another, and I found Dora seated on one of the window-seats, with her arms resting on the broad stone sill, and her head and face hidden in her clasped hands. I saw the tears trickling between the slender fingers, and had not sufficient command of myself to refrain from questioning her.

"Dear Miss Hemsley," I cried, "for God's sake tell me what distresses you!"

She lifted her head and turned her sweet face towards me, bathed in tears.

"That I can tell to no one," she answered; "I have my secret troubles to bear, Mr. Ainsleigh, though I am but just eighteen years of age, and I must endure them with patience."

I knelt at her feet, and begged her to believe that if the sacrifice of my life could have served her I would have freely given it. She turned her tearful eyes towards me.

"Yes, Robert," she said, "I think you would do much to save me from sorrow. But you cannot. I must bear my burden."

The sound of my Christian soul like a strange sweet music. But at the same moment there came another sound that startled me. 'Twas the stealthy opening of a door. I looked up and saw Mr. Lestrange peering in at us through a narrow opening from the doorway by which I had seen him leave the room. Our eyes met, and he clapped-to the door; but in that one instant I had seen the expression of his face, and never did I behold more malignant hate upon the human countenance.

name spoken by her lips thrilled my

I would fain have pressed Miss Hemsley further, but she entreated me to refrain, and I left her, sorely distressed by her grief, and only able to guess at its cause.

"Everard Lestrange has been urging his suit with her," I thought; "'tis clear she does not love him."

And then I suffered my fancy to beguile me with a bright dream of what might have been if I had not been a penniless dependent, and Miss Hemsley a fortune; and I cursed the wealth which made an impassable barrier between us.

CHAPTER VII.

HOW I BECAME AN ORPHAN.

I WAS pacing the long corridor of the upper story in a despondent frame of mind, when the door of my lady's dressing-room opened, and Mrs. Grimshaw emerged, more than usually sour of visage.

"You are wanted by my lady," she said on seeing me. "“I have been urging upon her that such an idle life as you are leading is not the way to fit a young man for earning his living, and she is so good as to acknowledge the wisdom of my remarks."

"You are very obliging with advice that has not been invited," I

answered; "but since I doubt if you have ever wished me well, I should be grateful if you would abstain from all interference with my affairs.”

I knew that whatever influence this woman brought to bear upon my fate would be of an adverse nature, and I could not patiently brook her calm tone of patronage and superiority. She gave me a malignant glance, muttered something about a beggar on horseback, and passed on, while I went to Lady Barbara's dressing-room, a spacious and cheerful apartment, hung with prints and chalk drawings, and furnished with japanned cabinets containing shells, dried flowers, Indian china, and many valuable curios of the monster tribe. It was the room my lady had occupied as a girl, and which she preferred to any other apartment at Hauteville. A large embroidered screen in tent-stitch, representing the meeting of Joseph and his brethren, testified to Lady Barbara's girlish industry; and half-a-dozen dogs of the pug species sprawling on a rug before the sunniest of the windows, revealed the hobby of her childless matronhood.

She was writing as I entered, but closed her desk immediately, and looked up at me with an affectionate smile.

"Sit you down here, Robert," she said, pointing to a stool at her feet; and I seated myself there, and took the hand which she offered me. Thus seated, we seemed like mother and son.

"Robert," she began presently, "I think you know that I love

you."

"Yes, indeed, dear madam; and your affection has made me very happy."

66

Will you cease to believe in that affection if I should be obliged to make you unhappy?"

"I cannot believe that you will ever act unkindly."

"Not willingly, Robert, God knows. But you remember what Shakespeare makes his Hamlet say: we must sometimes be cruel, only to be kind.' Dear boy, I think we have all been too happy here; you and I and Dora Hemsley. Do you remember what I told you about Dora when we first came ?"

"I am not likely to forget it," I answered gloomily.

"It was my manner of warning you, Robert. I cannot thwart my husband's wishes with reference to his niece and ward; I cannot, Robert, even to serve you. He was very generous when I asked leave to adopt you, poor orphan child; and it would ill repay his goodness if you became the instrument to bring about the disappointment of his favourite scheme. He has set his heart upon his son's marriage with Dora, and it must take place; or, at least, you and I must do nothing to prevent it."

"God forbid it should ever come to pass!" I cried.

"Why, Robert, have you anything to say against Everard Lestrange?" "Not much, except that I do not like him; and I can scarce tell you wherefore. Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare—”

"Heavens, how like that was said to your father! Ah, Robert, I doubt you inherit his headstrong, impetuous disposition."

I smiled, remembering how quiet and submissive had been my youth; and yet I was inclined to doubt whether under certain exceptional circumstances a fiery spirit, to which I was at present a stranger, might not reveal himself as my master. Surely if for every man there watches and prays a good angel, so each has his familiar demon, an invisible director stronger than himself, who leads him where he would not go, and urges him to deeds he would fain leave undone.

"Robert," said my benefactress suddenly, after a little pause, "I have watched you and Dora together, and I think it would be well for the peace, nay, indeed, for the honour of both, that you should part."

"I am ready, madam," cried I, springing to my feet with a start. "I know that there is a gulf between that bright angel and me. Send me away this day, this minute. I am ready to go."

I dashed a tear from my eyes as I spoke. My lady watched me. with a sad, perplexed face.

"O Robert," she cried, "has it come to this?"

"Yes," I answered. "Your warning has been forgotten; I love her. I will not come between your stepson and his fortune. I love her; but I am not so base a viper as to sting the breast that has warmed and sheltered me. I will not bring trouble on you, dear lady. From these lips Dora Hemsley shall never hear that she is beloved. O, let me go; let me leave this dear place, where for the last few months I have tasted such dangerous, such fatal happiness."

"Yes, Robert, you must go. It will be wisest and best that you should begin life at once; and your future will be my care, dear boy, do not doubt that. And so my gentle Dora has won your heart? 'Tis but a boy's love, a brief fever, more easily cured than you can believe while the disease rages. But do you know, Robert, that I have heard of another passion of yours?"

"How, madam ?"

"That pretty brown-eyed girl at the warrener's lodge, Margery Hawker-what of her, Robert?"

“She is my foster-sister, and as dear to me as ever sister was to brother; who told you she was more than that, Lady Barbara ?TM

"I have been told nothing; but I have had hints."

"Shame on the hinters, madam! People who mean well can afri to speak plainly. I can guess who is at the bottom of this."

“Perhaps there are more than you think. Robert. Do not be so angry. If you have pledged your heart to poor little Mannery, kep your faith with her. Better to have a peasant-girl for your wife, that a guilty conscience and the bitter memory of having broken an bonest woman's heart."

"I swear to you, dear madam, that Margery has never been more to me than my foster-sister, and never will be. I know that she is

beautiful-lovelier than Miss Hemsley; but she has never touched my heart, as one look of that young lady's touched me on the first night of her coming here. I think there must be some element of magic in such spells, innocent as they seem."

"I cannot doubt you when you speak so boldly. But O, Robert, let there be no broken hearts-no ruined lives. There has been too much of that already."

I looked at her wonderingly, and she answered my inquiring glance. "Your father's heart and mine, Robert-your father's life and mine. -both broken, both ruined, for want of a little more candour, a little more patience, a little more constancy. I loved him so dearly! Yes, that is why you are as dear to me as ever only son was to doting mother. I cannot tell you how happy we were as boy and girl together, or how devoted he seemed to me. I know that in those days he was all truth, all goodness. There was no hidden evil in that proud young heart. He had his faults, perhaps, but they were the failings of a knight-errant. Who can say that Sir Philip Sidney was faultless? and we know that Raleigh was a sinner. His errors were ever those of a great mind. O God, how easy it is for me to pardon and pity him now, I who was so unforgiving then, when my pardon could have saved him! When he came from the University I thought him changed, and there was one about me who took care to call my attention to the change, and by and by to assign a cause for it. Martha Peyton, now Martha Grimshaw, my conscientious, confidential, trustworthy maid, discovered an incipient intrigue of my cousin's, and brought me speedy news of it. Mr. Ainsleigh was always hanging about Parson Lester's vicarage, she told me. Mr. Lester was a hunting-parson, renowned for his knowledge of horses and his veterinary skill, and this might fairly be the magnet that drew Roderick to his house. But my confidential maid would not have me think this. Mr. Lester had an only daughter, a pretty, empty-headed girl, and Martha hinted that it was for her sake my cousin haunted the vicarage. I had seen the girl at church, and had invited her to tea in my dressing-room, and given her a cast-off gown now and then, to the aggravation of my confidential Martha, who was inclined to be jealous of intruders. I knew that Amelia Lester was weak, and frivolous, and pretty, and I believed my informant. I had no civil word for my cousin after this, and would hear neither explanations nor apologies, which at first he fain would have made. The breach grew wider day by day. O Robert, I was madly, wickedly jealous. I hated my rival, my false lover, myself, the whole world. One day I met Roderick and Amelia together in the park, the girl simpering and blushing under her hat, my cousin with the conqueror's easy, self-satisfied air. He did not even blush on meeting me, but passed me by with a cool nod and smile of defiance, while Miss Amelia dropped me a low curtsey, with her eyes cast modestly to the ground. After this meeting I scarcely deigned to speak to my cousin, and suffered un

speakable torments with a haughty countenance. Women have a genius for self-torture. I would have given worlds to bring Roderick to my feet, to be assured that I alone was beloved by him. Yet I obstinately repelled his advances, and neglected every opportunity of reconciliation."

"Your mind had been poisoned, dear madam," I said; for I knew but too well Mrs. Grimshaw's hard, cruel nature, and could now perceive that her hatred was a heritage that came to me from my father, whom she had pursued with that fury which the poets tell us to be worse than the hate of hell.

"Yes, my mind had been poisoned," replied my lady; "my confidante, from pure conscientiousness, no doubt-but there are no people can wound like these conscientious friends-kept me informed of my cousin's doings. His visits to the vicarage were notorious. Miss Lester had boasted everywhere of her conquest. Everywhere' is a vague word; but I was too angry, too miserable, to insist upon particulars. And then, was I not heiress of Hauteville? and should my cousin affect the most ardent devotion, how could I believe him? My confidante took occasion to remind me of my wealth; these prudent people have such sordid notions. Had I known the world then as I know it now, Robert, I should have valued your father so much the more for the pride that held him aloof from me after my numerous repulses had chilled and wounded him. But I believed myself deserted and betrayed for a person whom I considered my inferior; and when my father's anger was aroused by the discovery of certain debts which Roderick had concealed from him, I made no attempt to act as peacemaker. Then came a long and stormy interview, which resulted in my cousin's abrupt departure from Hauteville, never again to sleep beneath this roof. He went without a word of farewell. My father declared he would return, and I too hoped long in the face of despair. O Robert, for me those were the days of retribution. What a long heart-sickness, what weary agony! For a year I listened and watched for Roderick Ainsleigh's return. Every sound of a horse's hoofs in the distance, every sudden stroke of the great bell, every messenger or lettercarrier who came to this old place, raised a hope that was awakened only to be disappointed. My confidential maid fell ill of the small-pox soon after my cousin's departure, but that fatal malady passed me by, though I would fain have courted any death-stroke. Within six months of Roderick's disappearance Amelia Lester left her father's house, secretly, as it was rumoured, though the parson affected to know where she was. She had gone to some relations in Somersetshire, he said, and as no one but he had any right to be angry the assertion was suffered to pass unchallenged; except by Martha Peyton, who contrived to extort the truth from a servant at the vicarage. The young lady had been missing one morning, and the father had raged and stormed for a while, and then had cursed her for a worthless hussy, saying that no doubt she had