The Freres Vol 3
Author: Alexander, Mrs
Date: 2015-07-31T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction
Description: Ebook prepared by crutledge@knology.net
Rights: Public Domain

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 XVII

CHAPTER I

MAX FRERE sat in his private room in the inner recesses of the large premises known as ‘Freres’or more correctly, ‘Frere and Son.’ He looked and felt considerably older than when we first saw him nearly, very nearly, a year ago. His glance was less rapid and more guarded; his smile rarer and less mocking; his manner a little more considerate; his cheek less embrowned by the healthy exercise of frequent holidays. Yet the past had been a very successful year with Max. He had, to his father's delight, really thrown his whole mind into business, and soon evinced a rare capacity for it. He had a genius for detail, which yet did not narrow his grasp of broad principles, and was at once bold and prudent—an unusual amalgamation which forms the ideal business man.

He began to be known among the ‘upper ten’ of the city, and, though not absolutely popular, was » gradually winning a certain degree of respectful liking. Men spoke of him as a rising man, a promising young fellow, etc.

All had gone well with him, and he was content so far. But Max was an ambitious man, essentially ‘nineteenth century’ in all his aims and convictions he had no sort of desire for fine company or social success, such as used to be considered the acme of a ‘parvenu’s’ aspirations. No; he knew that in England, wealth and political weight placed the possessor in an impregnable position, from which he might, in a sense, dictate his own terms. To attain this position was his fixed purpose; but he was not in a hurry about it. His circumstances were favourable, so was his nature; except that he had, well hidden away, a strong tinge of the epicurean, or perhaps the Sybarite—a keen sense and love of beauty, a fastidious but deep sense of enjoyment; and added to this, quick, warm blood, with a clear head and most firm, will to keep self-indulgence from degenerating into self-injury.

To him there was scarce any sacredness in life, except perhaps the rights of property; indeed, in all actual things he had a useful sense of justice. And being cultured and intelligent, he could enjoy poetry, either of the glowing or intellectual order; although of the higher needs of the heart, the softer exigencies of tenderness, he knew nothing— absolutely nothing.

But there was no coarseness in Max Frere; his pleasures, even of the more physical sort, were always more or less refined. He had enjoyed himself immensely at Dungar, and had been fascinated beyond his usual self-control by his wild Irish . cousin Grace. There was something irresistible to him in the individuality he could not quite master: young and inexperienced recluse as she was, there was a degree of fibre in her character, of self-reliant originality, that amazed and piqued him. Then to him her beauty was delicious; some subtle, exquisite attraction existed for him in the satin sheen of her rich brown hair; in the creamy whiteness of her throat; the varying colour of her cheek; the sweet, full lips of a mouth perhaps a trifle too large; and above all, in the big, dark-grey eyes that could look so straight and fearlessly into his; too proud to let themselves sink under the admiration of his glance, unless some good excuse offered for turning away. What glimpses, too, of possible tenderness and passion might be caught through her fire and eagerness on questions of politics—little as she understood them—or history, or adventure.

Never had Max been hit so hard, and yet he had never for a moment contemplated marrying this sweet cousin. A sentimental flirtation, to be renewed every shooting season, would have been a delightful addition to the sport; only, Max was almost afraid of himself. And when he found the -whole party removed to London, and in that most despicable condition, ‘reduced circumstances,’ he resolved with all the force of his will that he would crush out this insanity in himself, and extinguish any hope that Grace might have cherished—and Max never doubted that she was in love with him; indeed, he did not see how she could avoid it 1

We have seen that he acted consistently, but he was surprised and disgusted to find how much this line of conduct cost him. It made him savage with her, himself, and everyone belonging to him.

If she had not been his cousin, if she had been a girl of a lower sphere, or the wife of another man, or anything but what she was--Well, there was no use in thinking about it. And what a fool she was not to marry Darnell. That might have solved many difficulties. True, it showed a lingering tenderness for himself; and so he thought he would see and reason with her, which led to their last interview. And then came the sudden news of her departure to Germany.

This was a sort of blow. She had escaped, then, to shape her own course; left him without a word of farewell, of notice, or any kind of communication. He felt that she had effected a certain amount of victory by this masterly retreat, and he flattered himself she had passed away out of his life, to the obscurity which was her future destiny. So let it be : he would then be free from temptation, and himself again. Yet there were times—sometimes busy, sometimes idle, sometimes in society, sometimes in solitude—when the face, the figure, the eyes, the lips, that had so potent a charm, would come before him vividly, and fill him with an instant’s wild longing to hold her once more in his arms. It was but for an instant, however; and he generally came to himself with a smile and short thanksgiving that she was at a safe distance.

This particular morning, then, Max sat writing letters in his private room. His father had not come to business that day; he was suffering from a slight attack of cold and indigestion. Richard Fsere was a little more self-indulgent than before he had so efficient an assistant in his son.

It was a little past one o’clock, and the usual lull of luncheon-time pervaded the premises. Max sat in his comfortable library-chair of oak and green leather, slightly pushed back from his knee-hole table; the Turkey carpet, the handsomely-mounted maps which hung on the wall, the general air of solid comfort, indicating the character of the establishment.

Max sat in thought—not unpleasant thought, apparently—while he mechanically helped himself to sherry and a biscuit, from a tray which had been brought in by one of the office messengers a few minutes before. Presently the door opened, a clerk came in, and laying a small piece of twisted paper beside him, said:

‘Will you see the lady, sir?’

Max took up, untwisted the little note, and read:

‘Max,—Pray let me see you at once.’

‘Grace F.’

‘Yes, certainly; show her in,’ he returned, greatly surprised, and even excited.

He rose, and moving a step towards the door, stood there expectantly.

In a few minutes the clerk reappeared, ushering in Grace Frere, who paused as the door closed behind her.

‘My dear cousin, this is a very startling but agreeable surprise!’ said Max, smiling, and advancing with outstretched hand. ‘I had no idea you were in town. Why, Grace, what is the matter?’

She was very pale, and there was a fixed look of pain in the tragic eyes that looked straight into his. She wore a fur hat or cap, exceedingly un-English, but exceedingly becoming; and a loose travelling-cloak, which fell in drapery as she put out her hand, not to take her cousin’s, but to grasp the back of the nearest chair.

‘What is the matter, Grace?’ repeated Max, struck by her look and manner.

‘There is something terribly wrong the matter,' she replied, speaking low and quickly; and Max thought how sweet and familiar her voice sounded.

‘Come, sit down then, and tell me all about it,’ he said, taking her hand in both of his, and feeling oddly uneasy. ‘You are not like yourself. What is the matter?’

‘Oh, Max! I cannot sit down, and I do not know how to tell you.’ The frank eyes sank under his, and her hands tightened their clasp on the chair-back nervously. ‘But I must—I must.’ Then moving nearer him, with a hasty, unconscious movement, she unclasped and threw off her cloak, and went on hurriedly: ‘Max, I am here to beg mercy for Randal. He has done wrong—fearfully wrong. He has forged your name to a bill—it will be presented to-morrow; and—and it is for you to decide whether he is to be openly disgraced or not.’

She stopped, and Max could see how the pulse in her throat quivered, and hear that her words came from parched lips.

‘This is a terrible business indeed,’ he said gravely, while he noted keenly the shame and distress so visible in every curve and line of the downcast face and graceful figure before him. ‘Pray how much has the young rascal let me in for?'

‘A large sum, Max—a hundred and fifty pounds. Yet in time we will repay you—my mother and I; we will indeed, if you will spare him. He may not deserve it, but, Max, I am driven to implore you— save him 1 Ah! that I should be forced to ask it. You know how bitter it is-’

She stopped.

‘To ask me,’ added Max, gravely and gently; ‘to ask me! / know what it must cost you.’

They stood looking at each other for a moment silently—Grace almost breathlessly waiting for his reply; he thinking, all unprepared as he had been for so rude a proof of renunciation, that the pale, sad, almost stem face—stern from her supreme effort of self-control,self-abnegation—had a stronger charm than ever. The very method of her appeal touched his peculiar taste. There was no whining, no seeking to soften him by any feminine display, not one thought of herself. With a quick sigh Max roused himself, and turned from her to the table.

‘Of course you know my answer,’ he said, still in the same quiet tone. ‘You must know I will not disgrace your brother,’—a slight emphasis on ‘your;’ ‘but afterwards? What are you going to do with him?’

‘Max,’ said Grace, starting forward, and in her turn taking his hand in both of hers, and bending her head till her brow touched it, ‘thank you!—there—all the words in the world could say no more; nor could they say how much I thank you. He is safe, then.’ She dropped his hand, and began hastily to put on her cloak as if about to depart ‘No, Grace,’ exclaimed Max, ‘I will not let you go yet. You must sit down; you must have a glass of wine. You are scarcely fit to walk about; and I must ask you one or two questions.’ He placed himself between her and the door.

‘Ask what you wish,’ returned Grace, with the sort of suppressed tone in which she had spoken throughout their interview, with the same downcast, shamed look that moved him so deeply; ‘but I cannot sit down, and I want no wine.’

‘But I must insist, my dear Grace. I am obliged to ask certain questions, and you don’t seem to know that you are trembling all over. Come! by heaven, I can sooner forgive Randal the round sum lie is going to cost me, than the mortal agony he costs you!’

He took her hand as he spoke, and placed her with gentle kindly force in his easy-chair. Then pouring out a glass of wine, pressed her, but in vain, to drink it.’

* What do you want to know, Max?’ said Grace, leaning one elbow on the arm of the chair, and covering her eyes with her hand.

‘Who holds this bill?’ asked Max, after another short pause.

* A money-lender—a Jew, I think. Randal had been losing at cards; he was in terrible want of money, and did this shameful thing. He did not -get so much really, but seems to have paid for delay, hoping to win, and pay it, and—and that is all I know about it,’ concluded Grace.

‘Ah! I suppose he found it impossible to raise money without security or valuables, and, being hard pushed, committed this cursed piece of folly. We must get him out of the country. When did you arrive?’

‘Yesterday afternoon.’

‘And you are staying--’

‘With Randal. He is very ill; and I want so much to go back to him. He will be in a fever of anxiety to know-’

‘He will not,’ interrupted Max, significantly; ‘he knows you will not ask me in vain. But you must not stay on alone in such a place. I will come and see you this evening, and make some arrangement-’

‘No, no!’ cried Grace, clasping her hands. ‘I suppose it is worthless and ungrateful; but I would rather not see you again—at least not for a very long time.’

‘Yes, it is ungrateful,’ returned Max, with a slight smile, ‘when you know it is like a glimpse of heaven to me to see you. There, it is all madness and folly; but I cannot keep back the words. I love you—you know I always loved you.’

‘No, I do not, Max; but I cannot see the madness or folly if you do.’ She raised her head, and looked at him as she spoke.

Max felt considerably checked. Still there was something so irresistibly attractive in her pose—her abandonment to the shame and distress of her errand, and yet her self-assertion, that he was carried away.

‘I daresay you do not see it, my sweetest cousin. Life and worldly necessities are all a sealed book to your inexperience. But, in spite of every consideration, I do love you. And you?—you were not indifferent to me once. Give me one kiss, and tell me you love me—one kiss for Randal’s sake. By heaven! I could forgive him twice as much if you would kiss me again, or let me kiss you, as you did once in the old Dungar days;’ and he tried to draw her to him.

‘Max,’ said Grace, colouring crimson to the roots of her hair, and stepping back, ‘I will never kiss you again. I thank you from my heart for your forbearance to Randal; but I will go now. We have no more to say to each other. No, Max; I will go!’

She looked so determined that he hesitated to oppose her.

‘Very well, Grace; you shall do as you like. I should not, perhaps, have spoken as I have done; but I will see and speak to you again, and you shall hear me—at least you owe me an audience. He took, and passionately kissed her hand, and then assisted to wrap her cloak round her.

‘It will be only useless and painful,’ she said, in a low voice; ‘we had better not meet again. But, Max, you promise me utter secrecy; you will never betray Randal to anyone?’

‘You may trust me,’ he said significantly; ‘but I will see you again.’

He opened the door, and accompanied her to the outer office, despatching a messenger to bring a cab, which he handed her himself, and gave the driver directions where to go.

• This ought to place the game in my own hands,’ he thought, as he returned slowly to his room and to his writing. ' Cost what it may, she must be mine! After all, she might suit me as a wife better than many a woman of rank. She has so much pluck and such a carriage, such go and so much veiled tenderness! No, I cannot lose her! But what a brother-in-law! How should I like a repetition of this business?—and to prosecute one’s next of kin would be unpleasant and unprofitable. My beautiful Grace, would the day come when I should think you cost me too dear !’

Meantime Grace, relieved certainly, yet feeling not only bowed down with humiliation, but physically exhausted, rolled on north-westward, to the cheerful but unaristocratic neighbourhood where Jimmy Byrne had pitched his tent. It was in one of the many terraces that abound in Camden Town that Grace had found her unhappy brother, when, wearied and half stupefied with her rapid journey and painful thoughts, she had reached London the day before.

He was a miserable, pitiable object. Fevered with anxiety, worn out with lack of rest and food, for he could not eat—unshaved, unkempt, prostrate —it took all the tender recollections of their early days to keep Grace from shrinking visibly from his touch, from his almost slavish exclamations of gratitude to her for coming so promptly to his aid. But when she, with some difficulty, extracted the real reason of his passionate appeal from the mass of excuses, explanations, and equivocations in which he wrapped it up, she was indeed almost annihilated. Even then she implored him to let her appeal to Max in writing, to save herself the terrible pain and humiliation of a personal interview; but to this Randal would not consent. ‘No,’ he said, ‘ he might not get the letter; something might delay his answer; and if the bill was presented without his (Max’s) being prepared, his ruin would be inevitable. Another twenty-four hours of mortal agony would kill him; besides, Max would never say “No” to his cousin, face to face.’ So she was urged to this terrible ordeal; and now it was over, and, the strain relaxed, she felt more hopelessly depressed than before. She had been compelled to put herself metaphorically at her cousin’s feet, and the declaration into which Max had evidently been betrayed had only added to her sense of painful degradation. Oh that she might never see him again!

‘Here we are, miss,’ said the driver, opening the door with a severe jerk—‘Number Nineteen, Alma Terrace, as the gen’elman told me’

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Grace, starting out of her painful reverie — the transit had been at once distressingly long and astonishingly short—and, paying the man his full demand, she rang the door-bell.

Number Nineteen was the ordinary type of small tenements in the Camden Town district: a narrow entrance-passage, with a couple of small parlours opening into each other by folding-doors at one side, and a steep stair at the end, leading to two strata of bedrooms, the largest and best of which was occupied by Randal, and one behind it had been prepared for Grace.

The two parlours were occupied by Jimmy Byrne, and were marvels of neatness. and contrivance.

The landlady, a severe-looking but not unkindly personage, who was, in spite of her severe aspect, ‘stout and scant o’ breath,’ came up from the basement, where she dwelt, in reasonable time to admit Grace.

‘I am glad you are come, miss,’ she said, as Grace entered; ‘the poor young gentleman has been taking on terrible, wearying for you.’

‘I will go to him at once,’ said Grace, passing her quickly.

‘And won’t you have a mouthful of summat first, miss?’

‘No, thank you. It will be time enough when Mr. Byrne comes in.’

‘There has been a gentleman here to-day inquiring for Mr. Byrne, miss; and he is coming again between six and seven.’

‘Yes,’ said Grace, absently, and hurrying on upstairs.

Randal had not yet risen. He had had a severe cold and cough, which with the mortal anxiety . gathering round him for the last month, and culminating in the desperate strain of the last few days, made him seriously unwell. But it was the desire to crouch hidden in his lair that kept him in bed. He had raised himself on his elbow to see her face directly his sister entered; and the wild, scared look of his eager eyes, the fiery red spot in the centre of each ghastly white cheek, filled her heart with pity, not untinged with reluctant contempt.

‘You are safe, Randal! Max has promised to pay without questioning, and to be secret; so you are safe, my brother 1’ said Grace, sitting down on a chair by the bedside. She kept quite still and silent, while Randal, clasping her hand, poured forth thanks and exclamations:

‘Thank God—thank God! and thank you!

What a pearl of sisters! I knew Max would not refuse you! and now I am all right! That fellow Cohen will see that I am all right with the great house of “Frere.” I am certain he doubted me the last time he renewed. Oh, Grace, I can never thank you enough! you have brought me back from the grave; and trust me, I will never be such a fool again. But, you see, I was new to London, and the fellows got round me and humbugged me. I vow to heaven I will never touch a card again.’

No answer from Grace, who sat like one in a dream.

‘Don’t you hear me, Grace? You may trust me.’

‘Oh, Randal, I cannot speak; I still can hardly believe this dreadful humiliation has overtaken us. Touch a card again! I should indeed be astonished if you did, after—this! Oh, if I seem harsh, Randal, remember how cruel it all has been to me.’

‘Yes, yes; I know how proud you are; and indeed, Grace, I am very sorry. I am sure / have suffered enough. Was Max very insolent and sneering?’

* No; he never uttered a reproach. Do not talk of him; let us think about repaying him. We must consult Jimmy.’

‘Now, Grace, you are too bad; you know all I have undergone to keep this from Jimmy, and he hasn’t an idea-’

‘I hope not; but still we must speak to him. I shall simply say you are in debt to Max,’

‘Oh, ah! yes; and that will fit in with my story of having dined with him a week or two ago.’

‘Did you invent that?’ asked Grace, with quiet scorn.

‘No; not quite. I was taking a mouthful late one day at the ‘London,’ when by some accident Max Frere came in and sat at the next table. So we exchanged a few remarks—you see we dined together.’

Grace was silent, feeling more and more hopeless respecting the speaker.

‘But if you have set your heart upon it, I daresay my mother will join us, and we can raise the money.’

‘Good heavens! why did you not think of this before,’ cried Grace, bitterly, * instead of dragging yourself—all of us—into the mire’

‘Well, I protest it was chiefly consideration for the mother. I knew she could not spare anything, and I hoped every day my luck would change; I once won fifty pounds in two nights. And so the time went on, till it came too near for anything save your interference.’

‘If you had only opened your heart to Jimmy, it might have been saved.’

‘You see,’ interrupted Randal, ‘the fact is, Jimmy has taken to bullying me of late; and then you see, I have to be with him every day in the week. But I never catch a glimpse of Max, thank God!’

‘Yes,’ returned Grace, despondingly; adding after a pause: ‘Anyhow, Max must be paid—and that as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, certainly I should be very glad,’ returned Randal, rather as if it were no affair of his. ‘And do you know, Gracy darling, I feel so relieved I could take a cup of beef-tea, or a chop, or anything they have in the house; and then I will get up and join you and Jimmy at tea.’

‘Very well,’ said Grace, looking at him with a sort of pained curiosity; I will ask the landlady; and then I will try and get a little rest myself. I have not slept for two nights; and I do so want to stop thinking for an hour or two.’

She rose and went downstairs to give the necessary directions.

‘I’m sure, miss, I am thankful,’ replied the landlady to Grace’s queries. * To be sure, I’ve a couple beautiful “line” chops in the house, as I was hoping he would ask for. I’m sure, miss, he was going into a decline fast, till you come; he has been another creature since.’

Randal was always an immense favourite with landladies, chambermaids, and Spiers and Fond young ladies—indeed, with men and women generally of all grades. But landladies especially were enslaved by his frank, gracious manner.

* And I’ll do one for you too, miss; you look regular tired out.’

Grace accepted the proffered refreshment, for she felt sinking; and after attending to Randal, and leaving him in conversation with Mrs. Oakes, preparatory to making the effort to rise and dress VOL. III. 43 himself, she went first to write as cheerful a letter as she could to her mother, and then if possible to rest.

At first she could not compose herself. The circumstances of her interview with Max passed and repassed across her mental field of vision. His declaration of love, which would once have set her on a pinnacle of bliss, was now worse than unflattering. Had she not been humbled in the dust, would he have confessed it as a piece of madness and folly? Was it possible that the time had come when words of love from Max were an offence, and that while she still remembered the Max of Dungar with tender regret, she would shrink with sincere distaste from the idea of marriage with the Max of to-day, even though a charm still lingered in his voice and in his eyes? Yet so it was.

‘I wonder will anyone ever love me better than ease, or success, or ambition? Time will show. Ah! what will become of Randal? Is he incapable of distinguishing between right and wrong? What can create in him a moral sense? Is he responsible for such incapacity? Where did he get his nature? What are we to do with him?’

And so revolving her fears and disappointments over and over again, as she lay on the narrow pallet, which yet half filled her room, blessed sleep stole over her, and for nearly two hours she rested from her labours.

It was growing dusk in the dingy room when she awoke; and making her toilet as best she could, she went to Randal’s chamber. The door was fastened.

‘Is that you, Grace? I am only getting up. I have had such a nice sleep. What o’clock is it ?’

‘Quarter past six.’

‘I think Jimmy Byrne has come in; I heard the bell just now.’

‘I will go down and speak to him,’ said Grace, yearning for the comfort of his honest company.

But on opening the door she beheld by the gaslight what at first sight seemed a strange gentleman, standing by the table and looking at a newspaper.

A gentleman above middle stature, though scarcely tall—perhaps his breadth of shoulder took off from his height —with hair closely cut at the back, but worn in a wavy dark-brown mass at the top. He wore a well-cut, loose-fitting black, or nearly black, frock-coat and dark-grey trousers. The hand which held the paper was very brown and sinewy, and there was something scarcely English in his whole aspect. At the noise of the opening door he turned, and displayed a deeply-embrowned face; a pair of large, sleepy, brown eyes; an aquiline nose; and thick moustaches, a shade or two lighter than his hair.

On seeing Grace, he let his newspaper fall on the table, and made her a bow—a civil bow enough, but not the bow of a man accustomed to drawingrooms.

Grace bent her head in acknowledgment; and then they stood looking at each other for an instant or two; his face growing more and more familiar to Grace. She looked so earnestly at him that a smile gleamed in the stranger’s eyes, and he slightly lifted his strongly-marked brows with an expression of good-humoured interrogation—an expression once so familiar to Grace that she came quickly into the room, holding out both hands.

‘Tell me,’ she cried, ‘are you Maurice Balfour?’

‘Yes, yes; and you,’ taking her hands, ‘you are not surely Grace—Grace Frere?’

‘I am—I am indeed. Oh, Maurice, how glad I am to see you! You are like a piece of my old home. Ah! everything is so changed since we met, Maurice.’

It had been such a trying day, and this was such an unexpected ending, that her much-strained self-control almost gave way. The sweet kindly mouth quivered, and the tears welled up and hung on her long lashes, while her breath came in two deep sobs.

Balfour looked at her with a pitying, puzzled expression.

‘I hope you are quite well, and Mrs. Frere, and —all; you have had no loss since your grandfather’s death, Grace?—I ought to say Miss Frere.’

‘No, thank God! but I have had great anxiety about Randal. He has been ill, but he is better; and why should you call me Miss Frere?’

Why, you are a grown-up young lady.

‘No matter. If you call me anything but Grace,

I shall feel as if you were no longer my friend. Oh, how delightful it is to see you! How did you come here?’

‘I have been in Ireland, to look after some very small possessions my poor grandfather left me, and ascertained Mr. Byrne’s address, in order to make inquiries about you all. I was at his office yesterday, but missed him; so they gave me his private address, and here I am. I am surprised you recognised me; for until you spoke I did not know you. You are greatly changed; you used to be such a thin brown little girl, though you were shooting up when I saw you last; and now-’ An expressive pause.

‘Yes, indeed I am changed!’ exclaimed Grace, quite unconsciously; ‘and even more in thought than looks. But you, Maurice, you look wonderfully older.’

He did not reply at once, but stood still, holding her hand, and gazing at her with a puzzled, kindly compassionate expression.

‘And your mother and the little girl,’ he went on at last, letting go the hand which Grace did not attempt to remove.

‘They are quite well, thank God, and I think quite happy. They are not here; they are in Germany. I have just come over because—because Randal was ill and wanted me.’

‘Randal! Ay, I suppose he is quite a young man?’

‘Yes; quite,’ with a deep sigh at the thought of how he had inaugurated his manhood.

‘It must be nearly five years since I was at Dungar?’

‘It is. You had just returned from Spain, and you only stayed a week because you were going to America, I think.’

‘I am glad you remember, Grace—Miss Frere, I mean. It is new to me to find anyone who notes my going and coming and he smiled—a frank, sweet smile.

‘I am sure we did, Maurice—I beg your pardon, Mr. Balfour,’ returned Grace, a gleam of her natural playfulness sparkling over the deep gloom that had turned her thoughts so dark that, like the darkness of Egypt, it might be felt.

‘No, no! you must call me Maurice.’

‘Yes, I will.’ She sat down and rested her elbows on the table, covering her face with her hands for a moment, more overcome than she cared to show. ‘Oh, Maurice, we have lost so much since I last saw you!—Nearest grandpapa and our sweet home. Oh, if you only knew how terrible London was at first! I did not think I could have been so miserable, at least while the dear mother was left me.’

‘And you so young and so tenderly reared—I suppose I must not say spoiled?’ returned Balfour, smiling kindly, as he would on a disappointed child.

‘Yes; I suppose I have almost always been spoiled,’ returned Grace, thoughtfully; ‘but life is beginning to show me my true value and as the thought of Max’s hasty, but evidently sincere. exclamation that it was 'madness and folly’ to love her came back, her heart swelled with wounded pride; and the irrepressible tears, partly the result of over-fatigue, would force themselves over the brim and hang upon her long black lashes. ‘I must tell Randal you are here. The surprise would be too much for him,’ she said quickly, and trying to steady her voice, as she turned from the light. ‘I will come back directly.’

Maurice Balfour looked after her as she closed the door, and an expression of deep gravity stole over his face. ‘There’s something wrong there,’ he thought; ' it is not a trifle that would unhinge such a woman as my little playfellow has developed into. But she is the same Grace still; the original girl or child comes back to me in some of her tones and her smiles.’

He sat down and began to look at the paper; but he soon laid it aside and sat thinking, his eyes wide open, gazing far away—five years, ten years back—to his holidays at Dungar, to Grace’s first arrival there—for he was the older inhabitant of the two — a little, foreign-looking creature, in picturesque mourning. How he, a rough uncouth lad of sixteen, physically old for his years, was first shy and then fond of the new-comers. How she used to tease him and tyrannise over him; and what a troublesome imp Randal was; and how Mrs. Frere appeared to him the most beautiful and graceful of women. How, after a year of Dungar-life, Grace grew brave and sensible, and wonderfully companionable for a girl. How, the last time he was at Dungar, he feared she was not going to be pretty after all; and now, he was quite sure she was not pretty—she was something beyond that, and yet not a beauty. ‘I am afraid it has been a terrible change for Mrs. Frere and Grace. They were like princesses in the kingdom of Dungar— so at least they seemed to me; and now--’

The noise of the door opening made him look up with an expectant, pleased expression; but no one entered immediately, though a voice said :

‘Just so, ma’am; an’ if you would be so good as to see that the water is b’iling—b’iling mad, I would be greatly obleeged to you.’

Whereupon a small man in an overcoat, with his hat in one hand and a severely distended black bag in the other, entered. A little dark-eyed man, with abundant black hair and shaggy eyebrows, a snub nose, and wide mouth pathetically depressed at the corners.

‘Good-evening’, sir,’ he said, depositing his hat and bag on a small species of sideboard, which blocked up the folding-doors; ‘I am afraid I am a little late. May I ask-’ He paused.

‘My name?’ suggested the other. ‘I am Balfour, Maurice Balfour. You have probably heard it before. Mr. Stepney, the rector of Dungar, was my grandfather.’

‘God bless us!’ cried Jimmy, holding out his hand with much cordiality; ‘to be sure I have. I am very glad to see you, sir; and so will Mr. Randal and Miss Grace. And where have you come from last?’

* Well, last from Dublin; and I have troubled you with a call to make some inquiries about my friends, for no one at Dungar could tell me anything; and to my surprise, while waiting for you, Miss Frere herself walked in.’

Did she now—the dear young lady! She’s had a heap of trouble, one way or another, Mr. Balfour ; and then this illness of Mr. Randal’s. I don’t think myself he was that bad; but he took to wearying for his sister, and writes off to her poste-haste that he was dying, and the Lord knows what, unknown to me. So away she comes, travelling night and day, and arrived here yesterday, quite worn out. I must say it vexed me a little.’

‘It was a very natural wish on his part,’ said Balfour, seeing he paused for a reply.

‘Not a doubt of it,’ returned Jimmy; ‘but it cost a heap of money, and just frightens his mother out of her wits.—But you’ll excuse me, sir. I have wan or two little things to see to, as the good woman of the house tells me Mr. Randal is coming down to tea; so— you’ll excuse me;’ and seizing his black bag, Jimmy disappeared with an air of extreme occupation.

In the silence which ensued, energetic tones from the next room penetrated through the closed folding-doors.

* Now, Mrs. Oakes, if you will just keep the eggs from breaking, from two to three minutes will set them well; and, Mrs. Oakes, a trifle of fresh mustard, you please. If you could give us a clean tablecloth, you’ll find I’ll not be ungrateful. I’ve a seed-cake in the bag. And about nine, if you please, the jug with the lid to it, with boiling water —real boiling, mind.’

The tea was set; and Jimmy, taking a perspective view of it, with his head on one side, pronounced it all right, when Grace entered, leading in Randal, who looked terribly haggard and pale. He was nervous and shaky too, but seemed pleased to see Maurice, and to listen to the talk about old days at Dungar; but he was much less talkative than usual, nor could he partake of the tempting fried ham and poached eggs, which both Jimmy and Balfour pronounced excellent.

‘Mr. Randal, sir, I am glad to see you so much better; and I don’t deny that you have been worse than I thought at first. Still and all, I maintain you had no need for to drag your sister all this weary way : she looks as bad as yourself. Eh, Mr. Balfour?’

‘Not quite,’ replied that gentleman, ‘though she does look tired. You had a long journey. Whereabouts are you in Germany?’

* In a very obscure little town, which I daresay you never heard of—Zittau.’

‘Zittau—yes, I have. Is it not somewhere near Dresden?’

‘It is; and you have been in Dresden, I know. We know an old friend of yours who is quartered in Zittau now—Wolff von Falkenberg.’

‘Falkenberg,’. repeated Balfour, thoughtfully;

‘that is curious! Do you know him well?—do you see much of him?’

‘He is a sort of connection,’ returned Grace, and proceeded to explain it; concluding,‘And now that he is going to be married to Gertrud Alvsleben, of course he will be really my cousin.’

‘He was a very pleasant fellow; and I suppose the lady has money, so that will make it all right,’ said Balfour, significantly. ‘1 was thinking of going to have a look at my old haunts in Germany while waiting for an appointment I partly expect.’

‘Then you must come and see my mother,’ said Grace.

‘That I will, with pleasure.’

‘1 suppose you have been a great traveller, Mr. Balfour?’ remarked Jimmy Byrne, when the repast was over, as he closed the door after the ‘gurl,’ who departed heavily laden with the tea-tray.

‘No, not as travelling goes in these days. I have been in Spain, and South America, and India.’

‘Dear, dear! that’s enough in all conscience. And what have you been doing in these foreign parts, Mr. Balfour, if I might make so bold as to ask?’

‘Oh, making railroads and bridges, and embankments.’

‘It must be interesting work,’ said Grace, languidly. .

‘It is—most interesting.’

‘Where were you last, Maurice?’

‘In India; and there 1 took jungle-fever. So I was obliged to come home, and give up a capital appointment’

‘All the wealth in the world isn’t worth bad health,’ remarked Jimmy, pulling forward a rather rigid-looking chair. ‘Take this, Mr. Randal; it will rest you;’ and he beat up a pillow for his back.

‘I am afraid there was small chance of wealth to tempt me to risk it: an engineer has few opportunities for growing rich. That is for the contractors.’

‘Then it was not the dear rector’s death which recalled you?’ said Grace.

‘No; I heard it on reaching England, and I was confoundedly cut up to think I was not with him.’

‘Yes, it was very sad not to have seen him.’

‘It gave me a sensation of being quite alone that I never experienced before. Though I have always been isolated, I did not seem to perceive it till my grandfather was gone. Of course that wore off. Still, though I have plenty of pleasant friends, I have no one really belonging to me; and having no home at Dungar, I do not care to stay in England, or indeed in Europe.’

He spoke in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone; but Grace thought his voice pleasant, sweet, and refined.

‘Is it very hard to learn engineering?’ asked Randal, in rather a querulous voice. ‘I scarcely know what to do myself. You see, my grandfather’s death has quite spoiled my prospects. I have been in a house of business, but these fellows are so deuced sharp, that when my health began to give way, and I could not come up to time, they dismissed me.’

‘He is dismissed then?’ said Grace, in a low tone, aside to Jimmy; who shook his head despondingly in reply, adding:

‘Near a month ago.’

‘I should say there is nothing specially hard in engineering, if you have a taste for it. A good deal depends on natural inclination; and then you should begin young,’ said Maurice Balfour.

' I fear I am too old,’ resumed Randal, dejectedly, * or I should very much like to take it up, and go away with you somewhere out of Europe. I feel as if I wanted room. These old, worn-out, over-crowded cities oppress me. There is, there must be, contagious energy in an unexhausted society.’

I do not know that! I fancy you would find an unexhausted country exceedingly exhausting. It is rather troublesome to be obliged to build your house before you can find shelter, to mend your own shoes, and cook your own dinner.’

‘God bless us!’ remarked Jimmy; ‘and have you had to do all that, sir?’

‘Occasionally. And I think, Randal, an old country, with all the means and appliances to boot, would suit you best. You see, I have been roughing it nearly all my life.’

‘I wonder it has not made you rough, Maurice,’ said Grace, looking up into his face with the pleasant feeling that she had found a congenial elder brother.

* I fear it has not fitted me for London drawing rooms,’ he returned, with his kindly, quiet smile; ‘which is no great matter, as I am never likely to see many.’

‘And do you make any stay in London, sir?’ asked Jimmy.

* I am not sure. I had intended starting for Germany the day after to-morrow, but I promised to stay and dine with a lady—and, I suspect, a fashionable lady—to whom I brought a message and a parcel from a poor fellow I was able to help a little in his last hours, when I was bad enough myself.’

* Who is it, Maurice?’ asked Grace, feeling an odd anticipation of the name.

‘Lady Elton; she lives in-’

‘What, our Lady Elton? That is very strange,’ said Randal.

‘Lady Elton is a great friend of mine,’ observed Grace.

‘Yes, that is curious,’ cried Balfour; and some explanations ensued. ‘She is a charming woman, and full of feeling,’ continued Balfour. ‘I never saw anyone so overcome as she was when I repeated poor young Loring’s last words. I do not think a mother could have felt more; yet I believe they were no relations.’

‘She mentioned in her last letter that she had had a sad loss,’ said Grace.

‘Dear, dear!’ remarked Jimmy Byrne; ‘I am very sorry for it. A more elegant lady I never saw; and a good woman too, I am told.’

‘And so she is aunt to Max Frere, about whom my grandfather wrote during his visits to Dungar,’ said Balfour.

‘Did he?’murmured Grace, colouring crimson, as Maurice looked at her—a long look—out of his sleepy, large, brown eyes, that saw a good deal in spite of their sleepiness.

‘Yes; he was a capital correspondent for the first three years of my absence, but after that his letters grew rarer.’

‘I think,’ said Randal, ‘I shall get away to bed. I feel I have stayed up long enough.’

‘And I ought to go too,’ said Balfour, rising.

Grace did not press him to stay. A gloom hung over them all, and glad as Grace was to see her old friend, and grateful too for the welcome break to the course of her sad, bitter thoughts, she felt that nothing could rouse her to her usual tone of spirits, or interest her in the usual degree.

‘I am stupid with fatigue,’ she said, 'so I will not ask you to stay; but you will come and see us again?’

‘I should think I would!’ returned Balfour, smiling. ‘It is not every day I get a chance of such company. Good-night, Randal. I don’t think you are so bad but that you might come out for a stroll, if you had an arm to help you along.’

‘Thanks,’ said Randal; ‘yes, do come and take me out—it will be a godsend.’

‘And do you know which omnibus to take, Mr. Balfour?’cried Jimmy, ever ready to do everything for everyone.

‘Thank you, yes. I am staying at Charing Cross; and I shall walk, for I seem to get no exercise here.’

CHAPTER II

THE next morning’s waking was painfully bewildering to Grace. Was it a reality that she had gone through the bitter ordeal of humbling herself to Max Frere; that she had not done it in vain, and that she was still unannihilated; nay, more, that an odd strain of sweetness mingled with her sore and bruised sensations, when she thought of her unexpected interview with Maurice Balfour, and that she would most probably see him again that day?

The sight of him had brought back her happy childish days so vividly. He was so much the same, and grew so much upon her memory as they talked together, that the very sound of his voice seemed to conjure back her old bright, dreamy self, her gorgeous anticipations, her boundless belief in transcendent virtue and unfathomable vice, with never a shade between!

It was such a relief, too, to meet a man who was calm and kindly, neither sneering and looking unutterable things, like Max; nor insinuating compliments, and throwing himself into gallant attitudes, like Falkenberg. Yes; Maurice Balfour was honest and reasonable, and they would be great friends. Perhaps he would be a useful friend to Randal; and perhaps it would be well if Randal were to leave England. Then came the paralysing thought: ‘What could Randal do anywhere?’ Still, she must try and settle something about him before she returned to Zittau. And how she longed to return to her home and its occupations! Then there was the conversation with Jimmy hanging over her. That debt to Max must be repaid before she quitted London.

But she had slept late, and Jimmy had left for his office before she descended to the little parlour.

Randal was very miserable and troublesome. He would get up—he would not get up. He wished to be read to—the sound of her voice distracted him. A friend, smelling strongly of tobacco, called to see him; and during the visit Balfour came in, as if their old friendly intercourse had gone on in unbroken continuity.

‘If Randal has had visitors, and will not go out, I had better not see him. Will you come, Grace? (I think I had better leave “Miss Frere ” alone.) You are looking pale, and I should like to see the Dungar roses bloom again in your cheeks.’

‘Yes; it will be so nice to have a good quick walk this bright, cold day. Let us go into Regent’s Park and up Primrose Hill. I will tell Randal and put on my hat.’

She was down again soon, looking brighter and handsomer than Balfour had yet seen her.

‘I suppose I must not offer you my arm?

No; no one offers his arm now. Women, they say, are learning to walk alone.’

* I don’t know that they are the worse of that. I am sure you are very strong-minded, Grace.’

‘I wish I were—in the good sense.’

It was a delightful walk, and quite a refreshment to Grace. She was the principal talker; and though she often glanced aside to books, or to their former adventures by flood and field, her principal topic was Randal.

Nothing could be kinder, more sympathetic, or gentle than Balfour. Her reliance on him, her trust in his brotherly interest, increased every moment. Surely this was a friend sent her by heaven 1 He promised to cultivate Randal, try to ascertain what he was fit for, and advise accordingly. So he led her to her humble quarters; shaking hands heartily at the door, and hurrying away to dress for his dinner with Lady Elton— for their ramble had extended beyond two hours.

Grace’s satisfaction was crowned on entering, by finding a card bearing the name of ‘Maxwell Frere.’

She had escaped him, and in all probability he would not call again. She had little faith in the endurance of a whim such as had fired him on the previous day; which .made him so unlike himself, and so much to be dreaded.

Loud and deep were Randal’s reproaches. She had been out more than two hours—in fact, nearer three than two—and he was so wretched! He did not know what was to become of him. After all he was more a victim than anything else, etc., etc., till Grace was roused to give him a sharp answer, which restored him to composure and silence, if not to good humour.

Jimmy was very reluctant and unmanageable anent the question of raising money to pay Randal’s supposed debt to Max.

‘You don’t know what you are doing, Miss Grace dear,’ he said, after she had explained matters to him that evening, when Randal had gone to bed. ‘Sure, it’s ruination to break into your principal. Once you begin there’s no end to it. Better try and pinch a bit, and make Mr. Randal pinch a bit, so as to pay by degrees. Mr. Maxwell Frere can afford to wait.’

‘But I cannot. Oh, Jimmy! I should like to pay him to-morrow.'

‘No doubt you would; and so would I, for the matter of that: but we must look ahead. Mr. Randal has got through a good deal of money—a good deal, faith! since you went away. And I daresay he has told you that I was a stingy “naygur” but after the first wanst or twice, I just plucked up heart to say “No,” when he wanted to borrow a trifle. It was bad for him, Miss Grace; and it would have ended badly. But I am surprised at. his getting money from Mr. Maxwell Frere. I thought there was not much love lost between them.’

‘Nor is there; and nothing that could have, happened would have, vexed me like this. So, dear Jimmy, you must help me to pay Max.’

‘My darlin’ young lady, you know it’s the one pleasure of my life to be any use to you; but I will not consent to your touching a penny of the little bit of money you have to depend upon. Look now! what did you give Mr. Randal? Fifty a year! Well, take him home with you, and keep him till he can get something to keep himself: it won’t cost much more in addition to your housekeeping. Well, that’s something towards it. And then, let me see, I have a trifle put by for you— them pearls, you know. You give them to me to pledge, because you wouldn’t borrow from me. Well, I just locked them away, and brought you my own money. Sure, it was a good investment; and I have saved up the cash you thought you were paying them thieves of the world, the pawnbrokers, for interest. So there’s that to the good for you, Miss Grace, though it’s but a trifle. And you can give me four per cent, at the end of the year.’

‘Jimmy, you are a wonderful man! How thoughtful and good you are for us! What should we do without you?’

‘And them words of yours pays me in full for any trouble I have taken; and that same is a pleasure,’ said Jimmy, his black eyes twinkling,. and rubbing up his hair till he looked more like a faithful Skye terrier than ever. ‘So I tell you what, Miss Grace: if your dear mamma could make up her mind to sell some of the pearls, you might get a first instalment, say of fifty pounds, to pay Mr. Maxwell. And that would keep your heart easy. Eh, Miss Grace Y

‘Oh, as to me, I would sell them all with pleasure; but my dear mother has associations-

At all events, I will ask her.’

‘Do so, dear,’ said Jimmy, speaking out of his thoughts, which Grace did not care to interrupt ‘He’s an uncommon nice, civil-spoken, sensible young man,’ said Jimmy, speaking suddenly and apropos to nothing. ‘And though Mr. Randal is the height of good company, I wish he was liker Mr. Balfour.’

‘Maurice Balfour is much older,’ returned Grace. ‘And poor Randal is—well, what nature made him, though he is very provoking.'

‘True for you; but he’ll gather sense, please God. Now, I wonder if Mr. Balfour could find anything for him to do out there where he’s going?’

‘Where is that?’ asked Grace.

‘Faith, I don’t know,’ said Jimmy, with a laugh. ‘Only he spoke as if he was going away to foreign parts.’

‘Yes; I suppose he will,’ observed Grace, thinking in her heart that it would be sad to part with Maurice, now she had found him.

‘I daresay Lady Elton would try and help us—

I mean Randal,' she said. ‘She knows so many people, and is so clever. I am sure he had better leave London. At any rate, I will write to my mother to-morrow. And if you give up those pearls, ought you not to have some kind of bond or acknowledgment? You know, good friend. Do write it out, and we will all sign it Ah! Jimmy, dear, dear Jimmy! you are the one true friend I have in the wide world. Good-night. I still feel, oh, so weary!'

She rose and held out her hand to him.

* God bless you, me child!’ said the little man, warmly. * I hope there are plenty of bright days coming, to reward you for all you have gone through. But, faith, you take Mr. Randal’s troubles too much to heart.’

‘I cannot help it,’ said Grace, shaking her head as she left the room.

This gleam of hope that they would be able to pay Max was a renewal of life to her; and she fell asleep in the midst of a profound calculation as to the particular branches of expenditure which might be curtailed, so as to save at least two pounds a month—more she dared not hope.

The letter to her mother was a skillful composition. She hesitated as to whether she should admit Max to be the creditor, as she knew her mother’s peculiar notions respecting money transactions between near relatives. She would give Max money if she had it, or take it from him, with equal sang-froid.

Still Grace shrank from disguising the truth.

One fact she must and could suppress; and most heartily did she thank heaven that her mother need never know the disgrace that had fallen upon them. .

The task was nearly accomplished, when she paused to listen to a train of thought put in motion by some expression in her own letter. ‘Why should she despair of Randal? Other young men had gone wrong, and come right again. Association was all-powerful with him. Would he had a chance of being with Maurice Balfour! There was a kindly strength about Maurice which inspired her with confidence. The almost indolent repose of his manner impressed her with the idea of a nature energetic and forceful enough to permit itself intervals of laziness. But what was Randal fit for? She could not ask Balfour nor anyone else to hamper himself with a helpless hanger-on. And the prospect of a long future spent in a struggle to urge Randal on in some directions and keep him back in others, was not cheerful : then, whatever happened, Mab’s education must not be neglected or even curtailed.’ So far afield had her thoughts strayed, and so absorbed was she in them, that she did not heed the sound of a carriage stopping at the door; nor did she move till the door was opened suddenly, and Mrs. Oakes, in somewhat awe-struck accents, announced:

’A lady for you, miss.’

Whereupon, enter an elegant-looking woman, in black silk, silver-fox fur, and an exquisite bonnet of black lace and jet.

‘Grace!’ she Cried reproachfully; ‘In London three or four days, and never to let me know!’

‘I was going to see you to-day, dearest Lady Elton,’ cried Grace, kissing her warmly. ‘I came so suddenly, and found Randal so ill, I had no time to do anything.’

‘Ah, dear child! that brother of yours was born to be a torment to you. What business had he to be ill? Why, you look worried to death 1’

‘It was such a terrible journey,’ said Grace, with a sigh—‘not knowing what I should find at the end of it—that it seems still to haunt and overpower me.’

‘What! did you think he was dying? I wonder that quaint little man (what is his name—Byrne ?) had not more sense than to frighten you rather unnecessarily, from what Mr. Balfour says. They live together, do they not?—I mean your brother and Mr. Byrne/

‘Yes. Oh, you must not blame him!’ began Grace, and then stopped, thinking it better not to . explain too much. ‘And you,’ looking at her friend with affectionate interest, ‘how glad I am to meet you again! but I fear you, too, have been ill?’

‘No, dear; I have not been ill bodily. I have called in no doctors, and have had no ridiculous bottles, a sixth part to be taken three times a day. Nevertheless, I have gone mentally down into the valley of death, and its grey shadows hang over me still—and will, dear, so long as I grope about in this darkened world.’

‘Dear Lady Elton!’ murmured Grace, puzzled how to answer this speech. .

‘Yes/ continued Lady Elton; ‘the one germ of hope—the one link between me and the future, was crushed and broken when my poor boy was cut off. I feel as if I could not reconcile myself to it’

Grace was much struck by the contrast between the composure of Lady Elton’s manner and the passionate force of her words.

* And it was so strange,’ she resumed, ‘that your old friend Balfour should have closed his eyes. It is another link between us, Grace; for there was a strong affinity always. I was so startled to find you were in London.’

* Then it was Maurice Balfour who told you, not Max?* asked Grace, a little incautiously, in her anxiety to know how much Lady Elton knew.

‘Max!’ she repeated. ‘Arc you in communication with Max? does he know you are in town? I have not seen Max for ages.’

Grace, feeling she had made a slight mistake, prudently kept silence.

‘Then you and Max are friends again,’ continued Lady Elton. ‘I always felt, rather than knew, that there was a hidden warfare between you. I am afraid you are given to warfare, Grace. Well, I will never quarrel with you or with anyone again. Nothing seems worth it now.’

Grace could only stroke the hand she held, and look into her friend’s face with loving sympathising eyes.

‘And so, Grace, are you ready to come back with me? The carriage is at the door; just put up your things and come.’

‘Ah, that is quite impossible!’ cried Grace.

‘And why?’

‘I cannot possibly leave Randal. He has been very ill—a sort of low fever, which seems to have fastened on him. He is certainly better, but very low and weak and miserable.’

‘I suppose he has got into scrapes, like most young men?’ observed Lady Elton, philosophically.

‘He has not been so economical as he ought to be,’ said Grace, with a little sigh; ‘but there is no harm in Randal.’

* Exactly so, dear. He might do better if there was.’

‘It is a terrible hindrance, his not having been brought up to any profession. It is just the difference between letting a stream spread its waters over the fields, and embanking it into narrow usefulness.’

‘You must have been talking to your friend Balfour a good deal; that is quite an engineering simile.’ And Lady Elton looked at her with a kindly smile-

‘Yes, a good deal; and I hope I shall say a great deal more to him. He talks of coming to Germany.’

‘I think I shall go too,’ said Lady Elton, carelessly. ‘To return, if you really think you ought not to leave your brother, I must not say anything. But in a few days you can come to me. Remember I, too, am an invalid, though of a different order; and, Grace, this is hardly the place for you to stay in. It is certainly clean,’ looking curiously round her; ‘but though I am not at all exigent or fanciful in such matters, is it not rather odd to be staying with that dear funny little man, Mr. Byrne?’

‘I do not see it,’ returned Grace, gravely. ‘He is the kindest and best of creatures; he is like a father to me. And you know, Lady Elton, I do not belong to your world—or any world except that of my own people and my mother’s house.'

‘Very sweet of you to say so, child; but tell me truth, Grace, is it not a little bitter to you, this renunciation of all that is generally most valued in youth—the prestige of position ?’

* Yes; I think I felt our poverty and obscurity very keenly at first when we were in London. ' I felt a little murderous the first, and only, day I dined at Uncle Frere’s, though it brought me good fortune in your acquaintance; but I have grown quite comfortable and content since we were in Germany. Life has a great many sides to it, Lady Elton.’

‘Have you a lover in Zittau, Grace?’ asked Lady Elton, quickly.

‘Indeed I have not,’ said Grace, laughing and blushing.

The question distressed her; she shrank from her friend’s unhesitating utterance of a word which to her was very sweet and sacred, and not to be lightly spoken. ‘Have you a lover?’ Why, it was like saying, ‘Have you a coachman, or a hair-dresser?’ —as if a lover was a sort of essential hanger-on.

‘Because, if so, it would a:count for a good deal of contentment.

‘Well, I have none,’ repeated Grace, carelessly.

* I believe you; but it is odd. Do you never intend to have one?’

‘Oh dear, no,’ with a good-humoured smile; ‘I suppose such a state of destitution would be highly disgraceful.’

‘Highly unnatural, at all events. Well, Grace, if you cannot come and stay with me, come and have a drive, and return with me to luncheon.’

‘I would be quite delighted; but, dear Lady Elton, I must ask Randal. You see I left him yesterday for a little walk with Maurice Balfour, and we stayed more than two hours. Poor Randal was so lonely and unhappy and cross, I dare not leave him again.’

‘Ah!’ thoughtfully. ‘Is he well enough to come with us? It might do him good.’

‘It would be perfectly delightful; you are so kind 1 I will just close the letter to the dear mother—she will be charmed to hear of you—and then I will make Randal get ready; he is up.’ And she proceeded to add a few hasty lines to her letter. .

‘Randal,* she exclaimed, a few minutes later, as she came quickly into his room, where he was scribbling indolently with a cigar in his lips, ‘Lady Elton is below, and wants you to come out for a drive. I wish you would, Randal; it would do you good.*

‘Drive with Lady Elton! Oh, Grace, I couldn’t; I am ashamed of--’

‘Dear, dear Randal!’ interrupted Grace, touched and delighted with this expression of penitence and right feeling, and in haste to encourage him, ‘you must have courage; let the dead past bury its dead. Lady Elton does not know a word of your —of what has happened; no one ever shall. So come and-’

‘Really, Grace,’ interrupted Randal in his turn, ‘you are too bad; you never let a fellow lose sight of his misfortunes. I was not thinking of that; but my overcoat is so shabby, and my hat is the worse of the wear. I am not fit to be seen in. Lady Elton’s carriage, and I will not go. If you will get my hat ironed, and it is warm enough to go without my overcoat to-morrow or next day, I will.’

‘Very well,’ returned Grace, much disappointed; ‘but it may not be convenient to her to call again. At all events, I will not go to-day. She asked me; but I do not like to leave you.’

‘You need not mind, then. You look so miserable, and say such disagreeable things, that a fellow can never forget his troubles and sins for a moment. You had better go. I daresay Balfour will call, and that will amuse me.’

‘Very well, Randal!’ and she turned away with tears in her eyes. This, then, was the result of all her exertions : that Randal could not support the reproach of her presence.

‘Randal is so much obliged to you, dear Lady Elton,’ she said, coming into the little parlour, where she found that lady spelling over a German paper which Grace had received that morning from some unknown sender—she suspected Falkenberg; ‘but he does not feel equal to going out. However, as he expects Maurice Balfour to come and see him, he can spare me, and I shall be so pleased to drive with you, and lunch with you after.’

‘Indeed!’ with a sharp look at her. ‘I am fortunate in securing you. Come, then! You are looking better than when I came in; you have a little colour. Colour is essential to you.’

‘Go to Hampstead Heath, and back by the Welsh Harp,’ said Lady Elton to the coachman. ‘Now, dear child,’ she continued, settling herself in her corner, ‘talk to me—tell me of your life in that nook where you have buried yourself. I shall bless you if you interest me.’

CHAPTER III

MAX FRERE did not quite recover his interview with Grace all day, though no one save himself was aware of the fact; and he transacted business as quietly and steadily as usual. Yet her voice sounded in his ear all the time. The suppressed tone in which she had said, sadly yet not unkindly, without haste or anger, * I will never kiss you again, Max/ haunted him. If she had uttered any sharp, covert reproach, or shown wounded pride, or sentimental regret, he could better have swept her out of his thoughts; but as it was, he felt, though he did not acknowledge it to himself, that he had lost her—that she had escaped away out of his reach.

Not twenty-four hours before, he was thankful that he had avoided the temptation of blundering into some awkward entanglement, if not a foolish marriage. Now he was fighting a desperate fight against the reawakened passion returning on him like a giant refreshed, stronger and fiercer than he had ever felt it before.

A desperate need to see her again, to win her, to make her unsay those words, to confess that he was her first love, that come who might after, he would be but second, devoured him. Hut for this, he must ask her to be his wife. She was innocent and unworldly, he well knew; but she was not a woman to be trifled with. And he ha^l shown her his real self a little too plainly. All that was best in him was attracted by her. And at every lull in the many demands on his attention, he recalled her face and figure, her eyes, her gestures, with a deep delight; and felt that she was nobler in her shame at her brother’s misdoing than the proudest in their pride. But, through all, he knew himself well enough to dread that the day might come when he would have survived these raptures, and think that he had surrendered substance for shadow. Grace was so in earnest, too; so tender, so romantic, that she might be a little troublesome in the every-day contact of married life! Still, for a while, it would be intoxicating, and worth the risk.

And so the day wore by. And Max, feeling unusually undecided, went to a solemn dinner at the house of a great city magnate, and sat beside the magnate’s daughter, and was bored to death.

The next day the fatal bill was presented, and Max, calling Randal a cursed young scamp in his heart, paid it gallantly. To do Max justice, he was no niggard. He valued money at its real worth, and never gave a thought to what he considered the vague promise made by his cousin that she would repay him.

But he thought himself entitled to some kind of payment, so, as Frere senior was able to come to business that afternoon, Max managed to get away earlier than usual, and drove rapidly in a hansom to Alma Terrace.

We have seen he was disappointed.

He felt strangely irritated to think that Grace was staying in such a hovel of a place, with a criminal brother and an old buffer like Jimmy Byrne, and was disposed to go straight to Lady Elton and ask her to offer her young favourite hospitality.

This was a matter, however, that required consideration.

He was anxious to keep his promise of secresy in the spirit as well as the letter; and perhaps Grace did not intend to let Lady Elton know she was in town. How could he manage to obtain an interview with his cousin? She would most probably deny herself, and it would be scarcely decent to force himself in where he would have a chance of encountering Randal.

He would write Grace a note. He had a good excuse. He ought to set her mind at rest. So when Grace returned, refreshed and invigorated, from her long morning with Lady Elton, the following note awaited her:

‘I have settled the business about which we spoke satisfactorily. Do not give it another thought. Does Lady Elton know you are in town, or do you wish her to know? I am anxious to see you again respecting Randal and other matters. When may I call?

‘Very sincerely yours,

To which the next morning’s post brought him a reply:

‘I thank you from my heart! Do not think me too ungrateful, but I would much rather not see you. Can you not write about Randal? In a few days I shall be able to tell you what arrangements we can make for repaying your kind and generous loan. I have seen Lady Elton. Trusting always to your secrecy, I am,

‘Yours truly,

But, too impatient to await the reply, Max determined to call on his aunt, and try to ascertain he scarce knew what.

The evening was closing in, and by her orders, Lady Elton’s careful attendant had shut out the remaining light, and thrown a fresh beech log on the fire, retreating noiselessly, because he imagined his mistress slept, so motionless was she, as she reclined in an arm-chair by the hearth. She sat in her morning room, or study, which was as pleasantly coloured, as artistically arranged, as redolent of flowers, as it was when it opened Grace’s eyes for the first time to the possibilities of furniture as an ingredient in the joy of life.

Lady Elton kept quite still long after the considerate Luigi had slid noiselessly from the room. The fresh log caught the flame and splintered and sparkled, gleaming on the heavy folds of her black silk dress, on the black lace skilfully disposed upon her head, on the jewelled pins which retained it in its place, and the jewelled hand which lay in such expressive listlessness over the arm of the chair.

But though she lay back with closed lids, Lady Elton was thoroughly awake. Only her eye saw scenes and her ear heard sounds which had passed away, some of them long ago, into the gulf of years.'

She recalled the relief of finding herself rich and independent after her husband’s death, although he who had once been so dear to her was ‘bound with links of iron’ to a terrible woman—an embodied curse—by a moment’s mad folly in early youth. She recalled the mingled agony and delight of meeting him far away in a comer of southern France—a crushed, careless, cynical man, working mechanically at his art to supply the deficiencies of a slender income, which barely sufficed to satisfy the claims of the woman who was legally his wife, and to educate his boy, whom he almost hid from the mother.

Then came a long lapse of years spent wandering in out-of-the-way places, of bits of bright sunshine and sympathy carefully hidden from the world, of long spells of shadow and suppression, succeeded by the memory of debts paid which were never incurred by herself, of the freedom which came too late, of the broken life that breathed its last in her arms. And then came a slow knitting up of the ravelled threads, a quiet, comforting interest in ‘his boy,’ for whose sake she again mingled among her old acquaintances, that she might make useful friends for him. So old habits were renewed and wound themselves about her, and the stream of her life worked itself new channels. Many a costly disappointment in her protégée ensued; then renewal of hope when he exchanged into an Indian regiment And now the last light was quenched.

So she sat alone, inert, as if all motive-power had left her. All was over, only she must just act a little to the last, were it only to silence conjecture. Meantime the well-ordered machinery of her existence worked as smoothly as ever.

A very perfect little dinner had awaited Maurice Balfour the day before. And Lady Elton, whose grief took the form rather of calm, complete resignation of hope than violent outburst, received him with the well-bred, easy courtesy which was her second nature.

In the confidential talk which ensued, she showed more of her heart to the stranger than any of her living intimates had ever seen. It was a relief to her, and so was her intercourse that morning with Grace. Grace was very sweet and pleasant to her; could she have had Grace with her always, she might in time regain her mental tone; but Grace belonged to her own people.

‘Madame,’ said Luigi, softly, returning to the room as noiselessly as he had left it—‘ Madame, will you receive Mr. Maxwell Frere?’

‘Let him come in,’ returned Lady Elton, without stirring.

‘My dear aunt,’ said Max, advancing through the dim room, ‘I am shocked to find you have been seriously unwell; I had no idea of it.’ .

‘I do not see how you could,’ said she, extending her hand to him with a smile, ‘when you never call, and we never meet.’

‘Quite true!’ returned Max, drawing a chair in front of the fire; ‘but I am aware you do not care for my society, and I am really always very busy.’ ‘Yes, Max, I like to talk to you sometimes; and I am not in the least offended. But what has brought you here now?’

‘First, to ask for some dinner; secondly, to have a talk with you, which I, too, like sometimes.’

‘Certainly; ring the bell. What have you done with your father? Luigi,’ to the servant who answered the bell, ‘dinner.’

‘Oh, he is dining at home on beef tea and farinaceous food. He is dyspeptic, and goes to bed at nine.’

‘Indeed! I thought he was as adamant to the ills of the flesh. Now, Max, tell me all the news— real news.’

This occupied them till dinner was announced.

During the repast Lady Elton roused herself, and talked a little as she was wont And when it was over, and the discreet Luigi had withdrawn, as Max was turning over in his mind how he should best approach the subject uppermost in his thoughts, Lady Elton said, suddenly :

‘Oh, by-the-bye, Grace Frere was with me all the morning. I cannot quite make out what has brought her over. She says Randal was seriously ill. I suspect he was in a serious scrape. Have you seen her? Do you know anything about it?’

‘Yes, I have seen her. I don’t know much about it, but I think he has been in a slight mess; however, it is all right now.’

‘Which means you have helped him—quite right, Max. Take another glass of claret; they say it is good.’

‘Thank you,’ said Max, and waited for his aunt to go on.

‘I am afraid he is rather a vaurien', she resumed; ‘but I wish we could do something for him, or get something for him, for Grace’s sake. She is terribly anxious—I can see it quite well.’

‘It is rather too bad that she should have such a millstone about her neck,’ remarked Max. ‘In fact, she is rather quixotic about all her people.’

‘For her own interests, perhaps. But if it makes her happy?’

‘If it does,’ returned Max, sceptically.

‘I think she seems to have been very happy in Germany. I suppose there is an admirer of some description hidden away there; a girl of her age must feel dull without an admirer. But I must say I could make nothing of her talk to-day—and you know how candid and open she is—well, there was really nothing in what she said that would lead me to think so.’

‘I suppose she is considered handsome Y ‘Do you think so?’ asked Lady Elton, with a sudden sharp look in her eyes.

‘Yes, I do, very; I always thought her charming,’ said Max, with much frankness. * And so did you, till she vexed you by her obstinacy about Darnell, and I don’t wonder at it’

* I have changed my mind,’ replied Lady Elton; ‘I am not sure but she was right. Life does not present such an of sweets that one can afford to start with the standing bitter of an ill-assorted marriage.’

‘Indeed,’ thoughtfully; there was a pause.

‘Max,’ resumed Lady Elton, ‘is there any quarrel between you—I mean you and Grace? I never quite understood why you were not better friends— I cannot fancy any man not liking Grace.’

Not like Grace! great heavens! when he had spent a whole year fighting against that intense liking!

‘You are quite mistaken. I like her very much. I always did; but she is a little fanciful, and proud as Lucifer. She does not deign to understand a commonplace fellow like myself.’

‘That is your fault, I am sure.’

‘Perhaps so. But I wish to put myself right with her, if—if you will give me an opportunity. I might be of use to Randal. Ask her here tomorrow—to luncheon, or what you like. I want to explain myself—to-’ he stopped, his thoughts apparently wandering.

Lady Elton looked at him with some curiosity.

‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I ask no indiscreet questions. It is much better to be friends; and I am sure Grace will want friendly help to rid herself of Randal.’

‘That is what I fear she will never try to do. It is absurd the way in which she tries to play providence to her brother. There should be some national institution for the reception of amiable, picturesque, harmless good-for-nothings like Randal Frere, where they would be forced to do what work they could. Why, it would even pay to keep them in food and clothes, and let them scribble and play at being fine gentlemen rather than to leave them at large to ruin their relatives.’

‘Why, what has Randal done?’ asked Lady Elton, surprised at the bitterness with which Max spoke.

* Oh, he has not ruined his mother and sisters yet!' returned Max, smiling; ‘but it is highly probable he will; and I want to warn Grace—to speak to her seriously.’

‘It is a delicate undertaking.’

‘It is; and can only be managed in a tete-a-tete. I wish you would help me to get him, Randal, out of the country.’

' Me 1 Why, Max, you could do a great deal more. You have such wide-spread business connections.’

‘Yes; but I do not want to be overwhelmed by the curses, both loud and deep, of the unfortunate business man or men to whom I might consign him. What real work is he fit for? If you could find a secretaryship where there was nothing to write, or a curatorship where there was nothing to keep, I think he would suit admirably; and such things are, I believe, to be found among your dilettante friends.’

‘I will look about, Max; but such God-sends are rare. Still, Randal might get on with the sort of people you mean. He has good manners, a plausible tongue, and puts his best intellectual wares in the window, like the cheap shops. He has a certain sharpness, too, that would enable him to pick up art-jargon very quickly.’

‘Then let us try and get him out of the country as soon as possible; if I can assist, I will/

‘It is a great pity Grace was not the boy,’ said Lady Elton; ‘she would have been so useful and energetic; and Randal would have been such a gracefully-helpless and amiably-selfish woman—a sort of woman that always succeeds.’

‘I fear that the family would not be the better of the change,’ returned Max, with a slight sneer. ‘Energetic, useful men like to be energetic and useful for themselves. Nevertheless, my dear aunt, I hope you will secure me a tete-a-tete with Grace as soon as possible.’

‘I will send you a note when I can manage it. I suppose evening will be the best time.’

‘Any time will do, except the day after tomorrow.’

* I fancy you have had a battle-royal,’ said Lady Elton.

‘No, no—only a little misunderstanding.'

‘Well, I am glad you take an interest in your kinsfolk, Max. I always thought you too indifferent.’

‘Oh, you do not know half my merits yet!’

Then the conversation wandered away to politics and a little gossip, and then slackened; and Max, seeing that his aunt looked weary, rose, and bid her good-night with unusual kindliness.

‘You will not forget,’ were his last words, ‘and you need not say anything to Grace—let it seem an accident.’

‘Good-night, Max; I will see to it.’

‘I wonder what he wants?’ thought Lady Elton, with languid curiosity, as she rang for her maid. * I used to fancy there had been some love-passages between them at Dungar, but if so, I am sure Max would avoid her now; he is the last man in the world to ally himself to a helpless broken-down family; but he seems describing an eccentric orbit just at present. I have no doubt I shall find it all out in time,

Maurice Balfour’s hearty reception by the little group in Jimmy Byrne’s humble lodging was very delightful to him. The only experience of family life he had ever known was during his boyish days at Dungar, and he looked back to them with a degree of tenderness he would have been ashamed to confess. To find, then, the thread of the old friendship, so lost and broken by his varied wanderings in rough places, where among many comrades he was much alone—to knit it together and feel that it was even stronger at the join, was a delight beyond what he had dared to dream.

He had always remembered Grace as infinitely his junior—as a child—a plaything; and it made him feel almost bewildered, between strangeness and familiarity, to find her so womanly and companionable and serious, while every now and then glimpses of her old bright wilful self might be caught through even the unusual quiet of her manner. For Grace did not quickly throw off the effect of the stunning blow which had been dealt her by her brother. It was such a cruel verification of the contemptuous estimate Max had formed of him; and though she herself had not a very exalted opinion of Randal’s character, though she felt he was weak and facile, she had never anticipated he would stoop to dishonour.

Balfour had seen little of ladies’ society, nor was that little of a good class. Hard-working mothers of families, or spoilt colonial belles, whose airs and coquetries were of the coarsest, and fair Spanish women, who were mere passionate children.

The frank friendliness and delicate simplicity of his old playmate were more charming than he could express, if he had wished to say anything about it, which he did not; all he cared was to enjoy it to the full, and as long as he could : for the result to himself he did not care. While her perfect sisterly ease, and his conviction that a rough, unpolished fellowlike himself could never attract such a divinity, made this intercourse safe enough for her. Balfour was keenly conscious that his position warranted no matrimonial intentions, nor indeed did serious intentions of any kind enter his head. He loved adventure and freedom and roaming, with all his quiet and seeming indolence; though there was another side of his nature as yet undeveloped, which could value the interests and affections of a home.

Nothing that could have happened would have so roused and diverted Grace’s thoughts as this encounter with her old friend, and he quickly became as one of them. He called in the morning to know if he could do anything for Randal, he called in the evening to see Jimmy, and he called in the afternoon, when he had seen those persons connected with the undertaking in which he hoped for employment, with whom it was necessary to keep up communications, and gave Randal his arm if he wished, or escorted Grace to shop or to walk. And how both friends enjoyed those rambles!

Happy is it for the world that the best pleasures are the cheapest A quick walk, with the delightful sense of independence which personal locomotion bestows, the pleasant association of a sympathetic companion, the exchange of remark and jest, the sense of enjoyment in the light and air. What delight is composed of such simple ingredients! Then to gather round the table after the tea was removed, and talk over common memories, to relate separate experiences, to chaff each other over a game of cards, to try and sketch each other’s portraits, or argue over some point on which they differed, while youth and fresh spirits and hearty kindliness turned the little mean parlour, with its horse-hair sofa, its one easy-chair, its rickety cheffonier—that lodging-house amalgamation of side-board and cabinet, into a temple of bright healthy sociability —these were pleasures the wealth of a millionaire could not purchase, and could scarcely improve.

Meantime Jimmy was somewhat slow in his operations. Of course Mrs. Frere wrote a lachrymose letter, stating her willingness to immolate herself and her pearls on the shrine of maternal love, and sign anything for dear Randal’s sake. Of course Mr. Byrne should sacrifice nothing; she would not hear of it. Indeed, his devotion to the family was most praiseworthy; but then he owed his present position and prosperity entirely to the family.

* As if that gave us a right to his hard earnings, poor fellow!’ thought Grace, as she perused this epistle, and then raised her head to urge Jimmy^ who sat opposite her at their early breakfast.

‘Jimmy dear, could you get that paper, or bond, or whatever it is, ready to send to my mother this evening? You must and shall not give up the pearls until you have some acknowledgment of our debt to you, and then we must see about paying you. But I cannot leave London till I have paid Max at least a portion of his advance.’

‘Why, then, Miss Grace, where’s your hurry?

. Isn’t he rich enough to buy and sell us all twice over? Sure, you needn’t run your head into a noose; there is no sense in it.’

‘Ah, Jimmy, if I could only make you understand the fever I feel at times to think this is not paid! It spoils my life—it degrades me in my own eyes.’

‘Well, I will see about the pearls, anyhow.’

‘If you could get fifty pounds for them—just keeping back the locket with my father’s picture— I might send it to Max at once.’

‘Ahem! Miss Grace, you see the foolishness of people and fashion is such, that I am afraid the jewels’ (he called them ‘jools’) ‘won’t fetch half they are worth. Anyhow, I will see.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Randal, coming in late, as usual; he had begun to breakfast with them again.

‘About the money for Max—I cannot go back till it is partly paid, at all events, and I am longing to return.’

‘Well, Grace, I must say you have very little consideration for a fellow to talk before me in that way. You know how miserable it makes me—I declare I cannot eat a mouthful. I know it was very wrong, and all that, to—to get in debt, but I declare to heaven I was drawn into playing quite against my will.’ .

‘Why, Randal, I must speak to Jimmy while I can. He is out all day, and Maurice is always here in the evening. I do not wish to hurt you, dear, but if you cannot bear to listen, you must just go away. Jimmy dear, you will try to sell those pearls as soon as you can?’

* Ay, that I will, Miss Grace. And now, be the powers! it is half-past eight—I must be off,’ cried Jimmy, not sorry for an excuse to escape the discussion.

‘You see, you tire out even Jimmy,’ cried Randal, as he sat down and helped himself to some preserve. ‘You hammer, hammer, hammer, at any unfortunate nail you want to drive in, till one is distracted.’

* Randal,’ she returned, ‘you amaze me! How can you know any peace or rest till you can pay Max?’

‘You are very hard,’ returned Randal, miserably. ‘I am very wretched! and what can I do? I have nothing I can call my own. I must either rob Max or my mother; and of the two, I would rather rob Max. I will never see his face again, probably.’

‘But, Randal-’

‘Oh, I know I am a prodigal and a ne’er-do-well! Get your ally Maurice to take me somewhere, anywhere, and give me a pickaxe, if he can find nothing better. I will be a navvy, anything, rather than stay here to be badgered and despised!’

‘Dear Randal,’ cried Grace, pained yet pleased at this unexpected utterance, ‘I never despise you; and I will try and help you with all my heart. Don’t suppose I think because you were—well, weak once, that you will never be strong again.

But surely it is weak to shrink facing what is inevitable.’ •

‘You chatter so much, that Jimmy will suspect the truth; and then I could have no comfort in-’

‘He has not the least idea. He never shall. Not a soul shall ever know, except you, and I— and ’—a sigh—‘Max,’ interrupted Grace.

‘I am the most miserable fellow in existence,’ said Randal, pushing away his plate and cup, leaning his head on his hands and his elbows on the table.

‘Come, come, dear brother; do not be so unhappy. We will get away to Germany, and the change will make you a new creature.’

‘When can we start?’ asked Randal, a shade less miserably, but without raising his head.

‘Very soon, I hope. It depends a good deal on Jimmy.’

‘There—there is Balfour!’—The front-door bell sounded.

‘Now don’t preach any more, like a good girl.’

But it was not Balfour. It was a messenger with a, note from Lady Elton :

‘Come to me, like a dear girl, as soon as you can. I have had a wretched night; and I want to talk with you. The bearer will get a cab for you; and I will drive you back after luncheon. Tell your brother he must spare you to me now he is better.’ . .

‘Read that,’ said Grace, handing the note to her brother.

‘You will go, of course.’

‘Yes; I will ask the messenger to wait,’ looking through the door. ‘It is the old commissionaire Lady Elton always employs, and calls her orderly.’

‘Grace,’ said Randal, thoughtfully, putting down the note, as she returned to the room, ‘ Lady Elton is very fond of you.’

He paused.

‘Yes, I really think she is,’ said Grace, who was busy putting away her letters, and closing one she had partly written the day before.

* Do you think she would lend you this money? She has plenty. It would be a mere trifle to her.’

‘Never 1 How could you think of such a thing? That would indeed be degrading!’

‘I will never make another suggestion,’ said Randal, with dignity.

Vexed and disappointed after having had a glimpse of better things in her brother, Grace hastened to put on her hat and cloak, glad to get out of the house.

Lady Elton looked pale and depressed, but received Grace with warmth. The conversation turned on Randal—his acquirements and capabilities.

‘For,’ said her ladyship, ‘you know him, I suspect, better than he knows himself.’

It was a topic of great interest to Grace. And then Lady Elton had many questions to ask about Germany. She talked vaguely of letting her beautiful apartment, and quitting London—at any-rate for a year or two.

Perhaps she might rest at Dresden for awhile^ It was one of the few continental towns she had never visited. And so, conversing gently and easily, with here and there a thoughtful pause, the time slipped away, and luncheon-hour came.

When it was over, Lady Elton said :

* I have to see a man about a couple of pictures I want to sell, and I will return for you in an hour, if you do not mind waiting.’

Of course Grace did not mind, and when Lady Elton left her, sat down to the piano, and let her fingers wander over the keys, while she thought of the last time she had sat alone in that chamber, trying hard to bring her mind into accord with Lady Elton’s counsel, and accept Darnell; feeling a good deal ashamed of herself, as she remembered how large a share her deep mortification at her cousin’s conduct had in determining her. Thank heaven! she had yielded to the sound impulse of her better nature, and was free—free for the service of her own dear home and its beloved inmates. And on the whole she had been very happy in Germany. Except for some small annoyances respecting Falkenberg, she had had no troubles whatever—and these she feared had been partly brought about by her own vanity. It was so delightful to meet admiring glances, and to receive covert, delicately-insinuated compliments; to feel conscious of power over anyone. ‘Not that I have any in reality,' said Grace to herself, as with the thought of Falkenberg her. fingers mechanically pouched the notes of the sweet Thuringian ‘Lieder,’

‘Den Lieben Langen Tag,’ of which he was so fond. ‘Falkenberg, with all his sentiment and his loverlike friendship, always intended to marry Gertrud; and Max changed with his change of place, and ours. I wonder will anyone ever think me worth a little sacrifice—a little faith and patience? I suppose I do not seem very valuable. Yet I believe I am. Ah! to be well loved must be paradise to a true heart. Well, I am loved at home, and it is a poor, weak nature that cannot wait and hope, and try to be worthy. My dearest mother, how she longs for me! She can do so little without-’

Here her reflections were suddenly cut short by a voice she knew and almost dreaded.

‘Is that a German air, Grace, that you are playing so plaintively?*

‘Max!’. she cried, starting up and confronting him, her hands clasped and dropped before her, her heart beating fast, and her cheeks crimson with the painful shame of seeing him again face to face thus unprepared. Then she stood quite still and silent, her eyes downcast, every line and curve expressive of arrested flight Max, partly misinterpreting these signs of emotion, let his eyes rest upon her fin instant before he' replied. He had come to the self-appointed tryst with infinite eagerness, but, unlike his usual habit, without any definite intention, except to renew the old terms of tender intercourse; for in her absence all the objections to a marriage of simple affection with Grace arrayed themselves as of old, and it seemed to him the act of a simpleton, still he could not resist coming to scorch himself at the fatal flame.

‘I am afraid you are not very glad to see me,’ said he, with his frankest smile and manner.

‘Indeed I am not, Max, though it is ungrateful; but you can understand that.’

‘No, I cannot. Why should your brother’s— well, let us say folly—interfere between us? Come, Grace, sit down, and let us have a confidential talk until Lady Elton comes back.’

‘Very well, Max,’ said Grace, reluctantly, and dropping on the nearest seat, which happened to be a sofa.

Max sat down beside her; his dark refined face, deep-set, expressive eyes and faultless garments, had always charmed Grace, and now, in all her sense of humiliation, they recalled the almost awed admiration with which she had first regarded him at Dungar. ‘How nice he can be!’ she thought, glancing at him through her long lashes; ‘and how well dressed.’ Falkenberg is like a chorus-singer in his Jager clothes, and Maurice Balfour’s things hang on him like bags.’

‘I want to talk to you about Randal,’ Max was saying while these thoughts flashed across her mind.

A pause, looking keenly at her. No reply.

. ‘You are sensible enough to see that under the circumstances I could not recommend him to any of my friends. Well, no’—in answer to a little gesture of deprecation—‘independent of anything else, his habits are so unbusinesslike. Why, Cartwright told Darnell that at first he hoped he was going to be very useful in their French correspondence, and then he fell off rapidly, and became utterly worthless. There is nothing for it but to send him out of the country.’

* Well, I am going to take him out of the country in another week, perhaps,’ said Grace; ‘and I would rather you did not trouble yourself about him,’ twisting her hands a little, and looking away from him. ‘You have been very good and very generous, Max; I am very grateful to you—very— and so is Randal, only we have cost you enough, and troubled you enough. You are quite justified in washing your hands of us; so pray do. And, Max, Jimmy Byrne and I are arranging to pay you back a part of—your kind loan—of course it is a loan.’

‘And is this the way you show the gratitude you spoke of—in breaking with me?’

* Breaking! there is nothing to break between us. We can always be good friends. We never saw much of each other, and we shall see less in future.’

‘But I want to see more of you—much more,’ taking her hand and imprisoning it in both his own. * You know I love you, Grace! I always did, though I did not knowhow much till I thought I had lost you. My sweetest cousin,’ he went on, hurried beyond his self-control by an impulse he could not resist, ‘you must believe in me. Give me a nearer title—give me yourself.’

‘Ah, Max, it is quite impossible! I could not, and you would be sorry if I did.’

‘What!’ cried Max, ‘are you implacable? Is this the revenge you take, because from ordinary prudence—from consideration for my father, I hesitated to avow what I felt when-’

‘Pray, do not speak so, Max,’ drawing away her hand, and recoiling with some hauteur. ‘I have nothing to revenge, or be implacable about, or forgive; only—it is hard to say it—I would rather not marry you, if that is what you mean.’

‘Yes, it is what I mean, and mean with all my soul. Grace, you are too true, too honest to pretend you forget Dungar and our parting. I recall now, as I have done many a time since, the heavenly sweetness of that kiss! I may have been cold and worldly, but I loved you then, and ever since, and you would have married me then, my sweet cousin.’

‘Ah, Max, that was—how long ago?—well, a year and a half: and I seem ten years older in some ways since. Yes, I was a little goose in those days. You amused yourself, as I suppose was natural. And do you know, I really believed you were quite in earnest—was it not silly? I am amused at it now. You see I was so young, and had been such a recluse; but there is nothing to be> tragic and reproachful about. And I like you very much, only, you see, I would rather have you as a cousin than anything else.’

This was said with the most charming mixture of shy frankness dashed with kindly regret, tears gemming the dark eyelashes, and a smile, at once mocking and sad, parting the sweet lips, that ever made a man forget everything save the woman beside him, while the memory of those first desolate deserted months in London filled her with such pity for herself, that the folds of her dress stirred with the deep sigh that heaved her heart.

‘And I swear you shall be my wife, sooner or later!’ cried Max, quite carried away by the spell of her resistance. ‘There is some cursed fellow in Germany,’ he continued, ‘whom you like, and this accounts for your indifference. Tell me, Grace—you have a Saxon lover?’

‘No,’ said Grace, the colour coming back, for she had grown rather pale when she last spoke.

‘But,’ she added, with a certain demure mischievousness, ‘I think I may venture to say I have an admirer. Then has a cousin with five thousand pounds, so he is going to marry her. Five thousand pounds is a great deal of money, Max; yet I think if Uncle Frere would give me, say four thousand five hundred, Herr Hauptmann would marry me.’

* Grace,’ said Max, looking at her, unpleasantly surprised, ‘you are wonderfully changed.’ In truth, her mockery, though perfectly untinged with bitterness, was the development of a new power that had hitherto lain dormant; and Max felt the full force of the implied classification with such transparent worldlings as this German, whoever he was. But Grace, if thus able to mock at her admirers and herself, was no silly romantic girl to be lightly won, but a woman to be sought with purpose and perseverance. ‘I too have changed in the interval which has passed since we parted at Dungar, and I see more than I once did that you are essential to me. Believe me, I could make you happy—I could teach you to love me again—let me say again, Grace! I see you are heart-free—and I love you intensely—your voice, your eyes, your lips, bring back the primitive Irish paradise of which you were the Eve. Sweetest cousin, one kiss, for the sake of “auld lang syne.” If you knew how I thirst for one—just one—but that one as long as I like!’

‘Never, Max! never again!’ cried Grace, rising to retreat further from him. ' Yet I am sorry I cannot love you. I feel as if it would be delightful if I could, but I cannot; it is no use to try.’

‘Come what way, none other can have your first woman’s kiss, my love! my life! / have had the first!’ cried Max, stung by both words and manner.

‘Would to heaven,’ exclaimed Grace, with sudden passion, * I could wash it away anyhow—at any cost! The time will come when I shall love some man—some good honest man—who will think me worthy of his life, and I shall want—oh, how earnestly!—to give him all I have of first and best. But, Max, I’ll give him many and many a kiss sweetened with the love of my whole heart, to make up for the one you stole!’

* You shall give them to said Max, more and more surprised. * I will not quarrel with you now, though you have your sex’s cruelty. Grace, come, I will drop the lover—no man courts the repetition of refusal—and I promise to be your friend and cousin, unless I think I can venture to be more. You are even more charming than in the Dungar days, yet you have given me a mauvais quart d’heure this morning, and have made me feel like a baffled hound; but let us be friends.’

‘I do not want to quarrel, only, Max, we will be better friends apart. I hope to return to Germany soon, and-’

‘Have I kept you too long waiting, Grace?’ asked Lady Elton, opening the door. ‘Ah, Max! how do you do?’ And with a quick glance at her young friend’s glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, Lady Elton seated herself at her writing-table, and drew pen, ink, and paper to her.

‘We have been having an argument,’ said Max, blandly, as he leant on the back of Lady Elton’s chair. ‘I want to seek for some colonial appointment for Randal; and Grace, who disdains my aid, wishes to carry him off to vegetate in Germany, and forfeit the advantage of being on the spot.’

‘That is not wise, Grace,’ said Lady Elton, turning to her.

‘I think Max ought not to trouble himself. He has done enough,’ said Grace, with some confusion. ‘Beware of unreasoning pride,’ remarked Lady Elton. * I must say Max has always been ready to act a kinsman’s part.’

* I know it—I acknowledge it, and I am sure we would accept anything that offered for Randal; but, in the meantime, it would be easier and cheaper to keep my poor brother in Germany than in London.’

‘Well, I leave the matter in your hands, my dear aunt; and shall be happy to do anything in my power to help Randal to a berth out of the country. Good-morning, Grace,’ pressing her hand closely, and looking into her eyes with a longing, pleading expression, unseen by his aunt.

‘I really think Max Frere is very much improved since he became a man of business,’ said Lady Elton, as the door closed behind him. ‘Though the service of Mammon is not generally supposed to produce a softening effect, I believe myself that regular employment of any kind, unless it is extraordinarily distasteful, has a soothing effect. I wish you were more just to Max.’

‘Why, Lady Elton, how am I unjust?’ cried Grace, in great surprise. ‘What have I ever said against him?’

‘Nothing, nothing; but it does not need words to show that you dislike and shrink from him.’

‘I certainly do not dislike him, but I do shrink from meeting him. It is so painful to be under obligations to a person who throws them to you, as you do a bone to a hungry cur!’

‘That is nonsense,’ said Lady Elton, with something of her old spirit. ‘Max, I can see, has the highest regard for you.’

‘Well, he feels like that to Randal.’

‘Randal is a great nuisance,’ said Lady Elton. ‘But I must write my note notwithstanding, and then we will go and pay the delinquent a visit.’

CHAPTER IV

IT was the day after this interview. Randal had gone, at Jimmy's request, to call upon him at the office, in order to carry out some of the financial arrangements respecting which Grace was so anxious; and she was busy with some needlework of a homely description, when Maurice Balfour came in, with all the easy familiarity of an habitué^, and seated himself opposite hen ‘So you can do needlework?’ he said, after the first greetings were exchanged, and he had looked at her silently for an instant.

‘Yes, of course. Did you think me incapable?'

‘Well, not exactly; but you do not give me the idea of a woman who would sit down and sew seams or cook a dinner.*

‘I should like to know what idea I do give you, Maurice?*

‘I think nature intended you for a ‘But as nature and fortune do not agree in my case, I must do the best I can. I am very fond of needlework. It always soothes me, provided I am not obliged to do too much. Now I am busy preparing my best bibs and tuckers, because I am going to stay with Lady Elton the day after to-morrow for a week, and then I hope to get away back to my mother.’

‘Oh, you are going to Lady Elton?’ repeated Balfour, leaning his arms on the table and frowning slightly. ‘That is a confounded bore. We shall see nothing of you.’

‘Are you sorry?’ asked Grace, looking up with a brief arch smile. ‘But you can come and see me. Lady Elton is very fond of you. She thinks you clever and original, and I know not what all.’

‘I rather fancy Lady Elton is one of the warmhearted women who credit those they like with every virtue and excellence. Eh, Grace ¥

Yes; I am sure she does.’

‘Still, however kind she may be to me, I cannot go in and out of her house as I can here.’

‘No; not exactly. Nor can I walk with you every day. But if you come to. Zittau, we shall have nice long walks, and perhaps a ride. Oh, Maurice, would it not be perfectly delicious to ride together again?’

‘Perfectly delicious,’ repeated Balfour, in a low tone, as if to himself.

‘Do you remember Mab at all?’ asked Grace, not heeding him, as she threaded her needle.

‘Yes; very well. She was a wilful monkey, and not a bit like you.’

‘No; I was an angel.’

‘Far better,’ said Balfour, laughing; ‘a very human girl, with a dash of the devil.’

* What happy days they were at Dungar. But I do not think I should ever be happy in the same way again.’

* No,’ he returned thoughtfully; ‘the past never can return, which is another reason for enjoying the present to the utmost. We can never have it again.’

There was a pause.

‘You cannot imagine,’ resumed Balfour, presently,’ how delightful it is to sit here quietly and watch you work, and just talk to you as if you were my sister. It is like a peep into a new world. I have always been rather a lonely chap.’

‘Don’t say “chap,” Maurice,’ said Grace, with laughing eyes. ‘It is horrid! Say a “lonely man.” It is more effective, and gives the idea of a scathed and blighted being.’

‘Well, a lonely man, if you like. I have not met many women—at least, ladies—and life, I begin to think, is very dull without them.’

‘I am sure it is. At any rate I always feel brighter when I have some men friends with me. First I had Randal, and yourself, and Jimmy Byrne, and my uncle the count (you will like him so much), and Herr von Falkenberg. I have always had some one. You see it is a sort of link with the outer world. In short, I wish I had been a man myself.’

‘And if you had, what good comrades we should have been—eh, Grace f And he looked at her with a peculiar smile lingering in. his eyes.

‘Yes, we should. I think I would have been an engineer too, and we would have travelled all over the world. I imagine I am more energetic than you are. Are you not a little indolent?’

‘Perhaps; but I am not aware of it’

‘Ah! that is very likely. You are not ambitious enough.’

‘I think loneliness has something to do with that. But I am not without ambition, Miss Frere. You don’t know me quite yet.’

‘Better than you think,’ cried Grace, with a little nod. * And I wish Randal was more like you. Oh, how I wish I could do something to earn money!’

‘I don’t think you need trouble yourself about that,’ returned Balfour, suddenly feeling in his breast-pocket. ‘By the way, I quite forgot to give Randal back these poems of his.’ And he pulled forth a packet of manuscript.

Grace held out her hand with a sigh.

‘What do you think of them?’

. ‘They are not so bad.’

* That is faint praise.’

‘I am no great judge, but it seems to me that if you have to think twice about the effect of a poem, it is not poetry. Now here, this treats of the scenery of South America. Randal must have read up well for it. It is all correct enough, and yet anyone can feel that he never saw the country. He asked me to look through and point out any error. There are none absolutely; but the whole thing is—unreal.*

‘Why, Maurice, you are quite a critic!’

‘Oh, I have read a little during my wanderings.’

‘Do you think me very impertinent, Maurice f ‘No!’ with a good-humoured laugh that showed his strong white teeth under the thick moustaches; ‘but I can see you think me an untutored savage. I suppose I am. What can you expect from a, pioneer?’

‘But I do think so, Maurice. I like you just as you are, without the pretty tricks and turns of drawing-room gentlemen, who always remind me of elegant polished sword-sticks with keen cold steel inside.

A little unconscious sigh, as she ceased speaking, evidently caught Balfour’s attention. He looked at her gravely for an instant, but she was too much occupied with her work to heed him.

‘You find sharp steel encased in rough bludgeons too, sometimes,’ he said carelessly. ‘For my own part I admire grace and polish immensely, perhaps the more because I have not seen much. I fancy there is a certain strength in it.’

There was another pause.

‘Will Randal consider me a bear if I tell him what I really think of his work? because I must,’ he resumed.

‘But it would be false, utterly false, not to let him know the waste of time it is to scribble what no one will read, or at any rate pay for.’

‘You are right, Maurice. I feel that too; only I have not the heart or the courage to say so;’ and she began to put away her work slowly and thoughtfully.

‘Still he must be told the truth. It is much more cruel to let him deceive himself.’

Grace did not answer immediately; and after looking towards her, as if he expected her to speak, Balfour rose, walked to the window and back.

‘You are putting away your work,’ he said, pausing at the table; ‘and it is less cold than yesterday. Come out and take a walk with me; do, Grace. In a few weeks or months I shall be away in the wilds—God knows where. So I want to make the most of the present; and somehow or other, it seems to be more natural to make a comrade of you than of Randal. So come along. When I drift away, I may never see you again.’

‘Oh, I shall be very glad to take a walk, Maurice,’ said Grace, looking at him with a smile, and perceiving vaguely what fine large imploring eyes he had when they woke up from their usual sleepy expression of good-humoured indifference. ‘I shall not be long,’ she added, with a little nod as she gathered her belongings together, ‘but I must change my dress.’

‘Why, you look well-dressed enough! I should not imagine you cared about dress.’

‘Yes; but I do. I love dress—rich, soft, costly materials, and furs and jewels—and lace above all things. I think dress most important. One of the few reasons which keep me from really wishing to be a man, is that I could not wear beautiful things even if I could buy them. I am no philosopher, Maurice.’

She left the room, and Balfour remained in the attitude in which he had last spoken to her. ‘ A true woman’s love of finery,’ he muttered; and a look of deep thought gathered on his brow, giving a fixed, almost stern, expression to his strong features, very different from their ordinary aspect.

Grace found him still standing there when she returned, but he cleared up directly.

‘Well,’ he said, smiling, as he looked at her, ‘are you satisfied? for I am.’

‘Not ashamed to be seen with me?’ asked Grace, as she put a list of small commissions she had received from her mother that morning, in her pocket. ‘Does it make you cross to do shopping?’ .

‘I do not know—I never tried.’

‘I will try you to-day then,’ said she, locking up her letter in a drawer.

And they set forth.

Oh, the happiness of this frank, unconstrained intercourse, this brother-and-sisterly companionship, tinged as it was with a subtle, salt sweetness, which charmed without suggesting danger or pain, or result of any kind! What brightness it lent to the most common details of every-day life! What interest to the talk of past or future! What piquancy to their good-humoured chaff! What a rosy hue even to Tottenham Court Road, and the prosaic circumstances of Shoolbred’s on a ‘ selling off’ morning!

Grace was almost ashamed of herself for feeling so well and happy after her recent grief, and rage, and humiliation. She could not account for it, and wisely did not make the attempt.

Meantime Jimmy, seeing his ‘darlin’ young lady’s’ painful anxiety on the subject, really bestirred himself; and on the ensuing evening brought her word (conveyed in a whisper while Maurice and Randal were arguing the question of National Education), ‘that he thought he would be able to get her between forty and fifty pounds; and sure, that would make matters square for a bit!’

‘You are a dear angel, Jimmy,’ emphatically. ‘I only wish I could do you any service half as great.’

‘Whisht, now! Mr. Balfour will be hearing,’

So Grace sat down to pour out the tea, with smiling lips and radiant eyes.

‘Look, Jimmy dear, what sweet flowers Maurice has brought me!’ pointing to a prettily-shaped basket in the centre of the table.

She had been tempted to buy it the previous day, and Balfour had brought a plentiful supply of violets and white crocus to fill it.

‘They are mighty pretty,’ said Jimmy, admiringly as he settled himself to his evening meal, and vied with Maurice in observant attentions to the fair president.

Even Randal, who had been much cast down and fractious, like a convalescent child, cheered up a little under his sister’s kindly smile and care of his wants. She feared she had been too harsh in her righteous wrath. Heaven alone knows the exact force of each individual temptation. And supper proceeded very merrily, when an enormous ringing of the front-door bell arrested everyone in their various occupations.

‘Now what’s that?’ said Mr. Byrne, stopping, knife in hand.

He had risen to cut a slice of cold roast beef from a piece of sirloin which might have ‘sat for its picture,’ and which adorned the chiffonier.

‘Can I see Miss Frere?’ was distinctly heard through the door.

‘Lady Elton!’ cried Grace, flying to open it.

‘Dear Lady Elton, I am so glad, and so surprised to see you!’

‘May I come in?’ entering, and pausing as she crossed the threshold. ‘Mr. Byrne, I hope you will excuse my intruding at this hour. It must be later than I thought. I would not do so, only I want to consult Miss Frere, all of you indeed, about a matter that must be decided on quickly.’

‘I am sure I am proud and happy to see your ladyship,’ said Jimmy, placing a chair for her. ‘Here!’ through the door, ‘Sarah Jane, a clane pleet and cup, and look sharp about it. Turning again to his guest: ‘If your ladyship could spare time to taste a cup of tea, for the evenings are raw; and just try a bit of Bechamel turbot (it’s made after a receipt of my own), or a shaving of beef, with mixed pickles, I’d be honoured, and so would Mr. Randal, for it’s a joint concern, as, no doubt, you are aware, my lady,’ he continued, with genuine warmth.

‘Oh, do, dearest Lady Elton!’ cried Grace, putting her arms around her. ‘It would be so delightful to have you to tea—regularly to tea.’

‘Thank you—thank you very much. You look so delightfully cheerful and comfortable, I will gladly join the party, as you are good enough to admit me,’ she returned, in her soft, refined tones. * Mr. Balfour,’ stretching out her hand to him, ‘very happy to see you. You are one of the council of friends, I suppose?*

‘Oh yes! quite one of us,’ returned Grace. ‘Do send away the carriage/

‘I came in a cab, Grace. And you may dismiss it, Randal. I am sorry to see you looking so unwell. I think I bring you a good prescription/

‘Let me take your cloak,’ said Randal, colouring.

‘Now, my lady, just the least taste of fish to begin with.’

‘My dear sir, your “taste” is a very bountiful one/

And drawing off her gloves, Lady Elton, with her usual good-breeding, put everyone at ease by making herself pleasantly at home.

‘No, Grace/ she said, smiling, as she caught sight of that young lady’s expression, * there is no use in devouring me with your eyes. I am going to enjoy this excellent Bechamel and a cup of tea, before I say a word of my business.’

‘Oh, I am not impatient,’ said Grace.

‘Do you believe her, Mr. Balfour? Her eyes tell a different tale.’

‘Mr. Randal, hand her ladyship the bread. Mr. Balfour, the cream, if you please. That’s what we call it, my lady, though I am afraid it’s not much better than sky-blue.’

‘What a cosy party,’ cried Lady Elton, looking round, and graciously accepting the dainties pressed upon her. ‘Do you all have tea together every evening?’

‘Nearly every evening,’ said Grace. ‘Sometimes Maurice Balfour plays truant.’

‘Not often,’ returned that gentleman.

‘How foolish it is after all to heap up costly etceteras,’ said Lady Elton, partly to herself, as she smilingly declined an additional supply of Bechamel, and even a “shaving ” of cold beef. ‘How pretty your table looks, and how bright you all seem. But you possess two rare ingredients, which are not to be bought—youth and unperverted nature. Nothing more, thank you! I have eaten more than I have done for weeks.’

* Then, Miss Grace dear, I’ll just ring for the girl to clear away; and then maybe Lady Elton will tell us what it is.’

‘Yes, I will, Mr. Byrne.’

During the operation of ‘clearing away,’ she kept Maurice Balfour and Randal in political talk, interesting them both with the tact of a practised conversationalist While Grace and Jimmy added small touches of assistance to the ‘girl’s’ efforts. .

When all was in order, Mr. Byrne solemnly placed a blotting-book, pens, ink, and paper in the middle of the table, and seating himself on one of the horse-hair chairs, called everyone’s attention by a loud ‘ahem!’

‘Why, Jimmy, do you think we are going to make our wills?’ asked Randal.

‘No, sir; but my lady here made use of the word business; so it is as well to be prepared to make memoranda or take notes.’

‘Quite right, Mr. Byrne. Well, to begin at the beginning, I heard some gossip at the picture-dealer’s where, you know, I went the day before yesterday, Grace,’ continued Lady Elton, ‘which induced me to go and meet a certain Sir Alexander Atwell, with whom I have a slight acquaintance, at luncheon this morning. I found that he is on the point of starting for the Nile, Nubia, and heaven knows where. He is a man of some learning and a great deal of fancy, and as a brand new baronetcy (he is the second baronet) and five, or ten, or twenty thousand a year is not sufficient distinction for him, he wishes to write an ethnographical, archaeological, and geographical account of his travels. For this purpose, he requires the assistance of a well-bred, tolerably well-educated gentleman as secretary; not too sharp, and not too learned, lest he might pluck Sir Alexander’s ears of corn before the rightful owner was ready to gather them.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Grace.

‘Husht! Miss Grace dear, let us hear her ladyship out,’ said Jimmy.

‘As Sir Alexander—like most dilettante dabblers —hates trouble, he is fortunately averse to making his wants very publicly known. So I ventured to offer a private recommendation. Young man of ability, not too profoundly versed in Egyptology— in fact, rather ignorant of its mysteries—well born, connection of my own, with excellent manners, and keen appreciation of genius in others,’ a nod and smile to Randal, who began to look interested. * Sir Alexander lent an attentive ear. “Would the young gentleman’s expectations be exorbitant?” Because, in view of the great intellectual and sanatory advantages offered, Sir Alexander was not disposed to give a high salary. In short, I do not believe he will go beyond fifty pounds a year. And he proposes to make the engagement distinctly for two years, with a power on either side of dissolving it, should any decided difference arise. Finally, he has agreed to see you, Randal, tomorrow, at one o’clock. There is his card, with my name on the back as your credential. I cannot foresee how he will decide; but it is a chance for you, Randal.’

. ‘A chance indeed!’ cried that young man, his cheeks glowing with reawakened hope. ‘How can I ever thank you enough? To leave England, and travel with a distinguished littirateur, as your friend evidently is—why, of all the appointments in the world, this is what I should like best. You have made my fortune.’

' No; not your fortune,’ returned Lady Elton, smiling. ‘You would have had a better chance of making that at Cartwright and Co.’s.’

‘Do not mention that detestable shop,’ exclaimed Randal, with a shudder. ‘It was nearly the death of me.’

‘Oh, Lady Elton, a chance! How I do hope this Sir Alexander will like Randal!’

‘So do I. I suppose it is the best thing we can do.’

‘But in two years he will be afloat again,’ said Balfour, breaking the silence in which he had listened to Lady Elton’s account ‘Quite true, my dear Mr. Balfour; but under the circumstances--’

‘Why, Maurice,’ interrupted Randal, ‘there is no knowing what such an appointment may lead to.

I may collect materials for a work myself—a poem, a novel. I may attract the notice of other literary men—I-’

He paused, as if dazed by the brilliant pictures presented by his imagination.

‘I protest, Randal,’ cried Lady Elton, laughing,

‘I am almost appalled by the effect of my suggestion. Pray remember that everything is very vague, do not allow yourself to feel too sure. Go and see Sir Alexander, and listen attentively. He much • prefers telling you about himself to hearing about you, and you will be able to get a better idea of the situation from his general talk than from any deliberate explanation. Do not expect your duties, if he agrees to engage with you, to be all delight; there will be much that is ennuyant’

* Oh, I shall not mind that,’ cried Randal.

* Well, I certainly wish you success; and now let us talk of something else. I am afraid of your eager eyes, Grace, when I think how frightfully disappointed you will be if my scheme fails.'

‘Dear Lady Elton!’ murmured Grace, taking her hand.

‘And you are coming to stay with me to-morrow? You must give her to me for a while, Mr. Byrne.’

‘Faith, your ladyship’s house is fitter for her than a poor place like this,’ said Jimmy, looking with twinkling eyes at his cherished guest; ‘but the place will look bare and lonesome when she is out of it.’

* Ah, Grace! you are a dangerous inmate, if your departure creates such a heartbreak!’ said Balfour, smiling mischievously.

* Pooh, nonsense!’ she returned, in a careless aside.

‘I wish you would take a holiday, and come to see us in Germany, Jimmy dear,’ she continued. ‘Do you never take a holiday?’

‘Well, no. Ye see at first, what with one thing or another, I never had much money to spare, and me fellow-clerks in the office just thought me a quare little Irish chap and not much company, so I was always by myself, and had no one to make a holiday with. Then I got used to it; now it would seem out of the way entirely to leave town or the office. So you may think, ma’am—I mean my lady—the pleasure and delight it was for me to see the master’s daughter and her dear children here in London; that was my best holiday.’

Holiday, Jimmy!’ cried Grace; ‘why, we have filled your life with trouble!’

‘Ah! Miss Grace dear, isn’t it a blessing to have some one to take trouble for?’

* Mr. Byrne,’ said Lady Elton, ‘your words have conjured up a picture I shall not soon forget.’

The departure of Grace the following day was a bitterer trial than Jimmy Byrne, in his utter unselfishness, would have liked to tell his ‘darlin’ young lady.’ To come home and find her there, always kindly, frank, real, and ready with pleasant filial little attentions, was like a taste of heaven to the tender, generous, delicate spirit which animated Jimmy’s quaint little frame. And so also was the delight of preparing little surprises for her, of waiting on her, and looking up to her as a being of exalted rank and faultless nature.

His devotion to the house of Dungar reached its highest pitch of exaltation towards her. She was supreme in his eyes. Whereas even loyalty such as his did not blind him to Randal’s shortcomings, and though he never would have admitted it to mortal, that young gentleman tried his patience sorely. .

' Now that Grace was gone, he consoled himself by muttering, ‘Sure it’s all for the best! This is no place for her. God bless her! I couldn’t expect one of the De Burghs, and an angel, if ever there was one, to be making tea for the like of me, and putting flowers on me table; ay, and brushin’ me hat of a morning. Faith, I was almost ashamed to see her do it, only she done it so sweet and natural. Ah! if I can help her a bit, it will be something for a poor old fellow like me to live for.’

Randal sometimes went to dine with Lady Elton, and also to spend the evening with some acquaintances, to whom, after his temporary seclusion, he seemed more a hero than before. But Maurice Balfour was very faithful to the little man, and constantly passed the evening with him, indulging him by listening to his long, rambling recollections of the family; and more especially of the wisdom and goodness of his darlin’ young lady. And although Maurice chaffed him gently as to his utter faith in her many perfections, he never checked the flow of Jimmy’s eloquence by displaying any want of interest.

Meantime, the interviews between Sir Alexander Atwell and Randal— for the accomplished baronet required many before he could make up his mind—gradually progressed towards a fortunate decision. For such a temporary engagement and small remuneration, the demand was not so great as Sir Alexander expected; and having gone over and over again all the requirements and specialities he deemed essential, till Randal’s patience was nearly exhausted, the great man wrote to Lady Elton that he had decided in favour of her protégée, and begged that he would hold himself in readiness to start in a week from the present date, as the season was already too far advanced.

This epistle of course threw Grace into a state of joyous excitement for the first half hour; and then a reaction set in. Randal would require an outfit —and how was that to be procured?

‘What is weighing down your brows, child?’ said Lady Elton, as they drove back, after a fruitless attempt to find Randal, the afternoon of the same day on which Lady Elton had received Sir Alexander Atwell’s ultimatum.

‘Oh, many things. All that is to be done before I can get back home again.’

‘And principally how the money is to be found to start Randal with all he requires—eh, Grace?’

‘Yes; I confess it is a little difficult; but it must be done.’

‘Grace, you are stupidly independent. But this is not a great affair. Thirty or forty pounds will do all he wants, and I beg you will leave it to me. I can spare the money easily. I have no one but myself to think of now. Do listen. Let it be a debt You shall give me any acknowledgment you like. But, child, you are over-weighted with these family cares. They will dry up your youth, and cheat you out of its joys, which no other period can ever repay. Come, let Randal borrow the money from me.’

‘You are too—too good,’ sighed Grace, with an expression of pain and perplexity in her speaking face. ‘But we are already hampered, and if Randal takes this money, I see no chance of his repaying you.’

‘Well, then, you shall,’ returned Lady Elton, cheerfully.

‘I wish I could. Tell me, can I do nothing to earn any money, Lady Elton? You know so much. You can do so much. Can you not help me in this?’

* My dear Grace, we will think about it Meantime, I consider that you accept my offer.’

* Indeed I do not see what else can be done, if Randal is to avail himself of the wonderful opportunity you have found for him.’

‘That is speaking like a sensible girl. Then, dear, the sooner he sets about his outfit the better. And by all means let him give me a proper acknowledgment of the money I advance. I trust one day he will be quite able to pay it back.’

‘But the real debt—your generous, timely help, can never be repaid. And for this I am always content to be your debtor.’

‘I have not much pleasure left in life,’ said Lady Elton, dreamily; and she remained in silent thought till they reached home.

The succeeding days were exceedingly busy. Randal was more than himself again. He recovered looks and spirits with marvellous rapidity. And his anticipations of prosperity and success were unlimited. He enjoyed rushing from tailors to outfitters, and was in such radiant good-humour that he took Grace’s warnings against unnecessary expense without petulance.

‘I do wish I could see the dear mother before I go,’ he said one afternoon, as Grace, who had been shopping with him, sat down to rest in the little Camden Town parlour before returning to Lady Elton. ‘She will be awfully cut up about it, too.’ And a sad, troubled expression came over his soft, good-looking young face.

‘Yes; but then she will be so pleased at your having so good an appointment. She knows you would go to her if you could.’

‘She ought to know that. After all, she is the only creature that really loves me,’ said Randal, with a slight sigh.

‘Don’t you think I love you, Randal?’ asked Grace, a little reproachfully, though she looked kindly at him.

‘Oh, you are a good sister and all that, I know. But no; you don’t love me! You think me a poor weak creature. Perhaps I am, but if you loved me, you would believe in me. As it is, I know you do not, and I am always more stupid and unlucky with you than anyone.’

‘But, Randal, you distress me,’ began Grace, touched by the grain of truth in his words.

. ‘Oh, there is no use in putting a fine point to it. I am a nuisance to you, and indeed I cannot wonder at it, though perhaps if you knew how I had been tempted and driven you would make more allowance. I had such wonderful luck at first, and it was so delightful to feel the money in my pocket. Then I could not believe when luck turned against me that it could last; so when I was hard pressed, and half maddened to think that I should be a defaulter among fellows who had seen me hold my head so high, I tried to get some from an old screw of a money-lender; but he wouldn’t give me a penny without security, but said, with a sort of a devilish sneer, “Won’t your rich uncle accept a bill at twenty-one days?” I was so riled that something put it into my mouth to say, “No; but I daresay his son will” and then the old fellow laughed, and croaked out, “All right, bring me his name, and you can have what you want!” The sound of those words never left my ears till I did it, and then—oh, Grace, I wonder I did not blow my brains out—the twenty-one days were gone before I could think. Still the luck went against me; yet I was so sure I should win and make it right, that I went on. Then the old beggar renewed, and it cost me a lot for that; and then he renewed again, and said it was for the last time. Then I had no money to try my luck with, and I felt as if I was dying, so I sent for you.’

The remembrance seemed to bring back the horrors he had suffered so vividly, that he leant his arms on the table, and bowed his fair boyish head upon them.

‘Randal, dear Randal,’ cried Grace, overwhelmed with self-reproach, and deeply touched, ‘I am afraid I seem cold and hard; but I do feel for you, my brother—I do indeed : only I have been distressed and worried; and I would have given my right hand rather than have asked Max. Well, there, I will never name him again, dear Randal,’ lifting his head and kissing his brow. ‘Let us be close friends and help each other; only promise—promise with all your heart never to touch a card again.’

‘Never for money, Grace,’ he said, readily enough.

‘Oh, make no exception!’

‘Why, if I was asked to make up a party at whist by my respected patron, it would not do to refuse.’

‘He will like you all the better for being firm.’

‘No—no; you must not hamper me with impossible conditions. You may trust me. I will never get myself into a scrape again.’

‘Heaven grant it!’ said Grace, with a sigh.

There was a pause.

‘Lady Elton has asked me to dinner on Thursday. Who is to be there, Grace?’ resumed Randal.

‘I am not sure. I am afraid Uncle Frere and Max.’

‘Then I am engaged. Really I must hold myself free for Sir Alexander. He said I must dine with him one day this week. There! you look as black as thunder, Grace.’

‘I cannot help it. It is quite as dreadful to me to meet these people as it could be to you; but even for your sake I must do it. We cannot both avoid them without being suspected.

‘Well, thank God! I am going out of the country,’ was Randal’s conclusion, spoken with such hearty and complete content, that Grace gazed at him, astonished to perceive how readily he threw off regret for the culpable act which had caused them both so much suffering.

Lady Elton had roused herself sufficiently to receive once more a small party to dinner. She had taken one of her strong, tenacious ‘likings’ to Maurice Balfour; principally, no doubt, because of his being a messenger from the death-bed of the boy she had loved so dearly, but also on his own account. Something in the indolent but kindly ease of his manners, simple and unworldly though they were, pleased and attracted her; and she was interested in trying to discover and to display the treasure of genius and intellect which she firmly believed lay hid beneath the tranquil surface. She was anxious to introduce him to her brother-in-law, whose influence in a wide business-circle might possibly be of use to her new favourite.

The party was, as has been said, a small one. The two Freres; Maurice Balfour; the cosmopolite Hungarian, who had been in Constantinople on a secret mission since Grace had last seen him in the Darnell days, an Australian explorer, and a couple of tolerably agreeable nobodies. Grace and a well-preserved, Anglo-Italian, much-travelled countess were the only ladies besides the hostess.

Afraid to commit herself by any suggestion, Grace prayed that she might not go into dinner with Max, while she was dressing. It was the first time she had put on colours since her grandfather’s death, and she felt a kind of disgust at their gaudiness. She wore a cream-coloured grenadine made with a square corsage. A bunch of deep crimson roses in her bosom, and another in her hair; the elbow-sleeves decorated with ruffles of rich lace, with which the scarf which tied back her skirt and formed the garniture, was also trimmed.

The tint and form suited her well, though she looked pale, and what colour came to her cheek never stayed there long.

‘That is a pretty dress, and goes very well with your hair,’ said Lady Elton, critically. ‘ Did you get it in Germany?’

No; I got it since I came here. Things are much dearer at Zittau, and I shall have to appear in colours at the Dalbersdorf wedding festivities you know—so I thought it was better to buy one here.’

‘No doubt. You are a prudent puss.’

‘Mr. Balfour,’ announced Luigi; and enter Maurice, looking more mondi in his evening garb than Grace thought he could.

‘So,’ he said, taking a seat by her, while Lady Elton went forward to receive Madame Manfroni and the Hungarian colonel, who arrived together— ‘So, you seem quite a woman of the world, in your evening dress.’ And he looked her all over with his usual attentive, kindly gravity that never disturbed her or quickened her pulse.

‘Not very experienced, Maurice/ she said, with a smile. ‘I am afraid there is a great deal of the raw country-girl about me still.’

' Mr. Frere—Mr. Maxwell Frere,’ in Luigi’s most impressive manner.

‘I have been rather anxious to see these formidable relatives of yours,’ said Balfour, in the confidential tone which was usual between them. ‘The father is rather a solemn buffer, but the young fellow looks distinguished.'

‘Here is Grace,’ said Lady Elton to her brother-in-law.

Whereupon Grace went forward with a smile and a blush so sweet and becoming that even Richard Frere might have been melted; and for some reason he greeted her less frigidly than usual.

‘I am sorry Randal is not here,’ continued Lady Elton. ‘But he is engaged with Sir Alexander Atwell. They are both busy pushing on their preparations, I suppose. Is he not lucky to get such an appointment?’

Monstrously lucky,’ returned Mr. Frere, with an air of somewhat disparaging surprise. ‘I was glad to hear of it, however.’

And he proceeded to discuss Sir Alexander’s projected journey.

When Lady Elton began to speak about Randal, Grace had just given her hand to Max; and feeling his eyes upon her, the consciousness of the true shameful reason of his absence filled her with painful self-abasement. Her eyes sunk under his, and a deep blush spread from her cheek to brow and throat. Moreover, she felt that Balfour was watching her.

‘I congratulate you with all my heart, Grace,’ said Max, pressing her hand for a moment.

‘Lady Elton’s resources are quite inexhaustible.’

‘She is wonderfully good—wonderfully considerate,’ said Grace, with a degree of hesitation very unusual to her; while the roses in her bosom trembled a little.

For the quarter of an hour which ensued before dinner was announced, she felt strangely oppressed, unable to collect her thoughts, and nervous to a, degree very unusual with her. It was a comfort to return to her seat beside Maurice Balfour, and even to draw a little nearer to him. But Max would stand before her, and talk to her, calmly and unembarrassed, as though they never had had a stormy interview, and that so lately!

In this mauvais quart d'lieure Balfour was a great help. Lady Elton, who followed the continental fashion of introducing her guests to each other, had presented Maurice to her nephew. And Max Frere was most gracious.

‘He was quite familiar with Mr. Balfour’s name.

In short, it had been a “household word ” at Dungar, where he had the pleasure of knowing the rector—Mr. Balfour’s grandfather, he believed.

A very agreeable type of the higher ecclesiastic.

A picturesque addition to the Dungar group. Did Mr. Balfour intend to make any stay in town ?’

To which civilities Grace listened with an odd, distrustful impatience, though admitting to herself that her cousin’s manner, and voice, and words were all perfect in their way; and contrasting his finished man-of-the-world style with the natural unstudied ease of her old friend.

To her relief, just before the procession to the dining-room was formed, Lady Elton brought up the Australian, and presented him, first to Grace and then to Balfour, saying, in the first case:

‘You will take Miss Frere to dinner.’ And to Balfour: ‘No one can tell you so much about Australia as Mr. Macintyre.’

Mr. Macintyre was a short, thick man, not fat, but muscular, with a red face, red hair, red whiskers, and, it seemed to Grace, red eyes.

‘Ay,’ he said, ‘I have travelled pretty well over it—as much as a man may. And you’ll be thinking of going there, Mr. Balfour, Lady Elton tells me?’

He spoke with a strong accent, curling up the tails of his sentences in a fashion suggestive of Glasgow.

Before Balfour could reply, the cheering sound of ‘Dinner’ set them in motion; and in the pleasant occupation which succeeded, no consecutive conversation was possible.

‘Randal’s defection has made my table uneven,’ said Lady Elton, looking round during the first pause; ‘and I did not find any suitable person to fill his place.’

‘Is not this Sir Alexander Atwell the man who had a controversy in the Athenaeum with Jenkins, the antiquarian, about some stones, or coins, or some such matter?’ asked Mr. Frere.

‘Yes. He picked up some trash somewhere, which he wished the South Kensington people to accept as genuine. He would go to the stake for it himself,’ returned Lady Elton.

‘He and Randal together will discover a good deal in Egypt,’ said Max, with much seriousness.

‘Egyptology has been developed almost into an exact science,’ observed one of the nobodies. ‘ They say now, that after a little learning, one can read off the inscriptions as you would an article in the Times'

‘What! those strange birds, and beasts, and things one sees on the stones in the British Museum?’ asked Grace of her neighbour, the Australian.

Max was at the other side.

‘Don’t you believe it. They say they read them, perhaps they think they do; but you might say anything was a translation,’ he returned.

‘I wonder that learned people do not interest themselves more in the remains of Central America,’ said Balfour; ‘they are, to my mind, the most curious relics of all.’

‘Have you seen them?’ asked Grace, who was opposite him.

‘Yes, one.’

‘You must tell me all about it some day,’ she returned, at which remark Max looked up sharply from his plate.

‘Well, the only hieroglyphics to be met with in Australia are of Nature’s writing,’ said the explorer; ‘and though practice enables you to decipher a good many, there are plenty to baffle one. You have some thoughts of visiting the colony, sir,’ to Balfour. ‘May I ask if you think of sheep farming?’

* No. There are some railways and other works in contemplation, and I hope to be one of the engineers.’

‘Ah, not a bad beginning; you sometimes get a good chance in such undertakings to pick up a bargain of land, and what not.’

‘I should be very glad to do so. I fancy a colonial life would suit me.’

‘How can you think so!’ cried Grace. ‘It must be horrible; everything so new, everything so unfinished—no grace, no tradition.’

‘I think Nature is old enough, and graceful enough even for you,’ returned Balfour, with a smile; * and one has much more room in a colony.’

‘Have you not been in South America, Mr. Balfour?’ asked Mr. Frere from his place at the head of the table by Lady Elton.

‘I have.’

‘Did you happen to meet a man of the name of Darnell out there?’

‘Darnell,’ repeated Grace; ‘is it possible-’

‘Oh, not our friend,’ interrupted Lady Elton; ‘a cousin of his, a ne’er-do-weel—at least he never seems to have got on here, poor fellow.’

‘Your interest in the rejected is not quite extinct, then?’ whispered Max into his cousin’s ear. ‘Grace, I believe you are a coquette.’

‘Yes,he was rather unsteady; but he appears to be doing well now,’ said Mr. Frere.

‘Darnell! he was my chum in Chili,’exclaimed Balfour, with animation, ‘and an excellent fellow; a little reckless, but full of pluck. We have stood by each other in some curious scenes; indeed, he saved my life once.’

‘How?' asked Lady Elton.

‘Oh, it is a long story.’

‘Not too long I am sure, as we are interested in both actors,’ returned the hostess.

‘There is nothing very exciting in it,’ said Balfour,. carelessly. ‘You see, to be in danger was our normal condition in South America. They were a fearfully rough lot, the navvies, as we would call them; and the whole concern was pervaded with a “life-in-your-hand ” principle that somehow one got used to.’

‘Rather an unprofitable kind of employment,’ said Mr. Frere, with an air of looking down into an unfathomable depth of ruffianism from the awful height of his own respectability.

‘No, it was not,’ returned Balfour, with his immovable good-humoured ease. ‘I was well paid, though I had to wait for my money, and I learned a great deal. There was wonderfully fine engineering on that line. You know it is all through giant mountains, among superb scenery. But the spirit of man in those regions is very far from divine. We were surrounded by a collection of desperadoes of all nationalities. Indeed, the president and his prime minister were perhaps the worst of all, for theirs was a sort of intellectual devilry.’

‘But that does not tell how Darnell saved your life,’ said Lady Elton. ‘How were you induced to go to such a place?’

‘It was partly accident. I had been employed in Spain, and the work was finished there. A Spaniard, with whom I had become very intimate, induced me to try my luck in Brazil. There I met Darnell, and we went together to Chili.’

Lady Elton made another attempt to elicit the tale of Balfour’s adventure, but he was not to be deluded into a long story of himself in that mixed company.

‘At all events Darnell has got himself into a good position now,’ said Max.

‘Yes,’ returned Balfour; ‘he is partner in the firm of Denny, Calthorpe, and Darnell, the contractors.’

‘Is it not rather late in the season for Egypt?’ asked the Hungarian, breaking a short pause.

‘Yes,’ returned Lady Elton. ‘Sir Alexander Atwell has been delayed; and, I believe, intends to visit Roumania, or Thessaly, or some such place, during the summer, and return to Egypt in the winter.’

‘What poems and rough notes we may expect?’ said Max, laughing, to his cousin.

And soon after the ladies retired.

‘That Balfour seems to have taken up his old intimacy with you just where he left off,’ said Max, coffee-cup in hand, as he sat down on the sofa beside Grace. ‘How long is it since you last met P’

‘Five years.’

‘He is not a bad sort of fellow, considering that he seems always to live beyond the pale of civilisation.’

‘No.’ '

‘Is it true, as I gathered from what he was saying to Lady Elton, that he is going to Germany —to Zittau?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you resolved henceforth to speak always in monosyllables?’

‘I do not think of anything else to say.’

‘Grace, why is Balfour going to Zittau?’

‘To see us, and also some German friends. You know he was for some time in Germany.’

‘No; I know nothing about him, except that he is a favourite of yours.’

‘Yes, he is—a- great favourite.’

Max looked hard at her, and she met his eyes calmly and firmly.

‘I am very, very fond of Maurice Balfour,’ she said.

‘I believe it; and yet, Grace, the man is only a kind of civilised navvy.’

‘Perhaps so. I find him civilised enough.’

‘Then I have no more to say, Grace. May I come to complete the family group at Zittau?’

‘I know you are mocking, Max. But I would rather not.’

CHAPTER V

DEAREST MOTHER,

‘I did not write yesterday because, after all, Sir Alexander postponed his departure again; and they did not get away till last night. I went to the station with Jimmy Byrne to see Randal off, and I assure you he started in the highest spirits. His last words were for you, and I think his only regret was that he could not see you. The travellers set out with all the comforts possible. Books, and wraps, and field-glasses, and notebooks, and courier-bags, and, most important of all, a courier, who looked an ambassador at least So I think, dear, you may be quite satisfied that it will be an agreeable as well, I hope, as a profitable engagement to Randal. I am sure it is salvation to him to get away from London and his late associates.

‘I felt quite alone when the train was gone, as if all my work was over; and, oh, such a longing to go straight away home to you to have a good cry in your arms; though, of course, I am very pleased at the same time. So I took Jimmy back with me to Lady Elton’s by her directions, and she had a tea-supper ready for us. She was, as she always is, kind and hospitable, and so nice with Jimmy Byrne. But she is changed—greatly changed. She is softer, less keen and bright, and often so distrait.

‘I wish you had seen how pleased Jimmy was, and yet not quite comfortable. His admiration of the beautiful rooms and his evident awe of the magnificent Luigi (who, by the way, is much more patient and indulgent towards his mistress’s whims than an English major domo would be) were most amusing. And then, as he grew more at home, his questions and conjectures about the ornaments and curiosities were so funny, though he is far from ignorant, and has the tact of a true, tender heart.

‘I had intended to tell you in this what day I should leave London. But after Jimmy Byrne left, Lady Elton, who had been thinking for some time, said suddenly: “Grace, if you put off your departure for a few days, I will go with you to Germany.” Of course I was charmed, and we talked it over. She thinks of letting her etage for three months—which rather surprises me—and taking Luigi and Simmons with her. So, dearest mother, you are to engage rooms for her at the Sachsiche Hof. It is a nicer situation than the Sonne. A good bed and sitting-room for herself, and a room close by for Simmons; and a very good room for Luigi. She thinks she will stay a month. But she is terribly unsettled.

‘I am delighted she is coming; but I begin to long very much for you and Mab, and home. I am sorry dear Friede seems so unwell. What is the matter with her? I am sure I shall cheer her up when I come. I had a nice letter from Wolff von Falkenberg. Such wonderfully good English! He is afraid he will be sent to Konigstein. I hope he will not be away when Maurice comes. I think you will be very pleased with Maurice.

‘Now I must stop. This is the last long letter you will have. I will send a line to say what day next week you may expect us. Kindest regards to everyone. My best love to dear Uncle Costello. Tell Mab how delighted I am that she has been such a good girl. I have not forgotten her in London. Good-bye for the present, dear, dear mother. God bless you.

‘Ever your loving child,

Such was the epistle which Mrs. Frere, with much exultation, a few tears, and many ejaculations, read aloud in the pleasant salon of the Bergstrasse itage, one keen though sunny afternoon at the end of March, to the listening, sympathising Friede, who had come in (as she was ever ready to do) to spend two or three days with her cousin; to assist her in making her simple household arrangements, to check the enormities of Paulina, and to clear up the general muddle which accumulated during her absence.

‘Ach! mein liebe Cousine, it is indeed heart-aching that you could not embrace your son before he took such a distant journey. Nevertheless-’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Mrs. Frere, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, ‘it is a sore trial; but the fact that at such an early age he was selected for so brilliant an appointment is consolatory. Poor dear fellow! I have no doubt the greater part of the wonderful book Sir Alexander is going to write will be done by him. He is quite a man of genius. If you only could read English writing better, I would give you his poems to read.’

‘I am sure he is very clever; so is Grace, and this Lady Elton? I have heard Grace speak of her. Is she a Baronin, or a Grafin?’

‘Oh, neither; she is the widow of a baronet, a title you have not. She is very charming and rich, a sort of connection of ours; and, Friede dear, you must come with me to engage these rooms. How delightful it will be to see dear Grace 1 It seems such an age since she left, and I am so lost without her.’

‘And she is not more than four Weeks away,’ said Friede, sighing.

‘Not so much. And what I should have done without you, my love, I am sure I do not know. I wish I could see more colour in your cheeks, dear. I think your mother ought to take you to Teplitz,

VOL. HI. 49 or Carlsbad, when the summer comes. Shall we go to the Sachsische Hof after dinner, Friede?’

‘Dear cousin, if you could wait till to-morrow! You see I thought—that is, I promised Frau Sturm to help her with her packing. You know she leaves on Monday, and I know not when I shall have an opportunity of doing anything for her, perhaps never again. It is not likely the Herr Professor will return to Zittau.’ A quick deep sigh, almost a sob, end6d this speech.

‘Ah, no! of course not. They have been very fortunate. As to me, to-morrow will do quite as well. There is sure to be plenty of rooms to choose from. I wonder how Lady Elton will like the cuisine. She is accustomed to everything so very rcchercld'

They cook very well at the Sachsische Hof,’ returned Friede, a little absently. ‘But, dear cousin, is it not odd that Wolff should tell Grace that he fears he may be sent to Konigstein, when we only knew of the order yesterday, and it seemed such a surprise? Gertrud is quite cast down. You know it delays the marriage three months at least.’ ‘Does it? Why?’ asked Mrs. Frere.

‘Because it is a sort of service that each of our officers is obliged to do in turn; if sent there they can scarce avoid going on account of any private affairs, and this is the first time Wolff has been sent there since the war. It is our great fortress, you know. You must come and see it one day.’

‘Is it far?’

‘It does not seem so since the new railway has been opened.’

‘Well, Friede, let us go to-morrow early, and settle about the rooms. And now, here is Mab. Let us have dinner, and then you can go away to Frau Sturm.’

The news flew like wildfire through the small circle of Zittau society that Mrs. Frere and Fraulein Friede had been to the Sachsische Hof, and had engaged three or four rooms—a whole itage—the entire hotel—for a relative from England—a lady of immense wealth and high rank—the sister of Gladstone—the niece of Palmerston—the daughter of Russell. She was coming with horses and carriages. No; she was coming incognito, with one negro and two lady’s maids, a monkey and a tame leopard. By no means; she only brought a Hindoo female attendant and a Turkish chasseur. In short, Lady Elton’s advent was a godsend to the community; and the fact that ‘Mees Frere’ was to travel with her, and that Mrs. Frere was to arrange everything for the august visitor, raised the whole family to the highest point of public estimation.

‘You know, my best of friends,’ said the Frau Burgomeisterin to Frau Oberst von Ahlefeld, ‘I always said that, in spite of their simple quiet ways, there was a noble bearing about these English ladies; and Frau Alvsleben, though you know what a hard-to-be-spoken-with woman she is, admitted that, but for family misfortunes, they would never be here.’

‘I am sure they find a refined and kindly-disposed society here,’ returned the Frau Oberst; ‘ and though one is sometimes turned to stone by the freedoms of Fraulein Grace, there is nothing really unmaidenly about her; and one should remember she has not had a German up-bringing/

‘That is indeed true,’ observed Frau Gerichts-director.

‘We cannot expect the same manners and modesty from a Madchen that has been permitted to ride like a man,’ remarked the Frau Ober Zol! Inspectorin.

‘Ach! du lieber Himmel!’ screamed the Frau Postmeisterin; ‘does she then wear-’

A chorus of eager ‘Nein, nein, nein!’ drowned the obnoxious name of Bien-kleider.

The discussion took place at a small Kaffee Klatch at the Frau Staatsamtwalde’s residence, where none but ladies of a certain rank were admitted past-mistresses of the delicate art by which the first faint nucleus of a scandalous story can be found, and fed, and propped by hints and doubts, and vague suggestions, into a wide-spreading flame, springing no one knows from whence, but impossible to quench, and leaving behind it long blackened tracks of soot and cinders, with which none can meddle without carrying away disfiguring traces of having touched an unclean thing.

‘And so Baron Falkenberg goes to Konigstein tomorrow?’ recommenced the Frau Burgomeisterin, as the topic of the English family and their peculiarities became threadbare. ‘It is strange that, with his marriage so near at hand, he did not make interest at Dresden to have his service postponed.’ ‘Ah! meine Damen,’ said the Baronin von Stachelberg, nodding her head and pressing her lips shrewdly together between each clause of her sentence, ‘Von Falkenberg is not the man to be in a hurry to lose his liberty—and such liberty!

Why, after his life at Court, in the war-’

‘Ah! but how do his creditors wait?’

‘Oh, with such a marriage announced, he can get money enough to keep his creditors quiet.’

‘Well, the Fraulein is bold to give herself and her money to a noted man like the Hauptmann.’

‘Nay! believe me, ladies,’ cried the Frau Oberst, ‘Herr von Falkenberg is by no means the mauvais sujet you would make out. He has been a little unsteady; but the Herr Oberst and his brother officers have a great regard for him. I believe the Fraulein Alvsleben will find him a very good husband.’

This exhibition of on the part of the colonel’s wife checked the talk; but only to turn it in another direction.

‘I saw the little Friede coming from Frau Sturm’s house to-day, and I met her there yesterday. She is staying in Zittau, you know, with her English cousin. It seemed a little strange to me: last winter the Herr Doctor—I beg his pardon, I mean the Herr Professor—was constantly with Fraulein Frere and Friede. One never knew which was the attraction; but that night, at the Frau Burgomeisterin’s dance, there was no mistake. I am surprised that Frau Alvsleben does not see it. She would surely not like her daughter to many a man ineligible in many ways?’ cried Frau von Stachelberg.

‘The son—no, the grandson of a Bauer' (peasant).

‘And his mother the daughter of an obscure pastor,’ etc., etc.

Meantime, happily unconscious of all this, Mrs. Frere went to and fro, important and excited by her commission. The landlord of the Sachsische Hof, an old German of a date anterior to the absorbing supremacy of Fatherland, spoke French fairly well; and so did the second waiter. She was therefore able, after the first interview, to dispense with Friede’s assistance, and paid daily visits to the hotel, to remind the host of things she had forgotten yesterday, or only remembered today. And she was always welcome. Her manners were charming, and Germans are peculiarly susceptible to manner, she was the herald of a wealthy, liberal inmate, and her suggestions were generally on the side of expense.

To Mab, who was usually her companion, and whose German was helpful, these visitations were a source of the purest delight. She availed herself of the opportunity to acquire the most perfect and intimate knowledge of the rambling, picturesque old building; of the names, avocations, and general functions of its inmates; of the colours of the furniture; the disposition of the kitchen; the boundaries of the poultry-yards; the condition of the stables; and the contents of the store-room.

And so the time slipped by. And now the travellers were expected on Wednesday—the day after to-morrow—to-morrow—to-day! And Mrs. Frere’s heart beat with nervous delight at the idea of once more having her dear Grace beside her, to direct everything, and to relieve her of all responsibility. For Mrs. Frere was one of those halfdeveloped beings to whom it is agony to decide, or strive to originate, and who, by a merciful arrangement of nature, desire only to be gently guided, and to obey.,

Grace was unusually happy in leaving London. So much so, that she felt a little ashamed of having so completely surmounted the shame, and depression, and despair which weighed her down that terrible day when she sought Max Frere to beg his forbearance for Randal. She feared her nature was too slight and buoyant for her own ideal.

But it was so delightful to have surmounted it all! To know that Randal was away out of London ; that she herself was going to a safe distance from Max, with Lady Elton, who was dearer to her than she had ever been, for her companion; that soon she should be in the quiet, simple, beloved home, with its occupations, and duties, and dreams; and that she had found a fresh link to attach her still more fondly to the past, round which memory cast an aureole of tender light, in her old friend and playfellow. It was a compensation which out-weighed all she had suffered.

She had paid a visit to Jimmy Byrne, and had taken tea with him, and learned to her satisfaction that he had handed over a third of the debt due to Max the previous day.

Grace expended much eloquence and ingenuity in persuading the little man to promise that his next holiday should be spent with her mother and herself at Zittau. She even sketched his route, but could extract nothing beyond :

‘Well, Miss Grace dear, we’ll see.’

‘So, Grace, you are determined to owe me as little as possible,’ said Max, as they stood on the platform waiting for the decisive moment to step into the train.

He had, not quite to Lady Elton’s surprise, actually come down to see them off; and had drawn his cousin aside, while Maurice Balfour, who had awaited them at the station, was speaking to Lady Elton, amid the thunder of steam blowing off, bells ringing, whistles shrieking, and all the hubbub of Victoria at the hour when the evening trains depart.

Luigi, wrapped in a fur coat, and the respectable Simmons in a neat waterproof, holding her lady’s travelling-bag, were occupied in arranging the hundred and one impedimenta of luxurious travellers in the carriage.

‘I owe you quite enough, Max; and gratitude into the bargain. But I do not want to rob you.’

‘Nor do I wish you to be robbed by your brother. Pray, my dear cousin (I suppose you will allow me to use the term in that sense, Grace?), let the matter rest. Hereafter, when some stroke of fortune makes you rich, you shall pay it back with interest.’

You are very good, Max; really, better than I deserve. But if I can pay you, I will perhaps-’

‘Take your places, if you please!’ said the guard, walking down the platform.

‘One moment, Grace,’ whispered Max. ‘I don’t give up my designs easily. You and I have a reckoning to make up yet.’

‘It will be long before we meet. But you have my kindest, best wishes, dear cousin,’ returned Grace, vaguely. She was too happy not to feel on good terms with him.

‘Good-bye, Mr. Balfour,’ said Lady Elton. ‘I wish you were coming with us. Do not be long in following. And keep me informed of your doings.’

She shook hands warmly with him, and stepped into the carriage.

‘Good-bye, Max,’ said Grace, following her; and added, over Max’s shoulder, as he leant through the door to shake hands with his aunt: ‘Yes, Maurice, be sure you come as soon as you can.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Maurice, touching Max Frere’s arm; ‘I must shake hands with your cousin.’ And quietly displacing him, he took her hand. ‘You may be very sure I will come as soon as it is possible. Give my love to Mrs. Frere and Mab. My Grusz to Falkenberg. What can I do for you here? Shall I go and comfort Jimmy Byrne this evening?’

* Yes, do, dear Maurice! I would like it better than anything else.’

‘Trust me,’ emphatically.

A porter exclaimed, ‘Stand back, gentlemen!’ the door was shut, the train moved on, a glance, a smile through the window, and they were off; a curious feeling of satisfaction suffusing itself through her mind as Grace thought the hand which had touched her last was that of Maurice Balfour. And so on with increasing speed.

Dover was soon with them, for Lady Elton had chosen the Ostend route. The weather was cold, and Grace impatient to be with her mother; so they pushed on without waiting to do any sight-seeing.

‘Don’t mind the gallery, dear Lady Elton,’ was her prayer, as they neared Dresden. * If you are not too tired, let us go straight on to Zittau.’

And Lady Elton, who was moved by a kind of sad, regretful sympathy in the filial tenderness she was never to know, consented.

The light was still clear, for it was a fine evening, when they reached Zittau—the fresh, tender light of early April. And Grace felt the delicious consciousness of nearing home. She rejoiced as the familiar station, the burly, well-known figure of the stationmaster, the usual group of porters, and peasants, and jaunty Bohemians hove in sight. But who—who is this in uniform, erect, martial, authoritative, who opens the carriage-door with white-gloved hand, and stands on the step to welcome her?

‘Willkommen, mein liebes, liebes Fraulein! Wie geht’s Ihnen.’

‘Oh, Herr von Falkenberg! Is it possible! I am so glad to see you; I thought you were at Konigstein.’

‘I have had leave for twenty-four hours, and can take the night train at eleven, so I stayed to welcome you.’

‘Lady Elton, here is Baron Falkenberg, of whom I have spoken to you.’

Lady Elton is too tired to say much, and Luigi and Simmons are at hand to assist my lady, and collect my lady’s luggage;’ and the stationmaster, devoted to a party with a cavalier in uniform, called for carriages; and the Sachsische commissionaire came forth, and the whole population in and about the terminus were aware that the great English lady and her suite had arrived.

‘No, Grace; you shall go direct home, I insist upon it. I speak a little German myself, and Luigi a good deal; and I know you are burning to embrace your mother, and Monsieur de Falkenberg will take care of you.’

‘Come over, if you like, when you have supped, or dined.’

So spoke Lady Elton, as they walked through the station.

‘Very well, dear. I will come over in the evening. And see! is not the view very fine?’

‘Very,’ with a sigh; ‘but I am very weary, Grace, and no home awaits me.’

Falkenberg was assiduous in his care of Grace.

He handed her into a and then jumped in himself.

‘I thought you were never coming back,’ he exclaimed, as they rattled over the stones. ‘You have been much longer than you expected, have you not? But England has agreed with you; you are looking brilliant.’

‘That is because I am so delighted to get home again. This place seems so familiar, and London was quite strange.’

‘I am charmed to hear you say so. You must become a true Deutsches Mddchen, and marry a German.’

He looked sharply at her.

‘Ah! I am surprised to find you are not married yet yourself,’ said Grace.

‘So am I. Well, no; not absolutely married, but I suppose I should have been in a fortnight, were it not for this service at Konigstein.’ He spoke very cheerfully. ‘You must come and see me at Konigstein, you and your friend. The fortress is well worth a visit.’

A few more disconnected sentences, for Grace was absorbed in watching their progress, and a rapturous cry, ‘Here we are! and there is dear Mab on the balcony!’

To rush past Falkenberg and fly upstairs, to pass Pauline at the open door with a hasty kindly greeting, was but a minute’s work; and then she was in her mother’s arms, while Mab danced round them, snatching what kisses she could of her sister’s hands, and cloak, and bonnet-strings.

‘My darling! thank God you have come back to me! I do not think I can ever let you go away again. It has been a terrible time,’ sobbed Mrs. Frere.

Then it was Mab’s turn, and, looking round the pleasant room, all decked with such flowers as the late spring of that region could supply, Grace felt a moment of annoyance to see Falkenberg standing in the doorway, and calmly contemplating the group with an expression of benevolent gratification. She wanted to be alone with her dear ones, for with her joy no stranger could mingle; but she checked the feeling—Falkenberg meant kindly.

‘Let me, too, welcome you again,’ he said, coming forward as he caught her eye; and taking her hand in both of his, he kissed it twice. ‘You know how welcome you are, heart’s dearest friend,’ he murmured in German, while a sudden look of pain darkened his face for an instant, and gave Grace a thrill of discomfort.

‘It is worth returning to be so kindly received,’ she said, turning to her mother, and giving her her hand.

‘You must be so dreadfully tired, dear love, and hungry,’ said Mrs. Frere, stroking it. ‘Come|and take off your things. You will take tea with us, will you not, Herr Hauptmann?’

‘May I?’ he looked to Grace.

‘Yes, do!’ was her spoken reply.

‘With infinite pleasure,’ he returned, unfastening his sword, while Grace, followed by her mother and the ubiquitous Mab, who of course had chattered and asked questions from the moment Grace had arrived, went to her room.

How pretty, and fresh, and home-like it was! How glad she was to be there again! ‘Only why did you ask him, dear? I have so much to say!’

‘Well, it would not have been kind to let him go. He has been so good and attentive ever since you went, and-’

‘Not ask Wolff to stay!’ cried Mab, indignantly; ‘and he goes away to-night. You are unkind, . Grace.’

‘Oh, very well; only I am greedy, and want you all to myself.’

Soon Mab slipped away to Falkenberg. Then Mrs. Frere asked many tearful questions about Randal, and seemed satisfied with Grace’s judicious replies; but though she was aware that the beloved prodigal had been in debt and difficulty, from which he had been rescued by her own and Grace’s exertions and sacrifices, her queries were almost all respecting his looks, the impression he had made on his employer, his degree of favour with Lady Elton, the particulars of his outfit, etc.

It was a very happy evening meal, however, though Falkenberg’s presence imposed a slight restraint. The name of Maurice Balfour was soon mentioned, and Falkenberg seemed deeply interested in the description given by Grace of her delight at meeting him, and of expecting him to visit Zittau, with all her natural frank warmth.

At last, or rather too soon, it was time to go to Lady Elton; and after a short struggle with Mab, who wished to be of the party, they set forth, escorted by Falkenberg, who bid them good-bye at the hotel-door.

CHAPTER VI

FOR the first ten days Lady Elton felt much better in health and spirits for the novelty of her surroundings. She found the Sachsische Hof comfortable and picturesque. Moreover, both Luigi and Simmons were satisfied with their quarters—a very important point. Zittau was pronounced deliciously quaint, and the surrounding neighbourhood justified Grace's description; while the Dalbersdorf family were pleasantly and characteristically German.

This was a very happy bit of every-day sunshine to Grace. To have Lady Elton's companionship, without the necessity of depriving the mother of her own, was truly delightful. With her friend she could express the thousand and one doubts, the gradually forming opinions which crowded her mind, the dawning light of maturer intellect which gave her glimpses of distant and ever-widening horizons far beyond the line where heaven and earth met in earlier days.

And Lady Elton was equally drawn out herself, by the fresh, youthful daring and activity of her young companion. For a while Grace almost hoped that change had wrought a radical cure. But the mischief lay deeper than she thought.

The solemnities of a visit to Dalbersdorf were not to be lightly undertaken, but Grace, knowing the importance of etiquette in a small German society, was anxious that Lady Elton should accompany her mother on their first drive to the old house after her return.

Of course Count Costello and Cousin Alvsleben, Gertrud and Friede, came the very morning which succeeded the arrival, to see and embrace their ‘liebe Cousine,’ to say nothing of the severe crossexamination to which they had all looked forward with keen pleasure.

The count looked wonderfully fresh and well, and as Grace sprang up to embrace him, uttered a tender, hearty ‘God bless you, mee child!’ Then holding her away, and looking her all over, he exclaimed :

‘You look like the flowers in May! Faith, I don’t know what it is that makes our island complexions so fine, but that’s just where an Irish girl gives the go-by to every other! There’s your mother has been fretting herself to fiddle-strings about you. Indeed we all missed you, darlin’.’

‘And so your cousin Lady Elton’ (emphasis on * ton’) ‘came back with you,’ cried Frau Alvsleben.

‘That was well. I was never so astounded as when I heard you had gone away quite alone to England. How could you do such a thing 1’

* I did not stop to think, Cousin Alvsleben, when I knew poor Randal was in danger.’

* Yes, indeed; even Wolff, who is of course not too particular, was quite vexed and uneasy when he found you had gone alone. I do not know when I saw him so put out,’ said Gertrud, who looked neither so well nor so happy as when Grace saw her last.

‘I too, best and dearest—I trembled for you,’ whispered Friede; ' and now that you have come back, I venture to hope you will bring me better fortune.’

Then came a torrent of questions anent Randal’s appointment, which had made a great impression on his German relatives; about the fashions in London; about Lady Elton’s fortune and position, and the real reason of her visit to Zittau, eta, eta, with the point-blank, undisguised, honest curiosity especially indicative of the country-bred German, and a good many town-bred ones too : a curiosity never the least ashamed of itself—simply desirous to know the ins and outs of everything—never dreaming that anyone cares to preserve a private corner, and quite as ready to impart details as to demand them.

In the midst of the babble, the count rose, and at once betrayed the reason of his extra smartness by drawing on a pair of fresh, well-fitting military gloves, and declaring his intention of paying his respects to Lady Elton, * as a countrywoman—at least, a fellow-subject—and a connection of my dear niece, I think it right to call.’

‘And Lady Elton will be truly delighted to see you,’ said Mrs. Frere.

‘I should like to assist at the interview,’ observed Grace, smiling, as she looked after the retreating figure of the gallant veteran. ‘Lady Elton will be quite delighted with him. How pleased I am to see you all again! I thought I should be just in time for the wedding, Gertrud! How provoking that Wolff should be sent away! I was quite sorry for him!’

‘Yes; it is too—too cruel,’ returned Gertrud, mournfully. ‘And now we fear the marriage will not take place for quite three months. Then Wolff wants to make a long journey to the Tyrol. So it will be quite autumn before we are settled at home—too late to preserve Gurken or make any winter provision.’

‘Oh, I would not care for that,’ said Grace, smiling. ‘Your mother and Mamsell will do all that for you.’

‘Ach, Gott! mein Gracechen, but you do not understand how dear these home labours are to a German. I like none to meddle with my household duties.’

‘And, Grace, my child,’ said Frau Alvsleben, ‘Mamsell has sent thee some eggs—the best and freshest, and some of our first violets.’

‘Dear, good Mamsell! I long to see her. My best Grusz, and thanks to her.’

50—2

‘And we have lost our valued friend Frau Sturm,’ said Friede, no longer able to resist the subject ‘Yes; I regret the excellent Frau,’ cried Cousin Alvsleben. ‘But it is well for the Herr Professor and for her. They are established at Leipzig; and he has already three pupils (one an Englishman), who pay handsomely for their board. So they have changed for the better. Why there, in the world, he may have opportunities of pushing the fortunes of his brother. In a couple of years, if there is no more war, my Ulrich will be taking command of his own place; and the Verwalter will want higher employment’

‘It is very good for the whole family,’ observed Mrs. Frere.

At last the friendly visitors rose to depart; Frau Alvsleben refusing a pressing invitation for Friede to remain with her friend.

‘I want to tell Friede all my secrets,’ said Grace, smiling. ‘I am afraid to tell them to Gertrud, for, of course, everything goes to Wolff.’

‘You need not fear,’said Gertrud, impatiently, yet a little sadly. ‘He does not care for secrets. He scarcely listens to mine.’

Her words struck Grace with sudden pain. Gertrud was not amiable and lovable like Friede, but that was no reason why she was to be tortured by doubts of the man who was to be her husband. And Gertrud had expanded so wonderfully to the sunshine of happiness, that Grace had grown to like her better than she ever did before.

‘No, my Kindchen; Friede must come back with us. There is much to be done at this season. But you will come to Dalbersdorf soon, meine gute Cousine? Come this week, and dine, and spend a long day.’

‘No, dear Frau Alvsleben; not to dine this week. We want to bring Lady Elton to see you, and to see Dalbersdorf; so-’

‘Aha, richtig!’ cried the mistress of that mansion; ‘and meine Liebe, come on Friday if it be possible. We will have the Obenstube open and ready for your reception.’

Here was an honour! Not for every guest did the sacred Oben-stube unfold its portals. Mrs. Frere and Grace expressed suitable gratitude, and Frau Alvsleben hurried away.

‘You have seen Wolff, have you not?’ asked Gertrud, lingering behind her mother.

‘Yes; he very kindly came to meet Lady Elton and myself at the station. Some subtle-undefined caution made her put Lady Elton’s name first.

‘Ist es moglich!’ said Gertrud, surprised and not pleased, as she passed through the door.

‘Would to heaven I might stay with thee!’ whispered Friede. ‘My heart aches with its load.’

‘On Friday, my best and kindest, we shall manage a long talk,’ returned Grace, embracing her ‘Dear mother, I think love is a miserable thing,’ said Grace, stepping back into the salon from the balcony, whence she had waved their visitors a final adieu.

‘Why, dear?’

Why!—see how unhappy Gertrud looks, and how miserable and nervous Friede seems; and Fraulein von Ahlefeld, whom we met this morning, is engaged since I left, and she is quite changed.’

‘You know nothing about it, dearest. Youth isn’t youth without love,’ returned her mother, with a sigh. * When I remember the joy of first knowing that your father loved me, and that we were to be married and to be always together—and then the sort of secure happiness when we were one, the double-pleasure of everything—I can wish nothing better or brighter in this life for you.’

* Yes; all that must be delightful!’ thoughtfully; ‘but then my father was a true-hearted gentleman. He was not fanciful and faithless, like so many; and you were lovely and sweet and good—he could find nothing better. One could never feel the same sort of trust in Wolff, for example; and then Gertrud is not pretty.’

‘No,’ returned Mrs. Frere, smiling, delighted with the sweetest of all flatteries, that which falls from the lips of one’s child. * But it is not beauty which always fascinates. I have heard your dear grandfather say—and he knew the world well— that plain women are often loved the most tenderly and faithfully.’

* Perhaps so,’ said Grace, sitting down on the sofa and lying back among the cushions; ‘but I should like to be beautiful and fascinating, and a joy to the eye that dwelt upon me; and I should like to have power over the hearts of men, and women too. Why, I like to be pleasing to a beggar in the street when I give him a penny, or to an old woman selling apples at a corner, or a ragged child that asks me what o’clock it is. And I am not at all sure whether it is selfish vanity or disinterested kindness.’

‘My dear, you are really too hard on yourself; it is simple kind-heartedness.’

Grace shook her head, and remained in deep thought.

The weather had been fine and warm for a few days previous to the expedition to Dalbersdorf and the first faint gleam of tender green began to show on the bushes and slighter trees, though the sturdy oaks, elms, and beeches stretched forth their rugged branches, still naked and wintry.

‘It is a fine country,’ said Lady Elton, as they turned from the principal road to the branch which led to Dalbersdorf. They were driving along at a tolerable pace, with the best pair of horses the Sachsische Hof could produce. ‘Yet I do not know whether it is a real impression or a reflection of my own mood; the place seems melancholy to me. In fact, almost all country out of England so impresses me. Perhaps it is the want of gentlemen’s houses that gives a feeling of remoteness and isolation—a poverty-stricken aspect to the land; but though nature is fair, I would shudder at the idea of living here.’

‘So should I,’ returned Mrs. Frere, heartily. ‘In fact, I begin sometimes to long for England; certainly, were I not very poor, I should never bfe content to live here.’

That is ungrateful, mother,’ said Grace. ‘We have met great kindness; and, Lady Elton, I think if I were very, very fond of some one at Dalbers-dorf, I should be content to live there.’

‘My dear, if you loved anyone very, very much, you might be content at the bottom of a coal-pit; but, as you do not, you must come back to England and marry an Englishman.’

Not much more passed between them till they drew up at the entrance, where stood the count bareheaded, and Mamsell, the and Friede.

How familiar the old grey house, with its harsh outlines and bare homely surroundings, looked to Grace! and she loved the place with a grateful love. Its novelty, its hearty welcome, its honest simple industry, had woke her to fresh life after having passed through the shadow of a mental death. It was here she had been born again, to stronger and more vivid existence.

Meantime the count, with kindly words and courtly bows, was handing Lady Elton and Mrs. Frere from the carriage, while Friede, curtseying deeply, kissed Lady Elton’s hand and embraced her cousin—Mamsell, the while, bobbing many reverences on the doorstep.

‘You are most heartily welcome to our primitive dwelling, dear lady. Welcome, my best of nieces! My Frau Tochter awaits you within doors.’

And so they were ushered into the great grim hall, and up the stairs to the Oben-stube, which displayed its glories of black and gold, where Frau Alvsleben, in her best black silk and white lace, and Gertrud, in her much-trimmed maroon cashmere dress, awaited their visitors. Then ensued much curtseying and polite phraseology, and Lady Elton aired her very tolerable German, for she had a slight knowledge of several tongues.

Grace, sitting silently beside Friede, could not help noticing the contrast between the German and English faces: the first, honest, broad-browed and large mouthed, with a certain force in the jaw and forehead; the others, more delicate in outline, more keen and mobile in expression; and, in Lady Elton’s case, a touch of disdainfulness tinging both eyes and lips.

After the exchange of many compliments, Frau Alvsleben, at Mrs. Frere’s request, conducted her new acquaintance through the house, its storerooms and linen cupboards, its kitchen and offices, its and Gesinde-stube, or labourer’s quarters; its barns and cattle-houses, they could not be termed sheds; its brewery, and last, far from least, its piggeries—it would be blasphemous to apply the word ‘sty’ to such models of cleanliness. While Lady Elton, but languidly interested, admired and questioned, Grace and Friede stole away to the garden, from which some of the farm labourers were removing the young larch and pine branches with which the flower-beds had been covered up against the winter cold, under the inspection of the Verwalter himself. After a hearty greeting with him, the two girls found an opportunity for their long-deferred talk. Friede, in a voice broken by tears, detailed how everything was as dark as ever between Otto Sturm and herself, that he had gone away to Leipzig without an explanatory word, though the last night he had been at Dalbersdorf he had seemed agitated and cast down. It is true his mother had dropped a significant word or two; but, save for such uncertain indications, she was utterly in the dark as to Otto’s feelings or intentions. At one time she felt sure that he loved her; but now, he had no doubt seen others fairer and more worthy. There was no reason why he should not change. He was in no way pledged to her. But for herself, neither time, nor absence, nor neglect could alter her. No. To have been once loved by so noble a heart, so glorious an intellect, was enough to fill her soul for ever. She would rather watch the embers of such a love, than light fresh fires with meaner fuel. All this with many tears and gaps of sobbing, yet pervaded with so much tender patience and faithful affection, that Grace did not know whether to admire or be angry with her.

To weep and openly lament because she thought herself deserted; to avow unbounded love for a man who had ceased to love her, if he had ever done so—this was beyond Grace’s comprehension. She could understand suffering from such a cause, and eating her heart out in silence; but to complain, to vow eternal fidelity to a man who did not care for her—this was a degree of self-abnegation quite out of her reach. However, she suppressed her wrath, which was partly caused by her deep sympathy for her friend’s suffering.

‘I scarcely know what to say, dearest Friede, I have seen so little of the world myself; but I cannot help feeling that Dr. Sturm is not the sort of man to change. He may have reasons we cannot know for his silence. But if he has been faithless to you, I cannot bear you to fret about it; it seems to leave him master of the situation. Just think of what is due to yourself. You can feel kindly towards him, and be ready to do him a good turn.

But your pride ought to-’

‘Ah, dearest, I have no pride where Otto is concerned 1 I have no life but his/

Grace looked at her in deep thought.

‘Could I ever feel like this?’ she asked herself; ‘could any love so annihilate my individuality?’ And her inner consciousness answered ‘No; but you could suffer a good deal.’

The friends walked almost round the small flower-garden without speaking, and then Grace said, consolingly:

‘Did not the Verwalter tell my mother that he hoped his brother would come next week to pass a few days with him?’

‘Yes, at Easter; in about a fortnight,’ returned Friede, dejectedly.

‘Then you can form some idea of Otto’s state of mind; and if you think he no longer cares for you, you must put him out of your head. I shall be very angry with you, dear, if you do not’

‘Oh, my Grace! but I am not so strong as you.’

‘Nor am I so tender and true as you, I fear. Still, pride is a very useful thing for a woman.’

‘Why should I be ashamed of loving?’ asked Friede; but the appearance of Lady Elton, with her attendant hostess, Gertrud,’ and Mrs. Frere, broke in upon their conversation; and after a visit to the garden, a peep at the poultry, a glass of wine and slice of cake in the Gartensaal, the Sachsische Hofs best carriage was ordered round, and the visitors departed.

‘Do they live there quite all the year round?’ asked Lady Elton, as they cleared the village on their homeward road; and on Mrs. Frere’s answering in the affirmative, she exclaimed : ‘And are they quite content, those young girls? Does no echo of the outer world ever reach them and make them long to stretch their wings?’

‘I think not,’ returned Grace. ‘To Gertrud and Friede the whole world is comprised in Dalbersdorf and Zittau : to look beyond is scarcely natural or amiable. They have scarce a thought for anything outside their own families; they think my ardent desire to see and know, feverish and wrong. They are such typical German maidens that they seem incapable of a separate existence.’

‘Yes; I see it. Yet what an awakening lies before German women — and what admirable women they will be!’ said Lady Elton thoughtfully, as she drew the collar of her fur-jacket closer round her throat. ‘The spring is very late in these regions. Are you quite warm enough, my dear Mrs. Frere?’

CHAPTER VII

A FORTNIGHT rolled on peacefully, and to Grace pleasantly, though she began to wonder why Maurice Balfour neither came nor wrote. Jimmy, it is true, sometimes mentioned him as a frequent and welcome visitor, and he had also transmitted messages from Maurice, who was greatly occupied with some unexpected work undertaken to oblige his friend Darnell. At last, Grace announced her intention of writing to the truant herself. But Lady Elton, to whom she imparted this intention, surprised her by saying:

‘You need not, child. I wrote to him myself yesterday. I do not understand his delay. He was quite full of coming; and though this work may detain him, he ought to write—to explain. I cannot tell you how much I wish to see that boy— no, I should say young man—again. It rests me to talk to him. His repose is the quiet of strength, not of indolence. He will come to the front yet I should like him to have a little more ambition — a little more dash—to see him advanced on his way; but my time grows short’

‘Dear Lady Elton, do you not feel well? What makes you say such a thing?

‘No, child; I have long been unwell. I feel as if my heart was dead—nothing but nerves, I suppose. I cannot sleep; and sometimes I could drink the poisoned bowl with joy, if I could escape thought in no other way. I can only find oblivion by the aid of chloral and chloroform and such drugs. Society bores, and solitude appals me. A little bit of interest is such a blessed relief; that is the reason I came here. I love you, and I like your mother; but I like talking to Maurice Balfour best of all.’ Grace was too much distressed by this speech to answer immediately; and before she could reply, Lady Elton turned to another subject.

Balfour’s answer came as quickly as it could, and with it a letter to Grace. He deeply regretted the uncertainty of his prospects, as it necessitated his presence in London for an indefinite time, when he should so much enjoy a visit to Zittau and a peep at his old friends. Indeed he feared he must fore go these pleasures altogether, as a sudden engagement might offer at any moment But so long as he was in London, Grace might depend on his looking after Jimmy Byrne, and if there was anything else he could do, etc., etc.

It was a cruel disappointment She did not herself know with what certainty and delight she had looked forward to his coming. All the walks and rides she had planned—all the innocent amusements—all her projects melted away.

‘Is it not too bad?’ she said, the tears undisguisedly in her eyes. * It seems quite uncertain whether Maurice will come or not.’

She spoke to Lady Elton, who had come in, as she often did in the forenoon, to discuss Randal’s letters, or to ask Grace to help her with a passage in a German book—for she was languidly trying to recall her knowledge of the language—or to relieve herself of her own company.

‘I do not think it uncertain,’ she replied, looking at Grace with a slight but kindly smile. ‘From what he says to me, I should say it is quite certain he will not come.’

* Why?’ asked Mrs. Frere, in a tone of surprise.

‘I cannot tell, but I can make out that he has some strong unavowed reason.’

* Well,’ said Mrs. Frere, in a tone of common-sense, ‘we must remember that he has nothing to depend on but his own exertions, and he cannot afford to throw away a chance/

‘True, my dear Mrs. Frere; and what a horrid thing poverty is!’

‘It is a great nuisance in this case,’ murmured Grace. ‘I suppose we shall never see poor Maurice again.’

‘“Never,”’ repeated Lady Elton, musingly. ‘It is an appalling word.’ And then they went on to talk of Randal, and the favourable accounts received from him that morning.

Lady Elton was kindly and sympathetic; and while they talked of the absent boy, Grace stole away to commune with her own heart in her chamber—to fight a small battle with herself, before she rejoined her mother. It was a greater blow than she had anticipated, this letter of refusal. As to the fear of never seeing Maurice more, she did not dread it much. A species of presentiment led her to believe vaguely that their paths in life would cross again. Only just now, when spring was spreading its tender green over wood and field and garden, and she had looked forward to so much natural' healthy pleasure, it was too cruel to be so disappointed : it was an evil omen.

But, the battle fought out, she returned to the salon, and cheerfully assisted her mother to dress, in order to accompany Lady Elton in a drive to * Nonnen Klunzen’—a point of view in the neighbourhood.

Soon Mab came in and claimed her attention. Lessons had to be looked at, for Mab had ascended to a higher class, and was consequently plunged into fresh difficulties. Then the sisters eat their early dinner together, and went for a long ramble among the nearest woods they could find. So the keen edge of disappointment was somewhat blunted, and Grace was herself again.

But the sense of regret did not leave her as soon as Grace expected. Hers was a joyous temperament that rebelled against sorrow, and struggled to reject annoyance as quickly as possible. To sit down and submit was impossible^ and a grief she could not resist could conquer only by annihilating her.

In the present case she partly relieved her feelings by writing a hearty, sisterly letter to Balfour, detailing in terse, unhesitating expressions her sincere regret at his decision; and begging him, if he thought he could prudently do so, to reconsider it. Then she found a congenial occupation in comforting Friede, for the recusant doctor did not come at Easter. New pupils were arriving, and he must stay to assist his mother in receiving them.

Falkenberg had paid another flying visit to Zittau; appearing in Mrs. Frere’s salon first on his way from the train to Dalbersdorf, and last on his way back from Dalbersdorf to the train. Lady Elton pronounced him an excellent specimen of a German officer, and a very agreeable man; in which verdict Mrs. Frere heartily coincided.

Falkenberg warmly sympathised in the regret expressed by Grace at the change in Balfour’s plans. He had looked forward with so much pleasure to see his old comrade again. They had been such good friends, etc., etc.

Grace was quite pleased too with his frank, friendly manner. He had also spoken in a kindly strain of Gertrud as his Braut—the first time that Grace had heard him call her so—of his intentions of being a husband after the English model. Words which, though spoken laughingly, had in them no covert sneer.

Altogether Falkenberg was charming, and Grace in her heart accused herself of having been a conceited goose for misinterpreting the German sentimentality of his expressions towards herself; or, if they were more than friendship warranted, and at the time they certainly seemed so, his engagement to Gertrud, the consciousness that he was bound to her, had operated as a wholesome alterative, and restored him to a sounder, saner condition of mind. This was a source of the purest satisfaction. Nevertheless the heaviness did not pass away, and whenever she ceased to exercise her thoughts by a positive effort of will, the dim pain shaped itself into the words, ‘ He is not coming.’

It was a bright afternoon, about a week after the receipt of Balfour’s letter. Grace had coaxed Lady Elton to try the (to her) unusual experiment of a long walk. She was uneasy at the dull apathy which seemed to settle down over her friend, now that the newness of Zittau and its people began to wear off, and she was eager to counteract it.

They had been out for nearly two hours; rambling through a wood which approached the town on the north-east, gathering violets and anemones, and resting occasionally on the trunk of a prostrate tree—for Lady Elton was not equal to much fatigue—sleeplessness and unspoken regret had exhausted her force; and she had no will to resist her depression.

‘I hope I have not made you do too much?’ said Grace anxiously, as they approached the Hof. ‘Do you feel very tired?’

‘No, child; no more than if I had stayed at home; and nothing does me so much good as air and the repose of nature. Your wood is very lovely, Grace; and your company is pleasant to me. I like to hear you talk and ramble from one subject to another, though I do not always know what you are talking about. Still you interest me sometimes. Do you know, dear, I wish you would come back and live in London. You are buried alive here.’

‘But I am very happy; so is my mother, so is Mab. Why should we change?’

‘Because youth slips away so soon; and you waste it here.’

‘Forgive me if I cannot see that I do. I enjoy, I learn—not as much as I ought, but still I learn. And, Lady Elton, I have a little secret to tell you. I have been trying to say it all the time we have been out, but I could not I have written a little sketch of “Burchardswalde and the Robber’s Tower,” and I want you to look at it. You are such a critic. It is only just lately I have ventured to write. I have had poor Randal’s example before my eyes, and I have always feared to let myself believe I could do anything. Yet if you would look at it, perhaps-’

‘Yes; I will look at it, were it only to prevent you wasting your time, child. There Is no more fatal Will-o’-the-Wisp than an unfounded belief in one’s own literary power.’

‘I dare say I seem very conceited, dear Lady Elton. Perhaps I ought not to trouble you, but put my lucubrations behind the fire at once.'

* No; do not do that. As the stuff is in existence, let me look at it. You ought to be sensible, with that head of yours. But youth is so incomprehensible in the originality of its ignorance, that it is impossible to form an idea what you have set down. Bring the MS. to-morrow, and I will give you my true opinion.’

‘Thanks! many—many thanks! And now I must leave you, for I promised my mother to go with her to call on Frau Ahlefeld, when I returned.’

‘It is too late, Grace. It is nearly five. Still I will let you go. I shall lie down till dinner-time, and perhaps I may sleep. Come over in the evening. Ask Mrs. Frere to come.’

Grace walked slowly on home, pondering, with a mixture of shy hope and more vivid fear, on the ordeal she had dared. Lady Elton was no ordinary critic, and it was a trial to subject her cherished MS., which was dear and sacred to her as a first love, to such discerning eyes. Still, it was worth the trial, for the chance of encouragement The hope of earning something, by an occupation so charming, was not to be given up without an effort, even if Lady Elton pronounced her lucubrations rubbish. True, her experience with Randal had long discouraged and held her back ; but since she was away from him, and amid fresh scenes, the longing to see how her thoughts and observations would look on paper was too strong for any deterrent recollections.

‘And it would be so delightful to feel I was not wasting my time in writing, even if I only made enough to buy boots for Mab; she wears out such a quantity of boots.’

These reflections carried her to the door of the salon, and were only checked by a slight feeling of surprise to hear her mother speaking to some one, as it was rather late in the day for visitors.

The evening sun sent its rays slantwise into the furthest window on the left, tinging with living gold a pretty water-coloured sketch of the bay and outlying islands at Dungar—a household treasure, the work of some artist visitor in the bygone days of De Burgh glory. The fresh muslin curtains, the vases and baskets full of violets and other spring blossoms, the photographs, the open piano, Mrs. Frere’s bright-coloured wool-work, made a pleasant home-picture of the room, while the warm scented atmosphere struck the senses as an invisible refinement. Grace, as she opened the door, thought how she loved her home. How nice the mother looked, too : her figure was still quite pretty in her well fitting black silk dress, lace cap, and pale blue ribbons. But who was the gentleman sitting well back in a deep arm-chair, whom she perceived as she passed the threshold? She caught a glimpse of very dark brown hair and the end of a long moustache. Her mother exclaimed :

* But here she is herself!’ And then the gentleman started up, and coming quickly towards her, she found her hand in Maurice Balfour’s before she rightly recognised him—Maurice, with more colour than usual in his embrowned cheeks, and irrepressible joy rioting in his large brown eyes.

‘Oh, Maurice! I am so glad to see you!’ cried Grace. ‘You have changed your mind after all. It is quite delightful! I had planned all sorts of things, and we were terribly disappointed when your last letter came. When did you arrive?’

Thus Grace, her own eyes sparkling, her colour transparently brilliant after her long walk, her whole look expressive of startled pleasure.

‘About two hours ago,’ he returned. ‘I found, a day or two after I wrote, that matters were arranging themselves—that I might venture to leave and be happy. So I need not tell you how soon I packed up and started.’

‘Of course,’ said Grace, drawing a chair beside her mother. ‘I hope you are going to stay some time.’

‘Till I am called away,’ he replied; ‘probably three weeks or a month.’

He had returned to his seat, and turning towards her, let his eyes dwell upon Grace while she rapidly told her mother where she had been—with an absorbed intensity, that had she seen it would have startled her.

Then came inquiries for Jimmy, and for Randal, and a little talk about Dungar, and Mr. de Burgh, and Mrs. Frere shed a few tears; while Balfour, in his quiet soft tones, said some warm words about the kindly hospitality of the dear old house, a passing judicious compliment to the unchanged aspect of Mrs. Frere; and then Grace, still bright and glowing, poured forth her plans for excursions here, and picnics there—of introducing Maurice to the count and at Dalbersdorf—of an expedition to Konigstein to see Wolff von Falkenberg; ‘And then, Maurice, we must have a ride. I suppose you have not forgotten how to ride?’

‘Not quite,’ said Balfour. ‘You know in Spain and South America we nearly lived on horseback.’

‘Then, mother dear, don’t you think we might have a ride sometimes? It is not nearly so costly to hire horses here as in England, Maurice! Perhaps Uncle Costello would lend me “Novara and we will make Friede come. It will do her so much good.’

‘Yes; we must have some expeditions on horseback. Why, it would be our Dungar days come back again—eh, Grace?—something worth living for, to ride together once more?’

These last words were uttered in a low tone, as if to himself, and Mrs. Frere looked at him for a moment; but Grace, who was untying and taking off her hat, simply replied, with the heartiest agreement :

‘Yes; is it not?’

At this point of the conversation, Mab arrived from her music-lesson. A waterproof, which she had considerably outgrown, hung over her shoulders; a small and rather conical cap surmounted her small, pale face and disordered hair, out of which her big blue eyes stared at Maurice Balfour with all their might.

‘Come here, Mab,’ cried her mother; ‘do you know who this is?’

‘No,’ returned Mab decidedly, after some consideration.

* She could not recollect me,’ said Maurice, holding out his hand, while Mab slowly drew near and put hers into it ‘This is Mr. Balfour, Mab,’ continued Mrs. Frere.

* Oh, so you have come after all! You don’t know how angry everyone was with you for not coming at once; and Wolff von Falkenberg said he supposed you had found some greater attraction in London.’

‘Did he ¥ said Balfour, looking with a smile into the little face uplifted to his.

‘I did not hear him say so, Mab,’ said Grace.

‘But I did,’ insisted Mab. ‘He said it to Lady Elton when you went to look for the railway-book.’

Her words gave Grace a sensation of vague annoyance, and Balfour went on :

* You remember Dungar of course, Mabel? Do you not remember anyone like me there ¥

‘I think,’ said Mab, very deliberately, and gazing fixedly in his face—‘I think you are the boy, the gentleman I mean, that pulled me out of the brook down by the three black rocks the day I tried to wade across in my best shoes.’

‘For which service you pulled my hair and slapped my face,’ replied Balfour, laughing. ‘I am glad I have still a corner in your memory. We must be good friends, Mab.’

‘Yes,’ said Mab, with some caution.

‘Dear Mab, do take off that dreadful hat and cloak,’ said Mrs. Frere; ‘she is frightfully disfigured by them, Grace.’

‘Yes, I know I look like a ragabone child,’ said Mab, with a pout and a reproachful glance at Grace.

‘Well,’ replied Grace, with a little good-humoured elevation of the eyebrows, ‘as soon as ever we have a little more warmth and sunshine you shall have your new school-hat; but if you begin it too soon-’

* It is brown,’ interrupted Mab—‘brown straw, with long ends of brown ribbon and a little bouquet of wild roses.’

‘That must be charming,’ said Balfour, gravely.

‘Mab, run away and wash your hands,’ said Mrs. Frere. ‘Maurice, you will stay and share our evening meal or tea; it is a sort of mixture here in Germany.

‘Thanks, Mrs. Frere. I have dined so lately that I can only look on; but if you will let me stay I shall be very happy. Though it is so long since we met, I feel curiously at home with you.’

‘I hope so,’ said Mrs. Frere, kindly.

‘But, Maurice,’ cried Grace, turning to leave the room, ‘you must go and see Lady Elton; she was so disappointed about you. And I am anxious to know what you think of her — she is looking, I think, so ill.’

* Yes; I will go over when I think she has dined. I am putting up at the same hotel—a curious rambling old place.’

‘How nice! Then you are quite near to us,' said Grace, as she left the room.

‘I suppose you scarcely knew Grace when you first met?’ asked Mrs. Frere, as the door closed on her daughter.

‘Not at all, at first; but gradually her voice and expression and face came back to me, till she seemed delightfully familiar.’

‘Poor, dear Grace—she is such a good girl! Of course she has not Randal’s brilliant talent; but that is not to be expected. You saw a good deal of Randal, did you not f ‘Yes; he is a nice fellow, and very bright— though he was rather out of health. This Egyptian journey will set him up.’

‘Heaven grant it!’ said the mother with a sigh; and went on to enlarge upon his many excellences, till Grace and Mab rejoined them.

Then came more pleasant easy talk, of both past and future, thickly strewn with ‘Do you remember?’ —a phrase so expressive of common associations— broken by the usual tea-supper, of which Balfour was persuaded to partake; and where he seemed to be so completely one of themselves, that Grace wondered to herself how she could have thought so little of him during their long separation.

‘I think,’ she said, as they went into the salon when the evening meal was over, ‘Maurice ought to go and see Lady Elton. She wanted us all to go over this evening; but perhaps it would be too much for her. She might like to see Maurice alone she addressed her mother.

‘Oh, come with me!’ returned Balfour. ‘My stay is, after all, somewhat uncertain, and I don’t want to lose a couple of hours away from you.’

‘I don’t like going to Lady Elton,’ cried Mab. ‘I am afraid to stir or to look at the things. Her great eyes follow me about so; and I am sure she doesn’t like to have me.’

‘You are an ungrateful little monkey,’ said Grace. ‘Lady Elton has been so kind; what beautiful books she gave you!’

‘Well, I do not care for books; I am always afraid she will ask me if I have read any of them. I would rather have a new skipping-rope than all the books in Christendom.’

‘Really, Mab, you are a most disappointing child,’ cried Mrs. Frere, indignantly.

‘Must I go?’ asked Maurice, with an imploring look in his soft brown eyes.’ (‘How expressive they are,’ thought Grace.)

‘Yes, you must,’ she said firmly. ‘Lady Elton will be sure to hear you have arrived, and will look for your visit: do go, like a good boy.’

‘I think,’ said Balfour, laughing, ‘you might speak more respectfully to your senior. Do you know that I am nearly seven years older than you are?’

‘No; and I don’t believe it. I feel so old and experienced myself since I left Dungar, that you seem young in comparison.’

Balfour smiled, but sighed too.

‘At all events I will obey,’ he said; ' and I suppose it will be too late to return this evening? It is now half-past seven.

* I am afraid so,’ returned Mrs. Frere, reluctantly. ‘We are obliged to be very early, on account of Mab’s school.’

‘So I suppose I may present myself in good time to-morrow?’

‘Oh, whenever you like!’ said Mrs. Frere and Grace together.

‘Grace,’ said her mother, as soon as the door had closed on their retreating guest, ‘he is very nice and likeable; but he has evidently lived out of society. He is, in a sense, gentlemanlike; his voice is naturally sweet and refined—nothing could spoil it—and he does things quietly. There is a kindliness, too, in his little attentions; but he is • not conventionally well bred-’

‘I know what you mean/ said Grace, taking up her needlework; but I think he is all the nicer for it. He does not put his heels together and bow every time you come near him, nor hand you your pocket-handkerchief if you drop it with a flourish, and an air as if it was a condescension, like Wolff, but just does heartily whatever he can to help you.’

‘My dear, Herr von Falkenberg is a very highbred man of the world—quite a different person; it is unjust to Maurice Balfour to compare them. You do not know life as I do.’

‘Certainly not; nor do we see it through the same coloured glasses.’

‘Grade dear, will you hear me say my poetry for to-morrow?’

‘Yes, Mab; let me see how soon you can learn it’

The first month of summer dawned with true vernal freshness and sunshine, within and without, for the little English party in Bergstrasse.

The mornings went swiftly by in many occupations.

Maurice Balfour was no mean draughtsman, and gave Grace much valuable help. Then he took up German again, in which he was formerly fluent, and rapidly recalled it. He was soon in high favour with the count, and often rode out with the veteran. He was also a frequent visitor at Dalbersdorf, and on friendly though not intimate terms with several officers of Falkenberg’s regiment. Still these varied demands upon his time left a large portion to be bestowed on his old friends, and he became thoroughly incorporated in the quiet little circle which had welcomed him so warmly. ‘Will you dine at home to-day, Maurice?’ was Mab’s usual question. ‘What hour would you like tea this evening?’ Mrs. Frere would ask. ‘Maurice, don’t stay at the barracks later than four; I.ady Elton wants us to drive with her to Luckendorf or Gabel,’ would be the injunction from Grace.

Then what rambles to sketch, to collect ferns or wild-flowers, now that the lengthening evenings permitted Mab to join in the various researches; what animated arguments and discussions arose, in which Maurice held his own and maintained his views, which were very often in opposition to his companions’, with good-humoured ease and yet honest conviction that almost nettled Grace.

Oh, happy, healthy days of sunny youth, when all the nobler, brighter facets of the soul grew larger and more brilliant in the genial light of sincerity and hearty sympathy. Can all the wealth and all the far-sought luxury of a pampered age equal the freshness of such restful joy ?

It was a favourite excursion to drive out to Dalbersdorf in the evening, in time to lounge about the garden or wood before supper, and walk into Zittau by moonlight afterwards. Of course this could only be done under a gentleman’s escort; hut Mrs. Frere, with the help of her young friend Balfour’s arm, had grown quite a pedestrian, and accomplished longer distances than the bare German mile which intervened between Dalbersdorf and Zittau.

One evening, about a fortnight after Balfour’s arrival, the family gathering at the old house had been increased by the addition of Von Heldenreich ' and Ulrich, who had had a couple of days’ leave. The supper was consequently very lively, not to say noisy.

The count and his grandson were discussing, with loud voices, the best method of receiving cavalry, while Von Heldenreich, the Verwalter, and Balfour were talking sport, when Gertrud suddenly interrupted them by addressing the latter with:

‘Herr von Falkenberg sends you his best greeting, Mr. Balfour. He comes to see us next week, and will be delighted to meet you again. You knew he was coming, mein liebe Grace?’

‘No; how could I? He does not write to us,’ said Grace, bluntly.

* I thought he might have—I thought he sometimes did,’ said Gertrud politely, and looking down.

‘Oh, he wrote to me once when I was in England; but here, he knows we can hear all about him from you.’

‘He has but two months longer to pass at Konig-stein,’ said Friede, cheerfully.

‘And then,’ added Frau Alvsleben, ‘there will yet be a long, and I hope fine, autumn for the Hockzeitsreise’ (wedding-tour); ‘a soldier’s Dienst must come before everything—even his Braut.’

‘Never mind, my child,’ cried the count, catchiug the drift of the conversation; ‘the weary days of waiting will soon be over, and then the joyous wedding time will make us all alert. Dear friends, I drink to the gallant soldier, Wolff von Falken-berg!’

Many Hochs and much clinking of glasses followed, while Gertrud looked at once important and conscious.

‘I trust the dear friends here assembled,’ said Frau Alvsleben, rather in the tone of making a speech, * will favour us with their company this day week, when my nephew Falkenberg will be with us.’

Everyone replied in the affirmative, except Ulrich.

‘Unhappy me!’ he said, ‘I must return to Dresden and to duty; and there is my sweet cousin does not grieve the least little bit for me.'

‘Indeed, I am very, very sorry, Ulrich,’ said Grace, laughing. ‘Can I do nothing to soften your colonel’s hard heart, that he may let you come?*

‘I am afraid he is such a case-hardened old sinner that nothing would touch him.’

‘And I, gnadige Frau,’ said the Verwalter, addressing the lady of the house, ‘have to announce that my brother, the Herr Professor, has at last arranged for a brief holiday, and purposes to be in Zittau on Monday evening.’

‘Ach, Gott! I am glad to hear it He must come also; tell him so from me, my good friend,’ said Frau Alvsleben, heartily.

‘I drink to the good and worthy Herr Professor,’ cried the count, again filling his glass; and the Hochs and clinkings were repeated, while Friede turned so red and pale, her bosom heaving and her hands trembling, that Grace felt terrified lest she should betray herself by some open display of emotion.

‘The Herr Professor is engaged, I am told, on a work of wonderful erudition,’ said Lieutenant von Heldenreich.

‘He will be a leading mind at Leipzig,’ remarked the Verwalter, with the simple unhesitating exultation in the success of a near relative, at once touching and ludicrous, which is so often seen in Germany.

‘He is a fine fellow, faith!’ said the count in English, aside, to Balfour.

‘And a wonderfully agreeable man for so learned a one,’ concluded Mrs. Frere. ‘Come, Grace, we must be going. We have a long walk before us.’ '

‘And a lovely young May moon to light your steps,’ said the count, rising to look from the window into the Hof, where the lovely light, silvering the trees beyond the gateway, and falling upon roof and gable, turned even the central dung-heap into a thing of beauty. ‘I will walk as far as the cross with you.’

‘And so will I,’ said Friede; ‘and I—and I,’ added the Verwalter and Ulrich.

They were soon equipped. Friede slipped her arm through that of Grace, and the two girls held back a little.

‘Well, dearest Friede,’ whispered Grace, herself blithe and light of heart, ‘the good news has come at last.’

‘Yes,’ returned Fiiede, in the same tone, while the hand which held Grace trembled. ‘Whatever may be the result I shall see him again, hear his voice again—and-’ she paused.

‘Will find him the same as ever,’ put in Grace, encouragingly.

‘I dare not hope,’ sighed Friede. ‘But you, dear one, you will be here and judge more clearly than I can.’

‘I will try, at any rate,’ said Grace, and there was a pause. ‘How exquisitely beautiful the moonlight makes everything,’ resumed Grace, look. ing round; * even the rugged old village looks soft and lovely.’

Friede did not answer immediately, and then after pressing her friend’s arm, whispered :

‘Ach, du Liebling! all things no doubt seem fair to thee now; thy heart’s wound is healed by the presence of the beloved.’

‘What are you talking about, Friede?’ said Grace, in genuine surprise. ‘I have no heart’s wound to heal.’

‘How, my Gracechen! Did you not tell me, the first day we opened our hearts to each other, that your affections had been blighted?’

‘No, no!’ said Grace, half smiling, half vexed; ‘I never said anything half so strong. I was certainly disappointed and annoyed, and let you know it, because—oh, because I wanted, I think, to comfort you. But my affections are flourishing at present, quite recovered their temporary chill; pray do not mention them again.’

‘Dear Grace! I always believe you; though most girls like to hide their love, you are too honest. Well, then, Herr Mr. Balfour, the friend of your youth, was not—is not the object-’

‘The object of nonsense,’ interrupted Grace, impatiently. ‘Really, Friede, you are too bad. Do you think one cannot find pleasure in a man’s company without being in love with him, or he with you? I am as likely to fall in love with Maurice Balfour as with the man in the moon up there; we like each other so much, so heartily as friends, that it puts anything else out of the question. Don’t you see yourself that there is not one bit of a lover about Maurice—don’t you ?’

‘Well, certainly, yes! but you English are so different from us; you are so ashamed of each other—I mean of being in love with each other. And forgive me, dearest’—Friede was always a little afraid of Grace when she got into one of her impatient fits—‘but I imagined that Mr. Balfour was an early love, and that you were separated, and-’

‘Ah, Friede! what five-storied romances you run up in a moment! Why, I was not fourteen when I saw him last—a wild untutored child. Say no more about it.’

‘Certainly not, if it displeases you; but he is very nice and good-looking. I may say that, I suppose?’

‘Yes, you may. I like my friends to be praised.’ ‘Grace!’ said the object of, this discussion, turning suddenly back, as he was walking beside the count; ‘I forgot to tell you they have a very decent horse in the Sachsische stables, one you might ride; and the count says he will come out the day after to-morrow, if you like.’

‘If I like! Why, it is only too delicious! Dearest uncle, where shall we go?’

‘Oh, to Gross Schonau, and drink a glass of beer at Der Schwarze Adler!’

CHAPTER VIII

IT was early afternoon, the day following this visit to Dalbersdorf, and the Sachsische Hof lay basking in a blaze of sunshine. The soft warmly tinted yellow-grey sandstone of its walls was fitly crowned by the brown-red of its steep-tiled roof, all dotted over with sly-looking, almond-shaped windows, like eyes that were sleepily watchful. Its large centre doors lay open, displaying a wide cavernous aperture, with a dim glimpse of a confusion of rusty wheels and sides of carriages in an inner court at the back. Without, the rough, uneven pavement came up to the inn wall, and through the large door-like windows of the parterre, the head waiter and a female assistant in a brown-stuff dress, bib-like white apron, and a very tower of rolls and plaits and curls on her head, could be seen clearing away the relics of the midday table d'hote—a few guests still lingering to exchange some last words of an unfinished argument, or to light one of the everlasting cigars, in smoking which Germans appear to live and move and have their being. A stout consequential man, in a vast blue frock-coat and a gold-laced cap, stood in the entrance chaffering with a withered old woman, who had crouched at one side of the doorway with her basket of miscellaneous wares, for a pair of straw slippers, pausing with them in his hand to gaze down a short street opposite, through which the market-place, with its colour and movement, could be perceived, while pigeons of various hues strutted or flew to and fro the neighbouring roofs, quite indifferent to a black ‘Dachshund,' with lob ears, a very long body, and infinitesimal legs, who lay before the door in a watchful attitude, his head upon his paws.

There was a large open space round the inn; and to the right stood a red-roofed edifice of goodly proportions, once the corn-exchange in Zittau’s palmy days—now, a sort of store-house. At this side of the Hof, also, was a garden and shrubbery, with very few flowers and a great many trees.

Over this garden, Lady Elton’s rooms looked out away to the woods and mountains of Oybin and the Bohemian border. It was the hour of universal repose : the very pigeons moved drowsily. There was a lull in the traffic of the market, when up the blazing street beside the old exchange, came, with a long, elastic step, a gentleman in a dark-grey morning-suit of English cut, with many pockets, a hand in one of them, the other holding a stick, and a soft grey felt hat a little to one side over his thick dark .hair and brown cheek.

As he approached, the man in the blue frock-coat let the slippers fall back into the old woman’s basket, and raised his cap respectfully.

* The mid-day meal is over, sir,’ he said, ‘but you can be served.’

‘Thank you, I have already eaten,’ replied the gentleman (Balfour) as he passed into the porte-cochfre. ‘Has Lady Elton gone out yet?’

* The gnadige Frau has not left the house.’

Balfour smiled pleasantly, touched his hat with his stick, and, turning to the right, ascended three or four worn stone-steps, to a door-way through a dark entrance-hall and up a stone stair, so heavy and solid that it seemed cut out of rock rather than built up piecemeal. At the first landing, a wide space, floored with brick, and made magnificent in the landlord’s estimation by a pathway of coarse brown cocoa-matting down the middle, he crossed to a double-door on the right and knocked. A soft, low voice said, ‘Herein;’ and taking off his hat, he entered.

Lady Elton’s sitting-room was large and lofty: its panelled walls painted white, the floor elaborately parqued and polished, a high, curiously carved marble chimneypiece, the fireplace occupied by a quaint stove of coloured tiles; a large square of faded pile-carpet was spread before the centre window, and on this island were placed my lady’s chair and small wicker-work stand, her writing-table, on which was a pile of books, a jar of flowers, and a case of photographs, while the remainder of the space was but scantily garnished with some old-fashioned easy-chairs and more modem ones of Austrian bent-ware; a large sofa and two or three carved walnut-wood secretaires and cabinets with highly oriental brass handles and locks, and an oval table with a red-cloth cover, and the invariable white damask napkin placed diamond-wise in the centre.

The window was open, and a soft air entered, bearing the perfume of the mignonette with which the balcony was lined. A dark-eyed Bohemian waitress, in her short-sleeved afternoon-dress, was just removing the luncheon-tray, passing Balfour with the gracious Austrian salutation, Lady Elton was half reclining in her armchair, and held out her hand as Balfour approached.

‘And you did not go out as you promised, this beautiful morning,’ said he, taking it, and looking at her with kindly interest.

‘No,’ she returned, with a slow smile and shake of the head; ‘I had a bad night—endless painful dreams, which suggested equally painful thought; so I have sat on here, thinking—thinking. Sit down,’ she said, interrupting herself; ‘sit down and talk to me. You will do me good.’

Balfour obeyed, placing himself comfortably in a corner of the sofa.

‘We waited for you at the Weinau for some time; but as we found an available tree, Grace was well employed.’

‘How did she get on?’

Very fairly. I think she will draw well enough to amuse herself; but I don’t fancy she has any genius.’

‘No; she is a little too eager to do everything.’

* Perhaps so. She is clever, though.’

‘Yes, a sort of woman who, if her circumstances were different, might have influence, and hold a salon in the old Parisian mode. Her heart I fear, however, will always be a hindrance to her worldly success; and yet she is ambitious.’

‘Is she?’ said Balfour, carelessly; and there was a pause, Lady Elton watching him through her halfclosed eyes.

‘I am sorry to see you so unwell,’ he resumed. ‘If you will forgive my presumption, I would venture to beg you not to use so many opiates; they are more disturbing than soothing in the long-run.’

‘I daresay you are right; but I cannot stop now. When I am alone, and think and conjure up that poor boy’s death-bed, with no friendly hand near save yours, Maurice, to help, or comfort him— when I think of this cruel ending of my last hope, I tell you I could drink poison to dull the pain.’

‘Talking of your grief will not help you,’ said Balfour.

‘Let us talk of something else, then,’ exclaimed Lady Elton, sitting upright and taking her needlework; ‘your own plans and prospects—you know they interest me.’

‘That is more than they seem to do myself at present,’ returned Balfour, with a laugh; ‘I never felt so indisposed to play the part of pioneer before.’

* How is that?’ asked Lady Elton, quickly.

* I cannot tell. I used rather to enjoy the free rough life of uncivilised countries; but I suppose, having tasted the knowledge of better things, thanks to you in a great measure, my tastes have changed.’

‘Ah!’ said Lady Elton, and made some stitches in silence; ‘I suppose you must go to Australia— New Zealand—where is it?’

‘Yes. Work is not so easy to get. Moreover, I may find in a new country a favourable opportunity of investing my small capital. I have a taste for farming.’

‘Good heavens! would you banish yourself for life to a colony?’ exclaimed Lady Elton, with more animation than she had hitherto shown.

‘It need not be banishment,’ said Balfour, with a smile; ‘the world of a man like myself is never a very large one. In a colony I might gather round me a few congenial associates, and find no mean occupation, or unsatisfactory object in helping to frame a new society and secure to myself ease and independence. Cultivated people, like yourself, are too ready to believe that the only world worth existing in is to be found in Europe. There are a great many sides to life.’

‘Quite true, Maurice; still, I do not like to hear of your being lost in outlandish wilds.’

‘I should be much more likely to be lost in the crowded cultivated enclosures of Europe,’ he returned, with a tranquil smile.

‘I fear you have no ambition. A man never accomplishes much without ambition.’

But I have ambition, Lady Elton; though I never will waste my energy in toiling after the impossible.’

‘What is your ambition?’

‘Oh, it is not very exalted; and if I die while striving for it, I will be content, provided only I keep the end in view.’

‘I see you are a philosopher,’ she returned, perceiving he did not intend to reveal his objects.

‘I wish I were,’ said Balfour, with a sigh.

‘At any rate, I thought you a wise and prudent man when you wrote to renounce your visit here, though I am exceedingly glad you came after all.’

Balfour, who was leaning indolently forward, his arms resting on his knees, and softly beating the carpet with his stick, kept silent a moment, then a smile, half mischievous, half tender, spread over his face, and shone in his eyes as he raised them to Lady Elton’s.

‘Yes,’ he said,’1 thought myself no end of a wiseacre when I wrote that letter.’

‘Certainly you did not long retain your wisdom. Come, my dear Maurice! grant me an old woman’s privilege, and let me ask, are you not most unwise, for yourself, in coming here?’

‘No!’ said Maurice, stoutly, laying aside his cane and leaning back among the sofa' cushions. ‘I am just bottling up a spell of sunshine to enrich my memory when I am in some dreary present, and have nothing but the past to cheer me.’

‘But will it not deepen the gloom hereafter, and, like the opiates I drink, disturb instead of soothing?’

‘By heaven!’ cried Balfour, with a fire that startled his hearer as he rose and walked to the window, ‘if it were poison I would drink it, and face the agony and struggle it brought. If I choose to steep myself in heaven for awhile, holding myself ready to fight the fight when I go down into hell afterwards, that is no one’s affair but mine; and this I will dare rather than lose a moment of present delight.’

‘My dear Maurice! you almost frighten me.’

‘Do I?’ taking her hand kindly; ‘I am a rough bear, I fear. But I venture to speak to you, because there is no use in trying to deceive you, though I do not think others would find me out.’

‘I had scarcely found you out myself, Maurice,’ said Lady Elton, with a sad little smile. ‘Mine was a random shot. But have you reflected that, however you may resolve to bear what you bring on yourself, you have no right to risk the happiness of another?’

‘My dear Lady Elton,’ returned Balfour, with a laugh, a slightly bitter laugh, ‘you need have no uneasiness on that score. No girl ever treated any man with the sweet, sisterly, quiet tenderness that Grace Frere shows me, who had a shade of warmer feeling for him. I would be a dull brute to misunderstand her, and a still duller idiot to frighten away what is so precious to me by any loosening of my hold on myself. It was this certainty, rendered doubly sure by her last letter, that showed me I was a fool for debarring myself from the joy of these happy days. I am not the sort of fellow Grace would fancy. She would like some fine gentleman with all sorts of chivalrous tricks, a well-proportioned lay figure that her imagination could dress up in plumes and jewels and cloth of gold. May she find one, and believe in him to the last! As to me, I am but a better sort of workman of whom she is honestly fond, as she is of that little brick, Jimmy Byrne. Were I on the road to high fortune, I might try to show her—but I am not.

Besides-’ he paused, and again walked to the window.

‘Besides—1 know what you would say, Maurice,’ said Lady Elton, looking at him with the liveliest interest. ‘There is that little early penchant of hers for--’

‘What! who?’ cried Balfour, turning sharply. * But no; it is not right to talk of what would vex her to think we suspected-’

* Pooh! that is nonsense,’ said Lady Elton; ‘I only suspected her of a girlish fancy for Max Frere. I may be wrong, but I always imagined he had something to do with her refusal of Darnell. At all events I am quite sure Max is in love with her now, and, of course, it would be an excellent marriage for her; and it is not difficult to revive a partially obliterated liking.’

‘Yes,’ returned Maurice, moodily, ‘Max Frere would be a capital peg to hang fine fancies on.’

‘It is only my fancy, my dear Maurice; but, in truth, the only anxiety I have in my dreary desolate life is for Grace Frere’s future. That brother of hers is a dreadful drag; I am certain he was in some fearful scrape when she came over so suddenly. Then she is the real head of the family. The mother, sweet and lovable as she may be, is no assistance; she is more of a child than Mab, and Mab is no trifle, or will be no trifle, to contend with.’

‘Yes,’ said Balfour, softly, as if to himself, ‘she has her own troubles. God forbid that a featherweight should be added to them. But, Lady Elton, Grace does not care for her cousin—I am sure she does not; she is ill at ease with him. There is something between them I do not understand; but she does not love him.’

‘How do you know?

‘Because I know her thoroughly and feel with her so keenly, that I would be aware the instant we were in the presence of the man she loved; at present, I believe she is perfectly heart-whole.’

‘Very possibly she is. But Maurice, do not trust too much to instinct. There is nothing so hard to guess at as the condition of a girl’s heart, the symptoms are so contradictory.’

‘I suppose they are,’ returned Balfour, dreamily. ‘At all events my business is to keep on the curb, and drink the sweet poison to the last drop. I do not suppose I have much longer to stay. The summons may come any day after next week.’ He relapsed into thought and silence.

‘Well,’ said Lady Elton, more cheerfully, ‘if you adhere to that resolution and are ready to bear the consequences, it is, as you say, your own affair; and Maurice, young men, fortunately for themselves, do not long mourn for what is unattainable. I trust absence and new scenes will have their usual effect, and that soon you will have only the pleasant memory, while fresh charms will reveal themselves to replace, not obliterate, old impressions.’

* I hope so,’ returned Balfour, smiling. ‘Constancy is a rare quality, and I don’t yet know if I possess it myself; at all events I am by no means anxious to be more miserable than I can help.’

* That is right,’ said Lady Elton; and there was a short pause, neither caring to continue the subject.

‘I expect my old acquaintance, Von Falkenberg, will be here on Monday,’ said Balfour at last ‘I am a little curious to meet him as an engaged man.’

‘Why?’

‘He was a very wild fellow, and scoffed at marriage—which I acknowledge has its drawbacks. And I must say Fraulein Alvsleben, though no doubt very good and all that, is not at all the sort of girl I should imagine would captivate him; in fact, I believe les dames marines are much more in his line—any bit of forbidden fruit.’

‘He is Very nice and good-looking,’ said Lady Elton, * and no worse than his neighbours I suppose. Of course the strong necessity of paying his debts accounts for the engagement. But he poses very gracefully as the Brautigam, and accepts the position with honesty. He evidently adopts his new English connections very warmly; he is quite happy and at home at Bergstrasse.’

‘Oh, he is, is he?’ said Balfour, looking down at the carpet, which he was again striking softly with his stick.

‘What are you going to do this evening, Lady Elton?’ he asked, after a few moments’ silence.

* Mrs. Frere proposes to go to the Oybin if you feel equal to the ascent, and have supper at the restaura-tion there. Grace and I intend to ride; and I have rummaged out a pony that will be a tolerable mount for Mab, who is in the wildest delight. I left Mrs. Frere and Grace just now, manufacturing a habit or a skirt or some such thing for her.’

‘Yes; I will be glad of some object to get myself out of my chair. You have not yet ascended to the ruins, I think? Tell Mrs. Frere I will call for her at six.’

And, after a little further unimportant talk, Balfour retired to his own room to write letters.

As usual, Falkenberg’s first visit was to Mrs. Frere.

He arrived soon after their early dinner, when Mab had coaxed her mother to go out as far as the market to buy some blue wool, indispensably necessary to finish a knitted jacket for her doll.

‘So, my Fraulein, let me have the pleasure of looking at you after this long three weeks of absence!’ he exclaimed, after the first salutations.

Ach, Gott! but you look blooming—fairer than the first day I saw you ironing my dear Braut's collars. What a long way off that seems!’

‘Yes; does it not?’ returned Grace, colouring in spite of herself under his hold eyes.

‘And Balfour, he is really here? You remember how surprised and pleased you were to find I had known him?’

‘I do indeed. He will be delighted to see you; and if you go to his hotel now, you will be almost sure to meet him. He writes in the afternoon, I think.’

‘Does he? But I am going to stay here till Mrs. Frere comes in; may I not?’

‘Yes, of course. Will it not make you rather late at Dalbersdorf?’

‘They do not expect me by so early a train,’ returned Falkenberg, after a short pause and an indescribable glance at his questioner. ‘And so it is very pleasant to have your old friend Balfour here?’ he went on.

‘More than very pleasant, Herr Hauptmann; it is quite delightful!’ cried Grace, frankly. ‘ And do you know, he speaks German quite well: we often speak together. For now you are away, and Dr. Sturm, I have no one to speak German to, except Dr. Niedner, and we do not see much of him.’

‘Ach, so! — and Balfour has taken my place, has he?’

‘No, no; he has a place of his own. You know he was always like a brother to Randal and to me long ago, and he is so still.’

‘Indeed! Well, I met another of your brotherly friends just now, Doctor—I beg his pardon, Herr Professor Sturm. He arrived by the same train.’

* Did he? I so glad!’ exclaimed Grace, thinking of Friede, and colouring, from keen sympathy with her friend.

‘What!’ cried Falkenberg, who was watching her closely; ‘is he, too, one of your many brothers?’

‘Not absolutely, but a valued friend/ said Grace, smiling.

‘Ah, Miss Grace, you are a sad coquette! I suppose I too have lost my brotherly rank, and have been superseded by Balfour?’

* No,’ she returned; ‘he never lost his place, nor were you ever a brother like Maurice Balfour : but you are a good cousin and friend.’

‘I think I will go and see Balfour. Mrs. Frere may be a long time yet,’ said Falkenberg, rising restlessly, and moving to and fro between the writing-table where Grace was sitting and the open window.

‘Yes, do; and then go on to Dalbersdorf. They will be so glad to see you sooner than they expected.’

‘Oh, they’ll be glad to see me—they’ll be glad to see me!’ repeated Falkenberg, impatiently; ‘better pleased than you are.’

‘Well, of course; who would care so much to see you as Gertrud, and your aunt, and Friede ?’

‘And all my Dalbersdorf relations to the third and fourth generation! Well, adieu, my Fraulein; I go to see your beloved brother.’

‘And we are all to dine at Dalbersdorf to-morrow.

Do you know that? And perhaps we may dance. I have never seen Maurice dance—I wonder if he can?’

‘Ach, du lieber Himmel! it is all for Maurice!’ cried Falkenberg, laughing a somewhat forced laugh, as he rushed away.

Grace laughed too, a more healthy, natural laugh. Then a thoughtful look stole over her face as she leant her elbow on her writing-table, and let the page half written to Randal lie untouched.

An undefined something in Falkenberg’s manner ruffled and displeased her, a vague impression that Gertrud’s affianced husband ought not to address her in the ambiguous phrases, and with the covert meaning, which Falkenberg employed. Sometimes she believed him a kind pleasant friend, and nothing more, and despised her own vanity for thinking him anything else. Then a glance, an intonation, a touch of his hand, would rouse her suspicions; and she was sincerely glad when he went away. Yet there was a time when she thought him an ideal soldier, and clothed him with many fine attributes, though always with a certain drawback of doubt, which had been an admirable safeguard.

Now her thoughts wandered away to her brother —to the great deliverance his unexpected appointment had wrought for them. She thought how happily the days were passing, happier than anything she had ever anticipated in the dreary London time. To be sure, when Maurice went away—but it was time enough to think of that evil day when it came. In so far, Grace and Maurice were in perfect accord. Then she wondered if Falkenberg and Maurice would be as good friends as ever. Somehow she doubted it.

It was odd that they had had no intelligence of Max. How curious that he should have suddenly shown a fancy—it was nothing more—for her. She was not even flattered by it, for she felt a strong conviction that, however ardent and tender, Max Frere would never sacrifice himself for her, and an unambitious marriage would be a sacrifice in his estimation. Nevertheless, how nice and good-looking he was, and pleasant to talk to; and how glad she felt to know that she had escaped beyond his power to wound. But when should they be able to pay off another instalment of their debt to him? So far, she had been unable to make any savings since her return. Her journey, and incidental expenses, in spite of the help she had received, had dipped largely into their slender resources. Still, with care, she could get through that quarter without incurring any debt; only she wanted a new black silk dress for her mother, and, she feared it was selfish, two more rides with Maurice. Horse hire was moderate at Zittau; and then, after this month, the most rigid renunciation of all personal indulgence should atone. But riding with Balfour was too delightful to be resigned. He was so different from the others. ‘With Max, one was always half angry; with Falkenberg, one was always on the qui vive, lest you should commit yourself in some way, or lest he should say some mad thing; but with Maurice, all is so tranquil—he is so kind and real, and I can say anything to him.

Then he has seen so much, and looks below the surface of things. He is better looking than I thought at first; his seat on horseback, too, is worthy of Dungar. No; I cannot give up the riding! That will be quite twenty marks; but then, I can do without that dress the dear mother wanted me to get.’

Her further reflections were arrested by a small warm hand being laid on her arm, and a mysterious, important, but small whisper in her ear:

‘Grace! do you know, mamma has laid out such a lot of money for me! Besides the wool, she has bought me two balls of blue and two of grey crochet cotton, and a new crochet-hook; and I am going to make her a Morgen-haube. She is talking to Frau Niedner downstairs, so I ran on to tell you.’

‘You are a little traitor, Mab,’ cried Grace, laughing. ‘I really will not let my mother go out alone with you again.’

‘Well, Gracie dear, don’t tell her I told you’— pressing the hot little hand on her mouth, while Mab’s blue eyes laughed in her face. ‘She said, “Grace will think us very extravagantbut I made . her get it.’ And Mab executed a wild dance of triumph round the room, flourishing her parcel of wool and cotton so vehemently that the paper burst, and the contents rolled hither and thither.

‘Mab, I wonder when you will develop any sense or conscience!’ cried Grace, assisting to gather up the scattered articles.

‘Oh, Mab dear! what have you done?’ asked Mrs. Frere, entering at the moment. ‘You really must take care of your things! I thought it better, Grace, as she shows a decided inclination to be diligent, to let her have the things wanted. I think she is going to be a good girl.’

‘All I can say, mother, is that I hope you do not intend to go without a morning cap till this one is finished.’

‘You are an ill-natured thing, Grace. I will make it for my mummy! shan’t I, mummy?’

The following morning was a busy one at Dalbersdorf. From an early hour Mamsell and Gertrud and Frau Alvsleben herself were on the alert. The kitchen was in a state of wild excitement: the cook was plucking the chickens; the gardener bringing roth and wciss Kohl, cauliflowers and small turnips; the Lauf-junge (errand boy) was despatched here and there for articles remembered in the last extremity, for German housewives are not accustomed to sudden large demands on their resources. Friede was up to the elbows in flour, concocting some of her most complicated and delicate dainties, while Gertrud, with the authority of one on the eve of being herself a householder revolved between the kitchen and the Oben-stube.

Without, the day was warm enough to permit the count and Falkenberg to sit in the arbour which commanded the approach, and smoke serene in the undisturbed supremacy of masculine majesty, until it was time for Falkenberg to drive into the town to meet his eldest brother, who was to arrive from Prague en route to his Rittergut near Leipzig.

Dr. Sturm had reached Dalbersdorf before noon, and had strolled with his brother into the fields.

He had been warmly welcomed, and poor little Friede had stammered and turned deadly pale in the effort to greet him calmly and civilly; and although they had had no opportunity of speaking alone, the freemasonry of unspoken affection had conveyed some magic to the gentle Madchen, for Friede sang and jested over her work with lighthearted volubility, very unlike her late silent dejection.

The morning had been misty and lowering—much to Grace Frere’s regret, as she told Maurice Balfour, who came in as usual after breakfast.

‘The great thing at Dalbersdorf is to escape after the fearfully long dinner, and ramble into the wood. I am afraid we shall not be able to get away time enough to walk to Jonsdorf. It is such a lovely walk; and then Friede thinks we may dance in the evening. We shall have how many gentlemen?—oh, six! and the Herr Professor, he dances very well; and you—can you dance, Maurice ?’

‘Well, yes; I used to dance at Lima and in New Orleans. You don’t know what training it is to dance with American girls.’

‘I begin to think you all-accomplished. Tell me, did you find Wolff von Falkenberg much changed?’

‘Yes; either he or I are greatly changed, for he does not seem to me like the same man. He has aged greatly, and seems restless and ill-at-ease.

You have seen a great deal of him, have you not?’ watching her while she replied.

‘Yes; he has always been very "nice and friendly to us. Ah, there is a roll of thunder! now a good shower will relieve the air, and we shall have a fine afternoon.’

‘You are to drive out with Lady Elton, and I will take your mother and Mab,’ saidtBalfour; ‘ and when shall we have another ride, Grace?’

‘We will settle it this evening; perhaps Wolff and Friede would like to come.’

‘Heaven forbid! It is so much pleasanter to be by ourselves! You know we have all sorts of things to talk of they know nothing about; and then, after this week every day may be my last.’

‘Oh, is it coming so near! I so sorry, Maurice. How we shall miss you!’ cried Grace, frankly, and looking full at him with her speaking dark-grey eyes. Balfour did not meet them; he rose as she spoke, and walked across the room to adjust the sketch of Dungar, which was slightly out of the perpendicular. Balfour had a remarkably straight eye. ‘Let us go the day after to-morrow. Wolff von Falkenberg will have left then; if he were here he would worry, and want to come with us.’

‘I have no doubt he would,’ said Balfour, turning back, and looking gravely at the speaker—a look, she knew not wherefore, that called the blood to her cheek.

‘Why do you look like that?’ she said uneasily. ‘Like what?’ said Balfour, with a smile.

‘Really, dear Grace,’ said Mrs. Frere, who was busy writing letters, * you should not speak so abruptly, no matter how intimate you may be with a friend. A certain regard to the hiensiances is essential. I do not think one acquires so much the manner of good society in Germany as in France. What do you think, Maurice?’

* My dear Mrs. Frere, do not appeal to an untutored savage like myself. I have been beyond the pale of civilisation for many a day.’

‘1 must say,’ returned Mrs. Frere, folding her letter with much precision, ‘that it is greatly to your credit that you have degenerated so little; don’t you think so, Grace?’

‘Yes; he is a very nice savage indeed!’ said Grace, with a smile so bright, so kindly, but so hopelessly unembarrassed, that Balfour could not help reverting to Lady Elton’s warning, and feeling, perhaps a little bitterly, how needless it was.

'You are both too good,’ he said, laughing. ‘Shall I post your letter, Mrs. Frere?’

The dinner-hour at Dalbersdorf was fixed an hour later than usual to suit the arrival of Herr Baron Falkenberg the elder. He had already reached the hospitable abode, when Lady Elton and Mrs. Frere with their party drove up, and both the count and Falkenberg came forth to receive them.

‘You are the last, meine Damen,’ said the count, as he kissed the hands of the elder ladies and embraced Grace and Mab; ‘we only waited your arrival to go to table.’

Within were Frau Alvsleben and Friede, ready to conduct their friends to a guest-chamber to lay-aside their out-of-door gear. One glance at Friede’s fair smiling face was enough, without the whispered rapturous exclamation as she removed her friend’s shawl, ‘He has come—the sunshine has come!’ to tell Grace that for the moment fears and doubts were at an end.

‘Our guests are on the Terrasse,’ said Frau Alvsleben. * Shall we join them? I long to present my nephew Rudolph to you.’

On the low terrace or raised walk, which ran along under the windows of the Garten Saal, they found the party assembled. The gentlemen, some walking to and fro, some standing in a small group, and nearly all smoking; the ladies, of whom there were but two who were not of the family—Friede’s friends, the Frauleins von Eichwald—sat on garden-chairs, knitting or doing crochet.

Of course a most elaborate ceremonial of introduction had to be gone through : ‘My dear and good nephew, Baron Rudolph Falkenberg, Lady Elton; and here, Rudolph, are some new cousins, of whom I am sure Wolff has spoken to you Mrs. Frere, and our dear Gracechen and Mab.’

Baron Rudolph was a good deal older than his brother, but scarcely so tall. A stout man, with the small feet so usual among Germans of a certain grade—these, with the tight trousers and sudden increase of bulk from the hips up, gave him the look of a pear on its small end; a round red face, a short neck, yellowish light hair and moustaches, and considerable width between the eyes—does not read like a good-looking man. Yet he was decidedly like his handsome brother,and, Grace thought,somewhat amusingly suggested the future aspect of the svelte courtly younger baron. Meanwhile, Baron Rudolph set his heels together, and bowed at the mention of each name, till a bald patch on the top of his head was presented to every lady in turn.

‘Ja, gewiss,’ he said, in deep guttural German, ‘Wolff had often spoken of the gracious ladies to him; he rejoiced much to make their acquaintance.’

Then the new professor came up, to be warmly greeted. He had called the previous evening; but the dear Fraulein and her mother had been out. Sturm looked a little worn, as if he had had trouble, yet was bright and hopeful in manner and bearing. As soon as the rosy-cheeked Dienst-madchen summoned them to table, he offered his arm to Grace. The count of course took Lady Elton; and Baron Falkenberg, Mrs. Frere.

It was a long and, I had almost said, riotous repast—plenty to eat, and abundant talk. The dinner proceeded with the sort of reverse order general in Saxon banquets. True, soup came first; but then fish followed meat, and sweets were served with the roasts, while a sort of confusion of gravy, stewed fruit, potato salad, pounded sugar, and sour gherkin reigned towards the conclusion. However, there was amongst the melange plenty of excellent food to satisfy the hungry. As the eagerness of the first attack slackened, the inevitable health drinking and speech-making ensued; Baron Rudolph Falkenberg startling Grace by quaffing a bumper to her health, and announcing in florid language that he considered her the saviour of his beloved brother’s career and fortune.

Poor Grace was quite overwhelmed; but everyone urged her to reply, which she did in a few somewhat lame sentences, disclaiming all merit, as it was a relief to herself to be in motion and doing something, instead of witnessing suffering she could not relieve.

What is it all about?’ asked Balfour of Friede, beside whom he sat; and Friede immediately launched into a glowing description of the event.

‘Ach, Gott!’ cried Fraulein von Eichwald, who sat at the other side of Balfour, ‘how bold and free are English young ladies! they always seem to me like boys. At Dresden, they and the Americans walk and ride and skate and go about alone. It is pleasant I doubt not, but scarce maidenly.’

‘I don’t see that,’ said Balfour; ‘it all depends on how you are accustomed to view such matters. It seems rather hard to shut up healthy active girls from the exhilaration of exercise, or compel their mothers to wear themselves out running after them.’

‘Ah, Balfour, my boy! you young fellows don’t think the ladies such precious articles as we used in my day,’ cried the count.

‘Our higher ideal induces us to keep them from vulgar contact,’ said Wolff von Falkenberg.

‘In the sanctity of home,’ added Gertrud.

That sounds very nice,’ said Grace, in an undertone to Sturm; ‘but I rather think it is nonsense.’ ‘Oh,’ returned Balfour, ‘we are under a new dispensation altogether for women. In this, as in most other things, circumstances decide for us. It is impossible our sisters can live as our grandmothers did; their capacities and requirements are enormously increased. I am certain that the more liberty women have, the better for them and for us. I have seen something of American society; and in no other land are women so free or so respected, nor is there anywhere a purer family life.’

‘Still, a man-woman is a horrible thing,’ said Baron Falkenberg.

‘No doubt; but freedom and sound knowledge will not unsex them/ returned Balfour.

‘Ach, Himmel!’ cried Frau Alvsleben; ‘do not let me hear anyone advocating these wild self-asserting creatures who neglect their houses, and never take the trouble to know their husband’s favourite dishes, or knit their children’s stockings, or go to the market, or save the groschen.’

There was a good-humoured laugh at her energetic declamation, under cover of which Sturm said, in a low tone :

‘Mein Fraulein, I want to take counsel with you.’ ‘What, you /’ said Grace, smiling,; ‘I am indeed honoured. ‘In what can I counsel the learned Herr Professor?’

‘In some things that nature teaches you better than me—matters where no acquired wisdom can instruct like innate tact.’

‘Whatever my small store may be, it is at your service.’

‘Then, liebe Fraulein,’ still in an undertone, ‘so soon as we rise from table, will you stroll away with me to the What I have to say is for your ear only.’

* Good, Herr Professor. No doubt all will go into the garden, and we can steal away from them.’

Soon after the company rose with a tremendous scraping of chairs on the uncarpeted floor, and a running fire of murmured ‘Gesegnete Mahlzeit,’ and proceeded into the Garten Saal. Lady Elton, who had been unusually silent during dinner, put her arm into Friede’s, and stepped out on the terrace-walk, while Gertrud, who was benign and important, and was indeed always kind to Mab, took her away to Mamsell. Mrs. Frere settled down with her uncle in the arbour to listen to his oft-told stories with ever-satisfying interest; and the rest of the gentlemen, except the professor, went with the Verwalter to smoke in the Hof and look at the animals.

Grace and Frau Alvsleben strolled to and fro for a few turns, the latter knitting and talking with equal rapidity, pouring forth complaints, and self-gratuia-tion, and projects, till a sudden spasm of memory impelled her to exclaim,‘Ach je! ich habe ganz vergessen!’ and away she went knitting unbrokenly, seeing which the professor, who had been smoking in the arbour with the count and Mrs. Frere, rose and joined her. After walking once round the garden, they passed through a gate at the farther end, which opened on a rough cart-track, leading to the back of the farm-buildings and the path to the pine-wood. At first they exchanged merely formal phrases, and spoke of Leipzig and the life there; but as they left the company behind them, they lapsed into silence. Grace waiting for her companion to speak, while he seemed in profound thought, hunting about probably for a proper beginning.

At length, as they reached the first fir-trees, he broke into words:

‘Dear and good Fraulein, I venture to trouble you with my hopes and fears, because you are the best friend of Fraulein Friede—because you are sympathetic to me—because I have noticed a rare discretion in you.’

He paused.

‘Well then, what is it, Herr Professor?’

‘I find the good, the gentle Friede looking terribly ill and altered, and I scarce dare to ask why. I have sometimes ventured to hope she did not look unfavourably upon me; for I am sure I need not tell you, my best of Frauleins, that I love her with all my heart!—ach, du lieber Himmel! ever since she was a quite little girl, when my brother came to be Verwalter at Dalbersdorf.’

And Sturm rushed on to describe the growth of his affection with a delicacy, a tenderness, a glow, which lit up his plain face into absolute beauty, and brought the tears of quick sympathy to Grace Frere’s eyes.

‘I am sure she ought to love you, if she does not,’ she said heartily, as the long confession brought them to the same mossy stones where she had sat with Friede the previous autumn, and his name had first been mentioned between them. She sat down mechanically, and Sturm placed himself beside her, keeping silence for a few moments as if wrapped in contemplation of the images conjured up by his own words. ‘I am deeply interested in all you say,’ resumed Grace, ‘but quite at a loss to know how my counsel can be of any use to you.’

‘Thus,’ he replied. ‘I have succeeded beyond my hopes. I am already sought by pupils; in two years more my young brother will be earning his own bread: but I fear yet to speak to Frau Alvs-leben, my position is scarcely secure enough. On the other hand, I long unspeakably to open my heart to the beloved of my soul, but do not like to do so unknown to her parents, her natural guardians.’ Again he paused. ‘It is in this uncertainty I wished to speak to you, to hear your opinion. How ought I to act?’

‘I do not know that my advice is worth much; but I think, even if my grand-uncle and cousin Alvsleben disapproved, it would be a comfort to you to know that Friede quite understood you, whatever her feelings may be. If she shares yours, then I would be hbpeful; for I am sure her mother likes you, and in time she would come round, and then you know you could be sure of each other.’

‘Then you would have me explain myself to Frau Alvsleben at once?’

‘I think I would tell Friede first, and ask consent after,’ said Grace, with a mischievous smile and laughing glance from her soft lustrous eyes; ‘she
is no baby, and ought to come before everyone.’ .

Though Grace thought herself very cautious in not betraying her friend, the professor caught at the hope conveyed by her words. She would never have advised him to apply to Friede had she thought he would be rejected; and, carried quite out of himself by counsel so perfectly in accordance with his own hopes and inclinations, he knelt down then and there on the damp mossy ground, and, kissing Grace’s hand rapturously, exclaimed in audible tones:

‘My sweetest, dearest friend, you give me fresh life—fresh hope!’

As he spoke, came noiselessly on the soft brown mould beneath the pine-trees, and from behind some pieces of rock which deflected the course of the little brooklet by which Grace and Sturm were sitting, two gentlemen, who paused, considerably surprised at the tableau before them. It need scarcely be said they were Balfour and Wolff von Falkenberg.

CHAPTER IX

GRACE’S first feeling at this sudden interruption was amusement dashed with annoyance, very slight annoyance, for she scarcely feared misinterpretation; the truth of the case must, she thought, be as apparent to all as to herself The intruders, as if by mutual impulse, stopped quite still where they had witnessed the delighted professor’s ardent gesture. While he, too full of his own feelings to think of anything else, exclaimed as he turned away :

’ I shall act on your suggestion at once, and will leave you now, as you have, I see, good companions/ With a smile and bow, he walked rapidly away. Then Falkenberg sprang forward.

’ Ach Gott!’ he cried, with a harsh mocking laugh — ‘another victim! My dear and gentle Fraulein, I never thought I should find you out to be as other women are, a deceitful coquette. Could not even the simple faithful professor escape?’

There was such fierce anger and contempt in his voice and eyes, that Grace, who had risen as he approached, instinctively drew nearer to Balfour. She was too bewildered to speak; moreover, it flashed across her that it would be impossible to explain without betraying her friends; but Balfour exclaimed:

‘Falkenberg, what is this! Go, man, and recover yourself before you apologise to Miss Frere for this extraordinary speech!’

Grace, more frightened still at Balfour’s stern voice and manner, halted between the two, looking from one to the other.

* How dare you-’ Falkenberg was beginning impetuously, when, with a sudden desperate effort, he stopped himself, gnawed his moustaches for an instant, and then, with another discordant laugh, tried to turn his uncontrollable fury into a jest.

‘What serious solemn faces you both have! Don’t you know I always bristle up in defence of the proprieties, and feel specially bound to watch over my sweetest, fairest cousin? To say nothing of my regard for the victim, my Fraulein, I will make my apologies to you in private, if you need any.’

So saying, Falkenberg turned abruptly, and walked quickly away into the further recesses of the wood, before Grace could collect herself to reply. Balfour looked after him, the stern look fading out of his face and being replaced by a puzzled expression.

‘The fellow must be mad!’ he said at last, as if to himself. ‘Grace-’ a long pause, looking earnestly and somewhat sadly at her—‘I suppose I have no business to ask, no right to interfere ; but I like to know what it is all about.’

* I would tell you readily,’ returned Grace, with just a little quiver in her voice, and just the suspicion of a tear in each eye, ‘only the poor dear professor has trusted me, and I must not betray him.’

‘Of course I cannot help people making declarations to you,’ said Balfour, with a grim smile; ‘but as—as an old friend whom you say you consider a brother, let me ask by what right does that man’— looking in the direction where Falkenberg had vanished—* dare to speak to you as he did—dare to threaten, for it was a threat, to apologise in private?’

‘He has no right at all,’ cried Grace, indignantly; ‘and you are as bad as he is to speak to me in such a tone.’

‘No tone of mine could be so bad as his—the affianced husband of your cousin,’ said Balfour, sternly.

‘I am as much astonished as you are,’ said Grace, her heart beating with vexation, mortified pride, and a horrible inclination to cry. ‘I do not see why Wolff should be angry, if he saw three or four men on their knees before me; but he is often unreasonable and cross. I have never felt at ease with him.’

‘No,’ said Balfour still looking very grim. ‘Do you mean me to believe that you do not know the fellow is in love with you?*

‘You may believe what you like, Maurice,’ said Grace, with firmness; ‘but I do not know any such thing. Long ago, at first he used to flirt with me, as he did with everyone, and we were great friends; but since he was engaged to Gertrud, he seemed quite good and taken up with her. Do you think I would permit a man betrothed, nay, almost married —it is so solemn an affair here—to—to assume a lover-like tone to me f No; I do not think you would willingly, Grace,’ said Balfour, slowly; ‘but you love to be admired, and you have, perhaps unintentionally, winning ways, while Falkenberg is a subtle man of the world, —rather unscrupulous, I fear—and— Why, the first time he pronounced your name, I felt he was in love with you. For God’s sake take care, or he will give you trouble.’

‘I defy him,’ said Grace, her head erect, her eyes flashing, yet conscious of the truth that lay in Balfour’s words. ‘He is bound to his Braut. He knows I do not care a straw for him; and he dare not trouble me. Besides, I think you do not do him justice; he is hasty and irritable, but not unscrupulous.’

* He is pleasant and attractive, I know, and full of the airs and graces which fascinate young ladies,’ said Balfour, gloomily; ‘so I might as well save myself the trouble of warning you. But I cannot get over the tone in which he spoke to you. How could he have dared to do so, if you had not been on terms-’

‘You doubt and insult me,’ interrupted Grace, drawing herself up. ‘You ought to know me better; and, as you do not, you may doubt and be disagreeable. I shall not mind you.’

She turned from him, and began to walk away towards the house. Balfour hesitated an instant, and then strode quickly to her side.

* Grace,’ he said, still sternly, and touching her arm for a moment, ‘you might very well retort on me that I have no business to interfere with you, or--’

. ‘But I don’t want to say anything of the sort,’ interrupted Grace again, ‘You are a friend—a brother—and I would rather you make yourself as disagreeable as you are doing, than misjudge me in silence/ '

‘Hear me,’ continued Balfour;’ if you knew the comfort it is to me to think, to know you were above the miserable coquetries of commonplace women.’

‘But I am sure I am not,’ said Grace, stopping and looking straight into his eyes, with a glance half imploring, half mischievous—a glance before which Balfour’s righteous wrath began to subside rapidly. ‘It is so nice to feel one is pleasant and admired, and to say saucy things, and make people open their eyes. Do not fancy I am an angel; but, dear Maurice, do you think, though I enjoy all this, I would he false and cruel, or like to give pain? You cannot think so badly of me.’

‘No!’ cried Balfour, with a gesture as though he threw his doubts to the wind; ‘I will disbelieve everything in heaven above, or the earth beneath, before I doubt you!’.

He tried to end his speech with a laugh, but there was a passionate tone in his words that struck to his hearer’s heart and moved her strangely, though she replied more to his laugh than to his expressions.

‘There, that is much wiser and nicer! I wish Wolff von Falkenberg had not been so odious,’ she went on, in a regretful tone. * I had planned to take you over this charming Elfinwiese—the first place I began to feel happy in, after the miserable time in London—and tell you about my visit here. And he has spoiled it all. It is so delightful to be able to speak out to you safely and confidentially! You are really the only reasonable man I know.’

* That is, I suppose, the only man not in love with you?’ said Balfour, looking down into the bright face and kindly honest eyes uplifted to his, with his ordinary quiet smile, but with a tinge of pain — of yearning in his glance which struck Grace as unusual, and dwelt in her memory for many a day, but she answered without the least embarrassment: ‘No—no, Maurice; I never thought of that. People like me to talk to and dance with, but they do not fall in love with me—not really, you know.’ ‘Oh, they don’t—don’t they?’ said Balfour, quietly. * Well, friendship is very nice—is it not, Grace?’

‘Yes; it is indeed very charming! What shall I do when you leave us, Maurice?’

No answer.

‘Now let us be happy,’ she resumed, ‘and I will show you where dear Friede took me the first day we came here. By the way, Maurice, why were you not cross with me about Dr. Sturm as well as about Wolff?’

‘I don’t know,’ returned Balfour, laughing. ‘A sort of instinct tells me the man was not making love to you. If he was, it was a second-hand love —eh, Grace?’

‘You are right,’ cried she, ‘as you will find out before long;’ and then, their old easy friendly tone thoroughly restored, Grace and her comrade wandered about the pine-wood and talked of the past, but by tacit consent avoided the future except as regarded Randal, until Grace thought it was time to rejoin the rest of the party, or at any rate to seek them.

As they re-entered the garden, they met Baron Rudolph Falkenberg and the Verwalter strolling slowly towards the house, with cigars in their mouths, in deep conversation on agricultural matters; and all four entered the which was empty, save for Friede and the professor, who were sitting together on the sofa, evidently engaged in a conversation of absorbing interest. As soon as Grace crossed the threshold, the professor rose hastily and came to meet her.

‘Best and wisest of friends,’ he said, in a low voice, and taking her hand, ‘your good counsel has brought me bliss’—hearing which, Balfour smiled significantly, and Friede fled from the room.

‘The gnadige Frau desired me to inform the guests that coffee awaits them in the salon above,’ said the Verwalter. To the Obenstube accordingly they ascended, and found the rest of the party assembled.

Lady Elton looking somewhat sleepy and rather bored; Mrs. Frere talking with the old pastor of Dalbersdorf, who piqued himself on his English— a rarer accomplishment in the days of his youth than in the present time; the count doing the agreeable, in his charming fresh yet old-fashioned style, to Fraulein von Eichwald; and Gertrud, in a coquettish lace and muslin apron, was, with the assistance of the Stnben-madchen, pouring out and distributing coffee and cake; while Frau Alvsleben sat beside the sofa, on which Lady Elton and Mrs. Frere, the principal guests, were seated, for a wonder without her knitting, and listening with a pleased smile to some whispered communications which Falkenberg, his face set in its most harmonious aspect, was making in her ear. He glanced quickly at Grace as she entered, and, for a second, his brow contracted, but he took no ostensible notice of the new-comers.

‘Ah, Grace!’ cried Gertrud, who looked warm and worried, ‘do you know what has become of Friede?’ She has left me to distribute the coffee unassisted; ‘’tis too bad of her.’

‘I think she is in her room. Let me help you, Gertrud,’ said Grace, anxious to cover her friend’s retreat; and she took off her hat, placing it in a corner.

‘Friede has been sorely whimsical of late,’ said Gertrud, as she put sugar in the cups. ‘ Here, Grace; this for your friend, Herr Balfour.’

‘Maurice, come for your coffee. Do not suppose I am going to carry it to you,’ said Grace, aloud.

• ‘Heaven forbid!’ returned Balfour, approaching to take the cup from her hand.

‘My Gracechen, you are too bold,’ said Gertrud, smiling. ‘Here,’ she went on, ‘this is for Wolff.’

‘Marie will take it to him,’ said Grace, coolly.

. ‘I also can come for it,’ said Falkenberg, coming up behind her; but Grace, taking no notice of him, turned away to carry the professor’s and her granduncle’s cups to them, and then sat down beside Lady Elton.

‘You are looking tired, dear Lady Elton.

‘I am tired, and my head aches. I am going to ask Frau Alvsleben to let me go. I am an invalid, and have my privileges, you know.’

‘Shall I come with you?’

* No—many times, no. They talk of dancing. I can send back the carriage or a carriage for you. Come and see me to-morrow; I want to talk to you.’

Lady Elton proceeded to excuse herself to the hostess; and after many ceremonious regrets and courteous appeals to the ‘Dear heaven’ and its powers to witness her profound disappointment at so sudden a termination of the visit, Frau Alvsleben permitted her guest to depart, escorted to the door by the Count Falkenberg and Balfour.

‘But where, then, is Friede?’ cried her mother, at last missing her. ‘Is the child ill? Where is she, Grace?*

‘I think she is in her room, but I am not sure,’ said Grace.

‘I will away there, and. look for her,’ said Frau Alvsleben. -

‘And where is Mab added Mrs. Frere. ‘I have not seen her since dinner.’

'Mab has been with Mamsell and the little daughter,’ said Heinrich Sturm. ‘She fell down in the cow-stable, and Mamsell has been putting her to rights.’

‘Lieber Himmel!’ began Frau Alvsleben, when the entrance of Friede cut her short.

Friede, transfigured, radiant with the light of a great joy shining from some inner source of rapture through her eyes, and on her lips, and in every line and curve of face and form. Grace was astonished that everyone did not recognise and remark the change.

' Ach, meine Liebling!’ cried Frau Alvsleben. ‘Thou hast been sorely needed. Where hast thou been?’

‘Needed!’ cried Friede, with a fine assumption of amazement. ‘Mein liebe Mutter, why didst thou not send for me?’

And she hurried to Gertrud, and began hastily to try and ‘pour out’ from the exhausted coffee-pot.

‘But, Friede,’ said Gertrud, ‘I do not think you know what you are doing. The coffee is finished, everyone has taken twice,’ and she looked at her sister in some surprise.

Friede laughed and blushed, and turning away, encountered Falkenberg’s scrutinising eyes.

‘Friede!’ he exclaimed mischievously, ‘why, you look quite lovely—does she not, Gertrud? Her eyes suggest a dance. Shall we dance, heart’s dearest?’

‘If you will,’ said Gertrud, benignly; ‘ask the mother.’

After some slight delay, the tables were cleared away; and Mrs. Frere volunteered, with her usual good-nature, to be musician.

The welcome sounds soon brought in Mab, washed, ironed, and not visibly much the worse for her mishap in the cow-house; and everyone was soon in motion, even Frau Alvsleben herself, who whirled youthfully with the Herr Professor.

Falkenberg was carefully attentive to his Braut, and at first only left her to dance with Mab. Grace saw that Maurice was watching him in his quiet undemonstrative way, and felt half amused, yet a little anxious that no further misunderstanding should occur. Balfour did not dance for the first two dances, the second of which was a polka, and played by Grace—for though possibly the least musically instructed of those present, she had the knack, not often possessed by great pianists, of playing in capital time and great spirit for dancing.

‘I think I may claim this waltz. It is to be a waltz? asked Balfour, as Grace declared her fingers could move no longer, and rose from her seat at the piano.

‘Oh yes; I want to see how you can dance. Who is going to play? Baron Rudolph—that is delightful! The men here can almost always play for dancing, but the women seem to practise the life out of their music.’

‘They all dance too violently, and in what may be called the perpendicular style,’ said Balfour, smiling. ‘I am afraid, Grace, my step may not suit you. You see, most of my dancing has been done in America.’

‘Why, who had you to dance with there?’ asked Grace, raising her brows in saucy astonishment ‘Very charming girls, I assure you.’

‘Yes, in the towns and civilised places, no doubt; but where you have been?’

‘Oh, I have been in the great towns too. Now, Miss Grace, smoothly if you please, and leave yourself to me.’

‘Maurice, you are positively audacious!’

After a few trials, Grace got into the swing of his step and method, with the facility of a quick, accurate ear and light foot. Then she found it more delightful to waltz with Maurice Balfour than she had anticipated : the smooth equality of his step, the slight swing in perfect time with the music, the dexterous gliding in and out through the other dancers, the relief of reversing, of going straight, of returning to the round again — all the peculiar charm and grace of American dancing, which makes an American cavalier so desirable in a ball-room (as he is also out of it), had been thoroughly acquired by Balfour. Grace, supported by the firm, even pressure of his arm placed well round her, felt that she could go on for ever.

‘I got on better that time, did I not?’ she asked, when they at last paused near the piano; ‘I never knew anyone waltz so delightfully! I suppose I must let you go and dance with some one else; but I feel as if could go on all night.’,

‘I suppose I must ask some one else,' said Balfour, rather ruefully, ‘but they bound up and down so awfully, I don’t know how we shall manage. Still what must be, must be. Who are you going to dance with?’ a little curiously.

‘Oh, the Herr Professor! I see him looking at me with dancing intentions.*

‘Don’t let him kiss your hand in the middle of the room.’

‘No; there is another hand here he would prefer.’

‘I must give you another lesson or two, Grace, at home quietly. Mrs. Frere will play for us.’

‘As many as you like; only you will spoil me for other dancing, and I shall not have much of yours.’ ‘Hush!—for God’s sake don’t anticipate leave taking!’ exclaimed Maurice, with a sudden vehemence that startled Grace.

Towards supper-time, Friede managed to whisper a few ecstatic explanations into her friend’s ear. All was well; the beloved Otto was indeed hers. They were now vowed to each other; death alone could separate them in heart: but she feared and trembled for the result of to-morrow’s interview with her mother. She wished it postponed, but Otto was resolved. He wished all things to be honestly and openly done. Friede would let her dearest friend know the result.

Just before supper, Falkenberg asked Grace to dance. She was engaged; and they did not speak again till that lengthy meal was finished, and they stood waiting for the carriage.

Then he said, in French :

‘I suppose I have sinned past forgiveness; but if you knew how ashamed of myself and enraged against myself I am, you would think me punished enough. I understand matters now.’

* You must have been mad, Herr Baron, to dare speak to me in such a manner,’ said Grace, stiffly.

‘I was—I am—I have been for some time,’ he said, in a very low tone; ‘but I shall grow better, Grace, I am resolved. Ah! my words were prophetic that pleasant evening in our early acquaintance, when we talked of Balfour; and I said, when he came you would have eyes or ears for none but him!’

‘That is not true, Wolff; I do not change to my friends. But I like the old ones best; I told you so.’

‘Friends!’ repeated Falkenberg, with a sneer.

‘The carriage is here, Grace,’ called Mrs. Frere; and then the elaborate ceremony of bidding goodnight ensued.

‘So Falkenberg managed to apologise almost in private,’ said Balfour, as he handed Grace into the droschky.

‘He is very foolish and ill-tempered,’ she returned.

‘Take care,’ said Balfour, pressing her hand hard, so hard that it pained her.

‘Maurice dear, do ask Friede for a head-Tuck (shawl) for Mab; there is a little sharpness in the air. How do you return, Maurice?’

‘I walk in with the professor.’

‘Good-night.’

CHAPTER X

GRACE took care to pay Lady Elton an early visit the following morning to be safe out of the way, feeling very sure that Falkenberg would call before leaving for Konigstein, and, once in the house, she knew he would contrive a private apology, evade it how she might.

She was painfully anxious to avoid him, to be able to tell Balfour that Falkenberg had had no further chance of explanation, public or private. She was half angry with Maurice, too, for doubting and finding fault with her, though eager to preserve the high estimation she knew he had for her. She felt fretted and uneasy. She wanted to see him, to read in his grave soft eyes if she still held her place; and yet much too proud to question him, although the brotherly and sisterly tone which existed between them quite warranted such frank interrogations.

Lady Elton was at her writing-table, surrounded by a portentous-looking pile of open letters and papers; and the window opposite was open, although the view was obscured by driving mist and clouds, for a rainy morning had succeeded the sunshine and warmth of yesterday.

‘You are early, child!’ she said, holding out her hand, ‘and I was just wishing for you : there is a strong affinity between us. I sometimes wonder, if you had had a life like mine, would you become a replica of your old friend at my age?’

‘I fear I should never be as clever and learned, and—oh no, I should not be like you!’ said Grace, looking at her with loving admiration as she put her hat on the sofa,'and drew her chair to the writing-table.

‘You are stronger in some ways and much weaker in others,’ continued Lady Elton, not heeding Grace’s remark; ‘and your circumstances—circumstances are omnipotent, Grace—aie so different, that it is impossible to say. Family ties are often such important supports, and the freedom of isolation is often dangerous. Your love for your mother, your care for Mab, will always keep you straight.’

‘But, dear Lady Elton, no one can be straighter than you are. Who is more respected and esteemed and looked up to than yourself?’

* Oh, I have nothing to complain of. I have fared very well; the world and I are quits,’ said Lady Elton, a little impatiently. ‘But tell me, what has brought you out so early?’

‘I wanted to know how you are. You seemed not quite so well yesterday,’ returned Grace.

‘Thank you, I was much as usual; but the noise and the length of the dinner exhausted me. I do not dislike the Teuton, but I prefer taking him in small doses.’

‘I like them all at Dalbersdorf so very much!’ cried Grace. ‘Asto Uncle Costello and Friede, I love them dearly; indeed I like all Germans, they are so funny and sentimental.’

‘Ah, yes! sentiment—that is the tender green husk of the German nut, but the kernel is of the hardest, strongest reason and materialism; they can well afford to play at sentimentality!’

‘But, Lady Elton, they are very kind—ready to do a service to anyone who needs it, and sympathetic.’

‘They are all that, but they are selfish too.’

‘I suppose nothing is so rare as unselfishness in every nation.’

‘I suppose so, Grace—at least one does not meet it often in individuals; and how often apparent unselfishness is only weakness.’

‘Not often} pleaded Grace; ‘at all events it is a pleasant form of weakness.’

There was a pause while Lady Elton looked over her letters, consigning some to the wastepaper-basket, and tying up others, her thoughts evidently far away. At last she said :

‘You are not impatient and greedy like most scribblers, Grace; you have not--’

Here the door opened, and Luigi presented himself, with two cards—‘Baron Falkenberg von VOL. in. 55

Ottenhain, and Baron Wolff Falkenberg,’ read Lady Elton.

‘I really cannot stand a ceremonial visit this morning, Grace!’

‘Do not try, dear Lady Elton,’ said Grace, earnestly. ‘It would be a mere disturbance; send them a civil message.’

‘I said Miladi was much indisposed,’ observed the intelligent Luigi.

‘Very good. Say then how grieved I feel not to be able to receive these gentlemen, and that I wish them bon voyage' said Lady Elton to her servant; adding, as he left the room: * What cairns of lies one heaps up in the course of a civilised life, Grace!’

‘No more than you would tell in an uncivilised one,’ returned that young lady, laughing, while she listened a little anxiously for Luigi’s return; for she felt sure that if Falkenberg had already been to Bergstrasse, and heard she was with Lady Elton, he would ask to see her; but if he called on her mother last, there would be no time to return before the train started. The minutes passed, and no Luigi came; so Grace breathed more freely, while half angry with herself for attaching so much importance to so small a matter.

‘I was just beginning to say,’ resumed Lady Elton,’ that you have been very forbearing, Grace. You have not worried about your manuscript Do you forget you gave it to me?’

* No, indeed!’ cried Grace, smiling and blushing. ‘I have longed so much for your opinion that I dared not ask it.’

‘Foolish child! why, you are absolutely changing colour. Well, I have read it through, and it is not bad. Isn’t that damning with faint praise? But I will say more, Grace. It is very much better than I expected; still I doubt if any editor would give you anything for it.’

‘I suppose not,’ replied Grace, trying not to feel dreadfully disappointed. ‘I am glad, though, that you think it “not bad.”’

‘No, it is certainly not bad. But do you know that the style of descriptive paper you have attempted, without a story of any kind, is a tour de force, even for an experienced pen. If you should want to earn money, by far the best chance for a beginner is a story—a novel.’

‘But a plot! Dear Lady Elton, I never could invent a plot!’

‘Oh yes, you could. Hash up two or three novels. Pick a hero out of one and a villain out of another, an angel here and a devil there—make the devilry very strong—never mind consistency— strew it with a scattering of reality gleaned from what you have seen and known. A plot is really of no great importance. There are no plots in real life. It is only your inexperienced writer who depends upon his plot Every day of an existence truly recorded would make a volume.’

‘But I am most inexperienced, and utterly dependent on a plot.’

‘D on’t hunt for one, then; let it come.*

‘Ah, Lady Elton, but I fear it will not. I wonder you have not written novels yourself, you seem to understand all about it so well.’

* No, dear Grace, I had no tendency that way; and it is far easier to criticise than to write. Seriously, I think you have some of the qualities that succeed; but it is an uncertain metier: do not hope too much. However, as you have plenty of time, write and write, and read; perhaps you may develop some facility.’

She paused, and opening a drawer, took out the roll of MS. so precious in the eyes of its author; and looking at it with an indulgent smile, handed it to Grace.

‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I will not hope too much; but your sentence is more lenient than I expected.’

Lady Elton did not reply, and another pause ensued, so much longer than the first, that Grace began to think perhaps her friend would like to be alone; but before she could act on this impression, Lady Elton broke the silence:

* I am going away, child. Going in two or three days.’

. ‘Why? Oh, pray don’t go! It is so nice to have you here; such a pleasure, and such a backing up!’

‘Yes,’ returned Lady Elton, looking at her thoughtfully, ‘I believe you like me heartily; and if I had known you sooner, and if you had no other ties, I could have taken you into my life: but fate forbids such things to be. Now I must just go back to the old mill-wheel round.’

‘But why go, dear?’ caressingly. ‘I think you have been better, a little brighter, since you were here.’

‘I have,’ said Lady Elton. ‘Do not suppose I want to be miserable. I would give—oh! I know not what—to throw off this terrible, weary sense of having nothing to live for, or love! And yet with the sad prescience that belongs to my years, I know I shall live through the pain of the present, and what is called recover myself—that is, go back to the old grooves, just numbed, and dulled, and indifferent; and people will say, " Oh, Lady Elton is quite herself again!” because I do not sit all day crying with my head in my hands.’

Grace felt too deeply for the speaker to offer a syllable of consolation. She only took her hand and tenderly kissed it.

‘What terrible things pain and grief are,’ she said softly. ‘I feel as if they were foes to be resisted to the death.’

‘Yes; but they are irresistible.’

‘I suppose so. I was very very miserable when you quarrelled with me; but I always felt that I had made a great escape from Mr. Darnell.’

‘I think you did. I did not understand you so well, Grace. By the way,’ looking among her papers, ‘I have a letter from Max this morning. He talks of paying us a visit. He has tried all places, he says; so he thinks of Zittau for a change, and also to see his dear relations. You know Max carefully conceals any little sparkles of warm feeling he has not yet succeeded in stamping out. Still I think he is not without heart.’

‘Max coming to Zittau!’ cried Grace, dismayed at all the disturbance of her tranquil happiness which this intelligence threatened. ‘He had much better not. Pray tell him he would be sick of it in twenty-four hours; and now you are going away, he would be quite miserable here. Do not let him come, dear Lady Elton!’

‘Grace,’ said Lady Elton, much surprised, ‘I fancied you got on very well with Max. In short, I had a theory that he made love to you when he was at Dungar; and Max can be very charming.’

‘Pooh!’ returned Grace, with a smile and a blush; ‘he gave me a few lessons in the art of flirtation, just to keep his own hand in, I suppose; but he did not care for me really.’

‘Very likely. I do not think he cares much for anyone except Max Frere. Are you in earnest in wishing him not to come?’

‘Yes; truly, deeply in earnest.’

‘Very well. But Grace, I wish you liked Max better; I think—perhaps I am wrong—but I fancy he is very fond of you.’

‘Ah! I am not fond of him. I would never wish to see him again.’

‘You surprise me; but I see you are in earnest' Lady Elton looked searchingly at her as she spoke; and Grace, turning from her gaze, saw it was already noon by the tendule on the mantelpiece. ‘I must leave you,’ she said; ‘I promised my mother to return to her at twelve. I wish I could persuade you to defer your departure. Must you really go V

‘I must, child. I want to see some people in Paris; and I have some business in London.’

‘We shall miss you most dreadfully.’

‘Come and live in London, Grace; it would be much better for you. This place is very well for a short time, but it is banishment; and I do not want you to marry the best graf or baron amongst them. And you should put Mab to school; it is impossible she can have the proper discipline at home: it would wear you out to attempt it, and create bad feeling amongst you.’

‘Quite true, Lady Elton,’ said Grace, rather dejectedly; ‘but what can I do? We cannot afford a good boarding-school, and life is much easier and cheaper in Zittau. Perhaps next year, when we have recovered Randal’s difficulties-’

‘He will be ready with a fresh supply,’ interrupted her friend. .

‘Ah, do not say so 1’ cried Grace, tears starting to her eyes. ‘Why should he not get on, and keep straight as well as others?’

‘Why not, indeed?’ said Lady Elton, kindly. ‘I am cruel—am I not, dear? Well, Grace, tell your mother I shall start for Paris on Monday, and I should much like to take you with me.’

Grace was so full of thought that she took a little detour am Park, instead of going direct home. It was not raining now, but everything was damp and moist, and the big stones of the rough pavement were dank and dark. The grass and shrubs of the strip of ornamental planting which had replaced the old defences of the town, and which was dignified by the large appellation of ‘ Park,’ gave out their odours in the heavy atmosphere, as did also the battered openings into the drains beneath, wherever a roadway crossed the path, with the intense offensiveness peculiar to Continental towns. Grace felt strangely depressed; this sudden resolution of Lady Elton’s seemed full of evil omen to her. What if Maurice were called away next week too!—and this was quite possible. How fearfully alone she would feel, how completely desolate! And she had been quite content three months ago without either of them. How was it that they (she even thought in the plural) had become thus essential? She could not answer; she only knew that it was so. And then a thrill of eagerness passed over her, to know how Maurice would greet her after their little quarrel or disagreement; true, they had danced together amicably afterwards, but there was stern disapprobation in his last words the night before. And then, as to Mab, she knew —she had long known the child ought to be at school, submitted to the same discipline as others, which therefore never would seem hard or unjust. Nothing else would cure her utter idleness, her unsettledness, her vague craving curiosity; but then, the cost 1 and this would be such a straitened year. There was her sudden journey to London, and the change of dress from black to colours, and the savings to be made towards paying the debt to Lady Elton, for she never expected Randal to assist: all these formed a mountain of difficulty that rendered school or a change of residence impossible. And yet Zittau did not appear to her so desirable an abode as she once thought it ‘Ah, my Fraulein!’ said a pleasant voice at her side, * you are plunged in deep thought; but I must disturb you. I have been to seek you at your lodgings; but you were gone.’

Grace turned and saw the pale thoughtful face and bright eyes of Professor Sturm.

' I am very glad I met you, Herr Professor! What news, good friend f ‘What I expected,’ he returned, a little sadly. ‘I went early to Dalbersdorf this morning, and had a long interview with the Frau Mutter, she was not quite surprised at my communication. I think Herr Baron Falkenberg is inimical to me. Well, mein bestes Fraulein, Frau Alvsleben was not friendly at first, she reproached me for having spoken first to her daughter. She contrasted the dear Friede’s position and my own most unfavourably; she hinted that I knew the count’s intention to bequeath his fortune to my beloved : and then I waxed wroth, and would have gone forth, but that the thought of Friede withheld me; and while I hesitated, my best beloved came quickly in, her fair face streaming with tears, her golden hair disordered, and she fell on her mother’s neck, and told her in her heavenly sweet voice how she could love none but me—and had ever loved me. And then, after much speaking, it was determined that we might consider ourselves engaged, without announcement; and if in a year’s time I can show that I have an income of certain thalers, we may be Braut and Brautigam! Gott! what music there is in the words. So far, it is no worse than I expected.’

‘No indeed, my dear professor,’ cried Grace, heartily; ‘it is much better. Dear Friede knows you are hers; and if you are faithful, all will go well. I shall see you happily united before I go back to England.’

‘How?’ cried Sturm—‘do you think of leaving us?’

‘No, no; not for a long time.’

‘And so,’ resumed the professor, ‘our engagement is to be secret for the present, but none the less sweet; and I have no fear now for the future. Were it not for the dear good mother, I could marry now; but she must first be thought of.’

‘Ah! yes, yes—she must indeed. Friede could not love you if you forget her. Will you not come in, Herr Professor?’

‘Thank you, no! I have some people to see, and I leave at one o’clock. God guard thee, my best of friends; your counsel has brought me good fortune.’

With a cordial shake of the hand they parted.

‘Poor dear Friede! she is happy and at rest I am sure it must be far nicer to be engaged than to be married; but people do not seem to think so.’

Mrs. Frere was deeply engaged making a frock for Mab’s doll when Grace came in; she was full of news, however. She had had many visitors. Maurice Balfour had been first. He reported having met both Barons Falkenberg on their way to see Lady Elton; ‘and I said,’ continued Mrs. Frere, ‘they would probably find you there. And then Maurice, who seemed a little dull, told me he was going to see some old Dresden friend, who is married and settled at Bautzen; so he is gone, and will not return till to-morrow. Then Wolff von Falkenberg and his brother came; and I was sorry to find Lady Elton was not well enough to see them. Wolff was quite annoyed to think you had been there all the time, and even wanted to go back; but Baron Rudolph would not hear of it, and indeed they had but barely time to catch the train. They had hardly gone, when in came Dr. Sturm; and he was in such a hurry to see you, that he would not sit down. Everyone is fond of my Grace !’ looking at her lovingly.

‘Well, I met the professor,’ said Grace, with an answering smile, ‘and I do not care about having missed the others; but what has taken Maurice Balfour off so suddenly? I do not think he intended going yesterday?’ And she wandered away in thought after the truant, while her mother poured forth a gentle stream of conjectures and probabilities almost unheard.

At last Grace roused herself, and announced Lady Elton’s approaching departure, which greatly discomposed Mrs. Frere. She was quite under the impression that Lady Elton intended to remain another month—an indefinite time; didn’t Grace think so? Had she any idea why Lady Elton had changed her plans? It was rather hard after all to be left behind, stranded in the stuffy society of an obscure little place like Zittau, where really there were no advantages except perhaps moderate prices. It went to her heart to see her dear Grace lost in such a hole—away from the society to which her birth and training entitled her, etc., etc.

‘But, mother!’ exclaimed Grace, astonished, ‘I thought you liked Zittau principally because the society here was so much better than what, under our circumstances, we could have had in London; and then---’

‘Really, dear Grace, it is hardly well-bred to bring up one’s casual remarks against one in that way. After you had offended Lady Elton, it was rather dull in London, I confess; but-’

‘Well, dearest mother, I should not mind returning to London, and I am equally content to stay here. At any rate, it will be a long time before we shall be able to manage a journey anywhere.’

Grace found herself wondering frequently, during that night and the following day, if Maurice Balfour had gone away in a bad humour with her, and if he would prolong his stay; and many other ‘ifs’ which linked themselves with these important questions. But she was not long left uninterrupted to her thoughts. Before the primitive dinner-hour came round next day, the rather ramshackle pony-carriage or buggy from Dalbers-dorf stopped at their door. Count Costello held the reins, and Friede sat beside him.

Friede’s face told its own tale; but a warning finger, upheld behind her grandfather, cautioned Grace to make no allusion to what had occurred. Some instinct had held her back from communicating the professor’s hopes to her mother; and she knew that, in Germany, an unacknowledged engagement was a matter about which none of the parties concerned cared to speak.

The count was in great spirits. He was absolutely going from home. He was going to spend • a few days next week with his grandson Ulrich at Dresden, partly in fulfilment of an old promise, partly to see a former friend, an Austrian archduke, then expected at the Saxon Court.

‘And I tell you what, my darling,’ he said to Grace. ‘I have desired Hans’ (Hans was his own particular groom) ‘to bring in Novara, and leave him at the Sachsische Hof stables; so your friend Balfour may have the use of him while I am away.’

‘You are indeed good. How delighted Maurice will be!’ said Grace.

* He is a nice young fellow,’ said the count, with grave approbation. ‘I wish he was in my old regiment I do not like his going away among savages and heathen.’

‘It is terribly far away, certainly,’ said Grace, with a sigh.

‘But he may get an appointment in England,’ added Mrs. Frere.

‘Any way,’ said the count, ‘there is nothing like Europe. They used to be telling me I would make my fortune if I went to America; but I preferred the haunts of civilisation, and chose Vienna. Ah, that was the place! I remember when his Highness was a young fellow, and I was still in my prime-’ etc., etc.

And the old man plunged into military and courtly reminiscences, always of the most enthralling interest to Mrs. Frere; while Grace and Friede stole away to enjoy a private conference.

Friede was less radiant than when Grace had last seen her. Her mother’s opposition, though much more moderate than she had expected, yet threw a damp upon her exultation; and the strict secrecy which Frau Alvsleben wished to preserve respecting the engagement, robbed Friede of the which, with all her simplicity and sincerity, she did not wish to forego. Still, the knowledge of Otto Sturm’s love, her perfect faith in him, their thorough comprehension of each other, made up an amount of bliss which rendered small drawbacks exceedingly bearable.

‘But I wish the mother would let me tell grandpapa. He might storm a little at first, but he would sympathise after. I do not mind waiting on my own account, but Otto seems so averse to delay.’

‘Yes; try and get leave to tell the count,’said Grace, earnestly. .

‘My mother is greatly opposed to my doing so/ said Friede. ' Still, the only real enemy we have is Wolff von Falkenberg; and I fancy he wants me to marry some one else/

‘Do you know who asked Grace.

I think I do. A horrid little fat Graf a cousin of his. But I would do nothing of the kind, even if Otto did not care a straw for me/

Then the friends wandered far afield in pleasant talk, and built many a fair air-castle, until Friede was summoned to accompany the count in his farewell visit to Lady Elton.

The evening was fine, and soon after their tea-supper, Mrs. Frere set out for the Sachsische Hof, leaving Grace, at Mab’s request, to take that young lady for a long walk. But shortly after, while Grace was putting on her hat, a school-fellow came to invite Mab to go with her and another elder school-fellow to play in the gardens belonging to the Burgomeister, an invitation not to be refused. So having replaited her hair, and generally arranged her toilet, Grace sent Mab on her way rejoicing.

Then, wisely reflecting that two were company and three none, she determined not to disturb her mother’s tete-a-tete with Lady Elton just yet, so sat down to write at any rate part of a letter to Randal.

It was just possible that Balfour might return that evening and call, and she would like to have some little explanation with him—they two face to face. She wrote on, not very rapidly, pausing now and then to enjoy the perfume of the flowers with which the room was plentifully decorated; to glance through the open window at the distant hills bathed in the sunset-light; to think how fond she was of the quiet, home-like chamber, and the various graceful, simple ornaments it had been a labour of love to collect.

She did not want to leave Zittau, for her part— not at least so long as the present party was unbroken. But how would it be when Lady Elton was gone? And how would it be when Maurice was gone? She would not think of it. And so she resumed her pen. It had scarce traced a couple of lines when a bell rang; then the door opened, and Balfour came in.

Grace rose to meet him with a smile and a blush.

‘So you have been playing truant, Maurice! I scarcely expected you back to-day.’

‘I think you might have been pretty sure I should return,’ said Balfour, taking her hand for a moment, and then sitting down in a chair near her writing-table, letting his eyes rest on her for a minute or two with an expression which puzzled Grace—a wistful, pained glance. Grace interpreted it as implying doubt and disapprobation not yet exorcised.

* And are you still cross and disagreeable?’ she asked, with a smile and deprecating glance that might have mollified an ogre.

‘Not more disagreeable than usual,’ said Balfour, smiling and a little surprised, while a look of rest and satisfaction stole over his face, as if the atmosphere of the place was congenial.

‘But you know what I mean, Maurice. You were angry with me?’

‘Well, I suppose I had no business to be so; and wish you would not remind me,’ returned Balfour, with a quick sigh. ‘I suppose Falkenberg made it all right with you before he went yesterday?’

‘No, he did not,’ cried Grace, with a blush of pleasure at being able so to answer. ‘I have not seen or spoken to him since we parted at Dalbersdorf.’

‘What!’ replied Balfour, giving her one of the looks which he rarely indulged in, but which seemed to pierce to her innermost thoughts. ‘I met him and his brother yesterday going to see Lady Elton. I came on here, and found you were already at the Sachsische Hof.’

‘All quite true,’ said Grace, gaily; ‘but you see Lady Elton was not very well, and I advised her not to receive visitors; so--’

An insinuating pause.

‘And Falkenberg has had no opportunity for apologising in private, then?’ cried Balfour, with animation, his brown eyes lighting up.

Grace gave him a little nod, and employed herself by putting away her half-written letter and writing materials.

‘I am afraid you think me an unreasonable beggar, for cavilling at your conduct towards anyone ; but if you knew--’

He stopped suddenly.

VOL. in. love none but me—and had ever loved me. And then, after much speaking, it was determined that we might consider ourselves engaged, without announcement; and if in a year’s time I can show that I have an income of certain thalers, we may be Braut and Brautigam! Gott! what music there is in the words. So far, it is no worse than I expected.’

‘No indeed, my dear professor,’ cried Grace, heartily; ‘it is much better. Dear Friede knows you are hers; and if you are faithful, sill will go well. I shall see you happily united before I go back to England.’

‘How?’ cried Sturm— ‘do you think of leaving us?’

‘No, no; not for a long time.’

‘And so,’ resumed the professor, ‘our engagement is to be secret for the present, but none the less sweet; and I have no fear now for the future. Were it not for the dear good mother, I could marry now; but she must first be thought of.’

‘Ah! yes, yes—she must indeed. Friede could not love you if you forget her. Will you not come in, Herr Professor?’

‘Thank you, no! I have some people to see, and I leave at one o’clock. God guard thee, my best of friends; your counsel has brought me good fortune.’

With a cordial shake of the hand they parted.

‘Poor dear Friede! she is happy and at rest. I am sure it must be far nicer to be engaged than to be married; but people do not seem to think so.’

Mrs. Frere Was deeply engaged making a frock for Mab’s doll when Grace came in; she was full of news, however. She had had many visitors. Maurice Balfour had been first. He reported having met both Barons Falkenberg on their way to see Lady Elton; ‘and I said,’ continued Mrs. Frere, ‘they would probably find you there. And then Maurice, who seemed a little dull, told me he was going to see some old Dresden friend, who is married and settled at Bautzen; so he is gone, and will not return till to-morrow. Then Wolff von Falkenberg and his brother came; and I was sorry to find Lady Elton was not well enough to see them. Wolff was quite annoyed to think you had been there all the time, and even wanted to go back; but Baron Rudolph would not hear of it, and indeed they had but barely time to catch the train. They had hardly gone, when in came Dr. Sturm; and he was in such a hurry to see you, that he would not sit down. Everyone is fond of my Grace !’ looking at her lovingly.

‘Well, I met the professor,’ said Grace, with an answering smile, ‘and I do not care about having missed the others; but what has taken Maurice Balfour off so suddenly? I do not think he intended going yesterday?’ And she wandered away in thought after the truant, while her mother poured forth a gentle stream of conjectures and probabilities almost unheard.

At last Grace roused herself, and announced Lady Elton’s approaching departure, which greatly discomposed Mrs. Frere. She was quite under the

CHAPTER XI

THE departure of Lady Elton, thus suddenly announced, afforded even a larger amount of subject-matter for gossip than her arrival. The reasons assigned for so natural an event were many and far sought. Frau Alvsleben was loud in her conjectures and inquiries.

* Why, meine gute Cousine,’ she said to Mrs. Frere a day or two before Lady Elton was to set out, when she had come in to pay that lady a visit, with a view to master the whys and wherefores of the intended move, and when, after going through all the polite ceremonies due at the Sachsische Hof, she retired on Bergstrasse; * why permit the dear lady to leave you? She loves our Gracechen; but when she goes hence, how do you know but that she may find some other Fraulein to supplant your Grace? The whims of rich childless women are many. She told me she wished to take your dear girl with her. Why not let her go? It might secure-’

‘Dear Frau Alvsleben,’ cried Mrs. Frere, ‘I assure you your ideas are quite unfounded. We do not know if Lady Elton has the power to will away her fortune; and, if she has, she has near relatives: and besides, she has probably a long life yet before her. Altogether, it is preposterous to expect anything of the kind you mean.’

‘Well, I assure you it is reported in Zittau that Grace will be her heir; and Rudolph von Falken-berg asked me about it quite seriously: indeed, under that impression be would, I think, be inclined to an alliance with your family, though we have never looked on him as a marrying man.’

‘I am sure we are much indebted to Baron Falkenberg for his condescension,’ said Mrs. Frere, with some hauteur; ‘he had better not deceive himself.’

Ah, Gott! but these children are an unceasing source of care and struggle and anxiety,’ cried Frau Alvsleben; ‘and we mothers must not fold our hands and leave the destinies of our daughters to chance.’

* But what is to be done? how can one help them y said Mrs. Frere, helplessly.

‘One can but do one’s best,’ said Frau Alsvleben, vaguely.

Lady Elton’s departure was a sort of triumphal procession. All the Dalbersdorf party were there : the count, with a huge bouquet; Dr. Niedner; and the landlord of the Hof, armed with a basket of substantial sandwiches, which Luigi had taught him to make, brought up the rear.

Lady Elton, though genial and gracious, was somewhat annoyed at this public demonstration.

‘I wanted my last words with you, dear,’ she said, laying her hand on Grace’s arm—and Grace thought it rather tremulous. ‘I wish very much you were coming with me. I wish your mother could have spared you.’

‘I am so sorry you must go. Could you not stay awhile at Dresden, and-’

‘No! I have made all my arrangements; had I not done so, I should have altered my plans and remained. Write to me often.’

Here Balfour came up, and Lady Elton, letting Grace go, spoke to him aside for a few minutes; then others pressed round, and Grace had no further opportunity of speaking in private to her friend. Finally, when Lady Elton was settled in the carriage, and her books, wraps, cushions, bouquets, etc., were properly stowed away, she said, ‘Let Grace come to me;’ and Grace, standing on the step of the carriage, gave her both her hands. Lady Elton, looking at her with a long yearning expression, drew her down and kissed her fondly. ‘God bless you, child; think of me sometimes.’

‘Indeed—indeed I will; and will you write from Paris?’

‘Yes; good-bye—do not forget’

The guard’s whistle sounded. The count laid a warning touch on his grand-niece’s arm, and the train moved on, Lady Elton looking through the window to the last, and Grace at her. Then everyone turned and walked away, talking audibly of the charm, the excellence, the intelligence, the high-breeding of their late visitor, for five minutes at least; after which the current local topics of interest superseded the last bit of novelty. Grace only was quite silent; and as she walked back towards home, with her grand-uncle, Dr. Niedner and Balfour, the latter noticed how pale she looked, and that there was a suspicious sparkle on her long lashes. He made no remark, however; and at length Grace broke out with:

* I suppose it is stupid and unreasonable of me, but I cannot help it. I feel inclined to have a good cry—as if she had gone away for ever. I cannot tell you how I shall miss her : she seems to have taken half the home feeling of Zittau away with her, yet she has been barely two months here.’ ‘It is not like you to be so fanciful,’ said Balfour, with a tender smile, and drawing nearer as he spoke. ‘Lady Elton is a remarkably free agent, and I daresay will come to you, or bring you to her, before long. Distance scarcely exists for people of fortune in these days.’

‘I know all that,’ said Grace, ‘and I shall probably feel differently to-morrow. But I do love Lady Elton, and she is not happy; then I seem in some way necessary to her, and that is the sting. It breaks my heart to part with those that miss me. I was so sorry to leave Jimmy Byrne, for instance.’

‘Ah, Grace! then—’ began Balfour quickly, and paused before he went on—‘the fact is, you think yourself so all-essential that you shrink from withdrawing the light of your countenance from your adorers.’

‘What a rude, unkind speech!’ returned Grace, smiling. ‘I do not know why you think me conceited; you are always launching arrows of scorn at my weakness. You may say what you like, there are a few in this world, just two or three, to whom I am very essential.’

‘I don’t think you conceited—that is too small a word; but you believe in yourself—that is a tower of strength to you. Perhaps, if you knew all, I think-’ He stopped abruptly.

‘I should have less faith in myself? No, Maurice, I think I know what I am worth. I have more humility than you believe.’

I don’t know that my opinion would do much to deepen it,’ said he, drawn on irresistibly to utter more of his feelings than usual, but still preserving a playful tone, ‘considering that you are “my Queen.”’

‘Ah, that is nonsense!’ replied Grace, turning to him with her frank sweet smile; ‘I am your friend —your comrade!’

‘Ay,’ cried Balfour, with a fervour he could not repress, ‘the best, the brightest comrade ever man had!’

‘That is right, Maurice,’ said Grace, exultingly. I know now that we are quite friends again, in spite of Falkenberg’s nonsense.’

‘Don't name him,’ said Balfour, hastily.

This exclamation brought them to the door of Mrs. Frere’s dwelling, and the doctor taking his leave, the other two gentlemen ascended aupremier with Grace.

Mrs. Frere had not followed the multitude to the railway-station, but sat serene and picturesque in her black silk and soft white lace, ready to receive the news and condolences of her visitors.

‘We had quite a little crowd of leave-takers,’ said Balfour, after they had exchanged greetings and the count had accepted an offer of Schnaps.

‘I am glad I made my adieux quietly at the hotel,’ returned Mrs. Frere. ‘Poor Lady Elton 1 she seemed exceedingly low. I cannot think why she went away if she would rather stay.’

‘It is not easy to read the riddle of a fine lady’s mind,’ said the count, with an air of supreme experience. ‘It’s not often they could tell you the reason why themselves; but somehow, though they can’t explain, they are generally right.’

‘That is what they say in Ireland of the natural, or village-fool. You know the sort of creature, lieber uncle,’ returned Grace, laughing; ‘the country-people say, “Ach, God help him ! he knows a dale more than us, only he can’t tell.” It is not a flattering likeness!’

‘You are too sharp for your old uncle, my darling,’ said the count. ‘Faith, the ladies are no fools—at least those I have known.’

‘We shall miss dear Lady Elton terribly,’ said Mrs. Frere; ‘however, I am glad to say that I expect a visit from another connection, or rather relation—a very charming person.’

* Who, mother?’ cried Grace, with sudden eagerness, a look almost of alarm in her wide-opened eyes.

‘Your cousin Max. I had a letter from him just now. He wants to know what we are going to do this summer; because he will have his holiday early in June, and would like to pay us a visit en route perhaps to Vienna. I shall be quite pleased to see him. He is really a good specimen of a young Englishman.’

‘Max coming here?’ said Grace. ‘It’s quite astonishing!’

Balfour looked watchfully at her from under his half-closed lids.

‘I must say it is quite natural that he should come and see us, Grace. I do not think you ever appreciated Max.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said Grace, carelessly; and then the subject was changed by the count, who informed the company that his visit to Dresden had been postponed for a couple of days; and he repeated the offer of his horse to Balfour, who very gratefully accepted it.

‘And I wish you would take Friede out with you, Grace,’ he added; * there is a horse of Ulrich’s at Dalbersdorf, and the Verwalter’s, which you might ride, so you would be a pretty trio.’

‘It will be quite charming,’ cried Grace; * I will write to Friede, and make a partie at once.’ Here Mab made her appearance, her Sack (a leather-case for books, in German schools) on her back; her hair unplaited and streaming down her back, and a considerable space of flounce torn away and hanging in a festoon.

‘Oh, Mab! how often have I not asked you to leave your hat and Sack in the corridor!’ cried Mrs. Frere, in despairing accents; but Mab, totally disregarding her mother, went straight to' the count.

‘Do you know, Uncle Costello, they would not let me go to the station to bid Lady Elton goodbye; was it not a shame? I only just saw her for two minutes with mamma this morning. She gave me a kiss and told me to be a good girl, and then I was pushed out and sent away to school.’

‘It was a shame, faith,’ said the veteran, taking her on his knee. ‘It was more important, a good deal, that you should go to the station than to school —eh, Mab?’

‘I think so,’ said Mab, pouting.

‘Mab, you must come with me and be made tidy,’ said Grace, with energy.

‘I shall do quite well, shan’t I, Maurice?’ cried Mab, who was very fond of him, forsaking the count and jumping on his knee. Grace is always teasing me.’

* You are a very nice little girl, Mab,’ returned Maurice, stroking her tumbled hair; ‘but you would be still nicer if you let Grace put you to rights.’

‘Ah! you are not so good as Wolff von Falken-berg,’ cried Mab; ‘he always took my part, and made Grace let me alone.’

Did he?’ said Balfour.

The blank left by Lady Elton’s departure was very great. The daily companionship, the occupation of inquiring what she intended to do each day, the small expeditions, the confidential speculative talk—all these were a terrible loss. And though, perhaps, Balfour felt it the least, still he missed her much. Her last words to him had been a friendly caution.

‘I daresay it is a waste of breath to warn you,’ she said, ‘but don’t play with fire. Remember it is possible to burn other fingers besides your own. Take advice: show the better part of valour, and seek safety in flight.’

‘Believe me, it is not necessary,’ he replied, with a smile—a somewhat sad smile; ‘no one is in danger but myself, and, as I told you, I am prepared to pay the price!’

‘I wish I could say “Success attend you but fortune is not propitious.

She pressed his hand, and left him. Balfour thought of her words at intervals, and even set himself to watch for any symptoms of the truth of her conjectures. But he was at once relieved, and, in spite of his better reason, mortified to see nothing but the simplest, sincerest sisterly feeling. Yet, had he stood in a different relation to Grace—had she been his fiancee—would he have liked her to have the same sisterly friendship with another man? And conscience immediately said, ‘Certainly not 1’

Nevertheless, as he gathered from his friend Darnell’s letters that his time was growing short, he was firmly resolved to enjoy what remained to him; and in pursuance of this idea, he addressed himself to Grace one evening, after the count’s departure for Dresden, towards the end of a solemn rubber, in which Mab took a not inefficient part, as the weather was too showery to permit of their usual ramble in the woods or through the fields.

* It will be fine I think to-morrow, and the roads in good order. What do you say to a long ride over the border, as far as Gabel, and back by Hain? You will let her come, Mrs. Frere? I don’t know that I shall have many more chances of a ride.’

‘Is it very far, Maurice?’

‘Not more than three or four hours,’ put in Grace. ‘I have ridden there with Wolff von Fal-kenberg and the count.’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Mrs. Frere, placidly; it will be a great treat to Grace, and she has not much amusement now.’

‘You had better ride Novara,’ said Balfour. ‘I saw a very good horse, a bright bay, at the Hof stables this morning, which will do for me. I will arrange it all this evening. If we start at five, we can be back before dark, Mrs. Frere.

’ Very well,’ returned Mrs. Frere; ‘and Mab and I will have a droschky, and take a nice drive towards Oybin to meet you,’ she concluded.

* That will be charming!’ cried Grace.

‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Mab. ‘Only I should like to have the pony and ride with you; it is ever so much nicer than crawling along in an old droschky!’

‘Would you let me go all alone, Mab?’ said her mother.

‘Oh, you wouldn’t mind, mummy dear?’

‘No no, Mab; we are going too far for you’ observed Grace.

‘I am sure I can ride quite as far as you’ cried Mab, pouting.

Whereupon, Balfour held out his hand to her; and on her sidling up to him, proceeded to whisper consolation, which at first was evidently rejected with very belligerent head-tossing; but finally her countenance cleared, and she exclaimed in tones of exultation:

* Maurice says he will take me out to ride one day all by myself, Grace—without you. You are a good Maurice!’ And soothed by this enchanting prospect, Mab was induced to go to bed.

The following day fulfilled Balfour’s predictions. Brilliant sunshine, air freshened by the previous rain, a blue sky varied by a few slow-sailing snow-white clouds which cast soft shadows on the wide plain, and tender alternations of light on the rocks and woods of the border district—a perfect summer’s day, about which, in this northern land, something of the youthfulness of spring still lingered. Nor would it have been easy to find a pair of hearts more full of summer sunshine than those of the well-assorted companions who mounted so gaily for their evening ride at the appointed hour.

To Grace, the highest physical enjoyment was to be on horseback; and it was with more than usual satisfaction she coiled up her ‘bonny brown hair’ into a knot, almost upon her neck, to support her jaunty little felt hat, and fastened her well-fitting habit. The woman who is not elated by the consciousness of looking well is an unnatural monster, of whom we weaker mortals may justly stand in awe. Grace was far from having reached this exalted pitch; and it was in truth a pardonable pleasure which she derived from the reflection presented by her looking-glass: dark-grey laughing eyes, creamy skin and cheeks softly rosy—a form all pliancy and ease, with a certain richness of outline—a face all frank kindliness, with the free firm glance of one who has nothing to conceal—full of all tender sympathy, yet queen of herself, as yet.

‘What a delightful evening!’ she exclaimed, as she beamed out upon her cavalier issuing from the dark doorway into the sunlight; ‘and what a delightful idea of yours, dear Maurice!’

He did not reply instantly.

* Let us get off then as soon as possible,’ he said.

Taking her foot in his hand, he quickly lifted her to the saddle, and sprang on his own horse, which curvetted a little, while he raised his hat to Mrs. Frere, who stood in the balcony.

‘When do you start, mother?’ asked Grace.

* In about an hour and a half; will that be time enough?’

‘Yes; and when you are past Oybin, keep to the right up the hill.’

A nod and smile, and they were off.

‘I think,’ said Balfour reflectively, looking at his companion—‘I think you ought always to wear a riding-habit, Grace.’

* Yes, I think it suits me,’ she returned; ‘and I do like it I feel almost a boy in it!’

‘Almost! — but what a vast interval in the “almost”!’

‘Vast indeed, Maurice. What a difference even dress makes. I could accomplish ever so much if I had not all my feminine drapery hanging about my heels; and yet there are so many womanly privileges I could not give up. It is so nice to be taken care of; not that I have ever known, or am likely to know, much of that.’

‘Nonsense!’ returned Maurice, almost roughly. ‘I imagine you will find plenty of people willing to take care of you; so you need not don masculine garb for want of a care-taker.’

‘Well, if ever I do, riding-boots shall certainly form part of it. I like yours immensely; there is something soldier-like and business-like about them. I used always to admire the Life-guard boots whenever I passed the Horse Guards. Had I been a nursemaid, I could never have been proof against those boots!’

‘But not being a nursemaid, I suppose mine have no fascination for you?’ said Balfour, smiling, yet watching her from under his drooped eyelids.

‘Oh yes; I like you better with them. I was always terribly affected by exteriors, or, let us say, I have an “artistic eye.”’

And so they talked with pleasant friendly ease till free of the town and outlying cottages, and little trotting square-built peasant children who dropped spasmodic curtsies and bobbed bows, calling ‘’ after the riders.

‘One feels that there is peace upon earth and goodwill towards men under a sky like this,’ said Grace, patting Novara’s neck, who replied by arching it, prancing and sidling, as if in acknowledgment, his rider sitting firm, yet carelessly, too at home in the saddle to be easily swayed.

‘Aye, for an instant of rest,’ returned Balfour, somewhat sadly; ' but it does not do to think how short and rare those instants are.’

* Let us hold them fast when they come—not look too far ahead. Rest too prolonged means rust,’ cried Grace.

‘What an active ambitious fellow you would have made, had you a right to wear broadcloth!’ said Balfour, laughing. ‘I am afraid you are rather an unfeeling, unsentimental young lady.’

‘Perhaps so; yet no—not unfeeling. At least it is impossible in such matters to measure one’s self with others; but if being very uncomfortable often about people and things shows feeling, I have quite enough.’

Balfour smiled. ‘I fancy you have quite as much feeling as is good for you,’ he said; ‘and you show what you feel very plainly sometimes, at least to those who know you. I, for instance, who know every shade that passes over your face, every change in your eyes, I know you don’t want your VOL. III. 57 pleasant good-looking cousin to come here. Why, I cannot say. I should fancy him just the fellow to be welcomed by a young lady.’

‘Yes, he is good-looking,’ returned Grace, thoughtfully—she had been a little startled by Balfour’s words, but the impression passed away almost immediately—* and he can be very nice too ; nay, more, he has been very good and helpful to Randal. Still you are right; I do not want him to come.’

‘Am I too bold to ask why?’

‘No, I can tell you nearly anything, Maurice; but this I scarcely can explain. I am afraid I have a shabby reason for not wishing to see Max. We are under obligations to him that we cannot yet repay.’

‘Ah!’—a long-drawn ‘Ah!’ ‘Then he wants payment in some coin that you cannot or will not produce’

Grace was silent; but a quick tell-tale blush flamed up over cheek and brow, and even down the fair white throat, to hide itself under the collar of her habit. Balfour looked at her, a sudden glance full of pain, and immediately averted.

‘You mean that he wants to marry me?’ said Grace, at last breaking the silence which oppressed her, and forcing harself to speak with a bluntness scarcely natural. ‘I believe Max would think such an alliance a mistake and a misfortune. He is ambitious, and I am nobody; he is worldly, and despises my homeliness; he is’—a pause—‘he is far from a bad fellow. I must not be ungrateful; he has helped Randal most efficiently. And oh!

I pray that soon, very soon, I may be able to pay him all! Now, Maurice, here is a lovely bit of soft sandy road. “Novara” against the “brown,” for a pair of gloves!’ And gathering up the reins, she struck her horse smartly and broke into a gallop.

Balfour, taken by surprise, was left behind for a few minutes, but soon came up with her; and for some time they went neck and neck, with scarce the interchange of a word, both thrilled by the exhilaration of the swinging pace, the curious sense of power, of a doubled being, which comes to the practised rider when well mounted, and feeling the free stride of a willing steed, to which, in Balfour’s case, was added the subtle intoxicating presence of the girl whose charm of beauty, of manner, of nature, had penetrated to the depths of his being, and to which he had abandoned himself. As Grace sped on, with beaming eyes and smiling lips, she little dreamed that her companion, with his calm, grave, almost stern face, was thinking that he would rather gallop thus with her into the jaws of death than part with, or resign her to another.

But Balfour soon perceived that his horse was swifter, though not better than the count’s; and as the road became suddenly steeper a little farther on, he let the ‘brown’ go ahead about half a . length.

‘Fairly beaten! — eh, my Fraulein?’ he said, looking back.

‘Yes; so I will knit you a pair of warm gloves for the winter. Won’t that be paying my debts nobly?’

* It will—in a better spirit, too, than you show Max Frere. Pray, as you are so strong-minded a young lady, do you intend to disdain matrimony?'

‘No, indeed—I do not!’ said she, frankly; ‘a good, kind husband, and a home of one’s own, is not to be despised; but I could not marry anyone for ever so long. How in the world could I leave my mother and Mab? You see I must have some one who will live near them.’

‘Ay,’ returned Balfour, ‘some rich stay-at-home fellow. I can’t fancy anything pleasanter than being able to supply all the needs of the woman you love; it seems natural for a man to give.’

‘Yes, it does. If I were very rich, I should be quite willing to give all to the man I would marry; but somehow I should not like him to be content to take it.’

This talk brought them to the top of a low ridge which intervenes between the rocky ravine-furrowed district of Oybin and the wide stretch of the Bohemian forest-clad frontier. The ground fell away at their feet in a steeper slope than that which they had. just ascended. To the left, hill over hill rose up and up, covered with dense dark - pine-woods, cleared here and there in patches, but conveying, as these sombre masses of forest can, a sense of sullen savage loneliness. To the right, spread a vast open plain far as the eye could reach, dotted in the nearer distance with small villages, their churches and attendant clumps of trees; while all over the remoter portions were scattered fantastic hills of every shape and size, high-reaching peaks reversed bowl-like hillocks, hills with points, double hills like truncated cones, rounded mounds and broken demi-mounds, as though the vast cauldron of some gigantic primeval witch, say Mother Earth herself, had been arrested at boiling-point, every bubble and upreaching tongue suddenly and separately solidified, for each stood alone; over all, the tender evening glow, a pale grey-blue, where the horizon dropped down to meet the earth, the opal-tinted white clouds deepening into orange and crimson in the nearer heavens, as the sun, sinking behind the spectators, bestowed a parting benefaction of beauty.

Grace and her companion drew up for a while, in silence gazing upon the strange beauty of the scene. ‘Is it not wonderful?’ she said at last.

‘Most wonderful! I have seen many grander and lovelier scenes, but never anything more curious. There has been volcanic agency at work here.’

‘Dr. Sturm says there has been a great sea here, and probably the action of the tides and currents produced these strange forms; but really imagination fails to conjure up even an idea of the enormous number of ages that must have passed before all this could have taken shape.’

‘Ay,’ returned Balfour; ‘sometimes in cutting for a railway, or digging for an embankment, one comes on such queer suggestive traces of nature’s methods of building, that one’s brain is almost dazed by the effort to grasp such conceptions.’

‘How do you account for it all, Maurice?’

‘Me? Oh, I can’t account for anything. I am reduced to Topsy’s philosophy, and just believe it all “growed.”’

‘Ah, Maurice, that is only the Evolution Theory masked; and, if so, what is to become of religion Y

It does not touch religion. You can be just as religious, even though you do believe the evidence of your senses.’

* What is your religion, then, Maurice?’

* I am afraid I could not pull through a theological examination; but my own notion is just to clear one’s mental deck of the broken spars and tangled cordage of dogma, and try to do one’s duty heartily, unshrinkingly.’

* But how vague this is!’

* It is; but I can find nothing clearer. Come, Grace; the sun is sinking fast, and I think there is a little Gasthaus at Gabel where the Verwalter says one can find a tolerable glass of beer.’

They plunged down the hill, and were soon wrapped in the thick gloom of a pine-wood, across one corner of which the road led. Emerging from it, on a more level piece of the roadway or track, they had a sharp, invigorating trot, till they reached the little hostelry, where, surrounded by most of the juvenile population, who pointed out the * riding lady’ with immense interest and amazement, Balfour enjoyed a glass of cold, sparkling beer; and Grace, bending from the saddle, tried to talk to the bright-eyed, dark-haired, ragged, picturesque imps who crowded round, but with small success. Even that short distance over the border had brought them into a region where German was scarcely known.

They were soon again in motion, past a deserted solemn-looking grey Schloss, and its adjoining little Gothic chapel—past a small mere, which had gleamed prettily through the trees in their first glimpse of the town—past the Postamt and away, their faces towards the sunset, their pleasant easy talk still flowing frank and free; only Grace did the larger part of the talking. The grey horizon was closing in upon them, and the ridge they had again to surmount was steeper in the direction where they had now to cross it.

* What a charming evening it has been altogether,’ said Grace, after one of the pauses which Balfour did not seem anxious to break. ‘But we seem to have come farther than I expected. I hope my mother started in good time; she enjoys a drive so much.’

‘Yes,’ returned Balfour, a little abstractedly; ‘this evening will long live in my memory.’

‘Oh, we must have another ride before you go, Maurice. I do hope you will not go just yet.’

No reply; and Grace felt in some vague way conscious that she must not ‘tease’ Maurice. The silence this time lasted till they reached the brow of the hill.

‘Let us stop for a moment,’ cried Grace, turning her horse; ‘I want to look once more on that strange scene before we go down into the valley. I feel as if I should not see it again.’

* And I fancy my horse has picked up a stone,’ said Balfour, dismounting and proceeding to examine the animal’s foot. This done, with the bridle over his arm, he too stood gazing at the panorama spread out beneath; then, turning his back upon it, rested his left arm on the neck of his companion’s horse, gazing unrestrained in the bright face which was looking far away over plain and hill. He almost touched her—the perfume of a bunch of violets she wore in her button-hole breathed on him like a caress.

‘At any rate I shall probably never see it again,’ he said; and then involuntarily, in a tone of suppressed pain, he added,’ Grace, how can I ever bid you good-bye?’

Struck by his voice, she suddenly looked down into the eyes upraised to hers—eyes passionate indeed, but so full of longing tenderness, of pain, of love, that they fascinated rather than alarmed.

One glance, and lo! the veil was rent: they who had a couple of hours since ridden forth in frank, unembarrassed companionship, could never more be the same to each other. Grace’s heart gave one wild bound. Was it all over then, this pleasant friendship? Was she grieved?—was she glad? Had she gained?—had she lost? All these questions swept in a wild whirl through her brain, to be followed by the absorbing idea that Maurice Balfour, her dear good friend, was suffering pain and sorrow, and must be comforted; but she could not look at him again, though she longed for another glimpse of those grave, sad, loving eyes—why, she did not know.

‘Oh, Maurice dear,’ she said nervously, ‘you must not be down-hearted; you are so young still. There is so much of our lives before us both, that a few years are nothing. We shall meet again when you are a famous engineer, and I a literary lady; for do you know, I am going to try and write something to be printed, and—had we not better go on? we might miss my mother.'

Balfour had covered his face for a moment with his hand, and now raised his head, and speaking with an effort:

‘Yes, let us go on,’ he said, moving away, and putting his foot in the stirrup.

Grace turned her horse’s head and pushed on. Maurice was quickly in the saddle, and beside her. They rode on in silence, not increasing their speed, as the road soon plunged downhill steeply; and Grace sought in vain for a topic and words to break this terrible significant silence, while some inner voice, apparently quite independent of her proper self, kept repeating, ‘He is no more a friend or brother; he is more than these!’ filling her with a strange compound of dismay and a vague, thrilling, fearful sweetness. Was it possible that she had to think what she ought to say to Maurice? It was a terrible change, all in a minute. But how could she interpret that look— that tone, save as the expression of love passing a brother’s? ‘How grave and stern he looked now!’ she thought, stealing a glance at his face, which was slightly averted—‘severe enough to pass sentence of death on one! Perhaps I am a fool to fancy all this; I must speak to him.’

Meanwhile Balfour rode on beside her, fighting a silent but bitter battle with himself; enraged at his own weakness and want of self-control, yet not knowing how much he had betrayed; too occupied by his effort at self-mastery to remark his companion’s unusual quietude. He hoped and believed that Grace had not read his thoughts—that as he dared not try to win her love, so he might at least retain the affectionate confidence so precious to him; not allowing himself to hope—not daring to dream of a return of the true and tender passion which each day absorbed him more and more. But with all her natural self-possession, Grace did not recover her self-control so soon as her companion; and while she hunted in her mental preserves for an appropriate subject, to her infinite relief Balfour broke the long silence by observing, in just his ordinary tone, perhaps a degree more coldly than usual:

‘How long do you think it will take Mrs. Frere to reach Hain?’

‘Oh, quite an hour and a half. But I scarcely think she will go up that long hill; they will probably stop at the foot, and wait in the wood.’

CHAPTER XII

A LONG ride in the fresh pure mountain air failed in its usual effect. Grace could not sleep; she was restless, and oppressed by vague forebodings. The look and tone with which Balfour had uttered, ‘How can I ever bid you good-bye were perpetually present to eye and ear; and though she told herself she was fanciful—that she exaggerated probably what might have been an expression of natural friendly regret, the first effect remained stamped upon her mind—her heart; for she recognised almost with awe, yet with a strange tremulous delight, that whatever doubt she might have respecting Balfour's feeling, she could have none about her own. This long happy spell of frank companionship had drawn her heart so closely to the comrade of her early days, that the thought of parting with him was too bitter to be endured. She had never suspected where this confidence, this mutual understanding was leading her; but now, that instantaneous glimpse of tenderness and passion which he had betrayed, seemed as by an electric touch to have set the sources of love and devotion which had silently gathered in the depths of her heart flowing full and quick.

Yes, she loved him as she had never loved anyone else! Her first attachment to Max, it was an uneasy mixture of imagination and excited vanity, which yet might have settled into something true and lasting; but this—ah! how sweet the mixture of friendly comprehension and confidence, with a touch of tenderness beyond what friendship could reach! There was so much strength in the gentle repose of Balfour’s manner; a breadth and toleration in all his ideas; a simple sincerity that disdained disguise in his manner and opinions. And then she conjured up his face and form and voice with loving exactitude, and felt they were the incarnation of such a nature—tender, true, resolute; the full grave eyes, the breadth of brow, the figure with more of strength than grace, yet not without dignity; the soft mellow voice, which yet could ring out loud and full.

No! Maurice was not handsome, like Max or Wolff von Falkenberg; but oh! lovely and good in her eyes—yes, worthy to be loved as a friend and lover, and she would love him whether he loved her or not. Perhaps he did, and even then they must part; perhaps he did not, and then the parting must be more complete. In any case she must hide what she felt, because it would help him; because if he was resolved not to speak, he had force enough to keep his purpose, and need not be subjected to unnecessary pain; if he felt no more than brotherly affection, why it would be doubly necessary to be on guard, for Grace was peculiarly alive to the wholesome womanly shame of giving a love that was not sought. ‘Not that I can ever be ashamed of loving him in my own heart, if I can only keep it all hidden there.’

But she greatly dreaded meeting him; she feared to encounter his eyes; she hesitated to speak, lest he too should perceive what she did in the very sound of her voice; she shrank from giving him her hand, lest the mysterious magic of the touch should betray her. But his composure, his quiet self-possession was an infinite relief, when he came in later than usual the following day, and Mrs. Frere seized upon him directly to read aloud passages from a letter of Randal’s received that morning.

She was, as usual, prettily posed in her easy-chair near the window; her work-table with its vase of flowers beside her. Grace sat a little behind on the sofa, diligently at work, with a large basket full of sundry objects to be repaired. If there was a hidden blessing in Adam’s sentence,’ In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread,’ so "there is a double benediction of tranquillising power to woman in needlework. It is a refuge and a strength, as Grace found it that morning. Balfour placed himself between them, at a little distance, so that he could observe both faces.

‘I am sure you will be interested in my dear boy’s account of his life at Cairo—he writes so graphically! “If this Sir Alexander Atwell writes a successful book, I know who will have done the best part of it he says, “The padrone is as busy as a dog in a fair, arranging everything for our start, but I fear is rather a niggardly curmudgeon, stingy about ”—no, that’s not it. “Sir Alexander was pleased to say that I was too careless of money ” —no, no, here it is: “We went yesterday to be presented to the Khedive,”’ etc., and the usual account followed—donkey drivers, donkeys, strings of camels, backshish, veiled beauties, scriptural allusions, glowing skies, incongruous mixture of European conveniencies, regrets for the Mamelukes and other picturesque ruffianism.

’ They seem to have a good deal of society too,’ said Mrs. Frere, breaking off and turning the crossed epistle over and over.

‘Ah, yes! here it is : “The Marquis and Marchioness of Uppinham are at this hotel, as well as Lord Cecil Fitzharris, and young Morrison of Craigdarroch with his tutor—you know he is a millionaire. They are all very pleasant and friendly; the marchioness is a charming and beautiful young creature ” (She must be five-and-thirty at least, if there is any truth in Debrett/ said Mrs. Frere en parentkhe), ‘“far gone in Egyptology— knows a lot more about it than Sir Alexander; she is writing notes of her own tour, and is good enough to show me portions of her MS. occasionally. She accepts my assistance quite unaffectedly; she is most amusing about Sir Alexander, and I cannot help seeing that he is a little jealous of the notice I receive, and tries to keep me scribbling from morning till night However, I do not mind him much, for I am making valuable friends here. Young Morrison asked me to have a smoke and some iced champagne the other evening, and was quite delighted with my singing of ‘Molly Carew.’ He is rather common, but very good-natured. It is all pleasant enough, and no doubt will help to push me on; but it is deucedly expensive. However, as we start to-morrow for Constantinople, as it is getting fearfully hot, I hope my money will hold out till my quarter is due—and a miserable pittance it is!”

‘Poor dear boy, he must have forgotten to post this; it is dated a month ago!’ said Mrs. Frere, reflectively; ‘it is amazing how he gets on, in spite of every drawback. Imagine that Sir Alexander Atwell only gives him fifty pounds for all his time, his help, his ideas; it is really too shabby. Why, a high-class cook, not a chef —a woman would get as much!’

‘Indeed!’ returned Balfour, absently.’1 wish Randal was coming out to Australia with me.’

‘Ah, so do I!’ said Grace, softly but earnestly.

‘You are very good, dear Maurice/ observed Mrs. Frere, with a slight, superior smile; ‘but I cannot see that there would be much advantage in exchanging Cairo and its charming coterie for the rugged ness of a colony/

‘I should like Randal to have some more exalted profession than playing Punch for peers and millionaires/ said Grace, impulsively.

* My dear Grace, I am shocked to hear you talk in that horrid Radical way. Randal is only in his natural sphere; you quite wound me,’ said her mother, tearfully.

‘Grace never means to be unkind,’ returned Balfour; there was a caressing sound in his utterance of her name.

‘No, I daresay not; but she should not seem so, when she sees I have a little comfort in my dear boy’s letters.’

‘Ah, mother dear, I am a wretch to vex you!’ cried Grace. ‘I am sure everyone must like Randal; and I hope he will get on well.’

Mrs. Frere shook her head. ‘If you would think before you speak, it would be a great improvement,’ she said emphatically.

There was a short pause.

‘I rather expected a letter from Darnell this morning,’ said Balfour. ‘I fancy matters must be pretty well settled by this time; and I do not want to be snatched away at a moment’s notice. What do you say to another ride to-morrow, Grace, as my time is so uncertain?’ There was an indescribable softening of his tone as he addressed her.

‘Oh, it would be very nice,’ returned Grace, fastening her eyes upon her work; ‘but Gertrud and Friede are coming in to dine with us to-morrow, and we are all going to meet the count on his return from Dresden, so you see I must stay at home.’

‘Have we had our last ride, then?’ said Balfour, turning to her.

* I do hope not, dear Maurice.’ She forced herself to speak nearly in her usual tones. ‘ Surely you will be a week longer here?’

He did not reply.

‘Max, too, has not written; I quite expected to hear from him yesterday or to-day,’ said Mrs. Frere.

‘And I,’ remarked Grace, ‘am quite uneasy about Lady Elton. It is more than ten days since she left, and she has only written once. I answered immediately, and she has not written again.’

‘Oh, she will write, I daresay, when she gets to London,’ said Mrs. Frere carelessly, and rising from her seat. ‘I am going to meet Mab on her way from school; she wants some new gloves. Will you come with me, Maurice?’‘Certainly, Mrs. Frere.’

‘I will put on my bonnet directly.’

She left the room, and Balfour moved his chair nearer to Grace.

‘You would not mind Randal being a rough fellow like me?’

‘No, indeed; I wish he were. I should like a real brother just like you.’

‘Ah, it is true! I am a brother; but I can be a true real friend, can I not? Your hand on it, Grace, and look at me.’

He held his out, and she placed hers in it without hesitation; but it took all her self-control to raise her eyes to his while her hand lay in his grasp. He held it with a soft lingering pressure, palm to palm, each pulse throbbing against pulse. vol. ill. 58

Nothing short of her passionate desire to mask her heart could have nerved her to meet his glance as she did, fully, gravely, for a moment; and then her eyes sank slowly, though his revealed nothing save an eager questioning. He sighed deeply; and letting her withdraw her hand, was beginning a sentence, with ‘Grace, if-’ when re-enter Mrs. Frere.

‘Oh, Gracey, I cannot find the key of the large Schrank (wardrobe); I am sure I gave it to you.’

‘I will come and look for it,’ said Grace, rising quickly and leaving the room.

She was thankful to escape. Maurice evidently wished to explain something, but it was equally clear that he wished for nothing but friendship; and she thought she understood him. . Situated as they both were, anything more was out of the question; nor would either hamper the other with a long, perhaps hopeless, engagement. It was not to be thought of; and she must show herself brave and wise, and worthy of a strong man’s love. If— oh, if only he would understand her!

And Maurice did not quite understand her. How terrible at times is the fleshly veil which shrouds us from the perfect knowledge of each other, although it is also often a precious safeguard!

* Divested as Balfour was of small vanities, though not undervaluing himself, he was not disposed to think that Grace was in love with him. Had he felt anything beyond the vaguest suspicion of her preference, he neither could nor would have exercised so much control.

He reproached himself bitterly for the momentary slackening of the rein which he saw had startled her, and vowed over and over again to himself that he would let nothing disturb the pleasant tranquillity of the last few days he had to spend in the society so dear to him.

The evening had passed much as usual. Balfour had persuaded Mrs. Frere to let him drive them out to Oybin; and with Grace and Mab as guides and supporters, she had explored the lovely ruins more completely than she had before done. They had steeped themselves in the beauty of the various points of view; they had watched the sun sink over the wide Silesian plain, and had been completely, quietly happy. But Balfour had not been a moment alone with Grace, nor had he sought to be. Grace had been composed and natural and companionable as usual; but there had been (to Balfour) a new subtle indefinable charm in her voice and manner—something subdued and pensive, which he scarce dared interpret into reciprocity, yet which at moments sent thrills of giddy rapture through his veins, and paled his brown cheek with sudden throes of emotion. But he was lord of himself through all; and now he walked to and fro the Hof garden, after he had bid good-night to the little group which made a beloved home to him, to think, to battle with himself, and gain composure before he tried to sleep.

What mastery this passion for Grace Frere had obtained over him! for it was passion, strong and deep. At first, it was the pleasant surprise to find in his old playmate, or rather plaything, a charming graceful woman—a thoughtful sympathetic companion, bright, natural, intelligent, untainted with coquetry, and gifted with considerable powers of observation; at first the delightful intercourse was just sufficiently dashed with the salt of boy and girl companionship. But how soon his pulse began to beat at her touch, his heart to throb at the sound of her voice! and then he had cast himself unresisting into the strong current of love, reckless where it might carry him, so long as his idol was untouched. And now, he almost regretted that so much of passion had come to mingle with the tender friendship which was the basis of his love. If he could win her—if he had not been condemned to expatriation—or if she had not been tied at home, perhaps she might have yielded him her love, had he ventured to seek it; and once given, they could have dared and conquered all things. If!

Oh, miserable mite of a syllable! did ever so small an obstacle hold great issues in the balance? But for the necessity of repeating it, into what a golden cloudland of home and happiness might he not shape his course! what a future of success, with such a wife, would lie before him! And the tone of her voice, lower and softer than usual that evening—the beauty of the down-sweeping lashes dropped over her averted eyes, came back to ear and sight; and the possibility that she might have given him her heart, came over his in a wave of mingled joy and agony. If he could believe this, he would not leave her without confessing the love he felt. And who could tell? the appointment he expected might prove better than he anticipated— some hints in Darnell’s last letter suggested this hope; if so, he would try his chance. If she did care for him—well! such a possibility even, brought heaven almost too near for sanity; if she did not, he would be on the point of departure, and need vex her with his presence no more.

Even so much of a resolution brought composure, and throwing away the end of his second cigar, Balfour ascended to his room, to sleep and dream and wake, and toss restlessly, and sleep again by snatches, till it was time to rise and go forth to meet the day.

Influenced, perhaps, by some unacknowledged presentiment, he lingered over his breakfast and the small local waiting till the post came in, feeling strangely restless and excited. And when at last the Triiger entered the salle d manger, he held forth a letter with the London postmark, and a newspaper.

The former was the long-anticipated summons. His friend, however, wrote in anticipation of the formal appointment, telling him he had about a week’s law, and giving him some private particulars—particulars that brought the light to Balfour’s eyes, and a smile of satisfaction to his lips. The decision as to the most feasible line was to be left to him, with a good prospect, as he at once perceived, of working the whole thing into his own hands, while his absolute pay was considerably beyond his expectations.

With such probabilities, would he not be justified in offering himself to Grace? Putting sentiment out of the question, her position was not muck beyond his own; her portion of this world’s goods considerably less, for he could add to his share and she could not. Yes, he would try his luck—even an engagement-

Blessed be Darnell for giving him such a chance 1 And it must be confessed that Balfour’s next proceeding was to rush upstairs and look at himself in the glass; and though he laughed somewhat cynically at this impulse, which sprang more from self-distrust than coxcombry, he did not disdain to put his thick wavy dark hair in order before he started for Bergstrasse, considerably disturbed in mind by the hope and fear which contended in his heart, and earnestly praying that he might find Grace alone.

Much depended on the way she would take the intelligence of his near departure. Still, to avow all to her would be a relief and delight, take it how she would. So with head erect, and an elastic step, vaguely conscious that his beloved was not indifferent to him, Balfour soon accomplished the distance between the Sachsische Hof and her abode. As he mounted the stair, he met Paulina rushing down with the door-key in her hand.

‘Ach, du lieber Himmel!’ she exclaimed, stopping. ‘I go now to seek you, mein Herr. Ach, come quick! the Gnadige Frau wants you. Oh Weh—oh Weh!’

* Why, what is the matter?’ exclaimed Balfour, alarmed and astonished; and then, without waiting for a reply, followed her upstairs, not heeding the stream of exclamations which Paulina did not cease to pour forth while she opened the door.

The salon was empty when Balfour entered. He stood a moment, looking impatiently round; but almost immediately Grace came in through the door which led into Mrs. Frere’s bedroom. She was very pale, with an expression of grief and horror in her eyes, while tears still hung on her eyelashes.

‘Oh, Maurice, Maurice!’ was all she seemed able to say; but she stretched out both hands to him. He took and pressed them to his heart.

‘What is it, dear? Speak to me, Grace!’ he said.

‘Oh, Maurice, she is quite gone! We will never see her dear kind face again 1’ and drawing away her hands, she covered her face with her handkerchief, and yielded for a moment to a burst of tears.

‘Who, for God’s sake?’ cried Maurice, fearing it might be the mother.

‘Lady Elton!’ sobbed Grace—‘it is too terrible! Here, read this;’ and she took up an open letter which lay beside a newspaper on Mrs. Frere’s writing-table.

The letter was from Jimmy Byrne.

‘I have a sad piece of news to communicate which I fear will upset you and Miss Grace. The death of your friend Lady Elton, in Paris, is announced in this day’s paper. I post it with this, that you may see the sad particulars. Before writing, I managed to run up at dinner-time to the City, and inquired at Freres’. It is too true ; and Mr. Max started off for Paris last night. He is, I understand, her ladyship’s executor, probably her heir; but I do hope she has not forgotten Miss Grace, for they say she has left a power of money.

‘Now read the newspaper account,’ said Grace, who had recovered herself a little—‘the worst part of the sad business is there;’ and she pointed to a paragraph headed ‘Sudden death of Lady Elton.’

‘We have to announce the sudden demise of Lady Elton, in Paris, yesterday, under the following distressing circumstances. Her ladyship had arrived at Meurice’s H6tel, where she was always in the habit of stopping, about ten days ago, en route from Germany to London, accompanied by her maid and man-servant, an Italian, both old and trusted employes. Her ladyship had long been a sufferer from severe neuralgic pains in the head, to allay which she used opiates and chloroform. The night before last, the maid saw her ladyship to bed as usual, leaving a bottle of chloroform, a glass, and night-light, as was her custom, on a table by the bedside. When she returned in the morning, she found her mistress quite dead, and holding in her hand the bottle of chloroform, from which the cork had dropped upon the floor. It is supposed that the deceased had sought relief from pain by the usual application of chloroform, which she perfectly understood. Perhaps it took effect quickly, for she had evidently dropped the stopper, continuing to inhale the dangerous fumes until life was extinct. The deceased was the widow of Sir George Elton, second baronet, and leaves no family. Lady Elton was well known and highly esteemed by a wide circle, both in London and on the Continent; nor will it be easy to fill the place she held in the brilliant literary and artistic society which weekly assembled in her hospitable mansion. Her nephew, Mr. Maxwell Frere, was telegraphed for at once, and is expected in Paris this morning.’

‘It is an awful business!’ exclaimed Balfour, looking up.

‘To think that she should be stolen from us in such a way 1’ cried Grace, who had risen to re-read the startling passage over his shoulder—‘that a touch, a word in time might have saved her! I always feared that chloroform. Oh, how I wish I had gone with her! I would have watched her well!’ and she sat down again with a fresh burst of tears.

‘And I am glad you did not!’ said Balfour, drawing his chair beside her, and laying aside the paper. ‘This dreadful tragedy would have happened all the same; you would not have watched her when she was not specially unwell—and what a shock for you, had you been on the spot! I am awfully cut up myself; but I can’t stand seeing you cry, Grace. I wish you would stop.’

‘No,don’t mind,’ returned Grace, trying to dry her tears. ‘It is a relief; and I could not shed a tear at first. My mother is in a dreadful state. I will make her come in and talk to you; it will do her good.’

‘Stay one moment,’ urged Balfour, terribly uncertain what to do; not liking to lose this opportunity—not liking to obtrude his affairs and feelings on her at such a time. Grace looked at him inquiringly. ‘Oh, I had something to tell you, but not now. We must think of Mrs. Frere, and yourself—you look very ill.’

'Ah, Maurice, you don’t mean to tell me you are called away now—immediately? It would be too cruel;’ and she looked at him with tearful imploring eyes and quivering lips.

‘No, no; not immediately. At any rate I will not go if I can be of any use to you, Grace,’ cried Balfour, catching her hand and pressing it between both his, while he looked intently, tenderly into her eyes. ‘You know-’

* Yes, yes; I know how kind you are,’ interrupted Grace, a little confused, but soothed by the warm sympathy of her companion; ‘but we don’t expect you to throw away your chances in order to comfort us. You see no one can do us any good; our dear friend is gone, Nothing can bring her back; and we must just try and submit, though it is hard. My mother is going to write to Uncle Frere for more details; and Maurice— you are not going to day or to-morrow?’

‘No; not to-day to-morrow, dear Grace.’ He added hastily, for he heard the handle of Mrs. Frere’s door turning: ‘I must tell you all about myself and my hopes when you are a little more composed. You will care to hear?’

‘Indeed, indeed I will,’ murmured Grace, rising to meet Mrs. Frere, who came in, drowned in tears, with a pocket-handkerchief in one hand and a prayer-book in the other.

‘I feel so desolate, as if we had lost our only. friend,’ she sobbed, as soon as she had shaken hands with Balfour. ‘No one else took the same interest in Grace and my dear Randal; and I do hope she has, as poor Mr. Byrne suggests, remembered them in her will. Not that that would be any consolation for the loss of one we loved so well,’ continued Mrs. Frere, with the simple transparent worldliness which was one of her characteristics; and Max might well spare some of her wealth to ‘but it would be nice to know she thought of them, the cousin he used to be so fond of.’

Balfour listened; and an odd feeling of disappointment stole over him, chilling the warmth and ardour which quickened the blood in his veins a few minutes before. What if this death altered the family fortunes?—what if Mrs. Frere wished to promote a marriage between her daughter and her nephew? If so—but he would not think about it. This was not a day to intrude his feelings upon Grace, uncertain as he was about hers, lest he might add to her trouble. Meanwhile, Mrs. Frere was talking.

‘Though dear Lady Elton was such a clever superior woman, she was unwise on some points. I was always frightened at the way she used chloroform, and those sort of things. I even ventured to remonstrate with her, which she took in very good part. She was too well-bred to do otherwise ; but had she heeded me, she would be alive now. I do not pretend to be wiser or cleverer than my neighbours; still, if my advice were followed occasionally, much might be saved.’

Grace and Balfour preserved a respectful silence; and after wiping away her tears, and looking out a place in the prayer-book where she had inserted a marker, Mrs. Frere resumed addressing Grace, who was sitting quite still, in a dejected attitude, in the corner of the sofa, her elbow on the sofa-cushion, and her cheek resting on her hand :

‘The worst loss is to you, I know, dear love; but there is no use in sitting still and grieving. It will be better to do something; and I should not like even Gertrud and Friede to see pink in my cap. Will you, dearest, be so very good as to put black ribbon in my Irish-lace morning-cap? You will find some in the white box on the top-shelf of my wardrobe; and then, dear, you must arrange one of your old black dresses for yourself, and something for Mab. You see, dear Maurice, the widow and the fatherless are obliged to exercise some ingenuity to present the appearance due to their position.’

Balfour murmured an inarticulate assent, while Grace rose and silently left the room.

‘Poor child! it is a great blow to her,’ said Mrs. Frere. ‘She was so devoted to Lady Elton that, latterly, I felt a little jealous—most unnecessarily I daresay; for I am sure no mother could be more loved and cared for than I am. But Lady Elton’s views were scarcely orthodox; and I always feared that Grace might catch something of her ideas. It is very awful to be cut off thus unprepared.’

‘Very,’ returned Balfour. ‘I must say it has been a great shock; and I see Grace is deeply affected by it.’

‘I wonder if she has left her money to Max?’ resumed Mrs. Frere; ‘it would have been but natural. Still she ought to remember how my dear girl’s youth is spoiled by poverty.’

‘Not spoiled, Mrs. Frere!’ exclaimed Balfour; ‘a little crippled, perhaps. But what can be brighter or happier than Grace’s life?’

* Dear child! she is wonderfully content; but / am not content that she should always pine—no, not pine; she does not pine at all—but be lost in obscurity; and I know Lady Elton thought so too. I could see she was anxious Grace should marry well; indeed,’ lowering her voice, ‘I observed, or thought I observed, in our very last conversation, that she rather wished a marriage between Max Frere and Grace. Certainly in many ways it would be desirable, though I have a great objection to marriages between cousins. Still, I could see Lady Elton thought Max was attached to Grace, and then his proposed visit looked like it.’

Balfour listened intently, his heart sinking lower and lower as she spoke. Yes, it was indeed a marriage desirable in many ways. Consanguineous unions were not objectionable in his eyes. And Grace! was it possible that her aversion to the proposed visit arose from some of those unaccountable back-eddies which, as he had read, characterise the peculiar contradictions of a woman’s first love?

‘Don’t you think so?’ asked Mrs. Frere, rousing him from his uncomfortable thoughts.

‘Yes—no—what is it, Mrs. Frere?’

‘That it looks as if Grace was the attraction—I mean Max coming to pay us a visit at this distance, though he could never find time to call when we were in the same town with him last year.’

Balfour forced himself to say it was extremely probable; and then, feeling it was impossible to endure these confidences any longer, got up.

‘You want to write, Mrs. Frere, and I daresay you have plenty to do, so I will leave you for the present. Can I go anywhere, or do anything for you?’

‘No, thank you very much; but pray come back to our early dinner. Gertrud and Friede will be here at one o’clock, and we shall have quite a scene with them. It will be a great help if you are with us.’

‘Very well, I will return,’ said Balfour; and he left her.

At the foot of the stairs he met Dr. Niedner.who was coming to see Mrs. Frere with a message from Frau Niedner, about a projected party to a picturesque ruined Schloss at some little distance. To him he communicated the sad tidings brought by that morning’s post; and the good doctor, after a storm of ‘Ach Gotts,’ Schrecklich, and ‘Thut mir Leid,’ hawked up from the pit of his stomach, allowed himself to be dissuaded from rushing up to shed sympathetic tears with his dear good friends, reticence or retirement in joy or sorrow being a thing incomprehensible to our Teutonic relatives. His energies therefore took another direction, and he bent his course to the Caserne, proud though pained to be the first possessor of such important intelligence.

While Balfour walked away towards the Wienaue and its fragrant woods, that he might commune with himself undisturbed, the news of Lady Elton’s death flew with electric speed through the little community, greatly to its enlivenment.

‘What! the great English lady, who was so ill or so exclusive that she would see none save her own people and the Dalbersdorf family, declining all communication with even the spitzen behorde, the high officials of the town—dead, and dead in so awful a manner? Was it really accident? Was it some secret crime—that Italian attendant looked like a villain. Was it suicide ? English people always committed suicide when they lost a few pounds on the stock exchange, or their finger ached. Altogether it was mysterious, and a little —just a little disgraceful. Then, who was to get her money? Probably the Queen of England. When deaths were doubtful or self-inflicted, property reverted either to the Crown or the Church. No, no; Fraulein Frere would just remain as she was, and that young English friend or relative who was so constantly with her, would find that she had nothing beyond her good looks; and after all they were nothing so very remarkable — while her manners, though pleasant, certainly were wanting in the softness and deference which distinguish a German maiden,’ etc, etc.

Meantime, Mrs. Frere was rather enjoying the loudly-expressed horror, astonishment, and sympathy of Gertrud and Friede. They all shed torrents of tears and embraced each other, Friede feeling a little scandalised by Grace’s extreme quiet and steady application to her task of rectifying a couple of black dresses for herself and Mab. In truth, Grace was thankful to be busy and silent, to recall the face and voice so dear and pleasant to her, to grieve over the miserable accident that had robbed her of so kind a friend.

But ‘the day drags through, though storms keep out the sun.’ What a long interminable day it seemed!

Balfour’s presence at dinner was a great help and restraint, though Grace was not a little shocked at Gertrud’s point-blank questions as to the chances of her inheriting Lady Elton’s wealth.

‘How can you fancy such a thing, Gertrud? Why should Lady Elton leave me any money? You may be quite sure she had made her will and settled everything long ago. I wish you would not talk in that way,’ she cried indignantly.

* Well, dear!’ put in her mother, ‘I should be rather surprised if Lady Elton has made no mention of you; though no doubt the bulk of her property will go to Max Frere.’

‘It is quite horrible to be arguing about what she has or has not done with her money, before we have well taken in the idea that she has gone from us,’ returned Grace.

‘Du lieber Himmel!’ exclaimed Gertrud, who held fast by her leading idea, ‘if Rudolph von Falkenberg but knew, he would be back and at your feet. He admired you so much, and said all you wanted was a fortune.’

Though sad at heart, Grace could not help laughing aloud at this undisguised fortune-hunting, and Balfour echoed the laugh.

‘I think we had better not tell grandpapa when he first arrives,’ said Friede; ‘he will be so shocked and grieved, he will get no sleep after the fatigue of his journey.’

‘Oh no, pray do not tell him to-night!’ cried Mrs. Frere; ‘you must make some excuse for Grace not going to the station.’

‘But I will go, mother,’ said Grace; ‘it would seem too strange if I did not.’

Grace carried out her intention; and amid the general hubbub of the welcome, her quiet sadness passed unnoticed.

The veteran was very tired, but greatly gratified by his visit to Dresden, and his interviews with great personages. He was anxious, however, for the quiet of his own room; and with many kind VOL. III. 59 messages to his niece, the count, with Gertrud and Friede, rolled away in the family landau, and Grace walked towards home, accompanied by Balfour. The train had been late, and it was now past seven. The sun was sufficiently low to cast long shadows, and the cool evening was tempting.

‘Do not go in yet,’ said Balfour. ‘Take a turn in the park; it will do you good. You are not likely to meet anyone, so many have gone to the fest at the Stift.’

‘How sorry I was yesterday not to have an invitation,’ said Grace, turning with him in the direction of the park; ‘and what a change to-day!’ They strolled on in silence; Balfour revolving in his own mind whether he should speak of his own affairs or not, resolved to defer the expression of his feelings until after the next post at all events, as he thought if there was any truth in Mrs. Frere’s anticipations they would soon know. And he shrank from the idea of seeking a woman so much more richly endowed than himself, especially as the words which had fallen from Grace continually repeated themselves in his mind, ‘I should not mind giving all I had to the man I would marry, but I do not know that I should like him to take it.’ No, if Grace was to have any large slice of Lady Elton’s fortune, it was all over for him. Nevertheless, he would tell her; and while he reflected, Grace suddenly asked :

‘What news have you had to-day, Maurice? Better than ours, I hope.’

‘Much better than I had hoped,’ he returned.

Darnell writes that I shall receive official notice of my appointment in a day or two, and gives me some details which show that it will be the best I have yet had. Darnell himself comes out with me. He is the junior partner, you know, in the great contracting firm of Denny, Calthorpe, & Darnell, and goes out to manage the works.’

‘And whereabouts is this line to be made?’

‘Through a rather remote district—Yauda I think it is called, in New South Wales/

A short pause.

‘When must you go, Maurice?’

‘I cannot exactly tell; I am afraid in a week or ten days at furthest. I have a few, very few, preparations to make in London.’

A long pause. Then Grace resumed, in a carefully modulated voice, from which Balfour missed • something of its natural tone :

‘We should always have missed you, Maurice; but it will be doubly hard to let you go now.’

‘While I dread the good-bye so much that I almost wish I had never come,’ returned Balfour earnestly, but looking away from his companion.

‘Well, at all events,’ said Grace,'hurriedly, ‘you must have gone somewhere—you must have left Zittau; only it need not have been for the antipodes.’

‘Grace,’ exclaimed Balfour, ‘suppose Lady Elton has left you her heiress, how do you think Max Frere will like it?’

‘I do not think he would mind much. Max is not greedy of money, at least I think not; but do 59—2 not believe the dear mother’s fancies. Lady Elton will not leave me anything. I do not see why she should think of it; you know I was out of her favour for a long time.’

‘I suppose Mr. Frere will soon answer your mother’s letter, and then we shall know.’

Grace made no answer and having reached the end of the long stretch of grass, trees, flower-beds, and shrubs, which on this side of the town had replaced the fortifications, they paused to look at the view of mountain and forest before returning. A faint golden haze hung over the intervening fields, and down the gentle incline of the park the vista was broken by the pointed roof of the first humble little church which Lutheranism had ventured to rear in the frontier town, and a short sturdy round-tower, still bearing the marks of Frederick the Great’s cannon-balls. All was silent and peaceful.

How sweet and quiet it is!’ said Grace, with a slight sigh: ‘it is a charming view. Do you remember the sunsets over the sea at Dungar, Maurice? Nothing was ever more beautiful. Oh, how I loved that place—and love it still! Yet I suppose I shall never see it again.’

‘At your age all things are possible,’ returned Balfour.

And then their talk flowed freely, each recalling to the other pleasant innocent memories, sweetened by the sense that they were mutual, as they strolled slowly to and fro, enjoying the charm of voice and look and sympathy and silent comprehension—an hour long to be remembered, to which the heart would revert clingingly through many a change, and which would bear the diminishing effect of time’s reversed telescope. At length they returned to Bergstrasse.

‘Will you not come in?’ said Grace, as they paused at the door.

‘No, thank you; I have letters to write, and I daresay Mrs. Frere would rather be alone.’

They parted. And Balfour walked slowly away to his hotel, wondering why it was that the light and hope which had illumined the first hours of the morning had been effectually overcast by what seemed but an insufficient cause.

CHAPTER XIII

OF all the party, Mab was the least moved by the tragedy of Lady Elton’s death. She had formed no particular attachment to her sister’s friend; of whom, to say the truth, she stood somewhat in awe, as of an inexorable fate exacting painful sacrifices in the way of frequent hand-washing and hair-brushing. Still, she was grave and sorry when Grace told her of the event, and much moved by the rare sight of her sister’s tears. Her arms were round Grace’s neck directly; and she fondled her tenderly, as though another and utterly different nature were developed in her by the touch of grief.

Of course she plied both mother and sister with a continuous stream of most difficult questions, as to the cause of Lady Elton’s death; of deaths in general; as to which side of the table the cork dropped out of the bottle of chloroform; as to the probable conduct and opinions of Luigi on the occasion. Was Lady Elton quite dead upon earth? Well, then, what was the real Lady Elton who was inside of her doing now? Could she see them? for people come back sometimes. There was their great-great-grandfather Randal de Burgh, who was shot by D’Arcy of Connemara—he used to walk by the shore on stormy nights 1 Nurse’s son saw him twice. And then, in a tone of calm consideration :

‘I don’t think I should be frightened if I saw Lady Elton in her own clothes; but I should if she came in a sheet 1’

‘I wish, Mab, you would not talk in such a dreadfully irreverent manner,’ said Mrs. Frere, with much displeasure; ‘repeating nurse’s ridiculous stories at such a time.’

‘She did not mean any disrespect, mother’ suggested Grace. ‘Now, Mab dear, run away to school.’

‘Why, must I go to school? My black frock is not ready. Had I not better stay at home, mammy ?’

‘No; certainly not I’ cried Grace, shrinking from the notion of a whole day of cross-examination. ‘Mother and I are going to be very busy; and you will be much happier at school.’

‘I do not think so,’ returned Mab.

And the entente cordiale between the sisters seemed for a moment in danger of interruption. The entrance of Balfour, however, changed Mab’s views. He called thus early to ask if the morning’s post had brought any further intelligence; but Mrs. Frere had been much disappointed by not receiving any letters.

Balfour, seeing Mab in an insurrectionary attitude, proposed escorting her to school, as she was already late, an offer immediately accepted, with the ulterior view of inducing him to take her round the town, and to a particular chocolate shop.

Though most bureaucratic’ matters are well and regularly ordered in Imperial Germany, occasional variations occur; and erratic letters, which should have been delivered in the morning, appear at an hour when they are not expected. Grace was busy writing to Jimmy Byrne, and Mrs. Frere was doing some nondescript useless crochet-work in an intermittent way, ‘wondering’ and ‘supposing’ at intervals in a way that indicated the nervous expectancy of her thoughts, when Mab returned from school.

‘I never, never knew Maurice so unkind!’ she exclaimed with a pout; ‘he made me go just straight to school. And I was late after all; so I had to wait an hour in the garden. But Therese von Bistram was there too, and a beautiful heap of sand and gravel; so we built a fort, and scattered a good deal about. And the Hausmann, he in a rage!’

‘What is that in your hand, Mab?’ asked Grace.

‘Oh! it is a letter; the postman gave it to me on the stair. I think it is for you, Grace.’

‘I seem to know the writing, and yet I do not!’ said Grace, examining the stiffly-written address, * Miss Frere, Zittau.’

* Goodness gracious 1’ cried her mother, rising and reading it over her shoulder; ‘it is from your uncle Frere. Open it at once.’

Grace obeyed, not heeding a slip of paper which fell from it.

‘You have most probably seen in the public prints an account of the lamentable accident which has caused the death of Lady Elton. Her attendants telegraphed for my son, who is the deceased’s executor, and he started at once for Paris. Previous to his departure, he informed me, somewhat I confess to my surprise, that my late sister-in-law had made you her sole heir, by a will executed shortly before leaving England for Germany, in April last. In a letter from Max, received this morning, he begs of me to communicate with you at once, and request you to return to London as soon as convenient. There will be much to arrange, which may be greatly facilitated by your presence here. You must allow me to act as your banker for the present; I enclose, therefore, a cheque for fifty pounds to meet immediate expenses. Neither Max nor myself know much of the late Lady Elton’s affairs; but there is no doubt she has left considerable property. I offer you my best congratulations on your good fortune, and sincerely hope that the responsibility of wealth may bring prudence in its use. Let me know if I shall engage rooms for you at the “Langham.” With best remembrances to Mrs. Frere, who will of course accompany you to London,

‘I am, yours very truly,

Grace ceased reading, and was quite silent, as if stunned or awed. But Mrs. Frere, with an hysterical sob, threw her arms round her.

‘My own darling, you will have your proper position, in spite of them all! But I wish she had not forgotten Randal.’

‘Dear mother, it is more than I can believe,’ said Grace, in a subdued tone. ‘All to me! Ah, she loved me well. If I could but have seen her once more!’

‘Why, Grace!’ cried Mab, who had been an unheeded listener, ‘are you to have everything?— that beautiful drawing-room, and Luigi, and the gold chatelaine that Lady Elton wore, with all the pretty little things hanging to it? And we are to go to London! I shall sit in the balcony all day long.’

‘Grace dear,’ said Mrs. Frere, ‘you do not seem rejoiced—you are trembling.’ Grace was silent. * It is most wonderful. I did think she might have left you a legacy, but everything!—it takes away my breath! And, you see, your uncle talks of the responsibility of wealth. If he talks of wealth, what a quantity of money she must have left! I trust heaven will direct you in the disposal of it.’

‘Oh, how delicious it will be to pay Max the last farthing, and return dear Jimmy’s loan, and make him happy and comfortable!’ cried Grace, waking out of her surprise and awe to the glorious reality of heirship.

‘And Randal might leave that priggish Sir Alexander Atwell, and travel on his own account —perhaps with a secretary of his own,’ added Mrs. Frere. ‘We may have a resident governess, too, for Mab; it would be such a comfort And, Grace dear, how soon do you think we can be ready to leave Zittau?’

‘Ah, I shall be sorry to leave dear Zittau. How tranquil and comfortable it has been, and everyone is so kind! And dear Uncle Costello, and dearest Friede! Oh, pray God we may find as much good as we leave behind!’ cried Grace, the strange awe and trouble which oppressed her finding natural relief in tears.

‘My own love, I do not wonder at your feeling upset by such overwhelming news,’ said Mrs. Frere, sympathetically. ‘I will get you a glass of wine, and then we must see what is to be done. First, we must have a little fresh mourning; and there is no such thing as crape to be had here.’

‘I will come back directly, mother,’ returned Grace, rising. ‘I feel as if I must be quite quiet for a few minutes;’ and she left the room, unable either to suppress or explain the real source of her agitation.

How would Maurice Balfour take these strange tidings? Would he fly from her? Would he seek her? She dreaded the effect they might produce on her fate—her happiness. But this passed over. It is not possible to buoyant youth to distrust itself and high fortune; and soon Grace rose above the first tremulous fears and doubts induced by her uncle’s startling letter, and soared into the regions of bright anticipations and imaginative schemes.

At this point of her meditations a sudden clatter and hubbub of voices from the adjoining salon told her that the Dalbersdorf party had arrived, even had Mab not burst into the room to announce that Uncle Costello, and Cousin Alvsleben, Gertrud, and Friede, were all there.

Grace saw directly on entering that the great news had not yet been communicated. Mrs. Frere was sitting on the sofa, Frau Alvsleben beside her, holding one hand, while the count had drawn a chair in front of her, and taken the other; Gertrud and Friede standing a little back, their handkerchiefs at their eyes.

Count Costello looked truly and unaffectedly grieved.

‘Du lieber Himmel!’ Frau Alvsleben was saying, ‘what a misfortune! The dear and gracious lady!’

‘She was so pleased with our home and life,’ sighed Gertrud.

‘Never to see her more,’ said Friede.

‘A cruel loss,’ put in the count.

‘Irreparable,’ returned Mrs. Frere, releasing her hand from Frau Alvsleben to press her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘And to know how she loved my Grace, and thought of her! We have but just now received the announcement from my brother-inlaw, Mr. Frere, that she has bequeathed the whole of her large fortune to my dear child!’

Grace felt strangely ashamed at this pompous declaration. A sort of dread lest her mother was unwisely exaggerating made her lower her eyes as she advanced, saying:

‘We do not know if it is really very large, dear mother.’

But the thunder-bolt had fallen, and the German cousins were in a flutter of excitement.

‘Potztausend!’ cried the count; ‘she deserves every thaler of it.’

‘Gott in Himmel!’ screamed Frau Alvsleben, after a pause of astonishment to take in the immense idea. ‘All, didst thou say, best of cousins?’ she added, her high tones slightly tempered with awe. ‘Why, Gracechen, thou art a millionaire—a princess of wealth!’

‘And what will Wolff and Rudolph say?’ continued Friede and Gertrud.

‘My child, God bless you and help you, and send you a wise kind partner to share your life,’ said the good old count.

And Grace, inexpressibly touched by his tone, threw her arms round his neck, and wept silently on his shoulder; Cousin Alvsleben, Friede, and Gertrud using their handkerchiefs freely, and ejaculating : ‘Man kann’s nicht glauben!’ ‘Wun-derbar!’ ‘Es geht mir an’s Herz 1’ ‘Sollst- dich freuen!’

‘Well 1’ said Frau Alvsleben, at length pocketing her handkerchief, * what is next to be done? We . cannot hope to keep you in our little Zittau.’

‘Alas, no!’ cried Freide; ‘your gain is our loss.’

‘What shall we do without you?’ added Gertrud, a sort of joyous warmth in her voice not often to be perceived in its tones.

‘Oh, you must come and see us exclaimed Mrs. Frere, with affectionate earnestness. ‘I am sure it will give Grace the greatest delight to welcome such kind relatives and friends as you have proved yourselves, to her house. Ah! and dear Cousin Alvsleben, such a house! full of the most lovely objects of art, pictures, china—everything you can think of! Indeed, it is very kind of my brother-inlaw to be so friendly and helpful, when all these valuables are to go to Grace instead of his son. It would have been such a charming manage for a young man about to marry—and I suppose Max will marry.’

‘Perhaps he may marry and keep all the beautiful things still!’ said Frau Alvsleben, with a significant look at Grace. ‘It was this Mr. Max Frere who was coming to pay you a visit, nicht wahrf ‘Oh! you are quite mistaken—nothing of the kind,’ returned Mrs. Frere, interpreting her kinswoman’s look with the most frank unconcern. ‘Max was like a son and a brother in our house.’

‘Nevertheless this great inheritance will make a difference in his views and wishes; though no doubt you will now expect a nobleman for Grace.’

‘Who, I suppose, is to have no choice in the matter,’ put in the young lady herself, with a slight smile, though her face was still sad. She had drawn a chair beside the count, and passing her arm through his, leant her head against his shoulder, her attitude and aspect more suggestive of despondency than the exultation natural to a newly-made heiress.

‘Tell me then, my best of cousins,’ resumed Frau Alvsleben, ‘how rich was our dear lost friend? How many thousand thalers had she? I never know your pounds and shillings.’

‘I do not know myself, but I suppose she must have had at least forty or fifty thousand pounds, to live as she did. How much is that in thalers, Uncle Costello?’

‘Oh! about three hundred and fifty thousand,’said the count, after murmuring over a rapid calculation.

‘Du lieber Gott!’ cried Frau Alvsleben; ‘it is a mine of wealth! I wish, my Gracechen, you would wed some good Saxon; there is many a-’

But the door opening to admit Balfour, interrupted her.

He stopped short on seeing the group formed by the count and Grace, and then advancing, exclaimed quickly:

‘No more bad news, I hope ‘Bad news!’ screamed Cousin Alvsleben and her two daughters. ‘No, indeed! Come, congratulate our dear Grace; she is the heir of all Lady Elton’s wealth—every thaler—three hundred and fifty thousand! Think of that!’

Balfour stood a moment quite still, as if stunned, repeating in a mechanical way:

‘What, all—all-’

Grace started up, and coming to him, put her hand in his.

‘Oh, Maurice!’ she said, ‘I cannot believe it: it almost frightens me.’

‘An agreeable kind of fright, I imagine,’ returned Maurice, with rather a constrained smile, while he pressed her hand almost painfully.

Grace was silent—a little repelled by this unsympathetic answer, and returned to her seat by the count.

‘Here is my brother-in-law’s letter, uncle, if you would like to look at it; and then give it to Maurice.’

The count drew out his glasses and perused the document with much attention, and then passed it on to Balfour, observing :

‘No mistake about that, faith! I congratulate you, mee darling.’

Balfour read and folded up the epistle in silence, which amid the general clatter was not noticed by anyone save Grace, who, watching him shyly under her drooped lashes, heard the general conversation as in a dream.

Mrs. Frere was mildly magnificent, though too well bred and kind of heart to be boastful; but she was unbounded in her proffers of hospitality when Grace should be established in her town house. She looked forward with pleasure to introducing her relatives to the circle which would naturally gather round Grace. She only regretted their dear old friend Maurice Balfour was going away so soon and so far; otherwise, he well knew he would be a favoured guest. Perhaps, indeed, they might be travelling together, for they must get away as soon as possible.

‘I fear I must leave before you can possibly be ready,’ returned Balfour, looking down and speaking gravely.

‘How!’ ‘Going too!’ ‘Ach, we shall be quite deserted!’ from the Dalbersdorf ladies; while Grace, looking up quickly, exclaimed :

‘But I thought you were not obliged to go immediately, Maurice?’

‘I have been re-reading Darnell’s letter, and I believe it would be wiser of me to go at once,’ he replied, still looking down.

‘Oh, pray do come with us!’ cried Mrs. Frere. ‘It is so nice to have a gentleman to travel with.’

Grace kept silence.

‘I should of course be most happy to be your escort,’ said Balfour, rousing himself with a sort of effort, ‘and possibly I may; it depends on what the post brings.’

‘And, my friends,’ cried Frau Alvsleben, ‘come out all of you and take the evening meal with us at Dalbersdorf, and drive back in the moonlight. The day is too far spent to do much, save to answer your letters; and you will be too busy to do more than take a peep at us after.’

‘What do you say, Grace asked Mrs. Frere. ‘I think it would be very nice; and, as Cousin Alvsleben says, we will have scarce time to do more than pay a hurried visit. Imagine what a quantity we will have to do, for we must try to leave in a week.’

Grace said:

* Oh, let us go, by all means.’

* But why trouble to pack up everything? Just go and leave all; you surely can come back again! You do not leave us for ever?’

' I hope not indeed!’ cried Grace, warmly.

Soon after this the count and his daughter departed in one direction, while Gertrud and Friede went to do some shopping in the other; Balfour, somewhat to Grace’s surprise, offering to escort them, alleging that Mrs. Frere and Grace would like to be left to write their letters in peace.

No sooner were mother and daughter alone, than Gjace, turning with much animation to Mrs. Frere, exclaimed:

‘Mother dear, let us arrange what we are to do at once. I am more anxious than I can tell you to be in London, to settle everything, and know how things really are. Do not think me contradictory, but I cannot help feeling that Lady Elton has not such a quantity of money as Uncle Frere thinks. It will be riches to us, no doubt, whatever she has left; but do not, dear—do not expect too much. Will you write to Jimmy Byrne, while I answer Uncle Frere? I will tell him we shall start for London on—let me see, this is Thursday —on Wednesday next.’

* Oh, Gracey, we shall never manage it’

We must try, dear mother.’

The memory of that day, its oppressive painful bewilderment, remained long with Grace. Her happy, joyous anticipations of the freedom wealth confers, of the benefits to Mab and Randal, the comfort and repose for her dear mother which it would now be in her power to bestow—were shadowed by a conviction which pressed upon her with a vague, formless, yet irresistible weight, that this sudden accession of wealth had raised an insurmountable barrier between Maurice and her-'self. Whatever belief had arisen in her heart that he loved her with more than a brother’s love, he would never tell her now. . She would scarce wish it. She felt that, in his place, she would not make a first declaration directly the object of her affections had inherited a large fortune; and so—must she lose him? Yes; unless some unforeseen combination of circumstances occurred, she must let him drift away, without stretching forth a hand to. stay him. Then she knew how ‘fir above rubies,’ above the highest fortune, was the love, the companionship of Maurice Balfour .; and yet, through this noble gift of her lost friend, she might, probably would, lose him.

The Abendbrod at Dalbersdorf was a repetition of many other evenings—some additional health drinking and glass-clinking—warm, hearty, loudly-expressed rejoicing in her good fortune. Count Costello, elated and eloquent; Cousin Alvsleben, Gertrud and Friede, loud in conjectures and suggestions; a proud smile of perfect content on the mother’s beloved face; scarcely concealed curiosity on the Verwcilter's part; and an evident struggle, evident to Grace, on Balfour’s to be lively and agreeable.

It was surprising what a charm all the homely familiar details of supper, the evening routine, the aspect of the house and its simple surroundings, possessed that night for Grace. There she had first risen from the depression which had wrapped her in a grey mist from the day she left Dungar; there she had met with tenderness and sympathy; there she had contrived to secure the pleasant, peaceful home which had restored her mother to tranquillity and content.

After supper, which had been rather early, Mab, who of course was of the party, begged Friede to go to the Elfinwiese, and all, save the count and Cousin Alvsleben agreed to the suggestion.

It was a delicious evening in early June. The fields were fresh and fragrant; the young larches, sycamores, and beeches tenderly green against the sombre pines; the ground beneath the trees richly clothed with an endless variety of leaves and blossoms; the soft evening air trilling with occasional strains of sweetest song from its feathered denizens. Mrs. Frere took Gertrud’s arm. The Venvalter and Mab gathered wild-flowers; and Grace walked between Friede and Maurice—she was very still and silent.

At the spring they halted; and Friede proposed they should climb a small rocky eminence, at a short distance off, from which a good view of the sunset could be had. And then a change of front occurred—Grace at length finding herself alone with Balfour. She had lingered a moment by the well, not quite unintentionally, and Balfour waited for her.

‘How angry he must have been to have forgotten himself so completely!’ he exclaimed abruptly, as if out of his thoughts.

‘Who—what?’ asked Grace; then colouring, as the memory of their last interview in this place came back to her, she added : ‘Yes, yes; I remember. It was strange!’

‘But easy to be explained,’ returned Balfour. ‘I am glad he, Falkenberg, is away just now, otherwise—but I may do him injustice, and I cannot help pitying him.’

‘I do not think you need, Maurice: he is fanciful and—and sentimental; but-’

‘But—Grace, you do not know men. You cannot fathom what may cause the deepest suffering— suffering that must not be shown, for which sympathy must not be asked.’

‘Why, Maurice?’ asked Grace, her heart beating fast, her pulse thrilling. ‘Why not ask for sympathy — unless indeed for something you are ashamed of?’

‘Ah, I must not let myself talk sentiment!’ said Balfour, trying to rally. ‘I hope life will now have little but sunshine for you. Suffering and mortification and such-like disagreeables ought to have no place in your vocabulary.’

‘Ah, Maurice!’ cried Grace, with a sound as of tears in her voice, ‘do you think that money can buy all I want? It is very, very little money can do for me.’

‘Yes; I don’t think you care much about grandeur or riches now. But it seems to be your destiny to have both; they will influence you in spite of yourself, and change you.

‘Not to my friends — my old friends, dear Maurice,’ pleaded Grace, the tears starting to her eyes. ‘You do not believe I would change towards—you?’ She brought out the word with a lingering sweetness that made it a caress.

‘I believe there never was a truer, nobler heart than yours, Grace; and if we are not to meet again, you will rest in my memory as the dearest best friend man was ever blest with. Whatever happens, remember that.’

He caught her hand and kissed it, making a movement as if to draw her to him, which he arrested by a supreme effort over himself, the result of that mastery of reason and conscience—the outcome in one direction of the complicated mechanism of modern training, which sometimes leads to the unwise suppression of natural impulse, when it is innocent and healthy. Had Balfour been less master of himself, his destiny and that of Grace might have been different.

‘Not meet again! Why should we not?’ she asked, all quivering with fear and expectation.

‘Ay, we may meet again; but never as we are now—as friends, comrades, equals. There—I cannot trust my own voice; I must remember what is due to you, and to myself.’

These last words were uttered in a low but resolute tone, as a sudden turn of the road brought them upon Mab and the who were busy gathering some particular ferns which the former wished to take to England.

The rest of the evening passed without any opportunity of private conversation. Balfour was somewhat silent, but amiably complaisant; and parted with Mrs. Frere and her daughters at their own door, with a promise to let them know early the next morning what the post had brought forth.

CHAPTER XIV

THE next day, Grace awoke with the same dull sense of impending evil which had haunted her since her uncle’s letter had brought’ tidings of great joy’ to Mrs. Frere; and yet they were tidings which, but for one consideration, would have charmed and elated her. Grace warmly appreciated all the pleasures and indulgences money could buy, and beyond, the more exquisite delight of sharing her prosperity with those she loved; yet all this sunshine was clouded over by a dread, which was almost certainty, that ‘high fortune’ brought her bitterest loss.

She came forth from solitary musings in her own room, prepared to do battle with the difficulties of the day, and not to give up happiness without an effort to retain it.

The warfare commenced on the threshold of her chamber, where stood Mab in scanty garments, having sought her sister when but half-dressed, to know if it was imperatively necessary for her to go to school that morning, because there was so much to do, and she had to pack her dolls and her dolls’ things.

* Oh, indeed, Mab, you must go to school! we could do nothing while you are in the house. Go like a good girl, and a day or two before we start you shall pack all your things yourself—you shall indeed; only let the mother and me get over the worst of the work first.’

‘You are a nasty, disagreeable, unkind thing!’ returned Mab, swinging herself round, and setting her back against the wall. ‘I know mammy would have let me stay at home, for she said, “ Let us ask Grace about it and it is all your fault.’

‘Mab dear, don’t worry; we have so much to do —pray be reasonable!’

‘No, I will not,’ cried Mab, resolutely. ‘Why should I? I am never let to do anything I like— not a single thing!’

‘Whether you are or not, Mab, you must go to school to-day and to-morrow and the next day, so there is no use in making a fuss about it. Go and put your clothes on; you ought to be ashamed of running about in your petticoat. Is my mother ready for her coffee?’

‘I don’t know. Well, I shall tell them all at school that I am going to live in a grand house in England.’

‘Tell them what you like; only, pray dress yourself!’

Grace went away to get breakfast ready, and Mab retired, growling, to her mother’s room.

Mrs. Frere was still in a state of excitement, and talked more than usual. She wanted to achieve herculean labours of packing and arrangement that very day, and thought Grace provokingly slow, because she went, as soon as Mab was gone, to the writing-table, to make a memorandum of what was to be done, and the people to be seen.

‘We will get on much faster if we work methodically,’ she returned; ‘and you, dear mother, will fidget yourself into a fever before we are ready to start, if you try to think of everything at once.’

She had just finished writing, and stood with the paper in her hand reading its contents to Mrs. Frere, when Balfour entered unannounced.

He was very pale, and there was a stern rigid look about his face, which struck Grace as a confirmation of her worst fears.

‘Ah, Maurice!’ cried Mrs. Frere, cheerfully.

‘Well!’ said Grace, gazing at him almost with alarm.

‘The post has brought me the summons I expected,’ returned Balfour, in a somewhat husky voice ; ‘I must leave to-day.’

Grace dropped quietly into her chair, and kept her eyes fixed on the piece of paper which she twisted in her hands. .

‘That is too bad,’ said Mrs. Frere, cordially; ‘I quite counted on you for an escort. Must you go, really? Is it imperative? You may as well sit down and tell us all about it.’

Balfour complied, throwing himself on the sofa near Mrs. Frere’s chair.

‘I have had. an official despatch this morning, and find from it that I shall have more to do in London than I anticipated, and must not let my time run too short. It is an awful wrench, but the sooner it is over the better.’

He got up again, and walked to the window and back.

‘When do you leave England?’ asked Grace, with a degree of composure that astonished herself.

‘About the first week in July; it is not absolutely fixed—some ten days hence. You know Darnell’s firm have chartered the ship, so it is at their orders.’

‘We may see you in London, then?’ said Grace; ‘we shall start on Wednesday.’

‘I trust we may meet/ returned Balfour, pausing opposite, and letting his eyes dwell on her with inexpressible wistful sadness; ‘let us hope so—let us believe it is not quite good-bye. By heaven, I can't say good-bye! Mrs. Frere, I will see Jimmy Byrne. Should I have sailed before you arrive, I will leave a letter for you with him. Do you know, I must catch the twelve train; and it is now past eleven. Let me rob you of these,’ he said, turning hastily to the family photograph-book, and extracting the portraits of the mother and both daughters; ‘you will give them to me, will you not, to keep me company in the bush. And, Mrs. Frere, should we not meet again, you will answer my letters if I write? Don’t let me drift quite away from you again.’

‘Of course I will write to you, my dear boy,’ said Mrs. Frere, kindly. ‘We can never forget you; can we, Grace?’

‘But it is not good-bye!’ she exclaimed, with a sort of despairing energy, while she wondered how she kept from crying aloud with anguish; ‘we shall meet again in London. You will wait for us —you wait, Maurice?’

‘You know I dare not promise; but I do hope to see you again, and at any rate to hear of you. Dear Grace’—taking her hand—‘I must not stay; I have left this visit to the last.’

‘But, poor Mab!’ cried Grace, her heart beating to suffocation, while she did not attempt to withdraw her hand, ‘how grieved she will be not to have seen you!’

‘I have been to her school, and begged permission to give her a parting kiss . poor little soul, she began to cry. Now, Mrs. Frere,’ letting Grace’s hand go, and turning to her, ‘adieu—I hope it is aurevoir. Do not forget your promise.’

He took her hand, and the kind-hearted lady offered him her still fair cheek; encouraged by which, Balfour bestowed a hearty hug upon her, then, again taking Grace’s hands, he kissed them more than once, and left the room without a word to her. Grace, pale and trembling, stood for a moment quite still, where he had left her; then, by g sudden impulse, she darted through the window to the balcony, and, looking down, watched Balfour as he issued forth into the street. He paused, and raised his eyes to hers—a look that never left her memory—a look so full of love and sorrow that she could scarce keep in the cry, ‘Come back to me, Maurice—come back!’

But the force of custom, of pride, of timidity, was too strong for nature; and with a farewell wave of the hand, he passed on his way, and she ‘saw him no more.’

‘I am really sorry for Maurice, he is so nice and gentle—quite like another son to me. It is amazing he has not lost more of his gentlemanlike style, for his life seems to have been a strange one. I do hope we shall see him again before he leaves; don’t you, Grace?’

But Grace was gone.

The days which intervened between this abrupt parting and their own journey were exceedingly like a nightmare dream to Grace. There was the same haunting sense of breathless hurry—the same almost agonised dread of ‘being too late’—the same desperate strain to find things, and arrange things, and accomplish impossibilities, which are peculiar to the class of visions in which one’s all depends on, say, being presented to some potentate who is only waiting to be gracious—and, lo ! no efforts of mind or magic can evoke a court-dress.

But the exertions and experiences of Grace Frere were more real and more successful. Largely helped by dear kind Friede, who quite devoted herself to the friends she was about to lose, Grace contrived to be quite ready to start a day earlier than she hoped, in spite of cruel interruptions on the part of the high official ladies who persisted in paying ceremonious visits of condolence and congratulation combined. Mrs. Frere—hungering after the flesh-pots of Egypt, which may be modernised into rooms at the Langham, and all that is implied by that expression—was wonderfully active; and even Mab, relieved from her fears of being again shut up in Miss Timbs’s lodgings, was less obstructive than Grace anticipated.

In the midst of packing, paying, and leavetaking, came a letter from Max to Mrs. Frere, friendly and judicious in tone. Grace felt pleased with him for addressing her mother instead of herself. After a few cordial words of congratulation, he went on :

‘At present I am quite unable to say what amount of property Lady Elton has left. She appears to have been singularly reticent as regards her investments and business matters; and I have not yet had time even to attempt an examination of the mass of papers through which I must wade; some, I see, are only to be opened by Grace. By the time you arrive, I shall I hope have some more definite information. Let me have a line to say what day and hour you propose arriving in London, and I will be at the station to meet you. The sooner you are here the better. Lady Elton’s rooms are, you know, let to the end of next month, after which Grace will probably wish to reside there for the remainder of the unexpired term. Let me know if I can do anything for you; and believe me,’ etc., etc.

‘How nice and sensible Max always is,’ said Mrs. Frere, with a sigh; ‘I am sure it is very fortunate for us to have such an executor. Of course, Grace, you will reside in those charming rooms? The two small ones near the entrance would make a nice bed and sitting room for Randal, when he returns. When do you thinkwill our letters reach him?’

‘It is impossible to say; he may be moving about. Will you write at once to Max, mother ?’

' Yes, dear; but couldn’t you write? I am going with Friede to settle about the school, and pay those accounts.’

‘Very well, mother; then I can stay at home all day.’

As soon as Mrs. Frere and Friede had departed, Grace sat down to write a few hasty lines to her cousin, intending when they were despatched to devote herself to packing the personal effects which were to accompany them, as there remained but two more days before their departure. Her brief epistle was quickly finished, and she was in the act of giving it to Paulina, who was constantly in tears since the break-up of the little household had been announced, when the door bell rang sharply.

‘Ah, Paulina! I really cannot see another visitor; you must say I am very busy.

‘Gewiss, mein Fraulein,’ replied the damsel, hastening to the door,*and the next instant she called out, ‘Ach, Gott! it is the Herr Baron, mein gnadiges Fraulein!’ and before the words were well uttered, Falkenberg came in hastily, his sword clattering behind him, instead of being hung up in the corridor with his usual deliberate care. He looked fierce and sombre, and had almost an alarming aspect.

‘Ach, du liebe liebe Grace!’ he cried, throwing aside his cap and seizing her hand. ‘What is this that I hear? thou art suddenly become rich—rich beyond our dreams, and you leave us! How inexorably cruel is destiny!’

He let her hand go, and threw himself on the sofa. Grace felt exceedingly uncomfortable and embarrassed.

‘This is an unexpected visit,’ she said, trying to smile pleasantly; ‘I thought we should have been obliged to leave without seeing you.’

‘Thought!’ returned Falkenberg, starting up, walking to the window and back, and again throwing himself on the sofa—‘hoped, you had better say! You must know what my feelings must be at this most unexpected freak of fortune! To think that all my self-sacrifice has been in vain—that if I had followed the impulse of my heart to win yours, all would have prospered with me; and now, it is absolute frenzy to know that I have perhaps lost you!’ Falkenberg, who spoke in German, covered his face in his hands, while his chest heaved.

‘Don’t talk so foolishly, Wolff! you know it is wrong—wicked, to speak like that. We have never been anything but friends, and never could have been anything else. According to your customs you are almost married to Gertrud, and it is an insult to make such speeches to me. If you intend to make a scene, I wish you would go away.’

‘But I am not married to Gertrud—I may never be married to her; and I have loved you and suffered (ach Gott, what suffering!) for you, till I nearly hated you for the misery you caused me — and you knew it. No woman could be near a man that loved her as I love, and not be conscious of it. Hear me, best beloved! you were not quite indifferent to me when you rode so boldly to bring me help. If there is a chance that I might touch your heart, by heaven I will burst my bonds! You do not know the self-sacrificing devotion of German women,’ he went on hurriedly, suddenly changing his place to one beside her, and catching her hand which she struggled to withdraw. * If Gertrud knew that a union with her would be fatal to my happiness, she could rise to heights of which you do not dream! She would set me free, and then —my head reels at the possibility of the bliss that-’ *

‘You shall not go on,’ cried Grace, indignantly wrenching her hand from him. ‘How dare you suppose, Baron Falkenberg, that even if I cared for you—which indeed I do not—I would consent to conduct so base and dishonourable! I wish you would understand that I am not and never was in love with you. And though I did like you very well, I am compelled to despise you for talking such wicked nonsense! Go away, and recover your senses. You ought to be thankful to find a kind true-hearted girl like Gertrud, willing to give you herself and all she has.’

‘Ay!’ returned Falkenberg, with cynical effron-

VOL. ill. 61 tery; ‘but I want you and all you have! You must know that what I feel for you is real passion, apart from every thought of wealth. Had I been rich enough to indulge my own wishes, do you think I would have hesitated about seeking you for my wife? You are a creature for whom I would commit a crime! and you are cold and unmoved— hard as your nation ever is; but,’ pacing the room to and fro, ‘I know the secret of your indifference. Balfour! from the moment you first named his name, I felt he would be my rival—my successful rival.’

‘There could be no rivalry between you,’ said Grace, with dignity; ‘your position rendered, or ought to have rendered, rivalry impossible.’

‘I will seek out Balfour,’ continued Falkenberg, still pacing furiously to and fro. ‘I will tell him that mine is a prior claim. I loved you from the first, while he, no doubt, from his intimacy with Lady Elton, knew of her intentions.’

‘You cannot seek him,’ returned Grace, coolly. ‘He has left Zittau for London on his way to Australia, and probably we may not see him for years.’

‘Is this true cried Falkenberg, stopping short and apparently much struck. ‘You do not love him then, if you let him go!—now when you could give him wealth as well as joy, you are not the woman to hold your hand, you loved. But you are right,’ eyeing her closely; ‘what could you know of his life for the long years passed out of your sight? How can you tell what entanglement may hamper him—what ties in distant lands may hold him, and account for his extraordinary self-control and coldness Wolff,’ said Grace, in a voice low and concentrated, which yet seemed to touch and silence him, ‘if in the intimacy which I suppose exists between men, Maurice Balfour has confided to you more than he could or would tell us, do not betray him —do not be a traitor to your friend as well as your fiancee. Maurice may not be wiser or more prudent than other men; but he is honest and true, and I will always believe him worthy of esteem and regard, and-’

‘And,’ interrupted Falkenberg, turning white, while a gleam of hatred and anger shone in his eyes, ‘you love him! my hint of his possible engagement—marriage—heaven knows what, struck home ; your face tells truth. But he is gone, and I have failed, while you are wretched! Yes, I will leave you’—she had pointed to the door with a gesture of dismissal—‘I will strive to conquer this madness; and the thought that you too have thrown away happiness will be some help. You will not soon find another to love you as intensely as I do. Adieu, Grace—adieu.’

He flung out of the room, leaving her quivering with anger, with outraged feeling, and above all with a sharp terror lest the entanglement at which he hinted might be a fact of which he was cognisant.

Still the dominant idea, to get away to London as soon as possible, had force enough to goad her into action again, and she was hard at work when her mother and Friede returned.

They had met Falkenberg, who told them he was obliged to go to the Caserne on regimental business, and feared he could not be at Dalbersdorf till next morning, when he would accompany Gertrud to pay a farewell visit to Mrs. Frere, for he had only forty-eight hours’ leave.

At last, the trying week of haste and nervous eagerness was over, the last box strapped, the last flying visit to pleasant Dalbersdorf paid—Grace feeling vexed with herself that the absorbing desire to be on the wing stifled the wish she would otherwise have had to take a more deliberate farewell cf the old house and its picturesque surroundings; but there seemed no room for anything in her heart save the craving to reach London before Maurice left it: and if he had hurried away sooner than she expected, it would be strong presumptive evidence that Falkenberg’s insinuations were no random shots.’

That gentleman had paid the promised visit in company with his Braut and mother-in-law elect, on which occasion he had been kindly courteous— all that he ought to be—yet tinged perceptibly (at least to Grace) with a degree of coldness and want of ease.

Gertrud, however, was gay and even gushing; while Frau Alvsleben announced with evident satisfaction that the wedding was now fixed for the 1st or 2nd of August, about six weeks off.

‘And, meine liebe! you must come back to be with us then,’ said Gertrud, putting her arm round Grace. ‘Imagine a wedding at Dalbersdorf without you! and what is the cost of a journey to a millionaire like you?’

Grace made a complaisant but evasive answer, and was infinitely relieved when both Braut and Brautigam departed.

The real grief was to part from Uncle Costello. The kind old man too was greatly affected, and ardent were the promises exacted and given that he would come and visit them in England. Grace’s last look and wave of the hand, as they steamed slowly out of the station, were for him.

CHAPTER XV

IT was a damp, heavy, drizzling day, when, after a journey only a shade less trying than her last, Grace and her charges arrived in London. Doubly wearied by the toil of travel, and the constant ebb and flow of hope and fear in the current of her thoughts, Grace never believed she would be so pleased to see Max Frere as she was on first catching sight of him among those persons who were awaiting the train.

‘Welcome back to England, aunt/ he said pleasantly, as he handed Mrs. Frere out of the carriage. ‘Ah, Mab! why you have grown a great girl! Grace, you look very tired. Do you expect anyone?' for she looked round undisguisedly, as if in search of something/

‘Oh no! Only I thought, perhaps, Jimmy Byrne might be here!’

‘I don’t fancy he could get away in the morning; but I saw him yesterday, and he will call upon you this evening. Now, let us see after your luggage/

This was not difficult, as Mrs. Frere had left all the heavier part of her baggage to be sent via Hamburg; and Max soon secured the services of a couple of porters, with the nonchalant command he generally exercised over his inferiors, while he gave his arm to Mrs. Frere and did not bestow too much attention to Grace, who was greatly moved at the sight of him, remembering how they had last met in the presence of the dear friend she should never see again; and Max seemed to understand her.

‘How will you manage about the cabs P’ he said, as the porters had called up two. ‘Mrs. Frere, you and Mab had better go together, and I will accompany Grace as far as the Mansion House. I am sorry to say I am too much engaged to go farther with you; but I shall see you this evening.’ ‘Very well; and thank you, dear Max. Will you tell the man where to go—the Langham ?’

‘No; the Hyde Park Hotel. It is quieter, and close to us. I thought you would like it better.’

‘Follow,’ said Max to the driver, ‘and stop at the corner of King William Street.’

He jumped in, and they were off—Grace absolutely dizzy with anxiety and repressed feeling. If Maurice was in London, he would have come to meet them; if he was not—‘Chaos was come again,’ And she must wait till Jimmy Byrne came before the terrible question could be solved. So absorbed was she that she scarcely felt the awkwardness of being alone with Max. She did not notice how intently, but guardedly, he watched her. She only thought of what that evening would bring forth.

The roar of the mighty life-stream on which their vehicle was borne along, chilled and appalled her; for to no one does the immensity of London seem so immense as to an inhabitant who has been absent long enough to get unaccustomed to it; and during her late visit Grace had scarcely seen the city. Then it was so awfully desolate to think that there was no Lady Elton to welcome and befriend her; only the dread of showing weakness before Max kept her from the relief of tears. That she was rich and independent she could not realise as she sat silently beside her cousin, neither able to hear the other, even had they tried to speak, so great was the roar of the human tide. At length, on reaching a short stretch of asphalt, Max exclaimed :

‘You look awfully cut up, Grace; what has been the matter?’

‘Oh, nothing; but I feel so keenly, on coming here, that I shall never see her more, as if I had no friend in this great fearful town.’

‘But you have,’ said Max, gently. ‘My father and myself wish to be your best, as we are your nearest, friends.’

Ah! if Max had thought it worth while to have met her and spoken such words to her some fifteen months ago, how different everything might have been! This idea just flashed across her, but it was all of no importance now.

‘You are very good,’ she returned; ‘but no friend can ever be to me what she was.’

‘But are you not elated at the fortune that has fallen to your share? You seem more like a mourner than one who has inherited—well, a good property.’

‘I am very, very glad to have escaped poverty, I assure you, Max, though we have really always been quite comfortable; but, then, it is well to be rich for others as well as for one’s self.’

“Perhaps so; but you must not be regardless of yourself. I am going to give you heaps of good advice. Come, Grace, will you have me for your friend and consulting counsel, if for nothing else ? You see I am ready to accept your terms.’

‘Thank you, Max; I shall be grateful for your help in many ways.’

‘Very good; I understand the compact. I am sorry to see you look so depressed, dear cousin.' He took her hand and pressed it lightly, and then they got on rough pavement again.

‘Would you like to get into your mother’s cab?’ asked Max, as that vehicle stopped at the place indicated.

‘No, thanks; I prefer being alone.’

‘I will be with you about nine; meantime, do rest yourself. You look terribly done up.’

He raised his hat, and, pausing to say a word to Mrs. Frere, he passed out of sight into the crowd.

The long drive to the neighbourhood of the Marble Arch was at once tedious and rapid to Grace : and she was thankful to alight and escape from herself, though it was by her own wish she had made the transit alone.

This arrival in London was very different from the last. So soon as they stopped at the door of the quiet private hotel which Max had selected, forth came obsequious waiters to assist the ladies to alight, to carry their bags and packages, to pay the drivers with generous readiness, to wave the newcomers with reverential gestures into the interior, where stood the master or manager, bland, benign, white chokered, impressively respectful, enough to make inexperienced guests feel an awe of themselves.

And then what dainty comfortable bed-chambers, and what a cheerful sitting-room adjoining, with a pleasant peep of the Park.

‘Mr. Frere’s butler was round here just now, ma’am, to know if you had arrived. If these rooms do not answer,’m, there is a suite on the other side of the staircase—•—’

‘These will do very well,’ interrupted Mrs. Frere. ‘What do you say, Grace — are you satisfied?’

‘Yes, quite.’

‘And I am very hungry,’ suggested Mab.

‘Of course, dear; pray let us have breakfast or luncheon as soon as you can.’

‘Yes,’m. Cold fowl and tongue,’m—cutlets or cold lamb—a little fruit?’

‘That will be nice,’ ejaculated Mab, who was enthralled by the view of the busy street beneath.

‘Mother,’ said Grace, who, after inspecting their rooms, had stopped quite still in one of the windows gazing away into vacancy, ‘I should like to send a note to Jimmy Byrne, to make sure of his coming-this evening. ‘You know how modest and unassuming he is, and if he thinks Max is to be here he will not come.’

‘Very well, dear,’ returned Mrs. Frere, placidly, in the plenitude of her content—she would have said ‘Very well’ to almost any proposition—‘I must say this seems a most comfortable house, and a very agreeable coming back. I daresay we shall be better here than at the Langham. Are you too tired, my love, to go out after luncheon? because I am very anxious to get proper mourning, and to see about securing a maid. You must have a maid, and indeed I should like a French bonne for Mab; perhaps they might recommend us a nice maid here.’

‘Perhaps so,’ returned Grace, vaguely.

She had found her writing materials, and was scribbling a few lines in haste to Jimmy: yet, though feverish with anxiety, she could not write the name which was perpetually sounding in her heart; but she knew that Jimmy would not answer without saying if Maurice Balfour had sailed or not —perhaps he would enclose Balfour’s letter, if he had one. Ah—what an if!

The note signed, sealed, and despatched, Grace escaped to the quiet of her own room to make the toilette so necessary after their night journey.

After luncheon or breakfast, Mrs. Frere was gently persistent in her determination to have ‘ nice mourning;’ but as Grace pleaded headache and extreme fatigue, she suggested going with Mab, observing that as she was afraid of the crossings—and she supposed they need not think of every penny now—she would like to drive, and probably the best and most economical plan would be to have a brougham from the hotel. She therefore started cheerfully, leaving Grace to do battle alone. For a long time she sat with clasped hands, living over the past six weeks—recalling all the subtle indications of regard and tenderness which Balfour had permitted to escape him; wondering, if he really cared for her, why he forsook her—yet half understanding it; wondering if it could be possible that Wolff von Falkenberg’s cruel insinuations were true. At the moment they were first uttered, she rejected them as utterly false; but the curse of calumny is that it clings: though the insect cloud of insinuation can be waved out of sight in an instant, it is but to gather and sting afresh. It was quite possible that in those four or five years of separation, anything might have occurred. The best of men were at times weak or wild or stupid; and if Maurice thought himself bound in honour to do anything, he would do it at any risk. If he was hopelessly entangled she could but grieve for him, and pray that he might outlive his trammels; but-

A knock at the door—enter the waiter.

‘If you please,’m, the gentleman was out; but as soon as he returns he shall have the note.’

‘Thank you,’ said Grace, mechanically.

It was in vain then, her attempt to curtail her time of probation; she must wait and endure. So, with a sort of desperate resolution, she drew forth her writing materials, and indited a general epistle to Cou sin Alvsleben. She felt ashamed of being so absorbed in her own selfish feelings. It was so weak, just what she would despise in Friede—dear, kind, simple Friede. And so she battled with herself till Mrs. Frere returned, followed by the obsequious waiter laden with neat small light-brown paper parcels, and Mab looking radiant.

‘It is quite a treat to do shopping here,’ said Mrs. Frere, untying her bonnet-strings, and sitting down on the sofa; ‘they have such lovely things at Jay’s —most tempting. But we have been very prudent, have we not, Mab? I ordered a black silk for myself, just trimmed with crape—not too deep, you know, that would look affected. And I saw such a lovely costume, black silk grenadine, with crape and bugles, and a bonnet to match; the whole thing not quite fifteen guineas—the very thing for you, Grace. I told the man to bring it up this evening for you to try on. You are really too indifferent to dress, my love—and now you need not stint yourself. Do you know, I daresay the people here can tell us of a maid.’

‘Yes, mother dear; but before we do anything, let us hear what Max has to tell, and ascertain what we may really spend,’ returned Grace, looking through her letter, crossing her t’s and dotting her i’s, and putting it into its envelope.

‘You are always such a prudent puss,’ said Mrs. Frere, complacently; ‘you will hardly know how to conduct yourself as becomes an heiress. I quite long to see Max this evening, By-the-bye, had we not better order dinner, or a meat tea, or something? It is past five o’clock: Mr, Byrne will not have dined.’

‘Yes, yes, dear mother. Ring the bell, Mab. Let us have tea after our old Albert Crescent style.’

‘I am afraid they will think us very shabby—eh, dear?’

‘Oh no; ladies are not expected to feast.’

I wonder,’ said Mrs. Frere, when the order had been given, and the waiter dismissed—‘I wonder if Maurice Balfour is still in London? I should think he would hardly have started yet?’

‘Hardly so soon,’ said Grace, with a sigh. ‘If he has, Jimmy will have a letter for you.’

‘Oh, he may have forgotten to write, in the hurry of departure.’

It was still early when Jimmy Byrne was ushered in, and he was received with the utmost warmth.

‘Ah, Mrs. Frere, ma’am, I am proud and delighted to see you! Miss Grace, dear, sure there never was one would grace a fortune better or deserve it more than yourself! But you are not looking so well as I would wish. Well, Miss Mabel; why you are quite a young lady!’

‘And how glad we are to see you, Jimmy,’ cried Grace, holding his hand in both hers. ‘Now that poor dear Lady Elton is gone, I feel more than ever that you are our only friend in London.’

‘Bedad, Miss Grace, you will find friends enough now; indeed, you always found them at your need, and no wonder!’

Then, after exchanging a few sentences respecting the sudden turn of fortune’s wheel, the sense of which scarce reached Grace’s comprehension, Jimmy broke out with :

* Oh, Mrs. Frere, ma’am, I quite forgot—I have a letter here from your friend Mr. Balfour! Poor fellow, he sailed this afternoon. Where is it?’ rummaging one pocket after another. ‘No, it isn’t there. Well, now, it’s not often I do such a stupid thing, but in the flurry of coming out I have just left it shut up in my desk; but I’ll post it for you, ma’am, the first thing to-morrow morning.’

* Oh, thank you, that will do very well. I daresay it is just a word of good-bye; he told me he would write.’

‘Ay, indeed; I declare he is an elegant young man, but greatly changed since I saw him before with Mr. Randal—he was so white and downcast!’Deed I doubt if it’s a healthy place over there in Germany. Miss Grace doesn’t look like herself.’

‘What was the matter with Maurice Balfour?’ asked Grace, forcing herself to speak, and hearing her own voice as if it belonged to somebody else.

‘Faith, I don’t know! He used to come up to my place every evening, and sit there dead quiet— he that was the height of good company; and I am sure he was always that kind. Before he went, he gave me an elegant pipe and a lot of books— new ones, faith!—“Freeman’s Essays ” and some of Maine’s works, just a treasure of reading; and made me promise to write to him. I can’t tell you how kind and friendly he was.’

‘But he is gone!’ said Grace, and started at the despair in her own tones, wondering that the others too did not recognise in it the wail of expiring happiness.

* He is so, Miss Grace,’ returned Jimmy, stealing a curious, loving, uneasy glance at her from under his shaggy brows; ‘and a capital appointment he has got for a young fellow that has to work his way. He will have to be there three or four years — maybe settle altogether; yet I cannot help feeling sorry he is gone.’

Then they sat down to tea. Mrs. Frere was lively and hospitable; Mab in uproarious spirits; and Jimmy joyful over the good fortune of his adored young lady; while Grace, as usual, ‘poured out,’ and said a few words from time to time to avert notice, while her brain seemed suddenly converted into a mechanism incapable of producing any other idea, any other form of words, except * He is gone!’ And her heart seemed dying, dying —hopeless!

This afternoon, this very afternoon—why it was possible they might have met that morning, had he willed it! She could have screamed aloud in her agony. And in another hour Max would be there ; and she must be composed, and hear and understand all his explanations about her fortune, and make plans, and evade Max Frere’s keen and curiously sympathetic observation.

‘Mother, my head so bad; I must go and bathe it with eau-de-Cologne. You know I must get it clear for Max this evening. I have no idea as yet, Jimmy, what I have inherited, and I feel all in the dark.’

‘Ahem!—just so; and I’m told her ladyship’s investments were all in foreign stocks; so nobody knows much about them, which is awkward. But you have two good men at your back in Mr. Frere and his son,’ Jimmy said as Grace passed out of the room.

A short quarter of an hour in silence and solitude gave Grace a chance of rallying her forces. The fact that all uncertainty was ended, though so miserably, gave her a certain amount of courage and composure. Nothing now remained but patient endurance : to fold the robe of concealment with dignity close around the wounded, desolate, but not slaughtered, love which she yet could cherish, because she never doubted the worth of its object.

‘Gracie, dear; are you better? Do come in and see Max. Jimmy is just going too.’

‘Grace rose, without answering, gave a touch or two to her hair, saw that her face only looked pale. She had shed no tears, and followed Mab to the sitting-room, where she found Max in the act of placing some papers on the table, and Jimmy taking leave.

‘Come again soon,’ said Grace, giving him her hand. ‘Remember, I want you more than ever; come to-morrow evening.’

‘Well, there’s no knowing what you may be VOL. III. 62 wanting to do to-morrow. Miss Grace, dear, so don’t you wait in, on no account; but I’ll call round about seven, anyhow; and I wish you a good evening, Mrs. Frere—good-bye, Miss Mab.’

Mab darted to his side, away from Max, with whom she had been talking, and drew Jimmy’s head down to her, whispering something eagerly in his ear.

‘Ay, to be sure; I will, never you fear-’

Jimmy was beginning in audible tones, when a small hand was imperiously pressed against his mouth, and Mab escorted him to the door, in order to exchange some last words on the landing.

‘Are you sure you are not too tired for business to-night, Grace?’ asked Max, with a sharp look at his cousin, after the door closed on Jimmy Byrne.

‘I am far too much interested to feel the fatigue, Max; remember, I am as yet all in the dark. Mother, had not Mab better go to bed, as we are going to talk of business, and it is past nine?’

‘I am not a bit sleepy; why may I not hear? I will not say a word.’

But the sense of the house was against her; even Mrs. Frere was anxious she should go, and to facilitate matters accompanied her to her room.

‘Grace,’ said Max, directly they were alone, ‘let me tell you before my aunt returns, that I am afraid she will be awfully disappointed. I say she will be, for I see you are in a present condition of doubt, and by no means elated. Do you know, we begin to think that Lady Elton has left little or nothing except her furniture, jewels, and clothes; for the last ten days we have been looking through her papers, and we find no trace of property, except one small investment. She has left no debts, apparently, and her affairs seem in perfect order— but-’ He paused.

‘I am very sorry, on my mother’s account/ returned Grace, quietly, ‘and it seems very strange-’

Here Mrs. Frere re-entered the room, smiling in anticipation of the delightful revelations about to be made of riches far beyond even her ‘great expectations.’

‘Now, then, suppose I read the will to you,’ said Max, as his aunt seated herself in an easy chair.

* It is short and simple enough;’ and he proceeded to skim rapidly the technical preamble, dwelling with clear enunciation on the absolute and succinct bequests.

After a small legacy to Luigi, another to her maid, an antique ring to Mr. Frere, a cabinet and pair of vases, which he had always admired, to her nephew, Maxwell Frere, as a token of regard, Lady Elton bequeathed the whole of her property, real and personal, to Grace Frere, eldest daughter of the late Colonel Joscelyn Frere.

‘That is the gist of the matter,’ said Max, laying down the paper, * and constitutes you residuary legatee.’

‘A true friend—a good woman/ said Mrs. Frere, a good deal affected, and putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

Grace, who kept very still and quiet, asked to look at the document, and observed : ‘It was signed then while I was in London last April.’

‘Yes—about a week before she started with you for Germany.’

‘And did you know?’

‘That I was her executor? Yes, but not that you were her residuary legatee till the day she left.’

‘And now, dear Max,’ said Mrs. Frere, beaming out upon them from the temporary eclipse of her handkerchief, ‘Grace would like to know, at least to have an idea of, the probable amount of property our dear friend has left—what income for instance.’

‘I am sorry to say,’ began Max, as his aunt paused in the effort to put a leading question, ‘ that we can find little or no property of any description. There are two thousand pounds in Indian railway debentures, bought many years ago, so they pay a very good percentage, there is a balance of something over two hundred and fifty at the bankers. There are a lot of things in her rooms that will sell pretty well, some furniture—and there don’t seem to be any debts—but beyond this I don’t think there is a farthing.’

Mrs. Frere’s face had grown more and more dismayed and horror-struck while Max spoke, and now indignation lit up her eyes with unusual fires.

‘But, Max, she could not have spent less than a thousand or fifteen hundred a-year! Where has all that gone to? It is too soon to get to the bottom of everything, but it is impossible that there is not a large fortune somewhere.’

‘Just what I thought,’ returned Max kindly. ‘But I am afraid I can partly explain the reason. It seems from what Messrs. Greenwood, her solicitors, tell me (which is fully corroborated by entries in her cash-book), that some time ago she sunk nearly all her capital in a life annuity. I remember she had been very ill somewhere in the north of Italy about that time; but even allowing for this she must have got rid of a great deal of money somehow. I am exceedingly sorry for Grace’s disappointment, my dear aunt, but she cannot count on more than between three and four thousand, taking everything into consideration. It is most extraordinary, my father cannot make it out; he is dreadfully shocked. In short, is inclined to doubt, that having been guilty of such mysterious crimes against the Majesty of Mammon, the deceased was deserving of Christian burial. There may be some explanation in the papers directed to you specially, Grace.’

‘It is too cruel and wicked,’ cried Mrs. Frere, her delicate cheek flushing. ‘There has been some frightful conspiracy to defraud my dear Grace. Depend upon it those horrid solicitors have juggled away a quantity of money. 1 feel convinced they have. No one else had anything to do with it, and it is your duty, Max, both as executor and nearest of kin, to unmask their villany and recover my poor plundered child’s property.’

Max looked at her half amused, hall in pity, slightly elevating his eyebrows.

‘I am not surprised that you are vexed,’ he said.

‘but I think you will find that no one is to blame except Lady Elton herself.’

‘Who had certainly a right to do what she liked with her own,’ said Grace, who had listened in singular silence, considering that it was her own fortune that was under discussion. ‘I do not know why, but I never anticipated riches from this bequest. What do these two thousand potmds yield, Max—I mean what income?’

‘They pay six per cent.’

‘To think, resumed Mrs. Frere, carried quite out of her ordinary quiet and soft composure, ‘of being dragged away from our happy comfortable home in Germany for a miserable trifle like this 1 deluded with hopes too bright to last! It is our fate I suppose; poverty and obscurity seem to be our lot—and I can bear it if it is the will of heaven. But not to see the man who ought to be her friend and champion sitting down tamely, to let Grace be robbed by unprincipled wretches without striking a blow in her defence! And what a disappointment to my poor Randal, who has not yet received my joyful letter!’

‘Gad! you all seem to appropriate Grace’s fortune so completely,’ cried Max, a .little impatiently, ‘that I do not wonder at her indifference in the matter.’

‘It is their’s as much as mine, Max, and I am not indifferent, only I feel ill and tired; I think I have caught cold, my chest pains me.’

‘What will they say in Zittau?’ continued Mrs. Frere. “They will think us all impostors. Why we are very little better off than we were. It is too cruel after all my hopes.’

The poor lady burst into real tears, and sobbed aloud.

‘Dear mother,’ said Grace, coming to her side, gently, lovingly, yet with a certain listlessness which struck Max as a new and strange characteristic in her manner, ‘I cannot bear to see you so grieved. Had we not imagined great wealth, how delighted we should have been with what really is ours; it is an important addition to our income, and besides there will be much that is useful—and—do try to look at the best side,’

‘Best!’ cried poor Mrs. Frere, ‘there is no best! but I am not fit company for two such philosophers as you and your cousin. I am only fit to be by myself,’ rising, ‘so good-night, Max, and remember, I solemnly charge you to defend the cause of the fatherless against the machinations of villains,’ with which tremendous peroration Mrs. Frere hastily left the room.

‘My poor dear mother,’ said Grace, looking after her; ‘it is more than she can bear! I hope, Max, you do not mind anything she has said in the bitterness of her disappointment?’

‘Not I; not the very least. I am deucedly sorry myself; but, Grace, I am more concerned at your wwconcern than anything else. I am afraid you are very unwell, or something has happened-’

‘Oh no!’ she returned, with a smile, which sent a curious thrill of pain through her self-possessed, worldly cousin; ‘I think I have a bad cold. I shall keep in bed to-morrow. I suppose I need not see anyone. You can do everything without me? and after, we must leave this hotel, Max, it is too costly, you know,’ her pale face flushing crimson and then growing white again. ‘I have debts too of my own to pay.’

‘Do not think of that—at least do what will make you most content; above all, look on me as your friend, trust me, believe in me.’

‘I think you are very good to me, but, I really do not feel as if I could speak or understand any more! The day after to-morrow if you can spare time, let us talk over everything. Good-night, Max.’

‘Good-night.’

CHAPTER XVI

THE cold of which Grace complained, was sufficiently bad next morning to entitle her to a mustard plaster, and the privacy of her bedroom. Consequently, when Max, who felt dimly uneasy about his cousin, called to inquire for her on his way to the city, he could not see any of the party. ‘Miss Frere’ was reported to be very unwell, and Mrs. Frere was with her.’

The long spell of quiet and silence thus secured, was invaluable to Grace. In the semi-darkness of her own chamber, she made her moan to herself; she gazed long and fondly on the dead form of love and joy, shown to her a moment, and then snatched away probably for ever; her aching grief sweetened even while it was rendered more poignant, by the consciousness that too was suffering—that perhaps some barrier other than his will existed between them, and that therefore he had sought safety in flight.

Had it indeed been the inequality of their fortunes which had frightened Maurice away? How cruel to think that a natural mistake might have lost her what no wealth could purchase; and even now the winds and waves were wafting him further and further, and she must stay still and let all go —all, and so with many a wreath of tender memory—with loving tears of fondest regret—with the incense of loyalest faith she buried her dead love deep in the innermost vault of her heart, gently but firmly closing the door upon it, and turning resolutely, patiently to face the living world.

Jimmy Byrne was dreadfully distressed to find his ‘darlin’ young lady’ so unwell. But Grace, eager to be up and doing, with an energy slightly feverish, rose and dressed to receive him. Mrs. Frere was still in a state of the highest indignation against some person or persons unknown, who had with malice prepense conspired to defraud her child; nor did she hold Max unblamed—there had been culpable neglect somewhere, but they would never find it out. The widow and the fatherless were at the mercy of uprincipled worldlings. '

‘Would to heaven, my dear Mr. Byrne, that we had been in the hands of really respectable people —:your firm for instance. There is no knowing what havoc those Greenwoods (who appear to be inferior persons) have made with poor dear Lady Elton’s property. Is it not too bad ?’

* Faith it is so, Mrs. Frere, ma’am; but I must say there always was whispers—reports in a manner of speaking, about her ladyship’s investments. No one ever knew where her money was—indeed Mr. Gregg said to me not long after she came back from Italy, when Mr. Frere had to sign some document connected with a transfer of stock or some such thing, “Mark my words, Byrne,” says he, “she’s making ducks and drakes of her money, as Mr. Maxwell will find out.” To be sure when she lived in such good style, yet never extravagant, people began to think she had a power of money.’

‘I consider it cruel, absolutely cruel, not to have explained matters to Grace—to let us imagine we were wealthy, and then to hurl one into poverty again.’

‘And no doubt Lady Elton would have told me, but she was snatched from us so soon,’ said Grace, gently. ‘Indeed, mother, we ought to be very thankful to have as much as Max says remains. He told us last night, Jimmy, that there were two thousand pounds in Indian railways, and two hundred and fifty pounds in the bank. Then all the beautiful furniture and things, and some jewels —why a month ago we would have thought this riches.’

‘True, for you, Miss Grace, dear; one thing with another, you may set the sum total at, may be, four thousand pounds, besides picking out enough furniture to set up a pretty little house of your own if you like.’

‘That would be very nice,’said Grace,thoughtfully.

‘As to me,’ observed Mrs. Frere, ‘I cannot forget my hopes and expectations as readily as Grace; youth is naturally volatile, but when I think of the disappointment to my dear Randal, to whom I wrote in the first flush of my hopes, I cannot help feeling bitterly.’

The conversation then fell to Grace and Jimmy Byrne’s share, and turned as it generally did on domestic and financial arrangements.

‘Let me see the letter,’ said Grace to her mother, when Jimmy had left them, for Mrs. Frere had been too full of her grievances to do more than glance through Balfour’s epistle and lay it aside. She handed it to her daughter, and Grace opened it with an indescribable thrill of sad pleasure which the sight of lines so lately traced by the hand she might never touch again naturally aroused. The letter was short, and somewhat constrained. On reaching London, he found that his friend Darnell was anxious to be off as soon as possible, but till the day before, they were not sure they could start on the 1st. He thanked Mrs. Frere for the happiest days he had ever spent, and said he would write on reaching Melbourne. Finally he sent his best wishes to Grace, and earnestly hoped her good fortune would bring her all the happiness she so well deserved. Something had been written after and scratched out. and Grace strove to decipher it till her eyes ached; she could only make out, or thought she made out, the word ‘tell.’ Then came love to Mab, and the conclusion.

A strain of sadness seemed to pervade the letter, though Grace could hardly have pointed out any positive indication.

And this then was the last link of the chain that had been so rudely snapt. Mrs. Frere did not seem to remember the letter, or the writer, so Grace slipped it into her pocket to place it among the few treasures she possessed, while her mother was saying:

‘Do not be in too great a hurry, dear, to write to Dalbersdorf; let us understand matters a little first, and then make the best of it. I must say I am thankful Cousin Alvsleben is not here to crossexamine us as to the amount of your inheritance; it is dreadfully mortifying to be obliged to confess such a falling off. We must really make the best of it.’

‘That troubles me very little. And, dearest mother, when everything is settled you will find that we shall be quite comfortably off, and much easier than we were, so do pray cheer up. It makes me miserable to see your face.’

Perhaps the highest tribute to the influence of his late sister-in-law was paid by Mr. Frere, when he spared a quarter of an hour of his valuable time to make a morning, or rather afternoon call, upon his relatives the third day after their arrival on his way home from the city. Mrs. Frere and Mab were out on an expedition to find apartments, and Grace received him alone.

She felt inwardly amused at the calm indifference with which she took his visit, comparing it with her condition of mind on their first interview, when he . was the all-powerful father of Max. Now she felt pleasantly grateful to him for the timely help he had afforded them, but perfectly at ease. The absolute money value bequeathed by her friend might be small, but she felt that the status conferred upon her by being constituted Lady Elton’s sole legatee was considerable.

Grace was writing to Randal, explaining the state of affairs they had found on reaching London when * Mr. Frere’ was solemnly announced, and expecting Max, she was a good deal surprised to see the cold, strong features and stiff figure of her uncle.

‘Uncle Frere,’ she exclaimed, rising to meet him, the colour coming into her pale cheek, ‘I am very glad to see you.’

‘You are welcome back to England,’ he said, with a polite smile. ‘I regret to hear you are indisposed;’ and he took the chair she offered.

After the exchange of some commonplaces, he broached the subject uppermost in his thoughts, and spoke in a tone of stern indignation ol' the mysterious manner in which Lady Elton’s fortune had disappeared, hinting at the painful surmises to which it gave rise, and lamenting it chiefly on his niece’s account.

‘Do not trouble about me,’ said Grace. ‘You know what an important addition the little she has left will be to us. I have no feeling, save the warmest gratitude to dear Lady Elton for her kind thought of me, and for thus lifting us above the extreme pressure of too limited an income—to say-nothing of the joy of paying my just debts, and amongst them, dear uncle, I reckon what you so kindly and generously gave my mother, without which she could not have joined me in Germany. I have always wished to thank you for it.’

And she held out her hand to him with her usual frank impulsiveness. Mr. Frere was a good deal put out by so unconventional a proceeding; nevertheless, he took the fair soft hand not unkindly.

‘You are a young lady of unusually correct principles, I perceive,’ he said, a little less coldly than usual. ‘I do not, however, wish for repayment of what was a free gift. I always intended to assist my brother’s widow, so do not mention that matter again, if you please. In arranging your affairs and future system of life, both Max and myself will be most happy to give you every assistance.’

‘I am greatly obliged, and must not, then, contradict you. But, uncle, Max tells me there is a packet of papers to be opened by me only: this may throw some light on poor Lady Elton’s past history. Max promised to bring it this evening.’

‘I shall be glad to know what you gather from its contents; and now, I must bid you good morning. If your cold permits, perhaps you and Mrs. Frere will do me the pleasure of dining at my house to-morrow T

Thank you; I have no doubt I shall be much better.’

Mr. Frere bowed himself out with his usual stiff politeness, and Grace, after a few minutes’ thought, returned to her letter.

‘Dear me!—so Richard Frere absolutely condescended to call?’ cried the mother, as she sat down and received Grace’s report of the visit ‘I suppose, if you had inherited all Lady Elton’s money, your uncle would have paid his respects every day. The adoration of Mammon in some people is amazing.’

‘Uncle Frere helped us very much, mother, we must allow?

‘Yes, he did—he did, indeed!’ returned Mrs. Frere, smiling. ‘I am, perhaps, too sensitive. The men whose society I have been accustomed to were so high-minded, so superior to the influence of filthy lucre, that I am probably spoiled for others. I cannot say I care for going to dine with Richard Frere. I am sure I remember our last, our only dinner there with unspeakable horror! Never shall I forget the cruel way he spoke to my dear boy; and indeed, Max was not much better. No, I never can forget it!’ and poor Mrs. Frere absolutely shuddered at the horrible recollection.

‘But, mother dear, we really must not take Mab. You know there will be business to talk over, and Mr. Frere would not like it/

‘How can we leave her alone? and we have no one to leave with her!’

* I know. But for once, Mab, you will not mind going to bed early; and I daresay that nice chamber-maid you like will give you your tea.’

* Oh, I do not want to go!’ said Mab, scornfully. ‘I don’t want to be sat upon by Uncle Frere; and I know he hates children!’

‘You are getting out of childhood now, dear Mab : you are nearly eleven.’

The memory of her first dinner at Uncle Frere’s was vividly before Grace’s mind. All through her second, she thought how much more assured was her position—how much calmer her feelings; and yet she would almost willingly have gone back to that day of dread could she have the bright bits in the tesselated pavement of her life to tread over again—she felt so wonderfully older, so strangely hopeless and resigned.

She was, in Uncle Frere’s opinion, so far as he could recall his first impressions, immensely improved; while to Max, the slight change in her look and voice and manner — a change so subtle that it entirely escaped her mother—was infinitely interesting and puzzling. He, of course, attributed it to regret for some German lover; and, from whatever motive, he apparently accepted the position of friend and adviser, without betraying a tinge of tenderness or admiration, as if he, too, was anxious to bury the outburst, of which perhaps he was ashamed, in oblivion.

The dinner was less terrible than Mrs. Frere anticipated. While the servants were in the room, the conversation turned chiefly upon Germany, and Mrs. Frere took a fair share in it; nor was Grace dull or silent. Indeed, once interested in any topic, her intellect and fancy quickly woke up, to sparkle on the surface, even when her heart ached.

‘As a beam o’er the face of the waters may glow,

While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below.’

Afterwards in the drawing-room, the business uppermost in all their minds was fully discussed, while Grace was often obliged to steady her voice by an effort as her first meeting with Lady Elton in that room came back to her mind. Max was most judicious in his advice and suggestions, and without uttering a word of overt sympathy, conveyed to Grace, she knew not how, a sense of comfort and comprehension.

Still she heard in a kind of dream, as if she had not yet rallied all her mental powers, proposals for getting the landlord to remit the remainder of Lady Elton’s lease, which, as rents were rising, he no doubt would; for selling off what furniture and ornaments Grace did not require, by auction, for owing to the late owner’s reputation as a connoisseur, high prices might be realised; of possible investments for the proceeds, etc., etc.—into all of which Mrs. Frere entered with much zest; and when Grace somewhat languidly suggested taking a small house in or near London, both Mr. Frere and Max highly approved. So the evening passed quickly, and the parti carre separated well pleased with each other.

Before Grace slept, she opened the packet which Max had given her at parting—opened it with a thrill of tenderness and anticipation. Would it solve the mystery of her dear friend’s life? No. The parcel contained manuscript sketches of places and people, legends picked up in out-of-the-way corners of France and Germany; and with these a memo addressed to Grace, in which the writer stated that she had collected these scribblings of past idle hours, thinking they might perhaps be of use to Randal,, or even to herself, should she ever take up the pen—‘which,’ she added, ‘you are much more capable of wielding.’ This message from the grave touched Grace profoundly, and sunk into her mind, to bring forth fruit hereafter.

Removed into modest but comfortable lodgings, and settled pro tern., Mrs. Frere had time to develop intense eagerness for the moment when she could range through the beautiful rooms which now belonged to her daughter, and her conversation was largely interspersed with such interjections and interpolations as: ‘Grace, that writing-table in Lady Elton’s study would do admirably for Randal;’ or, ‘Do you remember, dear, the small sofa that stood near the fireplace ? It will suit the sort of room we shall have exactly;’ or ‘Those squares of Persian carpet will fit any house, and the smaller china ornaments would make the most ordinary villa elegant.’ In short, Mrs. Frere furnished a score of houses in her mind, by which agreeable occupation the poignancy of her disappointment was considerably blunted.

Then came a delightful episode, when Lady Elton’s jewel-case was brought from the bank to be valued and inspected. It was more richly supplied than either Max or Mrs. Frere expected, and the sight of its sparkling treasures was most consolatory to her and exciting to Mab.

Meantime Randal gave no sign. It was now a month since Lady Elton’s death, and he had not written. Mrs. Frere, from vague wondering why Randal did not write, grew gradually more and more uneasy, and Grace at last showed her anxiety.

Not even the interesting event of taking possession of Lady Elton’s rooms, nor the question of choosing an abode, could still the disquiet which each day increased as morning after morning came and brought no letter.

It was about six weeks after Mrs. Frere and her daughter had returned to London. Grace had begun to chafe a little at the law’s delay; so many small preliminaries were to be gone through before they could take steps to settle themselves definitely, and she longed to be in a quiet home, for, in spite of her literary proclivities, she had a true housewifely taste. The weather had been rather chill and wet for the last week, but this particular morning had risen clear and bright, tempting Grace to rise early and write a long letter to Friede before her mother and Mab descended to breakfast.

It was little more than seven o’clock when she set forth her writing things in place of the looking-glass which she removed from her little dressing-table, and she had accomplished the first page of her letter when she heard a tap at the door. it you, Emma?’

‘Yes,’m,’ and the servant of the house entered.

‘If you please, miss, there’s a gentleman downstairs wants to see you.’

‘A gentleman at this hour! Who is he?’

‘He will not give his name, miss; he says you’ll know him well enough when you see him.’

A sudden shiver went through her veins, as Grace thought: ‘Could it be Maurice Balfour, recalled by some strange chance!’ but the idea was ridiculous; so without further remark she followed the girl to the dining-room, where, arrayed in a correct travelling suit, with the strap of his courier bag across his chest, and looking very brown, stood Randal.

Of course Grace was startled, yet genuinely glad to see him. What brought him back so unexpectedly?

‘Well, they had been knocking about Hungary,’ he said, ‘having come up the Danube to while away the hot season, and enable Sir Alexander to publish “Some Thoughts on the Social, Political, and Industrial Condition of Hungary for the fellow fancies he is a universal genius. It was rather slow work, as I spoke neither German nor Hungarian; and it was only in the towns that French was any good. When we got to Pesth, I had a pretty severe touch of low fever; and Sir Alexander spoke rather brutally, hinting at my being a hindrance to his making a searching examination of the Carpathians. So I just told him not to trouble about me; I preferred returning. Then I found he had picked up a seedy German, who was able to murder every European language more or less—English especially—and who gave his valuable services for something like twenty pounds a year and the baronet’s old clothes. I wished him joy of the bargain, and as soon as I was strong enough, started off home. So here I am, my darling! I suppose you can get me a room? I told the girl to pay the cab, and take in my traps, for to tell you the truth I haven’t much more than thirteen or fourteen shillings about me; and by-the-bye, Grace, I must lodge twenty-five pounds to Sir Alexander’s credit to-day or to-morrow. I was obliged to ask him for an advance, for you see, what with being ill and one thing or another, I was run aground.’

‘Very well, Randal,’ was all Grace could say to this voluble speech, which was rattled out with the most complete self-content, ‘I will see about a room for you, and let my mother know you are here.’

‘How goes the mother and Mab?’ asked Randal. * As to you, Grace, I can’t say you are looking first-rate.’

But Grace had gone to rejoice her mother’s heart with the news of his arrival, and great was the commotion which ensued. Mrs, Frere, who was but half-dressed, impeded her own progress by her excessive haste; and Mab came rushing down, her hair flying about and her boots unbuttoned, fully expecting that Randal had brought home the Sphinx, or at least a mummy.

The day which ensued was disturbed, but on the whole pleasant. Randal was very lively, amusing, and Grace thought improved. It was rather too early to mention plans, beyond their general scheme of taking a house and settling themselves in London, of which Randal highly approved, and mentioned en passant that he himself had serious thoughts, now that their circumstances were a little easier, of studying for the bar. It was a gentlemanlike profession; it fitted in well with literary pursuits, and the Marchioness of Uppingham had strongly recommended it. Mrs. Frere was quite enchanted with this suggestion, and Grace let it pass. They had quite an exhilarating little dinner, to which, out of his remaining thirteen shillings, Randal contributed a bottle of champagne with the air of a prince. ‘The dear fellow was always so-generous,’ as his mother said. He was not so much affected by the sad falling off in Lady Elton’s for- * tune as Mrs. Frere; for, owing to his moving from place to place, he received both her letters on the subject at the same time. So he dismissed the matter by observing that it was a deuced shame of the person or persons unknown, who had robbed Grace.

‘Randal,’ said his sister, hesitatingly, with her eyes bent down when they happened to be a few moments alone, ‘I ought to warn you that we are obliged to see a great deal of Max Frere. He may come in this evening.!

* Indeed!’ returned Randal, moving a little uneasily in his chair, and paused an instant: ‘ Well, Grace,’ he resumed, ‘as we must meet, why the sooner the better. I am not going to let myself be awkward and uncomfortable on account of an unlucky mistake which after all has cost him nothing; and I fancy he forgives me, for the sake of my pretty sister. Eh, Grace? Max has always been a bit spoons about you.’

Grace was too mortified by his callousness to answer or notice the conclusion of his speech. What matter what Randal thought? he was hopelessly dead to all the motives which would spur her on. She foresaw he would be on her hands all the days of his life.

‘I am glad it will not cost you too much to meet him; he has been very good and generous,’ she said, coldly.

* For which you have my full permission to reward him,’ replied Randal, with an uneasy laugh.

‘Really, Grace, it would not be a bad winding-up to marry Max Frere.’

‘That is my affair,’ she said carelessly, and then changed the conversation.

But Max did not come till the following evening. And as Grace thought it better to let the meeting take place unpreparedly, he was somewhat surprised to meet Randal—somewhat, though by no means overwhelmingly. He had always expected that his sister’s accession of property and the prospect of home comfort would ‘draw’ Randal as certainly as the magnet does iron.

Max conducted himself admirably on the occasion : no allusion to topics nearer home than Egypt, the Principalities, and Hungarian politics were touched upon. No irritating sneers, or mocking recommendations were indulged in; indeed, Grace noted that never again did Max address Randal, save in a tone of common-place politeness, which to her was most expressive of the estimation in which he held him, and for which she was grateful even while it wounded her deeply.

Time, which arranges all things, rolled on with its weighty swiftness; and the Freres gradually settled down to their fresh life, and found all they required. With Jimmy’s aid, a pretty little semidetached villa in the Westbourne district was secured. Need it be said that all the excellent man’s legal knowledge was brought to bear on the. provisions of the lease, and never was landlord more rigidly bound to favourable terms. The arrangement of this new home was probably the occupation most calculated to interest Grace and draw her out of herself; and next to this, the search for a good school for Mab. For as the business of realising Lady Elton’s estate progressed, it was agreed between her and Max, who naturally became her chief counsellor in larger matters, that for a couple of years she might indulge her great desire to give Mab the advantage of a regular and systematic education. Max made himself both useful and agreeable in an unobtrusive way; never seeming to take much trouble, and never infringing the sort of undemonstrative friendship which had established itself between them from the first.

Max sometimes wondered if she had quite forgotten their stormy interview in Lady Elton’s study, scarce more than four months ago, and which now seemed to have gone away so far back in the realms of memory. Better so if she had. For himself, he scarce knew what he wished or wanted. Chiefly perhaps to know what and wherefore the change in his cousin, which he recognised but could not define—a something that had come into her and made her older, gentler, more patient, more indifferent, but more companionable.

For the time, Max Frere’s ambition slumbered. Perhaps he never had been so quietly happy as during the first seven or eight months which followed Mrs. Frere’s establishment in Osborne Villas. At first, owing to the exigencies of the executorship, he generally dined with his aunt twice a week. This proved too pleasant a habit to be given up, and Grace was surprised, when she thought of it, to find how he had made himself one with them. And yet not two years had elapsed since Max had deserted them in their time of trouble! The recollection of that uncomfortable period no longer called forth indignation, but it was never forgotten. Still, now that she was able to pay Max to the last farthing, she liked him better. That was also a happy day when she returned Jimmy’s generous loan which, at the time he made it, was almost a gift. What pleasure she took in enclosing it in a beautiful porte-monnaie painted by her own hands, and wrapped in perfumed paper inscribed with a few loving words.

And so the months sped on, autumn deepened into winter, and winter softened into spring.

In due course a letter from Maurice Balfour reached Mrs. Frere. It was pleasantly and affectionately written. He described a few incidents of his outward voyage, and gave a sketch of his prospects and work. He sent friendly messages to Grace and Mab, ending with a hope, not too eagerly expressed, that Mrs. Frere would write to him. Still Grace fancied there was a restraint—an indescribable suppression in its tone; it disappointed her, and chilled effectually any budding hope that might have sprung up again in her heart.

Mrs. Frere was by no means prompt to reply. She was slightly indolent; she found many pleasing occupations. There was Mab’s wardrobe to keep in order, and Mab herself to be escorted to and from school on the monthly holiday, and visited on many other occasions. Nor did the Freres lack a mild measure of suburban society besides that of some former friends of Lady Elton’s, who, some from curiosity, some from interest, called upon her young legatee. At last Randal undertook to answer Balfour,as hepiqued himself on his skill in letter-writing, and Mrs. Frere added a gracious postscript.

Grace watched long in silent anxiety for a reply, but months rolled on, and none came. Gradually the name she loved ceased to be familiar; other topics and people put him out of Mrs. Frere’s head, and save for a chance inquiry in Friede’s letters, Maurice Balfour was rarely mentioned. With her Dalbersdorf cousins, Grace kept up a steady correspondence; even the Frau Baronin Falkenberg wrote occasionally, and seemed completely content: but though polite messages were always sent in his name, the baron himself gave no sign. Before the return of summer, Friede wrote with infinite delight to say that her mother and the count had agreed that her engagement with Otto Sturm should be formally announced, and she earnestly hoped that in due time her beloved Gracechen would visit them when the final ceremony was fixed.

As to Randal, he found much to do. He collected a few law-books, and read a few pages every day. He wrote a good deal, and, no doubt improving by practice, his papers and poems occasionally gained admission into the lighter periodicals. He went out frequently, and renewed many pleasant acquaintances made on his travels; he was even favoured with a card to one or two great balls at Uppingham House, where he had the mortification to find that the marchioness was not quite sure of his identity, though exceedingly gracious when he had succeeded in recalling himself to her memory. And Grace was quiet and content; she enjoyed the simple prettiness of her home; she was happy in the improvement of Mab —in the serene satisfaction of her mother—in the exchange of ideas with intelligent people—in the indulgence of drawing with a good master—in going to see a fine play occasionally. But at twenty she felt that the sparkle, the intensity, the glow of her first youth was past; and though her sky was serene and unclouded, its hue was more the soft grey of evening than the vivid opal tints of daybreak.

CHAPTER XVII

THE shortening days and wintry aspect of the third November since the Freres had left Germany was closing over them, and Grace was settling to her winter routine after the refreshment of a short visit to the sea-side with Mab and her mother. Mab had returned to school for her third and last winter> and Randal, whose circle of acquaintance was ever widening, was looking forward to many entertainments, including some private theatricals of which he was the mainstay.

It was a fine crisp Sunday, and Max Frere had come in to luncheon, as he often did after church. Mrs. Frere had yielded to Mab’s request, and taken her to pay a visit to a schoolfellow now emancipated and living in the neighbourhood; and Randal, who was never able to throw off a sort of depression in his cousin’s presence, had lit a cigar on leaving the table, and observing that he had to call on some fellows at the other side of the Park,put on his hat and departed. Grace was therefore left to entertain Max. She was so accustomed to his presence, and had grown to like his society so well, that it was without a shadow of embarrassment that she sat down in a comfortable chair, screen in hand, before the fire to have a tete-a-tete talk with him.

He too drew a chair beside the chimney, but in the shadow, while the light fell fully on his cousin’s profile. There was a short but perfectly unembarrassed silence after Mrs. Frere and Mab were gone, then Max observed:

‘Mab is wonderfully improved in every way.’

‘Yes, wonderfully; she is quite reasonable and companionable. I look forward with pleasure to having her at home.’

‘When does she leave school?’

‘In July next. I do not think she is at all anxious to come home herself. She is very happy; and then she is with us once a month, as to-day.’

‘Why don’t you leave her another year, till she is fifteen?’

‘It is rather expensive, and my mother wishes for her.’

Another pause. And then Max, resting his arm against the mantelshelf, and his head upon it, said with a smile:

‘I am going to make a rude speech.’

‘Make it,’ returned Grace, carelessly, and looking at the fire.

* What is it that has made you so much older since you returned from Zittau?’

‘Older? Yes, I suppose so! Well, I am older, Max,’ turning her eyes full upon him with a grave smile.

‘Years do not account for it, Grace; and I have built up a dozen theories on the subject. Don’t you think I am deserving of confidence now, after these years of quiet kindly intercourse? Tell me, what is it that has tamed you, or sobered—I will not say saddened—you?’

‘I did not think you were so fanciful, Max,’ she said frankly. ‘I do not think I am changed beyond the inevitable change that time is always working,’

‘No; it is no fancy. I have watched you since the morning I met you on your arrival from Germany. You are greatly changed, and the only reason that suggests itself is the old hackneyed source of all a woman’s troubles—at least her chief troubles—that you left your heart with some Saxon. I am awfully curious to know if I am right’ ‘And if I had,’ she returned, with much composure, ‘do you think I should tell you, Max? Do you think you are the sort of person to whom one would confide a tender secret?—you who mock at sentiment, and love, and all that?’

‘Then you have one to tell?’

Grace laughed.

‘You may form what theories you like, Max. I have no secret to tell.’

The words were uttered more to herself than him, and there was a slight quiver of her lip as she spoke them.

‘Grace!’ exclaimed Max, who had been watching her intently, ‘do you know I often wish I had never known you?’

‘Indeed! Why, Max?’ she returned, roused and interested.

‘Because you have been the ingredient in my life that will not mix with the rest, which neutralises and disturbs the natural current of my ambition— of my life.’

‘How can that be?’ asked Grace, turning to him with more eagerness than he had noticed in her for a long time.

‘Let me speak to you frankly—I feel impelled to confess myself. That last visit to Dungar! it cost me a good deal. I was desperately hit, Grace. I did not know how hard till you came to London. But I never was a sentimental fellow. I have always thought, and in my sane moments I still think, that love, or whatever the passion may be called, is but the accident of a man’s life; it should never influence his career, or interfere with the graver considerations of his marriage. And so I steeled myself against you and avoided you; but you haunted me—the want of you spoiled everything—made me indifferent to other women—took the edge off my life. Then, when the passion you inspired overcame me, there in the office when you came to me in your grief, conquered but not subdued, and you rejected me, I tried to think it was better so—that save for yourself, there was no advantage to me in such a marriage. Still you haunt me; gradually the old ideas and desires are becoming distasteful. I seem to lose my relish for the world, yet the world holds me fast.’ He paused, and Grace, who at the beginning of his speech had leant her cheek upon her hand, remained silent and motionless.

‘You might break the spell, Grace—you might give me fresh life. If I had your love, the scale would turn, and I might know the blessedness of content. You see I do not attempt to disguise that I am a selfish, worldly fellow; but I love you as I never loved anything else.’

He spoke very quietly, and did not attempt to come nearer to her, yet something in his voice touched Grace.

‘I am so grieved to hear you say so—so sorry to give you pain,’ she said, hesitatingly. ‘But I have grown to look upon you so much as a friend and brother, that I do not think. I could love you in any other way, Max; still I do like you very much, and I earnestly pray you to let us rest friends.’

‘Ah, Grace! you have seen the man to whom you will give those loving kisses to make up for what I stole. I have not forgotten your words. Come! for the sake of old days, tell me, are you engaged or entangled with any fellow?’

‘I am not indeed, Max; I am perfectly free,’

She raised her head, and looked at him with clear, truthful eyes. A light came into Max Frere’s.

‘Enough,’ he said; ‘I will trouble you no more.

Let me remain your friend, your nearest kinsman. In time you will need me more and more. Sweetest cousin, you do not deny me all hope?’

He held out his hand, and many thoughts swept over her brain while Grace hesitated. • He certainly loved her—he was nice and kind, and far superior to the Max of three years ago; but her heart did not beat a throb quicker, as she put her hand in his, saying:

‘For friendship’s sake, think of nothing more; you will yet find a marriage far more suited to your wants and true wishes than with your obscure and poorly-dowered cousin.’

Max pressed her hand lingeringly, with a long look into her eyes, and then relinquished it without a word.

Grace half expected him to go away, but he only took a turn up and down the room,and then returned to his seat.

* I dined with Darnell last night,’ he said; next resuming in a different tone, ‘He was asking about you, and was quite interested to hear of Lady Elton’s bequest.’

‘I am much obliged to him,’ said Grace. ‘Is his wife as pretty as ever?’

* Lady Mary is exactly the same as when I first knew her—a complete doll.’

‘Darnell told me he met Randal the other night at supper at some man’s rooms, where they had songs and cards; and I am sorry to tell you Randal played, for I fancy the play was high-’

Indeed, I am greatly distressed,’ cried Grace.

‘I must speak to Randal; and yet I cannot say I heard it from you.’

‘No. Has he been drawing heavily on you lately?’

‘He has not, You know he gets all the money he wants from my mother.’

‘And you make up her deficiencies, I understand,’ said Max.

* No, not that. Randal has been very prudent lately.’

‘He has been winning then,’ returned Max; ‘the reverse will come. If this is not put a stop to, he will ruin you, Grace.’

‘I will do what I can. I did hope he would never touch a card again.’

‘Then hope told a flattering tale. I wish we could get him out of London. He is getting into a bad set.’

‘I wish—oh, how I wish we could!’ said Grace, clasping her hands. ‘Ah, Max! whenever I see you together, I always feel humiliated!’

‘Do not let such thoughts cross your mind. I have forgotten all about past unpleasantness. Well, I must leave you, Grace; I daresay you are wishing me away. We are close friends, then, for the present, and I suppose I must let the future take care of itself?*

‘I think so, Max.’

Once more he took her hand, holding it for a moment, and then turned away with a sigh.

When he was quite gone, Grace drew nearer the fire, and sat still and motionless for a long while in the gathering gloom, thinking—thinking. She felt very kindly and tenderly towards Max. She seemed to understand the picture he gave of his own nature; she was heartily sorry she could not love him, and then she thought of Maurice, and her heart went out to him with such boundless trust and tenderness. He would have had no hesitation, had he been in Max Frere’s place; he would have been unmoved by any small ambitions. But he was gone; probably she would never see him more. He had never answered Randal’s letter, written nearly a year and a half ago; and Jimmy rarely had a line— and yet he loved her. Would it be her destiny after all to marry Max Frere? He was persevering and resolute, and she was conscious of a certain power in him. For the moment, she felt helpless and depressed; but to-morrow-

‘Grace, are you here alone in the dark? I can scarcely see,’ said Mrs. Frere, coming in from her walk; and Grace came back to the comfortable present.

The following Sunday, Jimmy Byrne, who regularly dined at Osborne Villas on that day, was a little late, and of course full of apologies.

‘Who should I meet coming along by Hyde Park Gardens, but Mr. Maxwell Frere! He was mighty civil, and made me go in with him to his father’s house—a palace, faith! no less. We had a deal of talk. He is a very sensible young man, very; and lord, Mrs. Frere, ma’am, what a man o’ business! He was speaking of an investment for that five hundred pounds we couldn’t settle about last May.’

‘What dodge is Max up to?’ said Randal, laughing. ‘It is not every day that one gets a sight of the inside of the Frere mansion.’

‘Well, Mr. Randal,’ said Jimmy, gravely, ‘you must allow that your cousin spares neither time nor trouble for Miss Grace.’

‘What’s mine’s my own,’ said Randal, significantly, with a look at his sister.

‘I assure you /.consider mine my own,’ said Grace, a little startled by his tone, as hitherto Randal had taken no heed of Max Frere’s doings.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ returned Randal, pleasantly;

‘still, exchange is no robbery, especially if you get more than you give.’

‘And indeed,’ began Jimmy, with a certain awkward energy, ‘some has to give all. I’m sure 1 have been quite heart-broken about one of our clerks, a nice steady young fellow, the son of a widow. He has an elder brother, a civil, well-spoken young man too; but as ill-luck would have it, he got into a wild set, and he has gambled and bedevilled himself—if you’ll pardon the word—and what’s worse, he ruinated his mother and brother. First he won wonderful, and was quite free with his cash; then the luck turned, and I don’t know what he did not do to get hold of money. Anyhow, the poor mother had to give every farthing she had, and now he has taken to drink !’

‘What a terrible story!’ said Mrs. Frere, while Grace looked at the speaker in silence, seeking for the reason of his dragging in such a conte without sufficient provocation. Surely Max had been warning Jimmy of Randal’s fresh departure on the downward way. And Randal returned carelessly:

‘He was a fool to give up so soon! Luck turns and turns, and the next turn might have brought him a golden harvest.’

‘Not it, Mr. Randal. Mark my words, sir! It’s nothing but misery, and shame, and ruin, to yourself and all belonging to you, 'that play brings! Don’t you ever give in to it. #It’s a disgrace to an honest man. Barring a hand at whist for the love of the game, have nothing to do with cards for the love of--’

‘What the deuce are you talking about?’ cried Randal, angrily. ‘Do you think you are haranguing this gambling friend of yours, or do you fancy I am losing vast sums nightly?’

‘God forbid!’ ejaculated Jimmy, wisely replying to the latter part of the speech; ‘I think better of you than that, Mr. Randal, knowing as you do that it’s playing with your mother’s and sister’s hearts you’d be.’

‘Then what are you preachifying for? I wish you would not take such liberties.’

‘Randal,’ returned Grace, ‘Jimmy Byrne could hardly take liberties here; and whatever may move him to speak, I am certain the motive is sound and kind.’

‘By George! I think you are both out of your minds,’ said Randal, with lofty disdain, yet with a look of extreme annoyance.

I am sure Randal has a perfect horror of play,’ observed Mrs. Frere, blandly. ‘Of course when he first came to London, it was different; now he has more experience—and— Is there anything new in the papers, Mr. Byrne?’ with a desperate effort to change the subject.

‘Well, no, ma’am; it’s a dead time. I see Parliament is prorogued till the 5 th of February; but I see there’s a trial coming on between the directors of the “Wilcannia and Macquarie ” Railway and the contractors.’

‘That is Maurice Balfour’s line, is it not?' asked Grace.

‘It is, Miss Grace dear; and I was asking about it yesterday. It seems the inspecting engineer has complained about a bridge, and says it won’t stand the traffic, and the contractors say it will; and the directors want it built over again, and so on.’

‘I hope Balfour did not build it,’ said Randal, who was beginning to recover himself.

‘It will be a heavy expense to all concerned,’ said Jimmy. ‘These railway disputes are making quite a practice of their own. It would not be a bad line for you to take, Mr. Randal, if you do go to the Bar; the precedents are fewer and fresher.’

‘Not I! I’ll have nothing to do with these navvy fellows, who haven’t shaken the yellow clay off their “high-low” boots yet,’ returned Randal, still crossly.

‘There’s mighty pretty pickings to be made of them for all that, Mr. Randal.’ .

‘When is the trial to come off?’ asked Grace, interested in everything that in the remotest way touched her dear old playfellow.

‘Next week, I. think. It was postponed for witnesses or something of that kind.’

‘I trust nothing will come out of it to injure Maurice,’ said Mrs. Frere.

‘I don’t think there will,’ returned Jimmy. ‘It’s a long time since I had a letter from him. Maybe I’ll have one to-morrow, for the Australian mail is due.’ The conversation then turned to other subjects, and it was not till just before his departure that Grace had a moment’s private talk with Jimmy.

‘Max has been telling you something, Jimmy?’

‘Faith he has, mee dear young lady, and it’s grieved I am to hear it/

‘What can I do, Jimmy?’

‘I don’t know; only get him out of London.’

‘There are gamblers elsewhere.’

Ay, but it takes some time to find them.’

And then they exchanged ‘Good-nights.’

‘It is such a beautiful afternoon, Grace,’ said Mrs. Frere, the day but one after this conversation; ‘I wish you would come out with me, and walk in Kensington Gardens. Then I want to call on poor old Mrs. Newenham. I have not been near her for a week.’

‘Very well, dear,’ returned Grace, cheerfully putting away her drawing. ‘But I suppose I need not go in with you to Mrs. Newenham’s?’

Not if you do not like,’ said Mrs. Frere, leaving the room to put on her walking-dress.

The lady in question was a decayed gentlewoman of high birth and Irish extraction, who had adopted brevet rank. She was an object of much commiseration and kindly attention from Mrs. Frere ; but she was profoundly evangelical, and bent on converting Grace from the error of her ways—a fact which made that young lady a little averse from frequent visits.

On the present occasion, after leaving her mother to mount to the ‘third pair front’ occupied by the descendant of the ‘ould ancient Kings of Connaught,’ Grace proceeded homewards, thinking,, rather uncomfortably, of Randal’s fresh outbreak, and meditating how she could best approach the subject without betraying Max. Deep in these reflections, she turned into the neat road, bordered by pretty villas and well-kept gardens, in which their own was one of the prettiest. It was, as usual in the afternoon, somewhat deserted, the male portion of the inhabitants being away at their respective offices, and the ladies out shopping-

Away in the distance, near her own dwelling, was a solitary figure coming towards her; and. without breaking the chain of her thoughts, she watched its approach with a vague but increasing recognition which made her heart throb and her eyes grow dim. The figure was that of a gentleman of middle height, broad-shouldered, with a firm deliberate step; then a bronzed, strong-featured face grew clearer to her anxious gaze, and next a pair of large soft-brown eyes, all aglow with irrepressible delight as their owner sprang forward to meet her, and her hand was clasped by Balfour.

‘Grace!’—‘Maurice!’ was all they could utter: the joy and astonishment sending the blood back to her heart, and leaving her cheek so pale that Maurice thought she would faint.

‘Oh, Maurice! Where—how—what has brought you back?’

‘I have come to give evidence in this dispute between Darnell’s firm and the company. I arrived yesterday. I saw Jimmy Byrne this morning. He told me—what gave me courage to come and see you. But you were out.’

They had turned as he spoke, and walked towards the house, almost in silence, with hearts too full for words.

‘My mother will soon return. You will stay and see her?’ said Grace, as he followed her into the comfortable, graceful drawing-room; and she stood near the fireplace, in a slant of evening light from the west window, which touched her brown hair with gold and threw the outlines of her rich rounded figure into strong relief.

‘Stay!’ repeated Balfour, carried away by the joy of this reunion. ‘Ah, Grace!—how shall I ever leave you again? I have borne a living death since we parted!’

‘And I too!’ said Grace, low but distinct—her sweet frank eyes beaming forth to his with all the love and truth she had stored up for him.

With an indistinct exclamation of delight, Balfour caught her hands, raising them to his neck, and clasping his arms round her, he held her to him in a long rapturous embrace—heart throbbing against heart, lips clinging to lips, with the sudden fervour which swept away all restraint and all reserve.

‘My love!—my life!’ said Balfour, as she gently extricated herself from him. ‘1 did not think I should have lost the reins of my self-control so completely; but since I heard from Jimmy Byrne that you were neither married nor engaged to Max Frere, I have been dizzy with hope and doubt.’

‘Max Frere! What made you imagine such a thing?’

‘Randal: his letter all but declared it. He said —but you shall see what he said; and I dreaded such an ending to our early friendship too much not to believe it. And now, what have I to offer you, my darling? My lot is, as yet, but a poor one.’ And Grace, passing her arm through his—in the delicious familiarity with which old friendship tempers the startling warmth of love—whispered :

‘You have yourself—I want no more!’

‘LONDON. February —th

‘I can imagine Cousin Alvsleben’s horror of such an uprooting. I should have once thought the same myself, but I carry my all with me, and anticipate only what is bright and good.

‘You, who know my dear mother’s timid nature, will understand how she shrank from the suggestion of such an exile; and Randal, too, strongly objected to be torn from civilised society. But I could not leave them, nor could Maurice part with me; so he overcame all difficulties, and I trust and believe that he is guiding us well. His prospects as regards his profession are good, and he has invested his small patrimony in the colony; so Australia must be our home. Nor do I doubt that my dear friend and husband has a most useful, if not prominent career before him. His peculiarly calm, unselfish disposition gives him an unusual breadth of view and soundness of judgment that cannot fail to give his opinion weight with his employers and fellow-workmen. There, in the large plenty and roomy surroundings of a new country, a few inmates more or less do not create the difficulties and petty annoyance which make them dreaded in our narrower homes. And Maurice loves my mother and Mab for their own sakes. He rejoices in the thought of having dear familiar faces round our hearth.

‘Randal talks of studying for the Bar in Melbourne, and also of writing a history of the colony. He will certainly be better there than in London.

‘I was sorry, dearest Friede, that I could not be at your wedding, nor you at mine; but it was well that yours was sufficiently in advance to permit Uncle Costello to be with us. How curious that both our times of trial should end together. I can well imagine your happiness, for I measure it by my own. My kind love to the dear professor, and all fond wishes for your prosperity.

‘The count was looking remarkably well, and I think enjoyed his visit; but oh, how hard it was to bid him good-bye! He will have told you all the details of our very quiet wedding. Afterwards we made a pilgrimage to take a last look at Dungar. January is an unpromising month for such an expedition; but even winter is kindly on that southwestern coast, and we were fortunate in the weather. The dear old place looked grey and sad. I could not have borne to look at it alone, but with Maurice beside me it was different. Together we lingered in every well-known spot, drawn nearer to each other by each freshly-awakened memory, and giving many a tender thought to the dear ones we have both lost. Then we turned away, content to bid it farewell—content to face our new life together— the past and present of both blended in this sweetest, closest tie of love and friendship.

‘I wish I could see you all in pleasant Dalbersdorf once more; but I will one day. We are young and strong, and a voyage to Europe will be nothing a few years hence, and then we shall see you again.

‘But, dear uncle Costello! it cost me bitter tears to part with him, for it may be for ever. Yet there is another parting before me to-morrow that I dread even more. You have heard me speak of Jimmy Byrne, our faithful loving friend! He has all a woman’s tender sympathy and delicate tact under a quaint unattractive exterior; and what -he was to me in the first desolation of our stay in London no words of mine can convey. Your grandfather has a kindly family circle who value and cherish him, but poor Jimmy has no one to replace us—me, I may say. Yet I must leave him; and he is so good, so utterly devoid of self, that he seems only to rejoice in my happiness! All I can do is to be the best of correspondents, and try my best to lighten his loneliness. One other person I regret, to my own surprise, much more than I anticipated, and that is my cousin Max. My time, however, is nearly exhausted, and I must end. Adieu, dear, kind Friede. Often in our fireside talk we will live over again our happy days in Saxony, and ever hold in our hearts the warmest recollection of you and yours. I sent letters yesterday to Gertrud . and my uncle. My mother and Mab—who is grown out of all memory—inclose each a farewell word. Thus ends this first chapter of my life.

‘Maurice desires his warmest good wishes. Do not fail to write; and so, good-bye—a lingering, fond good-bye.

‘From yours,

THE END.