standing by the steps touched Rachel's dress as she was getting out of the carriage.

"Please, ma'am, Lizzie Wilson has been and burnt herself dreadful, and mother thought you would come." "What's that? what's that?" said Robert Pennington. "Run away, my little girl-run away!"

"Wait, please, one moment; I will come with you,” Rachel said, and had disappeared and returned before the rest of the party had left the hall.

Mr. Buchanan saw she had a bag in her hand, and as she left the house followed her.

'May I come? It is late for you to be out alone." Rachel made no reply, but walked swiftly onward, the little girl pattering at her side and telling the story of the accident in broken, disjointed sentences, which the Westmoreland dialect made all but unintelligible to Mr. Buchanan.

They turned down a narrow courtyard, and were soon at the door of a little cottage, one of a row of brokendown tenements, which were thickly populated. Rachel went into a room opening from the yard, and the moans and cries of a child were heard, and the voices of people talking all at once.

Mr. Buchanan waited outside, and soon one voice rose above the rest, clear and subdued in its tone; but it was the voice of authority, though it was so gentle.

"The room must be cleared, please; so many people do harm. Now, Agnes Wilson, hold the candle, and let me see the burns. Yes, I have heard all about it. Lizzie must try not to cry-poor little Lizzie! The burns are not so bad as I feared. I will do them up, and you must on no account move the bandages till the morning. Then I will ask Mr. Mason to come and see her."

"He don't care for poor folks, not he, You be better than a score like him. He be gone out, miles off, to a man who has broke his leg."

Well, you must mind what I say, and now do not interrupt me."

Then there was comparative quiet-the moans of pain were lulled and in about half an hour Rachel came out

of the cottage.

"God bless you, miss!" followed her from the mother; and her last words were

"I shall be here early in the morning, and I will bring Mr. Mason with me, if possible."

"You have surely not waited all this time?" she said, as Mr. Buchanan joined her.

"Indeed I have. Let me take that bag?"

She resigned it at once; and when they had come out from the little narrow court, he saw that she made an involuntary pause.

"You are very tired," he said. "You must be, I am

sure."

"Yes, she said, faintly, "I suppose I am; and I have always

Mr. Buchanan drew her hand through his arm, and she leaned heavily upon it; and so they walked, silently and slowly, under the star-lit sky. When they reached the Bank door, Rachel said—

"Thanks for your help. I always get through the sight of pain very well at the time; but somehow I revenge myself afterwards by being faint. It is very stupid; but doctors have the same weak-minded experiences to tell, I believe, of their early days in hospitals." Scarcely had Mr. Buchanan touched the bell at the Bank door, when it was opened by Winifred, who had evidently been on the watch.

"Make haste, Rachel, dear, for Richard

As she spoke Richard came forward, and said, in his dry, hard voice

66 If you find it necessary, Rachel, to go into cottages at night, it is hardly necessary, I should think, to take my father's guest with you."

"What do you mean ?" said Mr. Buchanan, sharply; for who was Richard, to dare to take a woman like Rachel to task? "Perhaps if you and I knew a little more about cottages and those who live in them, it would be the better for us!"

Richard was so astonished at this attack, that he found no words to reply.

Rachel simply gave Mr. Buchanan her hand, saying, "Good night," and the next moment she had disappeared, and he saw her no more.

CHAPTER VI.

FORESHADOWING.

"And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was nought to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, nought beside ?
No, indeed, for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make,

And creates the love to reward the love

I claim you still for my own love's sake."
R. BROWNING.

"YES; it is a nice little nest, Tantina," Mr. Buchanan said; "built on purpose for you to enjoy; and Linda will be happy there, I feel sure."

Mr. Buchanan was in his accustomed corner of the drawing-room at Clarefield, and Aunt Dorothy was looking up at him with the quiet, serene smile which was one of the beauties of her old age.

"I hope you will enjoy this pretty place yourself, dear Maurice, and be with us a good deal. Cordelia was here just before you came home, and threw out many hints about some of the other children accompanying Linda; but I think I could not undertake either of the little girls, or Will, or Ned."

"Certainly not; and the child needs freedom from their noise and racket."

"I fancy Cordelia wished us to invite Delia, but

Impossible. And what would she do when she got there ?—no amusements and no parties! She would be moped, and hang heavy on our hands. No; I think we shall do best alone with Linda.”

"Of course, Maurice, Chrystie can come from Saturday to Monday, and take a day or two sometimes ?"

"Yes; but I am especially anxious that he should give no cause of complaint in the Bank. There are those there too ready to look out for motes in his eye already."

"I know that," Aunt Dorothy said with a sigh, "Cordelia said some very unpleasant things this afternoon, or implied them."

"You should not care about implications, Tantina. But you must not spoil the boy."

"No! I must leave that to you, Maurice," was the answer; and as she spoke Chrystie himself came in from the Bank.

He was a fine picture of young manhood-strong, full of health and vigour, and developed in every way since we saw him last. His career at Oxford had been very much what he had predicted. He had passed respectably, like many others of his year; but his honours were chiefly in the shape of cups and claret-jugs, won in all the varied athletic enterprises of boat and field in which he had met with few rivals. But to his credit be it said, that he had kept pretty clear of bills and other rocks against which so many others have made shipwreck. The principles of honour and faithful adherence to all that was pure and true and of good report, learned at Rugby under that great master of his time, stood him in good stead. Once or twice, indeed, he had been near difficulties and complications from a too lavish expenditure; but here his entire trust and confidence in his uncle saved him. He