, whose room is ready for him at all seasons. Lord Hexham married Lady Agnes Grey Temple—is a pattern husband, father, and landlord—and forgets he ever thought there was another woman in the world but his beloved pocket-handkerchief, having received authentic intelligence of the death of “Donna O’Keefe,” but he has not yet met with a desirable widow. He was in excellent health and spirits, however, when we last met him, at a grand entertainment given by the “Royal Balloon Locomotive Company (Limited),” where he gave us most of the information above detailed. “Faith it is a quare world,” was his philosophic conclusion, “and it’s seldom you see a real trump like Madeline Digby get the odd trick in the game of life-It is generally some rascally knave that’s been hiding away wins at the last, because there is not another like himself’

THE END.