The orphan of Charnley
page: (TitlePage) [View Page (TitlePage) ] THE ORPHAN OF CHARNLEY. BY MARGARET BLOUWNM. i. AUTHOR-OF "KITTY ATHERTON " "A DANGEROUS WOMAN," &c., &c. NEW-YORK: FREDERIC A. BRADY, PUBLISHER No. 22 ANN STREET. page: 0[View Page 0] THE ORPHAN OF CHARNLEY. BE' MARGARET BLODJITT . CHAPTER I. ' Oh, his was a weary wandering, And a song or two might cheer him. The pious youth began to. sing As the we]ay man drew near him; The lark wea; ute as he touched the string, And the thrush said, 'hear him-hear him!'" PREAD. IT was Christmas time in London. The days were dark and foggy, but the faces which looked upon them were bright enough; and even the beg- gars in the streets, seemed to have a consciousness, through all their misery, that the time had come when hearts and hands, hard and closed on other days, must soften and open at their appeals. Holly and mistletoe abounded on every side, as a matter of course. The green-grocers' shops were perfect, arbours of glossy leaves and crimson and white ber- ries ;-the prize pigs and sheep, at the butchers', were decked with wreaths and artificial roses; and you could hardly stir three paces on the side-walks without meeting some jolly-faced servant girl, grin- ning suggestively over the boughs she was carrying home "to missus." Troops of children, ragged, but keenly imagina- tive, hung about the windows, where Christmas trees, whose burden was not for such as them, were dis- played;-children happier in their birth and friends went in and bought those wonderful toys, or crowd- ed the Lowther Arcade to suffocation, while they tried, in vain, to make a choice out of the small glories that surrounded them. All was bustle and happy confusion-evely face seemed to say"Christ- mas comnes but once a year"-every heart seemed determined to make the most of the general season of jollity while it remained to them. Every heart, did I say? Nay, in "Merry En- gland," there is many a crushed and bleeding spirit even at Christmas time; and one of the number had found her way into the lighted, bustling streets, at the time of which I write. There she stood alone, among the busy throng, unheeded and unnoticed, looking in at a glittering shop-window, and wonder- ing vaguely why no one would buy such pretty things for her-wondering still more vaguely how she -asto-get her Christmas dinner on the morrow -or, indeed, any dinner on any day. For she was, a solitary orphan, without a penny or a fiiend- without beauty, or grace, or any good gift save one -and of that she was as yet unconscious. No one stopped to look at her as she passed-no one seemed to care for her-for her misery, her hun- ger, or her forlorn or desolate state; and a strange sinking at her heart kept her from nmaking her wants known aloud, as the beggars standing in the kennels were doing all up and downt the streets. She could not stand inthe gutter-she could not beg-therefore she must starve; and as she thought these thoughts in her childish way, a woman with two children took her stand in the street before her, and began to sing the Christmas hymn. As the fa- miliar notes fell upon the girl's -ear, she left the shop window, and loitered that way. A memory of her dead mother, who used to sing her to sleep with that same hymn, in tones like an angel's, touched her heart, and she too joined in the chorus, "Oh, come let us adore Him," half un- consciously. As her pure, clear tones rang out up- on the frosty air, the ballad-singer stopped, and looked round with surprise; and from the little crowd which had collected, a murmur of delight and admiration arose. Blushing and confused, the child shrank back.- But as she reached the corner of the street, a hand was laid upon her shoulder, and a kind voice said: "Where are you running to, my little nightin- gale?" She looked up in the speaker's face. He was a man of thirty-five, tall, handsome, and aristocratic page: 4-5[View Page 4-5] looking. He wore a grey over-coat, and a common t round, hat, but "' gentleman" spoke, even through this rough disguise. Giving one glance at his dark ace, 'his abundant Whiskers and moustache,/his keen eyes' and: smallV white: hand,the, child tqd still, abasied 'and unable to speatk' "'A swell! a' regular swell, and no stake!" was q her' first thought-for her education was but a- Whitechappie one' at the best; and though her voice was very sweet, her language was not always q of the choicest. What couldf he want "with her?? Did he fancy she had picked his pocket, and wasj he going to give her in charge to the police? ' "Come this way,"' he 'said, leading' her down a little side street, where they were out of the way of' the small c'owd,'who always seem to be out fdr. t the express purpose of attending to every' one's. business ex1.ept ibeir own. ' P ' Pahe g bher under tih lamp-post, the gentleman pushed back heribonnet and .looked into her 'face., It was not pretty--it could boast of nothing' better than a sallow ski,, large dark grey eyes,: and irreg- ular features. I But her hair was beautiful, 10ong, albundant, golden, and falling i, natural 6urli around her .tin cheeks. -- ' " "What a contrast" he said to his friend, a youth of twenty-one. "Did'you ever see such hair, with such a complexion antd eyes, in'yourlife'?, " "Never,"- replied the young gentleman addiess- od, looking at the child with a smile of scorn.- "What business'has she with it?" ,i You'had beiter ask the mother Ywho 'gave it to her," said the elder: gentleman, with a sneer. ' As site has it, she will probably keep it,' in spite of you or me. Now my little garl, don't look so frighten- ed. We are not going to harm you. I only wanted to see if your face was as pretty as your voice.- How old ,are you"?" ' / "Ten, sir," said the girl, with a courtesy; "There; don't be bobbing in that absurd way to, me," he said, hastily. "Stand up and:' look me iu the face. Where do you live?" "Nowhere, sir." "What doyou mean? Where's your father?" he asked.' "I haven't .got any father-never had any," was the reply. : "Hum!--and your mother 1" "' Oh, she's dead.!" , The words - seemed spoken indiffirently'enough, Inat thie peaker's lip trembled and-her- eyes were fuli of tears. 'There,' never 'mind,poor child'! But have you no hlme--no one to whom you belong, or who takes cure otyou?" ",No, sir, there's a'woman in the Whitechapel Road let me sleep in her room, and gave me some- 1f. thing to eat ever since mother died in the hospital. , but she took ill with a fever last week, and they won't tlt me stay there now."' "'Then where are you going?" :, "Ldon't know, sir.: Where are fou going to sleep to-night V?" he in- quired, anxiously. "-On one of those 'door-steps, I suppose, if. the Bobbies don't turn me away," she replied, looking quietly at the nearest house, from 'whose lighted windows came' sweet sound of music and of festive mirth. "Have you any moneyT" "No, sir." "Then how are you going to get anything to eat to-morrow?" "I don't know, sir, unless I beg it," was the sad reply. ' "'Have you been begging to-night?" he asked, pityingly. "No; sir." ' ' "'Have you had supper?" "'No, sir." "Dinner?" 4"No, sir." "Breakfast?" ," Yes, sir. They'gave me a piece of bread be-' fore they sent me away from the-Whitechi/pel Road this morning." l'A piece of bread! And why didn't you beg to- day " , ' "I can't till I'm a -little hungrier,'" she said, sadly. "Good heavens! Do you hear that, Aubrey? That is'what your mother's confoundid schemes for the 'South-Sea-Islanders do. They get shioeo and 'stockings, which they don't know how to wear, and 'these poor little devils in London freeze and starve, under our very eyes. A'ubrey smiled. "M i ,iloter is it giose-on some points. But we shall lose the train, Richard, if we stop here any longer.' We'l give the girl a sovereign between us, f and she. wiil be set up for life." Tlhe child pricked up her earis greedily. She knew the worth of a sovereign better, far bet- ter, than either of its ,dnors possibly could do; and visions of a fairy future-visions of a, hot dinner, a cosy fire, a pair of whole sAoes, and a new six-pen- i ny doll-were already dancing before her eyes. when the elder of the two friends spoke again.. "No!", he said, neditatively ;' I'll do something s better for her than that. I generally have. an odd whim or two about Chritinas. time, and this is orle. e1 I'll take the. gidl to Charnley with me." ' "Good gracious."- ejaculated -Captain Aubrey, ' ' / * - ' .' otoking as if he thought his friend had' suddenly gone mad. ' "Yes, I will-that is, if she will go. 'I'll adopt her,.,educate her, etc. 'There can be, no scandal about her. thank goodness, for, six or seven years to, come; and long. before- then I, shall be reformed, marrie'd, settled, taken in i'md done' for. So here gees! My little girl, would' you like a good home' and kind friends, and plenty to eat, drink, and wear' and a nice school, and lots bf toys?" "My eye! shouldn't I!" ejaculated the child, to whom this future opened like a dream of Elysiump. The stranger laughed., "I thought so.--And you are quite sure you hl;ve Pno one in London who has a better right to, vot than' I have? No friends-no relations'." I "N,, sir." "Very well.' What is your name?" "Rely, sir." "Rely----" "Reliatce, sir." "What could your mdther have, been thinking of to give 'you such a name? I shall christen you over again. Have you any objections?" "I should like to be called 'Rely, sir,", was the hesitating reply, "becaus/e she used to say'it." "Very well. I'll call you Aurelia. Will that do?" "Yes, sir." "And what ,is your last-your other name?" "Greshum, sir." "'That will do beautifully! Now, Miss Gresham, you are sure you are willing to go with me? Be- cause I Aion't wan't to be ta'ken up by your friends,- the 'Bobbies,' for kidnapping any fair damsel of temder' years." ' "Yes,i: sir; I'm very willing to go with you!" "'All right. Then I am the guardian of your for- tune in future;' so be good enough to follow us, and as quickly as possible, or we shall lose the traiv, which would be no joke, and, what is worse. no OhUirnley to-night "' " 'Bewilderekd with the good fortune that had so un- expectedly befallen her, the girl trudged after the two gentlemen, as they went, jesting, laughing, and smoking, towards the London Bridge Station. As they entered the door, her protector looked round, nodded kindly at her, and, beckoning to. a porter, gave him some instructions ; acting upon which, he took possession of her, much as. if she had been a Christmas hamper, or a puppy dog, and stowed her ' away in a second-class carriage of a train, that stood, panting and puffing, upon the plat- tomrfl.' "But where ani I going?" she 'asked, faintly, as the man turned away. "All right!" was the cheerful reply. "The two. *^ gentlemen are in the next carriage, first c'las.- They'll look after you. when you -get' to. your jour- ney's end. Good night,\ little 'un, arid a merry Christmas to you" The forlorn creature's heart warmed at the kind- ly iwords. Setting off in that, strange journey into, an unknown land, they seemed like a benison on her path. "Good fight, and a merry Christmas to you, sir!" she said timifdly. "You are the kindest man I ever, saw in my life!" , "Well, it's something to, have a young lady tell ime that!" replied the good-tempered fellow, as he vanished, with his jolly laugh, into the darkness of the platform. Aurelia strained her eyes after him till he was out, of sight. ' The train started, and the whistling, the shrieking, slamming of doors, and confusion of voices terrified her beyond measure. , Clinging tightly to her wooden seat--as if that could protect her-and with the direst visions of a colision--":a smash," she called it--ste was borne away. It was late before they reached their destination; so late that the tired child was sound asleep when the train stopped, and the already familiar name of "'Charnley"' was shouted by the guard as he flashed the light of his lantern into her-drowsy,eyes. She arose at once, and stumbled towards the door. Her friend received her-muttered "Poor little wretch!" and stowed her comfortably away on the back seat of,a carriage' that was in waiting for them. Aubrey rode outside, and smoked; the ,child slept placidly opposite her 'benefactor, who was. also drowsy. At last theystopped, and Aurelia, rubbing eyes, found herself led up a flight of steps, and into a small square hail, paved with black and white mar- 'ble, where. a' benevolent-looking, lady, 'wearing a close cap and, steel spectacles, stood waiting to re- ceive them." Her benefactor intoduced her very'curtly. "One of the waifs and strays of London, that you are always preaching about, Marshall. Get her to bed as quick as you can." :"The Lord a mercy! whatever wili come next?" said the person addressed as Marshall; but she took the child away at once, and after a nice warm bath, dressedher in soft clean clothes, and left her i1, a bed, whose feathery abundance was grateful enough to the poor, little limbs that, for months past, l'l 'reclined,'witn the, scantiest of coverings, upou' the bare, hatd boards of a' Whitechapel lodging-house. page: 6-7[View Page 6-7] /de; "- That thrilling voice, so soft and clear--- Was' it' familiiawto'his ear? 'And' tlose delicious, droopig eyes, As soft and pure as summer skies, ' , Had he, indeed, in other days, . , '.t 'Been blessed in the liiht of their - oly rayi V we &j B'ea- -.,/.v , ' e ,FRAEI ;o I \' on TtE walkog ing i an unfamiliar place is to every one a in 'peculiar 'and' puzzling, 'sehsaiion. 'But what fancy,'ri- what the waking 'of that lonely orphan chiid' :in her home, must have been.. ii - She unclosed her eyes as the first bright rays of sa suznshine fell upon' them,:- and starting up in bed, w *looked round 'with a glance of surprise that was at sp once ludicrous and pathetic Those fine linen th sheets and pillow-cases-those snow-white curtains, cc toilet cloths,' and, couhnterpane-how' ame t iy in fr uny room of which shee was the inmate a She sprang out of bed, and her naked feet sank ial,o a soft, warm carpet, like velvet ito tread. Po She' went to the winddw; and, in the place of a simonky, figgy' atpiiibsphere, and .a squalid, 'noisome s8 street, wide 'fields, 'and smiling blue skies spread p out, before her., The poor little wretch had never had a glimpse of' , the country before, except during one imemorable Sunday school excursion 'to Eppinig Forest, where -tshe had actually knelt 'down -and kissed the grass t and flowers beneath her feet, to the scornful amuse- "ment f' her less enithusiastic and more city-miiinded " conmpianions. . '. And now the country-the broad, free, open country, was to be her beautiful home. It was Christmas time, it is true, 'and the: flowers' had faded, and ihe grass looked, dead' and 'sere -'but there were holly trees in" abundance, enough, in' -' 'themselves, to make a suimmer for her'childish heart. i The ringing of a bell below, drew her away friom: the windoW., ' She went to the marble-topped 'washistand, with a look of awe;. What if she should break one of those painted' chitia jugs or basins--would they turn her out of the- -house' 'at onc? iAnd the scented soap, like a joiished ball: of -ruby' crystal-and the soft, white towels; oh;, surely they could never be meant f "her to use! .- As she, stood eyeing the things .vth' great- per- plexiy, tihe door opened,'and the kind.-fced' specta- cled ladv who had put her to bed ' n "the :previous night entered, laden with different articles ol attire. :"' Bless the',child!"' -she ejaculated, when she iauiht siklitother; "Do you want to ciatr I your 0: death of cold, standing there in your bare" feet t ' Hire, put on:yturr shoes and stockings-quicik ' Arelia mutely submitted to her ministrations.- O? rin after "another, ,the different' articles of .etr dress were fittd on by the old lady, who kept Upi . mtfiniing chninmenitary of 'pitifuil' reirks over hir: wastea arid worn, appearance, as tihetak proceeded. The child scarcely heard what .,sle was saying; .'she was thinking'of the first, 'ls'iatadonl y paintomime he :had ever seen, where poor "ine'lla: 'was 'ieft on 'the ball night, desolate 'Ind forlorn, and sittirg' in the ashes (for which untiuy trick" she ought,' by rights, to beptnished, rlther ithan rewarded), 'here, sobbing: and 'cryihg, and wishing 'herself and' her disagreiabla sisters dead, she' heard!soft music, and saw a little old woman skipping out upon the floor, who turnediOer weeping into 'rejoicing, herrags into splendid raiment, her' down-at-the-heel shoes into the beautiful glass slippers, and sent her' off with a coach oi pumpkins, and coachmen and fdotthien, fresh from the traip, to meet hler'handsome philce, and set his young heart in a flame. 'To Aurelia every word of that: delicious story was perfectly true; anrid nW, looking down at her crim- a. son frock, her dainty black 'kid -slippiers arid s atocking," white'as snow," she saw' in herself a I perfect heroine of the scullery, 'and wondered secretly where it was all'to end. f' She was too young to'dream of.'a handsome rince 1 as yet; but Mr. Richard Leroy's dark, saturnine, e and melanchly' countenance certainly beamed' like s the face of an' angel, at the end of her fairy idream. - ." There, my deal i" ejaculated the 'old. lady, with " 'a 'smile of 'satisfaction. "If -you don't, look as handsome as a picture-at least,- you are as clean as i a pin; and you miy kiss'me ifyou like.". Aurelia was -not backward in availing. 'herself' of rs this kindirivitation.- ; No one'had ever kissed her since, her mother n died,- atd hbsai, d sio simply as she threw heralmda t. around the housekeeper's neck. i'- "Popr little":gii'l!"Well, .as'you aire an orphan, -and' as Chamnlceyi to be your home for a long time, h. I will triy anid be like a' mother: to you. :And-you may call me Aunt, Betsy. IThat is what Mr. Richard ,d' always used' to call' me when'he'was' a young- inan. le -Now take my hand,: and 'come dowiit tohe break- a fast-rooiim, for Mr: Richard wants to: see you. te Aureliafollowed herkifid protectress with some br' timidity. " :They passed down the, stairs,' through the marble- i-- piVred'hall,:and into a -smalllibrary 'on the ground t- foor, which overlooked the garden, and was always ,usj usediby :the master of'the house as a breakfast-roomn re. when he was a resident. he . The' walls-aof this room were -lined with books; the -furniture wat old and. massive;"the bin*-.ln* ' ,ows had broad seats, and steps outside,' ldinmg ,nto the garden; and th'r'heavy 'crimsin -:bhangs m \ wejt tie 'foor. ' bright fire was blaing ion . ihe NaiEble ;haarth' { anrid on'the rig,' fuill it'the t I an warmth, "hasked ,an qinrnmSrseb.- "'ael d': iuri-lanttd-: dig, 1with: . h tiniest mite :6f 'agr- y andid white"kitten somPadsleep betwe'enihis paWs. ' '"Mr:Auubey 'sat " readirig the moraiiiag:iper ear-'i t the fire.. Mr. Leroy still remained at the table, ialyj tfi/ng '"is'teai,"and :glanc-in :ow arid then iit atanuiber of i 'letwtt th:atilaid beideii'pia . d' e. lal Poor' Aurelia's eyes openieto'their ilestlextent.' They had never lookets d oi stch a scene :oflttxury, rfoirt,', and- elegance vbfore. / Both gentlemen turned round whensie aatere/dt the roOm. ' , Mr. Aubrey gave a long, low whistle, aiiid yeda her:rith a whizzical look, which- sheresasted dwith-: out fully understandiig. . ' . ButttMr. Leroy held. out his:haid, W itha pleafisaf smile; ridtdi drew her" to his knee. "1Up6n iny 'word, 'Mrs.: Maishall, lyou:have nmad sucli cn improvement here'that-I- -an :hardly' recdg- nize ry young friend," -he said. "rWhtere on-earth 'diid 'you'. get all' these nice iithings, to -dress',her:-,ii o.,80. I .. .. "Mrs. 'Ma'shall -coloied' arid ;fidgeted ,with :her apron a moment or two before she answered. . "'iTou 'see,- sir, "the poor ehild's s'ctsotkfs. were nothing but dirty rags. I'really couldnort br ;h'lher to you iin such- a stathe. ,And so-'as "thesel' things were aill in' the house, arid of' ni u;se-to-ny 'o e,; I thqought you would not be angry 'if: 1-put them., or 'her."' ' ' "' 't Whose weie 'they?'" asked::Mr. erby-briefly. "WMiss Helen wore them when i"she-"was a" child , sir: '- . His face clondead over instantly, :a rAubr'ey look- -ed up atlhim with a quick glance 6f eriity. "Thatiuill do, Marhall. 'YoulmagoY' ^1 ihope you-are not, angry, sii,"::tih housikeeper ventriire to s$ay,' as she still lingeredat the: door. "Not at all. Why should I be?. But you' need 'not give Aurelia any iriore of--thos t hings. See 'to-day th'at she has a good an-d sufficient wardirobe. You can' easly/'getprdper things for her in the town. ,They ha ve all kinds tof atticles reidy imade ,at 'Madame Smith ' " 'ery, well, sir. "Ana, staytatake her with you till the 'things arnive. Go b ith:Mrs. OMarshall, my 'iear, andc she "will give vou sorielbre ik6fasta--There's a 'good ittle girl ' ...."'-,'; Aurelia would far rather have remainedt "in 'ti pleasa nt ;ibrta, to ,maoe qiae tiae .e .wyi4 "tirhe great :black-aogiardhis pretsty'litctl:. playt.;: t Mrs. Marshall seized her by the hand, "and huried' 4her from:the .orn: sp quiQ]dylyiht ,'ler;.adsacely time to mike; her curtW y: proper-lyat heAor. w :-:arm aid'ipleritnifrl ,takfast ja;wtead b-.era the kitchen. The cook, aa stout, i-lrid- ' wom an of :frty;her husband who acted as gardener and coachmana d :the ,housekeeper, : .part6k .of the :. ul :w..wth :-her. :Bat throtgh all-thei eiglt 'ei -*t tasting: * 9ffe r ^d -hot ro llsand Hampshire habeo all. t pwe,s fopr e. first time in her life, Aurelia had quickness' :eo igh' ;o discoevr: lmtat. her :u nforEate u d aes& , vr h-ih ;she thought. so Veriy hautitfuti wIas. .the chief fst54jpct,, discussion. , ' "'To-think' of himncmiticsrgi it, Lftrl]is time! v, -ejaculated h Mrs. iMaarshallt, dnrirng hNr thr d-r1? '-'of coffee. " "3And to ',think 6f 'my. Jeing' uch .a, ;f 1!l Though what was I to do, when he wanted'.oaee :ihe hild; the first thing',?a. she with. not, a, decent ;tag-t' put on" ": What-ails ithe -dothes,:-n, IBetsy pii asked Aurelia; "i think!they are-very;:yprvtgy." "So -they pre, hild;." "Then why didn't he like them? And:bwhoriis Mis Heler1". 'There wasa loipgtand solemn .1ii3Pee. 14o 9ore iansweredA the: question. -Ony, as y,they rpse .fr9m' tetable Mrs. Marstall -observyed ,that little Sirls should be's eeni andot'-?ealr, :which. 4bint ,had .the effect ofi entirely' silenCigA reulia for. the nep t two or three hours CHAPTER 1I. "Wiheni 'Helen sings young- hearts:, away .i'r deafer than the'deep' ' ' When Leo6noira goes to play,' ' I sometimes go to sleep; -Wher Mary draws her white gloves -out, I never dance, I vow-- Tod hot to kick one's heels'"about-!-- 'im not-a lover now'!" " PRA;. As soon- as dinner- was over,::Aurelia, ;,/as; left in charge of the good-tempered cook,wiilee;,: Mar- shall d eparteda:4on ana expedition. f helr owni from w; :hich she returned just beforei tea t,a ornpanpi:c. by. a locked and corded trunk, of large .:size,?whjch,. on being opened, displayed dresshsboe,:;.tpkings a and pinafores, enough to last any reak"if'!e child a long time. ' ,' s. ;" "- 'Arelia, :tood: like,- o ne .bewildmetra:w e nd shee lcard :that 'all thosebeautiful .things *ierei,. ied 3trr. . ' - o ;' '" page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] 'mc' T obni..i ed f..rdock was taken 'f, and. ae- ilacdt by ark blweinmerino; which suited her much "A: sAnowy. pinafore catOe nexti :and then :some ray ishing little high-heeledbdots of blue cloth to match her dres,':and :aknot'of blue riblon for her' yellow curls. As -so"on as tea' was over, the cook assisted at her toilet. gdo/ W"he it GW Vsa:finished Mrs. Marshall took her, by su tho' Btn'd,' aiad Wth iha look of ,perfect satisfaction on ier face, led her'at once into the presence of her "Tie tWo' gentlemen. haa been out together until fived'lock, at which hour. they had retuimeeto. dac dine. '"- They were no longer in thelittle library,: but i -the dinihg room,.a' pleasant apartment hung withes piCtires, that showeda ll against the dark cimson i :ax caadlies: were burnirng on the table,and the mantle-piece; a bright fir blazed upon thehearth;e 'nd, cut-glass decanters. sparkled,' and -th -win th flashed ruby':and gold in the billiant'rays. yo Oranges, apples, nuts, figs, and grapes :were upon I the table. / ; . , Mr. Aubrey, looking flushed but very handsomer was' ieaning 'ver the rug and tickling -the grey arid th w hite 'kitten' "with astraw; and the great dog had ' hiS head on his master's knee, and was gravely con- ,tl tenilating the game, through his half-dosed eyes. Mrs: Marshall led' her little charge beside the' Newfoufndland. - "Ha!" said Mr. Leroy, with a slight smart, you have really been very quick about the matter, and j you have managed. very well. The. little thing n looks quite pretty! Mrs. Marshiall smiled, curtsied, and withdrew. Mr. .eroy drew the cild close to his knee, and a playing with her soft hair, looked into ger blushing 'R oses if not. ilies." he remarked;l, and such eye.-wonderfull .eyes, Aubrey! How .well the have dressed you! Tell Mrs. Marshall that sh is al!ways, to put you into blue for the future. You shall be my little 'Blue Girl '--will you, Aurelia' "I- itl be anything you wish, sir," she said with ' agratified look. ' " Hum! .Rather a dangerous promise that, if I as n6t a'stai old bachelor. Well, we shall:see. Do you like'dogs'?" "- Oh, yes, sir." "And cats':" - "Oh, yessir." Thenyou will ie 'kind' to these two feds of *- :ine, forimy sake, when I am gone? '"*:Are you going away, sir* " e -' " - - - - "'To-morrOw." Her face fell.. ; ' " Whatis the matternow.. . "I thought you were going to, stay her, sir. , thought I was to live with you." , , ' ' You will live in house: my dear, and I often' comeadowr for a ;day;ori vo. In!he nean - time I;expect, you to stxdy very hard,: aandbe a very good girl, so that when I see you again I shall , surprised at the improvement you'have made. Do't you see" - ' :l,she saw. 'And herie a least'rwas an inducement for her to I work night and day; but -to lose sight Of -himn br ', days and weeks seemed inexpressibly, dreary. : However she said'nothing more. n Young as 'she was, she'had learne the one great : lesson of life--tat it is useless to rebel against the n inevitable-so she only caressed the blackdog, and was silent.: Theedon't be sad," said Mr., Leroy, patting - her head gently. "Time will pass. sooner than you, e think, and you ivill find ,ourselfso happy here, that you willhave no thoughts to waste;upon me. :An n now that matter is settled, I want you to sing to me. - Sing the-"Christmas ,arol.,", , . es, Aurelia obeyed instantly. Aubrey i6ft off teasing Ld the kitten, and, leaned back in the arm-chair-,to a listen. When she had finished, he applauded an- n-. thusiasticallyiand Mr,. Leroy looked: greatly aelight- ed. he: ;"Now what do you think, Aubry " ed, riumphantly. -', fc ou . You are quite right, my dear fellow,' One can nd judge better of her voice in a room. I have heard ng manya worse one at theItaian;Opera House." You think it worth while to go on, then?" ".By. all means, Educate her thoroughly,. and if nd& the worst comes ,te the worst,'she can always srp- ing port herself handsomely by opening her mouth.". "'pA h iI 'don't want her}to go on the stage. I Lc. hopI s;he won't do that,"'-aida Mr. Leroy, frowndrig hey and biuing his lips." "But I will certainly give oer is every advantage that lies in my power, and if slh You does ,mot make. use of them, so much the worse a?" for. er. , .. . * . ' ' He tirned to the child, whose golden curls were now mingling the black ones of the Ne wfoundland. if i "'That is right, my"ear, "Malae a frieni of old see. Tender,..forhe will .be the most faiIth'ulone you will ever have..' Remember that I. leave him and the little' ldtten in your care, and see that they 'are ' well fed every day. And now, if you will take th trouble to look on that aide-tabile, you' will fi a as of Christmas. presenit fors goda Hlittle garl. ' Look ;t it quietly, though, becauOse Mr. Aubrey and Ia ,busy." ' " I - - ;: Aurla 'went to the table, and found 'a ,large packarge, wrapped in' silver paper.- . : ' ': :Carefully--removing this, he 'took one long, un. believinglo'ok, anid 'then- covered her mouth tightly with her hand, lest she should break into joyful exclamations that, would disturb the two gentlemen. There laid thiiimos magnificent wax doll that mortal eyes had eiver seen:-l-a fairyprincess, dressed in blue satin,- with a/i-reath of miistletoe berries in her brown hair, lovelieit "smiling' dark' eyes,- and checks as rosy as a milkmaid's! In a silent delirium of joy, the child, hugged her treasure to her 'eart, and showed it to Tender who first looked wiith islarge eyes, and then 'smelt at it, lo see if it vas good to eat.. ' Finding that it was. not, he stretched himself at Aurelia's feet, and she sat quietly on the ottoman, wondering if'she was really Reliafice Gresham or not, to be the happy possessor of so beautiful a creature. Absorbed inr. this new sensation: of delight, she paid no' attention to the conversation of the two gentlemen; but, at last, a name fell upon her ear tfhat- made her listen, because she had heard, it' once -before on that -very day, and under' most peculiar ,cidrcumstances. . It was Aubrey who had spoken; 'andj .as' she glanced round; he was. lifting his Wine-glass to his lips, and saying, with an arch look at his friend, "I feel sure that there is something in it,' ad so I shall drink- her health. This to the fair Helen!" "Absurd!"' muttered Mr. Leroy, looking intense. ' ly annoyed. , "Why absurd?" "In the first place, she is not pretty'!" "Your tqste and mine differ!" ' She looks faded--insipid!"' "How can you say' so? : Who :is fresher and fairer?" "At night!". replied Mr.- Leroy, significantly. But I wis her last partner once at a ball, and'shall ' not forget it in a hurry., Itwas exactly four, a. m., 'and I handed -her"to her carriage. My dear 'fellow, she looked almost ninety." "After 'dancing all night. '"What-, woman can stand that test? We all df us look as yellow as guineas when we come' late-from a Ball-room, in th:e heigth of season.: I never saw but one woman who :looked well after dancing, and she as: the: song has ' it- - . ...- ' : " "She's black, but that's no matter!'" / " Black" said Mr. Leroy, with a look that ,made his young friend burst out laughing. "Nop, exactly-'a negress, my dear fellow. She was a Spanish lady." ' * I'l i 1,1 '" * ' * ', ' - * * * * * ' *L Anil she used'toldance all night, and theon get in- td her carriage as fresh as a daisey., /.Howeye'r,' let" that pass. I am not to'drink Miss Helen?" .' N "l Nt on my acc'fint." , I- wish I. knew why.' . "I,just gave you one rkuson." '"No reason at all;" . ' . ".'"WeJl then, take' another' If not quite. a fol, she is nearly one." , , "What an ungallant speech!, A nd an innocent one, too. :Whbo wants a clever wife "?' ' ' Mr. Leroy looked- at him with a lazy scorn' in bis handsome eyes. ':oft an' experienced blase man of theworld, like yourself, Harry--we all know that. But II, h ve -outgrown some of my youthful follies, an'd I confass ][ prefer a woman who can do something more tlhan simper in my, face continually, while I anm talking to her. 'A kind heart, a generous nature, a noble solt, and intellect-intellect-intellect-that is what I wan,t." , Bles ,me!" 'said Mr. Aubrey, 'candidly;. "I wouldn't,t marry a clever woman if she was cased. in, diamonds?!" ' ' "What clever woman would have you, yo, pup- py?"was-the gopod-humoured reply.' .," And yet I don't know; clever womasiihave eyes as'wellas sil8' ly ones;, and your good figure aiLd. handsome ftce might serve you instead of 'brains." "Thank you." replied! Mr. Aubrey, lighting Hai cigar. "And now for your last reason against the lady." ' "My last?" "Yes. I know there is another in the backi ground, oftmore im'jortance than 'all the rest." "She is rich!" "That's not it. 'Who objects to ,money. Come, let u's hearthe' last one." , "I don't-knpw that I shall tell you." --"'Outtwith it!" ". Well then hernamie. I detest the name o6 Helen. I think,if an angel bore the name of Hel en, I should hate her." "Good gracious what can be the reason?' "Never min4 that." ' ", Have you ever knrownaa Helen?" Mr. Lerov flushed a vivid crimnson. ' iThere are some question's, Aubrey, which' Shoul never be asked, and canu' never be .answered,'! siild lhe gravely. "Yours is one of' them. I' hav known a Helen, and to my sorrow., Now speak of it no more." ' , As he arose fromr his seat his eye felluon 'Aure- lia bending over :her doll. "I had forgotton the Ichjld," he ex"d'i ,r.- "Luckily, she is too far up in the seventh he-ave* tu page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] know what we have been saying. Come, little one, it is time for you to go to bed." 1 Aurelia rose instantly, and he took her hand in his. "Be a good girl, now, and do all that Mrs. Mar- shall tells you. I shall engage some masters for you to-morrow, in London, and I expect you to be very diligent. Above all, pay the greatest attention to your music. You shall be my little David, and play before me when I am sad. I think your voice would cure me of the most desperate fit of the blues. Will you attend to the music, my dear?" "Yes, sir." "Then go and say good bye to Mr. Aubrey, for it may be a long time before you see him again." She went, but somewhat timidly. Between Au- brey and herself a strange antipathy seemed to spring up from the very first, and she scarcely knew what to say to him. But he settled the question very speedly by giving a tug at her curls that brought the tears into her eyes. "That is what your music master will do," he said, laughing at the wry face she made. "'Good- bye, little 'un, and take care of yourself, or I shall come down from London with a big stick, and then we'll see." Her Whitechapel breeding prompted her to make a spiteful grimace at him, as the most effectual means of expressing her dislike, but her natural instincts came to her aid, and shejrefrained. Dropping a low courtesy, she turned to Mr. Le- roy, who had been watching his friend's proceeding with a look of the greatest distaste. "Good-bye, my child,' he said, laying his hand kindly on her head. "Be kind to poor Tender and the kittens, and write to -me if'any one treats you badly. You must always look upon me as your best friend. Now -go, and let Mrs. Marshall put you to bed." She raised the hand he gave her to her lips, and he felt a hot tear upon it. "Poor little thing!" he said kindly; and kissing her on the forehead, he led her to the door as cour- teously as if she had been the greatest lady in the land, and delivered her himself into the care of Mrs. Marshall, who happened to be passing down the passage just at that moment. The next morning, when Aurelia rose Mr. Leroy and his friend were gone. She wept heiself sick at first, but gradually grew calm, because of a bright idea that had crept into her head. Her name luckily was not Helen-she was not quite a fool, and it was possible that she might grow up very good-looking. She would study, oh, so hard!-and grow, oh, so clever I And then Mr. Leroy would marry her, and never be sad or lonely any more! It was a ludicrous dream, it is true, but it served to keep her happy for maoy a day thereafter. CHAPTER IV. Love took me softly by the hand, Love led me all'the country o'er, And showed me beauty in the land That I had never dreamt before. Never before!-oh, love, sweet love! "There was a glory in the morn, There was a calmness in the night, A mildness by the south wind borne, That I had never felt aright. Never aright!-oh, love, sweet love!" W. R. CASSELS. A GOVERNESS came from London to Charnley Cottage on the day after its master left it, and a fi- tor followed the next week, who undertook to in. struct the little ballad-singer in the more polite sbranches of education-music, Italian, French, and s German, for instance... The dancing-master at Charnley came over twice - a week to teach her to hold up her bead, and turn r out her toes; and, between them all, she seemed in a fair way to accomplish that feat which every one 1 would like to perform-namely; setting the Thames d on fire. u They did not try to make a little prodigy of her, t however. In one way and another she studied six hours ev- ery day; but the remaining six hours were her own, d to spend as she chose. And here was manifested a strange contradiction g in her character. Within the house, she was as quiet, orderly, and e well-behaved as any child could possibly be-dili- ,f gent in her studies, devoted to her music, peculiarly n respectful to her teachers, and as happy as the' day was long *y Out of doors she wast the veriest romp imag- inable. w Aided and abetted by Tender, who was her con- ;o stant companion, she got into all kinds of mischief -scaled fences, forded streams, and climbed trees, ot as if she had been a great rough schoolboy, instead w of a nice "young lady' of ten. She used to come home all tattered and torn it is so true, but looking so healthy and well that Mrs. Marshall had not the heart to scold her, even when she surveyed the dismal-rents-in frocks and aprons, and the great yawning holes in her stockings and sandals, which wee invariably consequent on these expeditions. At last, having decided in her own mind that "cast-iltl " would be the most suitable dress for her young charge to wear, she made her a nonde- script garment of the strongest linsey which could be procured, gave her a coarse straw gipsy hat, and a pa;ir of strong, double-soled gaiter-boots; and thus equipped, allowed her to roam wherever her vaga- bond instincts led her, during the pleasant summer days. By this wise arrangement, the slender, puny child grew strong, and stout and rosy; the sallow com- plexion cleared, the pinched features filled out, the dark eyes grew brighter and prettier, and the beau- tiful yellow curls took an added tinge of burnished gold. Aureliabegan to bid fair to develope into, not (gily a very clever, but also a very handsome wo- t11.1 l. And in this happy manner more than five years p.,ased away, Durilg this time Mr. Leroy never .came near the cottage. Days lengthened into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, yet Aurelia never saw the he- ro of her dreams. The tutor and the dancing-master were dismissed by his orders, and their places filled by a professor of music, to whom Aurelia was expected to devote four consecutive hours of each day, and against this strict decree she never once had a thought of rebell- ing. The nmaster was kind, and she was passionately fond of the study-so fond that she was making most rapid. progress in it; and was told by Mrs. Marshal privately that she was sure the Queen could play no better. Mr. Leroy went abroad, yet still she worked on, with the one thought of giving him pleasure, when he came again. But even with music and dancing and Mrs. Mar- shal's praise, life at Charnley was very dull for poor Aurelia. There comes a time in every fledgling's experi- ence, when, although the powers of locomotion are but small, the bright eyes look out wistfully into the great wide world, and long to tempt its deceits and ,ltafigers. Sage advisers, always at hand, are ready to sing the warning of Tennyson's -mother-bird to its impa- tient nestling-- "Birdie, wait a little longer, Wait till the little wings grow stronger ;" 'advice which every birdie feels inclined mightily to resent. This critical period in young lives had come to Aurelia. Young girls are, naturally the wildest of created r beings; their thoughts, their dreams and their de- sires will ever fai outstrip the maddest visions of a I boy. Aurelia, shut up in that lonely little cottage, with only Mrs. Marshall and the fat cook for her compan- - ions, had a head of full of strange conceits, at which those good women would have shrieked outright, had they known them. ' How such ideas get into innocent minds like hers heaven only knows. 'he went soberly enough about when in their presence. She played, she sung, she read and sewed day af- ter day as demurely as any girl of fifteen could have done. It was only when she was quite alone, either in her own chamber or out upon the quiet and silent moor, that the wild side of her nature showed it- self. Then she danced, she sung, she leaped, she talk- ed to herself, she acted' plays, she planned schemes at the sight and sound of which Mrs. Marshall's few remaining hairs would certainly have stood straight on end. She vowed to herself that she would not stay veg- r etating there forever. She would run away, first putting on a suit ot boy's clothes, and follow her guardian all up and down the world, sharing every danger and fatigue he knew. If she failed to find him, she would go to sea as a cabin-boy, or as a powder-monkey on board a man- of-war. - Then, in the height of a general engagement when the captain was shot down and the flag torn away, and the officers and men falling rapidly back before the force of overwhelming numbers, she would start suddenly up, sword in hand, fling herself into the thickest of the fight, and cheer them on r with such fire and bravery, that they would instantly form and follow-officers and all-and the battle would be won! Of course, after such an achievement, the Queen would hear of her bravery, and reward it person- ally. Honors would come pouring in upon thick as blackberries-and, her kind guardian returning, she would lay them all at his feet, with joy and pride 'that she was thus enabled to reward his fostering care. A very splendid prospect, to say the least of it, for a young lady of fifteen. page: 12-13[View Page 12-13] But the time was at hand when Aurelia's dream- by iWgs were soon to be exchanged for some very stern su *,. . axn realities. Although the master of Charnley Cottage was still abroad, there were other arrivals that created much wh more excitement in the minds of the villagers than ha his would have done. The lord of tie manor, the patriarchal Squire, wi who had been spending the winter in Nice, for the em bepefit of one of his daughters, whose health was delicate, suddenly returned to Charnley Manor ur House. The family consisted of the Squire, his wife, his invalid daughter, another girl who was universally s acknowledged to be the belle of the county, and a. at son just emancipated from the restraints of sclool, whowas a much greater man, in his own estimation, than his father had been before orhis son was likely h to be after him. He was a handsome, dark-eyed youth of seven- ir teen, with a turn for reading and writing sentimen- es tal poetry. He took long walks in all directions, and raved by the hour about the pleasures of solitude, to, the amusement of his sisters and the dismay of his faith- c er, who thought to himself at such times, that, w "handsome, and clever as Fred was on some points, s he was certainly cracked-a little gone off in his ii head." In every country but England great latitude of opinion is allowed, but if your manners and customs t nrd modes of speech and .thoughts differ greatly c from those of an Englishman or woman, he or she sets you down at once as a fit inmate for Hanwell or Colney Hatch. i "A clever person, but a little cranky," is the I mildest verdict they will pass upon you in such a case. So the Squire thought the same thing of his son and heir. But lunacy, now-a-days, is no bar to the posession of a handsome estate, and Fred seemed capable enough of managing his own affairs, was a good judge of'a horse and a bottle of wine-rode, shot, and danced well-and bade as fair to succeed in the game of life as many of his betters who had none of his advantages. The squire was satisfied, and Master Freldeikl had leave mald license to roam to and fro, and write and recite bad verses, to his heart's content. In one of his long excursions, he trespassed upon the grounds of Charnlley Cottage, in search of Iis dog, who had leaped the fence, and disappeared from his siglht. Never having even heard of the existance of Au- relia, he was considerably surprised to see her sea- ted on the lawn, caressing the truant, while Tender, by her side, manifested his intense disapprovll of such a proceeding by low growls, and the most un. amiable of countenances. The growls changed into a deep indignant bark, when Frederick approached his mistress, hat in hand. Aurelia rose at once and looked at the intrlde'r with a frank, curious gaze that charmed him beyond expression. He stood in silence, admiring her face, her fi g ure, her large grey eyes, and lovely yellow hair, and she was the first to speak. "Is this your dog?" she asked, pointing to the setter, who was'fawning upon his master, as if to atone for his temporary infidelity. "It is," he replied, with a graceful bow. "' And I came after him, feeling strongly inclined to give him a good beating for deserting me. But I shall thank him now with all my heart, for giv- ing me the opportunity of listeni:g to the sweet- - est voice I ever heard-of looking on the fairest face I ever saw." I Aurelia blushed with pleasure. a It was the first compliment she had ever re- - ceived in all her life; and to be told that she , was pretty, and had a sweet voice, by so hand- , some a youth as Frederick Landell, was an event s indeed, in. her usually uneventful eKistence. But they were both too young to pay or to lis- f ten to compliments very long, and in less than 8 ten minutes they were walking, side by side, y down the garden, to gather some flowers, for e which Frederick professed a great admiration. ir The two dogs followed-so did the kitten, now grown into a very Methuselah of a cat-and the e sun shone, and the flowers bloomed, and eve-y a thing was full of light, and life, and happiness around them. The golden time had dawned at klst-for both were young, and beautiful, and romantic, and in- nocent, and both were in love-an idle, studied, le happy, foolish, perfectly delicious state of existence. There is an engraving in one edition of Moore's he melodies, which more perfectly'illustrates this sea- ne son of exquisite folly than any words could do; and in a garden, hidden from prying eyes, by a ,k1sunny south wall, covered with clusters of grapes, te a young man sits upon a rustic bench, holding a garland of flowers across his hands, while a girl on kneels before him, with. her gipsey hat pusheIp his back, and her sweet, earnest face intent upon hlr ed. task, the tying of a ribbon round the stems. Flowers bloom in wild luxuriance all around- bu- a pair of doves are cooing in a laburnum trees ea- and the stillness, the peace, the untroubled bliss er, of the scene, come like a vision of Eden to the troubled and weary soul, that has long since outliv- ed such unforgotten delights. "There's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream!" The words rise involuntary to your lips, as you gaze upon the happy pair. Aurelia and Frederick might have sat as the orig- inals of those portraits, during the summer of their acquaintance. They read, they walked, they sang, they drew to- gether; and good Mrs. Marshall, almost as innocent as they, looked on with pleased and approving eyes. 4 Aurelia, in her opinion, was perfection personified and if she looked farther into the future than they dil she saw nothing there that would warrant her putting a veto on their pleasant companionship. She had never met any of the other inmates of the Manor House-she never dreamed of the fine lady sisters, or the haughty father, who would as soon haA seen his only son lying dead at his feet, as married to a girl of whose birth and parentage no one knew anything. The Manor House and the Cottage both stood far out out from the village, and in different direc- lions; consqeuently there were no prying eyes to ] watch the heir's fi'eqent visits to the cottage-no tattling tongues to carry the news to his father at ( the Hall. t The Squire had seen Aurelia at church with Mrs. Marshall. it is true, and his eldest daughter had remarked that the girl was "all eyes," but they v never took any further notice of her, to the great delight of Master Frederick, who was trembling lest his cherished secret should be discovered. a It generally happens, when people are doing anything which they wish to keep secret, that if a long time elapses without bringing about a discovery, they become careless-and thus work more mischief for themselves than any one else, however willing, could work for them. In this case, Master Frederick was the victim of nis own imprudence. Day after day he visited the Cottage without inquiry or detection, but he never ventured to accompany Aurelia beyond the limits of the garden gate. Now however, the autumn was coming on, and the ripe nuts were cropping from the trees, and the ripe lerries growing in the hedges all around. He longed so for an expedition into the still,green woodlands with her-and she was equally anxious it go. They consulted Mrs. Marshall, who demured at first; but afterwards, saying to herself that they were "only children, after all," consented, on condition tiat they should be home in Lime for lea, and that "- the gardener's son, a stout lad of eighteen, should accompany them, to bring back the nuts, and pre.- vent them from losing their way on the wide com- mon they had to cross. It was high noon before they started. Tender and the setter wetv left behind to keep each other company in the stables, they being far i more inquisitive touching the welfare of sheep and cows than was convenient upon an open com- - mon, where hundreds of the animals were grazing. 1 So, unattended and unwatched, save by the good- natured gardehers's boy, tihe young lovers walked hand in hand"down through the green lanes, across the open common, and into the coppice where the nuts and berries grew. r The walk all over, the nuts all gathered and given safely into the charge of their attendant. it seemed that they might rest awhile. So, going back to the common, they sht down upon the pink, blossoming heath, and looked around them like voyagers who had found some lovely and lonely island far out at sea, where they might dwell together for ever, the happiest beings upon this happy earth. For more than a mile on either side, the solitary moor spread out in patches pink and yellow bloom; and only a faint blue line of smoke curling up here and there on its borders, told that a human habita. tion was near. 9 The gardener's son was lying upon his back a. mong the heather, looking up into the blue sky and whistling vaguely; and Frederick, with his arm around Aurela's waist, began to repeat a poem of his favourite Wordsworth's, about a day when be also went a nutting as a boy. "It seemed a day (I speak of one from many singled out)- One of those heavenly days which cannot die, When forth I sallied from our cottage door, With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting crook in hand, and turned my steps Towards the distant woods,- a figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast off weeds, Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal dame. Among the woods And o er the pathless rocks I forced my way, Until, at length, I came to on dear nook Unvisited; where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves-ungr;acious sign Of devastation-but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene." page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] "It was like the place we visited to-day," he said, roo breaking off suddenly. "And I know that not a in t poet of them all ever got any finer nuts than John has in the bag, over yonder. Are you tired, Au- relia?" "No," she said, looking out over the common with an absent expression that annoyed him, he knew not why. "Then what are you thinking about, and why do you look so serious, Aurelia?" he asked, a little pet- tishly. "I was thinking of Mr. Leroy then. This is his birthday." How old is he " f "Forty-five, I believe." "A regular grandfather-old enough -at least to be your father or mine. Don't think any more of him now, but talk to me. Is not this a heavenl so day?" n "It is, indeed." t "They wanted me to go out in the carriage with tnem at home this morning, but I knew better. Ian was not going to be boxed up on four wheels such ain day as this for any one. I told Clara so. She is we going to see some wonderful view or other. You br are not listening Aurelia, and it is very rude of you." "I beg ten thousand pardons, dear Frederick! th But I was thinking of something else just at that in- so stant." "Yes," said the jealous boy, "youre are always thinking of something except me, when you know that I live and breathe and move only for you! You have no more heart than a flying fish! Do you un- derstand that?" 'Perfectly," she answered, with her musical y laugh. "Tiresome little thing! When any one is really o scolding, you fancy it is all a joke. Now, Aurelia, to pay for your rudeness, you shall sing me a song." What will you have?" e "My favorite, of course, ' Bonny Dundee.' And don't be afraid of letting your voice out. No one r can hear vou-here except the birds and the rabbits. 1 That is the best of a great, rambling common. a You can give tongue' on it as long as you like 1 without the risk of offending anybody's ears. Now for it." Aurelia began to sing. t was a wonderful thing to hear such a magnifi- cent voice in so lonely a place. Frederick and John joined lustily in the chorus and if the birds and the rabbits were indeed listen- ing, they might have thought themselves very lucky to hear such music without first undergoing the pen- ance of sitting half an hour in a close and crowded room, with the tnermometer at seventy-five degrees, in the shade. CHAPTER V. "Like some vision olden, Of far other time, Wlen'the age was golden, In the young world's prime, Is thy soft pipe ringing, Oh, lonely shepherd boy; What song art thou singing In thy youth and joy?" L. E. L. THE song was scarcely finished when another sound broke upon the air-a much more startling one--a loud "view halloa " given in true professional style. "-The hunt!" cried Aurelia, starting to her feet and turning pale. "Those wicked wretches are rid- ing this way after some poor hare! O, I wish they 3 would every one of them fall off their horses and t break their necks! I hate them!" Frederick opened his eyes wildly at this indigo nant outhurst. It had never occurred to him before ! that hunting hares was cruelty; but if Aurelia said - so, of course it must be, and he resolved in his heao, never to follow the hounds again s Before he had time to tell her so, however, the v view halloa was repeated, and two young men burst. u through the furze bushes and stood before them. - "Go away, you cruel wretches!" said Aurelis stamping her foot. "There are no hares here for al you to worry to death." "Faith, I think we have unearthed a very pretty y one!" said the elder of the two, a bold, handsome, a, military-looking man of about twenty-five. "How a are you, Miss Pussy, and how fast can you run? Aurelia curled her lip in superb disdain, and tumr ed her back upon them. "Why surely that is young Landell," said the second gentleman, turning towards Frederick, who had recognized them from the first, but who, for some unexplained reason, had kept himself in the background. "Young Landell! Why, so it is!" replied the first speaker. Frederick being obliged to speak, came forward very sulkily, and "hoped both the gentlemen were well." rus "Of course we are," was the mischievous reply. en- "And there is no need to ask after your welfare and ,ky hap'iness, with such a charming companion in such en- a lovely place." led. The lad's cheek flushed hotly., He knew both the young men well. They were officers from a neighbouring town, and frequent visitors at his father's house. Indeed it was currently reported in the neighbourhood that Captain Grey was paying his addresses to Miss Landall, and would eventually win her for his bride. However this might be, Frederick did not like him, and he was determined that this adventure should not be a subject of ridicule at the mess-table, for a week afterwards, if he could possibly help it. So looking very fiercely at the Captain, he said, in a tone which could not be mistaken; "Sir, this young lady is my dearest friend, and the man who dares to couple her name with a breath of anything that is wrong must answer for it to me." It was almost impossible-to help laughing at this bravado, and the Captain's friend displayed a range of ver white teeth when he eard it. "I'll be your second, or(ottleholder, as you like, Freddy," he remarked. B the Captain looked as solemn as an owl, and said, in a very polite tone, though he was nearly bursting with inward laughter, that Mr. Landall had entirely mistaken him if he supposed he had intended to say anything offensive to the ladyX He was not capable of offering an insult to any woman, much less to one so young and beautiful, and if any remark of his had seemed rude, he beg- ged to apologize for it then and there with all his heart. Women being naturally almost as vain as men, it way no wonder that Aurelia condescended to turn the light of her countenance on the gallant Captain as he made this pretty speech. Ensign Smith stared, and Frederick looked very sulky; but Aurelia accepted the apology and smiled upon its maker, which was all he wanted. So, with a low bow to her, he went on again. "The real reason of our unceremonious appear- ance and somewhat rude greeting was this. From the glen yonder we heard a most exquisite voice, which was evidently neither the property of the beasts of the field nor the birds of the air. The ladies (for you must know we are having a Dic-nic party under the old oaks) sent me to find out and to bring back the singer. May I hope that she will allow me the honour?" He offered his arm to Aurelia as he spoke. Somewhat bewildered, she looked at Frederick as if asking his advice. "Don't go, Aurelia!" he said shortly. "You have a right to sing in the open air, I suppose, with- out being dragged into every pic-nic party that hap- pens to be eating its dinner within three miles of the place. Come home with me." 'Now that is very unkind, Mr. Lendall!" said the Captain. "For it was your own sister who fell in love with the voice, and sent me to look for its owner. What will she say to me, or you either, when I return and tell her why I failed to do her, bidding?" "'Hang Clara-and her bidding, too!" muttered Frederick, kicking the stones from the path with a vicious energy. The Captain stroked his moustache and smiled, then turned to Aurelia again. "My dear young lady-I have not the honour ol knowing your name---" "My name is Gresham!" "Thanks. Pray, Miss Gresham, be, mercifal enough to come with me for five minutes. I shall get into the deepest disgrace if I return without you." "For five minutes only, then. Come, Frederick;" and Aurelia took the proffered arm, and moved off, with her unwilling lover in her train, as if she had been an empress, followed by her attendant slaves. Captain Grey wondered at her ease and self-posses- sioh. She seemed to dread the pic-nic party no more than she would have dreaded an assemblage of dolls. But that self-possession rose solely from igno- rance. In her own home she was petted and ca- ressed-everything which she said or did was sure to be right in the eyes of her partial attendants. Consequently she was not aware that there were in the world people who would ridicule her for awk- wardness, depreciate her good looks, call her affec- ted rather than artless. and simple rather than pure. ly natural. She was going to meet some of those people now for the first time, yet she went on as joyously and unconsciously as the lamb, with garlands round its neck, walks up to the alter, and offers its innocent existence to the hand of the sacrificer. The pic-nic party were grouped most picturesque- ly around a small fire in a hollow dell. Great trees hung their half-stripped branches pro- tectingly over them, and the sides of the dell were clothed with ragged bushes, and furz and gorse in blossom. Overhead was the calm blue sky, and beyond, the common seemed to spread out for many a mile, lone ly and silent, yet beautiful and calm. Far away the high road could be seen-a narrow strip of white between the distant hills-and there was no sound of human voices upon the wide ex- panse,-save ftom the dell itself. A windmill in the centre of the common, and a great brush heap by its side marked the miller's home and the cricketers' ground; but the sails of the mill hung idly, and the cricketers were all busy on their fields and farms. Aurelia, with her artist's eye, took in all the beau- ties of the scene in one rapid glance, as she stood on the brink of the dell page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] Then she turned towards the party itself, charmed ythe blight dresses, the ringing voices, and the in Mager faces all turned her way. How happy they look!" she said to the Captain. Il 'I should like to paint a picture now!" bi "You draw, then "' he asked. a "Oh, yes." "Very well. I will make them all sit for the y sketch to you. Now, decend with me. We are going inlo a perfect Garden of Eden-as you will a see, -and every man below there is an Adam, and every woman an Eve"!" She looked up in his face doubtingly, as he spoke, r but it was perfectly serious. A "I only hope we may not be four serpents, com- ing to destroy the beautifil harmony of the grove. Mind how you step, for these sides are very treach- erous. Give me your hand. There, now you are safe. Now, ladies, I expect you will offer me some very beautiful and valuable testimonial for my ser- l vices; for I have caught the nightingale, if I have not tamed her-and here she is before you. Miss Gresham, my good frends, one and all!" They all flocked round Aurelia with words of r praise and greeting She received them a little shyly, but with a man- ner that won her golden opinions from the gentle- men, who had already decided between themselves upon the merits of her toot and ankle, as she de- cended the steep hill. And though she was only dressed in a plain, blue gingham frock, with a linen collar and ribbon tie, and a straw hat, of very coarse material,-still, her tall and graceful figure, her fresh, fair complexion, her beaming eyes and golden hair, and, above all, her frank smile, and happy, innocent look, made them still more inclined to hail her as an immense acquisition to their party The ladies, of course, had their doubts about her dress-and wondered at her thick shoes-and thought her features unformed-precicely as the gentlemen would wotuld have done, had she been a lad instead of a lass, ot fifteen. But no one greeted her unkindly, or stared at her off'ensively, save one! This was the sister of Frederick Landall, the beau- ty and the belle of the county. She was a slender, exquisitely graceful damsel of twenty, ariayed in the most expensive of summer dresses, and gifted with beauty of a most patrician stamp. She was as fair as a lily, with dark blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Her mouth was small; her nose was straight; her chin was dimpled; her teeth were like seed pearls; her hands and feet were mod- els for the sculptor. She did nothing but take care of her beauty, and, in consequence, it was nearly perfect. No young lady in the county could exhibit such lovely arms, or so white a neck, at the assembly balls; and now, as she stood before Aurelia, with a pink fringed-parasol carefully interposed between her delicate complexion and the setting sun, the young girl could not keep her eyes off her. She had,never seen any one so beautiful before and as she glanced at her rich dress, and noted her perfect air of fashion and high breeding, she no lon- ger wondered at the scornful glance she herself had received from those bright blue eyes. How coarse, how ugly, how awkward she must look beside that delicate and high-born creature! A memory'ot the old wliitechapel days flushed odd- ly through her mind, and she was ready to sink into the earth with confusion at the mere thought of hav- ing presumed to come, on terms of equality, into the presence of that petted belle and her circle of. inti- mate friends. She little knew in the meantime what Miss Lane dall was thinking and feeling about her. From the moment when that lady had seen At rclia standing above her, and leaning upon Captain Grey's arm, a gnawing jealousy had filled her heart. The gallant Captain had been given to her by the common consent of the neighbourhood 6ver and over again, but never by his own, and she was by no means sure, in her own heart, that he ev- eer would be. That he admired her was very easy to be seen, r and he had paid her compliments on her beauty by ' the score. But he had never sought to make that beauty en. tirely his own. He might have had it for asking, for what little affection Miss Landell had to spare was lavished d upon his handsome face and form. It might be that he knew this too well, and there. e fore set less value upon a heart that sought to win, rather than to be won. At all events, though six months had passed from the time of their first meet. ing, he had never made anything which Miss Lan dull could possibly construe into an avowal of love. But somehow, as she glanced up that afternoon, f and saw him standing on the hill with Aurelia, plain- er ly dressed, and by no means handsome, leaning on an lis arm, a sudden qualm disturbed her mind, and for the first time in her life she had given a thought S, to the possibility of his liking some one else better er than he liked her. th The girl was young, and "unformed, and a little d- awkward, it is true. Then again so far as mere beauty of feature and complexion are concerned, she tould not hold a candle to Miss Clara; and Miss a Mara knew it well. i But she had often read, and sometimes heard, of Tnen who were won less by a pretty face than by a a strong mind or a gentle heart. And wether this child was handsome or not, she 1 certainly had a magnificent voice-no one could de- 1 ny that-and Captain Grey was simply music mad. I How often had she seen him turn away from thei pianoforte with an ill-concealed ,gesture .of impa- : tience, when she sang the fashionable songs of the i day-! How seldom he asked for music in their house-- simply because it was not that which his fastidious taste called good! '1 Yet when the lame old music-master came from the next town to tune the instrument, how eagerly he listened to him! Yes-music was the rock on which she might chance to split; and now, as the malignant Fates would have it, here was a horrid girl, the mere sound of whose voice at a distance had drawn him from her side, and sent him flying up the steep sides of the dell, as if the Syrens who beguiled Ulys- ses had caught him in their toils. Even at that moment, as Aurelia stood talking to him, there was a look of interest-an animation in his face, the absence of which she had often wond- ered at when he conversed with her. He could wake up, then, and for a plain little thing like that! Was it any wonder that she regarded this poor girl with the most unfavourable eyes as the Captain related the circumstances of their meeting. Frederick still sulked in the background: but his sister, hearing his name mentioned, began to lis- ten more carefully, and soon made out enough of the story to see that her brother was chiefly to blame for this unwelcome addition to their party. So, taking advantage of the Bable tongues, she crossed over to where he stood, and laid herhand upon his arm. "What is the matter, Fred?" she asked. "You look as if you had lost every fiiena you ever had on earth." "Is that you, Clara 1" he said, impatiently, still keeping his eyes fixed on Aurelia and her atten- dant group of cavaliers. "What in the name of goodness did you send him after her for? I think it is very hard, When I never interfere with you in any way, that you should go and spoil the great- est pleasure I have on earth." "What in the world are you talking about, Fred? What pleasure of yours have I spoiled? And who do you mean by him and her? I am entirely in the dark!" "I mean Aurelia and that-that thundering jack-' anapes, Captain Grey!" burst out poor Fred, grow- ing'unmanageable as he thought upon his wrongs. "Here we came out on a beautiful nutting excursion and we were so happy together, when you must' bring your stupid pic-nic party where they could hear Aurelia sing, and come after her-and be hanged to them all! How could she go and leave me like that for a lot of strangers, who knew noth- ing about her half an hour ago? But you are all :aqike, you women; and I'll have no more to do with any of you as long as I live!" Miss Clara eyed the young misanthrope with a thoughtful glance. She longed to be at the bottom of the whole mys- tery, but he was too frantic to be cautious-he would tell every one as well as her, and that was not what she wanted. So she put her hand through his arm in a very sisterly sort of way, and drew him apart among the thickest groups of trees. "Never mind Captain Grey just this moment, Fred," she said, soothingly; "but tell me all about this friend of yours. What did you call her?" "Aurelia." ' What else?" "Gresham.' "And what is she?" "Why, a young lady, to be sure! Can't you see that for yourself, without asking me V" "Don't be rude and stupid, Frederick! I want to help you if you will only let me: but how can I if you talk like that?" Poor Fred crammed his fists into his eyes "You are very good, and I am a great bear!" he said, in a choaked voice. "But that horrid Captain has upset me so that I don't know what I am about! How dared he tell me you sent him to bring Aurelia here?" "He told you that, then?" ," Yes." "What did he say?" "It was when I asked Aurelia not to go with him. He said he did not know how to excuse him- self to my sister, and then Aurelia was ready to run to get here! I shall punch that fellow's head for him yet-I know I shall! Why can't he make love to you, and let my Aurelia alone?" There never was a more unfortunate speech made. Miss Landell winced as she heard it, and hated Au- relia worse than ever. But she kept close to Frederick's side till she had ? learned all he had to tell about the girl. D It was not much; but it was a sufficient clue to e follow up, aud she promised herself that the "little pauper" should not stand in her light many days ' longer. page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] She returned to the party, which was beginning to break up. Frederick had looked for an explanation of Au- relia's conduct during their long walk; but as if her concience reproached her, she p!.iaded fatigue, and gladly accepted the offer of a seat in the carriage of a lady who would pass the gates of Charnley Cot- tage on her way home. So Frederick went off moodily by himself, and Clara secured the Captain for her cavalier; but she questioned, in her own mind (so absent and preoc- cupied was his manner)'wether he heard ten consec- utive words of all she said to him on the way. CHAPTER VL "Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Who for thy sake would gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whose only fault is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt not give, At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle cannot be The thought of Mary Morison." BuRNs. Miss LANDELL was by no means a person to let the grass grow under her feet. When she had once de- termined on, any line of action, she lost no time in forming her trnks, and getting her weapons ready for attack. Consequenlty the very next morning, while the Squire sat comfortably over his paper at the breakfast-table, she begged his attention tor one moment, in a tone of voice that implied there ought to be no delay in complying with her request. Nothing is much more provoking than to be re- qnired to lay down a morning paper to listen to any- thing foreign to its news. The Squire fumed and fretted a little, but Miss Landell had a habit of go- ing into tantrums, when she fancied herself slighted or neglected, and he remembered it just in time. So, he laid the paper aside, pushed his spectacles up on ihis forehead with a short grunt of dissatisfac- tion, and asked what she wanted. "I want to speak to you about Frederick, papa," she said, composedly sipping her tea. "Eli-what? What has he been doing? And, by the way, where is he?" "I am sure I can't say, papa." "Half-past eight, and not down to breakfast! Bad habit-very-must be checked. Hate to see young people so lazy. He rang the bell violently. A servantn made his appea rance. "Go up to Mr. Frederick's room Johri, and say that breakfast is ready, and that I am waiting tos him." The man left the room, but return ed in about five minutes to say that Mr. Frederick was not iv his chamber-in fact that he was not in the house None of the servants had seen' him that morning. The Squire began to growl inwardly as the man retreated. Miss Landell stired her tea. "Bad plan-bad plan!" muttered the Squire. "Can't have this sort of thing going on- in my house. That young chap must be regular in )his hours, and at his meals, or I'll know the reason why.' "Frederick is never very regular about anything now, papa," said his fair daughter with a slight smile. "What do you mean by that? He is always in early of an evening!" "Yes, I know; but half the time when you arp way from home, he is neitherrhere at dinner nor at tea." "Where does he go?" "I only found that out yesterday, myself; and I think it my duty to tell you at once. He goes to Charnley Cottage!" The Squire looked puzzled. "What the deuce can he want there? There are no boys at Charnley Cottage?" "No, papa, but there is a girl!" "That slender s'ip of a thing with the yellow hair. Why, she is only twelve years old!" "Good gracious, papa! You forget that Time does not stand still with the young any more than with the old! That slip of a thing is nearer sixteen than ten; and she is quite a good-looking girl, int the bargain!" "Bless me, Clara! You don't mean to tell me that Frederick is dangling after the girls already! A stupid little lad like him, who was only set free from the master's rod at school a few months ago?" "Frederick is a very handsome youth, papa, and I think the young lady sees it as well as any one; and you know, yourself, how very romantic he is." "God bless me! What fools boys are!" said the Squire, rubbing his bald head ruefully. Miss Landell burst out laughing. "It is well that girls are so wise, papa, and that you have two daughters to one son!" "Yes, you may laugh, but you didn't begin to bother me so early as this! How long has this stu- pid affair been going on?" "Ever since we came, I fancy; for yesterday our pic-nic party met them on the moor-" "Together?" "Yes; they were going nutting-or something of the kind." "How very improper!" "So I thought. Really that old housekeeper M ought to know better than to let the girl go wander- ing about the county with our Fred the way she (does. You must know that she sings well, and fel some of the gentlemen heard her and brought her the down to the party. She sang there; and Mrs. Wal- ters took her home in her carriage. Master Freddy y was as sulky as a calf about it, and I daresay he has ba gone to the cottage this morning, insteadof eating his breafast, to accuse her of te crimes she commit- ted yesterdal:y." It "Very likely. What a bother it is to have a son, after he gets out of his first jacket and, trousers! 1 say, Clara, what am I to do ." A That depends. If you want the young lady to become your daughter-in-law , Good gracious!". ' You have only to let Fred stay here'" y "But who is this girl,?" Miss Landell shrugged her shoulders, ahdhelped s herself to a slice of toast. "Leroy blought her down, did he not?" "I believe so." You women are generally very quick at getting d at the root of such things-have you never heard h anything about her?" - "I may have heard something, but perhaps there is no truth in it. It is rather a delicate subject--" "I see. Yes, you are quite right, my dear Clara, f and we must stop it at any price of present di(scom- fort to the boy," said the Squire, looking displeased a and thoughtful. Miss Clara smiled in her sleeve at her worthy fither s simplicity. There is nothing more easy than to make any re believe something s to the disadvantage ot a thir person. A word-a d ok--a shake of the lead-a shrug of the shoul- 1 ders-tley are invested in the listener's mind witl nalf or the whole of the crimes that are on or off the 3ecalogue. Considering how fast and how incon. siderately most people talk, and how easy it is, by here means, to take a character away, every one has cause, at times, to bless their stars that they have a shred of rpltitatioln left. Withollt utterilg a single word, Miss Landell had impressed upon her father's mind the firm conviction that Aureliat was the daughter of Mr. Leroy, bnt not his legitimate dauglhter. The child herself was, of course, rather to be pitied than blamed, but it was extrImeIly distasteful to him to tlink that his only son and 'heir should have formed an intimate findshp with a girl so situlated. There was no need of ;unotlher word to confirm him in his purpose. While that thought remained, he would be like ada- nant to Aurelia's beauty, grace, and genius, and Frederick's helariftlt sorrow at the illought of giving her up. T'ley must be sepalrted at once and tor ever. That fiat, as unalterable as the laws of the Medes and Persians, had gone forth, from the mo- ment, in his mind. Knowing this as well as possible, Miss Landell felt quite safe in making a proposition relative to the matter. "The girl has been well educated, and is perfect- ly well behaved, I am told," she said, as she pushed back her chair. "A little imprudent, perhaps, about Frederick; but what can you expect from a child like that, who has never seen anything of the world? It is the housekeeper's fault-not hers." "Quite true, my dear." "And she certainly sings well. Shall you send Frederick away, papa?" "Immediately, my dear. I shall pack him off to Oxford the first of next week; and before he comes home again I hope Mr. Leroy will have taken this young person away." "No doubt lie will. I believe she is to go on the stage or something of the kind, when she is a little older," said Clara, making a most unconcious pro- phecy. "I should really like you to hear her sing, papa. I think I will ask her to come up next Fri- day, when Mrs. Waiter dines here. She took to her amazingly at the picnic party yesterday." The Squire demurred. "Is it wise, Clara, or prudent, to throw her in Fred's way, just as we are going to get rid of him for her sake!" - "Dear papa, you know as well as I, that Fred is i as obstinate as a mule " t "I am afraid you are light, my dear." r "Well, if he fancies for a moment that we are sending him out of her way, wild horses will not a drag him to Oxford. But if we seem to humour I- him-if we ask her here, and treat her kindly-he h will go off like a lamb, thinking she will be a pro- e iegd of mine while he is away; And as he is al- a- rendy most absurdly jealous of her if she looks at y any one else for an instant, that will be no small e consideration with him, I can assure you." ly "Well, perhaps you are right, my dear. Women always manage these things belter than men. I d confess my way would be to send for the boy, give n him a sound lecture, and pack him off to Oxford, lt without letting him get a glimpse of the young hue- s, sy, who is likely to set us all by the ears betore we it have done with her." is " "She will indeed do fhat, if you attempt any such te exercise of aut!hori ty," said Clara, looking very -. no rious. "And if you sent Fred off in that way, .he ;e. would be back by the very next train, and persuade la- her to elope with him, or some such folly. -They ad 'are both quite capable of it if they are not properly ngr managed. Now, read your paper in peace, and I for will go and settle this question at once." . hhe e gave him the Times again, and going fintt the page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] drawing-room, opened her elegant wtiting-desk, and selecting a sheet of rose-coloured paper and an en- velope to match, penned a neat little missive, which she despatched, ten minutes later, by the hands of a liveried servant to Charnley Cottage. Then she went to practice a new fantasia, smiling to herself all the time as she played. She was quite right in her suggestion as to her brother's whereabouts, He had risen with the first gleam of light, and hurried to Charnley Cottage, where, after what seemed to him an unreasonably long delay, Mrs. Marshall herself admitted him, and heard his tale. The old lady blessed herself, and looked on him with/sincere admiration, as he stam- ped up and down the little parlour, mingling threats against Captain Grey, and outpourings of love for Aurelia, in one and the same breath. Mrs. Marshall was intensely sentimental herself, though she was not aware of the fact. She would, cry for hours together over "The Children of the Abbey," or "The Farmer of Inglewood Forest;" and the youthful attachment that was blooming and budding under her very eyes, was to her the most beautiful thing on earth.- So it did not take long to persuade her that the only proper thing for her to do was to go and wake Aurelia, and send her down to her impatient lover. She did so; and as that young lady happened to be very sleepy after her long day's walk, she was as cross as two sticks at being roused, and went down into the parlour, with. a face that would have sent a less ardent suitor out of the house as soon as possible. But Frederick was too much in earnest just then to heed any one's black looks. He had taken Cap- tain Grey's admiring compliments for far more than they were worth, and visions of that gallant officer in full regimentals had haunted him all through the long hours of the weary night. He had made his appearence at that unearthly hour, simply to "get a- head," as the Americans say, of his rival-little dreaming that if Venus herself, just risen from the sea, had been awaiting the captain's visit, he would not have stirred from his comfortable lodgings until he had eaten a hearty breakfast, smoked a good'cigar, read his morning paper, and adorned his handsome person to the best advantage and his heart's con- tent. One cannot always be seventeen; and though men and women may be quite as susceptible to the tender passion when twenty-five or thirty years have rofied over their heads, they certainly take the dis- ease in a much more rational form, and do not for- get to see that they have a good dinner in the height of their most violent paroxysms of devotion. Frederick had come armed with a thousand re- preaches and complaints: but one glance at his la. dy love silenced him. Perhaps it was because she [looked most undeniably cross and sulky that his tongue was tied. At all events he could only falter out, "'Oh, Reley, how could you use me so-how could you be so unkind." His very gentleness disarmed her--made her a- shamed of herself, and drove the sulky glance from her beautiful eyes. "Well, it was a shame!" she said, apologetically; "and you may beat me if you like, dear Fred, and I will promise never to do so any more. But in the meantime as you have brought me down stairs so early, just get my breakfast for me!" They both laughed, and good fellowship was re- stored instantly. Mrs. Marshall laid the cloth, and Aurelia got the tea-things out, and Frederick found himself where h. had fancied the captain would be -kneeling at Aurelia's feet-but it was only to toast some thin slices of bacon for breakfast, before the fire. Never was a meal made ready with more good will. They laughed all the time they were prearp- ing, and all the time they were eating it; and as Frederick told the agony he had suffered during the previous night, and ate toast and bacon the while, they all laughed again. Aurelia's misdemeanours were most certainly forgiven and forgotten, for that time at least. Soon aftertheservant had cleared the breakfast- things away, she brought in the note from the Hall. Frederick took it, and very uncermoniously opened it. The next moment he uttered a shout of joy "Read! Look!" he said, -thrusting the paper into Aurelia's hapd. "It is to you-from Clara, my sister. Isn't she a trump?" Somewhat bewildered, Aurelia read out the invi- tation : "DEAR Mss GRESHAM: "I have said so much to my father about your beautiful voice, that he is very anxious to hear it. Will you join our dinner-party on Friday? Your friend Mrs. Walters will be here, and we will all do our best (Frederick included) to make you happy and comfortable; "Your sincere friend, "CLARA LANDELL Yes, Clara was "a trump.' There could be but one opinion about that among them all CHAPTER VIL "I kissed his eyelids into rest, His ruddy cheek upon my breast. The wind is raging in turret and tree, I haled him with the hate of hell, But I loved his beauty passing well; O, the Earl was fair to see!" TENNYSON. IT seemed to Aurelia that Friday would never come. But at last, after an infinite deal of wishing, hoping, and fearing, the eventful hour arrived, and she set off for the Hall, under the care of Mrs. Marshall, who was almost as much elated at the thought of the visit, as was her youthful charge. Frederick was waiting at tie door to receive them. Aurelia had never seen him in dinner dress before, and she was enraptured with the effect his best jacket and fawn-colored vest produced. "I never saw anything so pretty as that blue tie of yours, Fred," she remarked, as she came down the stairs again, after Mrs. Marshall had removed her cloak, and smoothed her long curls. "Don't talk about blue ties, you angel!" he re- plied, seizing her hand. "Come and let me show you to my father, and ask him if ever he saw any one half so pretty before." He led her into the drawing-room. The Squire sat there alone, reading, while he awaited the arri- val of his company and his daughter. He frowned when he saw the young couple enter arm-in-arm, but luckily no one was there, and Aurelia's sweet face and timid, wistful look, found the way to his heart at once. "What a shame that she is not a lady by birth, so that Fred could please himself," was the only thought that he had when he greeted her. And, in conse- quence, his welcome was so kind, that Aurelia found herself at home with him at once. In a few minutes Miss Landell entered, looking lovely, in a pale blue silk, with blonde falls. Pearls were on her neck and arms-a single white rose in the abundant braids of her hair. She gave Aurelia one sharp, searching glance, that took in every arti- cle of her apparel from head to foot. The girl had never looked so well in her life be- fore. She wore a full white lace skirt, looped up at either side with a cluster of forget-me-nots-a, wreath of tdie same blossoms crowned her yellow curls; and a slender gold chain and turquoise heart around her neck, harmonized well with the color of the flowers. "Wild Arab though she is, she knows well how to dress, and therefore the more dangerous, and the sooner to be got rid of," thought Miss Landell, as she shook hands with her most graciously, and then resigned her to Frederick, with a meaning smile. Aurelia felt uncomfortable, she knew not why. Miss La idell hbd the peculiar gift of making her feel hersel ownish, awkward, and out of place, even when she was most kind. The dinner party was rather a solemn affair, and Aurelia could not feel quite at ease, with one fbot- man at her side to change her plates, and another exactly opposite, whose unmoved stare seemed to r take special cognizance of every mouthful she swal- ,lowed. She was heartily glad when the meal was at an end, and the ladies rose to go. Frederick fol- lowed them at once. His presence discomposed his sister a little. It had been her purpose during that lazy time, before the gentlemen came up, to cross-question Aurelia so thoroughly about her early life, that there would be no need of further informa- tion from any other source. When Frederick appeared, that scheme was at once frustrated. In the housekeeper's room, her own maid was sitting with Mrs. Marshall, and the good cheer of the servants' hall would assuredly loosen that lady's tongue, so it mattered but little, after all. None of the ladies cared to play during the ab- sence of the gentlemen, but Aurelia sat down to the piano gladly, at the request of her hostess, and began to sing a little German pastoral, while Fred- erick hung over her, enraptured, snd turned the. leaves of the book. Her voice reached the party in the dining-room. They glanced at each other in surprise, and then with one accord deserted the wine that they might hear it better. When Aurelia rose from the piano, she was a lit- tle astonished at the increase in her audience-the more so, that in one corner of the room stood Cap- tain Grey, hat in hand, talking to Miss Landell, who, in spite of her attempts to look pleased, had the faintest possible smile upon her lips, and the plainest possible cloud upon her brow. It was certainly very provoking. She had arrang- ed this dinner party with an express view to the Captain's absence. Understanding from him that he was about to attend a sale of horses in London, she had invited Aurelia to the house, that her father might see her without any fear of unconscious rival ry on her part. But the sale of horses had been , ut off-so the Captain assured her in his sweets est voice; and having no other engagement that evening, he had taken the liberty of, calling and bringing some new songs to try. Would she for- give him for intruding, and uninvited, perhaps un- welcome guest, upon her and her friends? And was he to go, a banished man-or would she, of her own gracious clemency, allow him to remain? So prayed the Captain, with the smile which page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] had won many a fair lady's heart playing round m his lips, and his pleading eyes fixed earnestly on jo her own. She felt that he was not honest with to her. She fancied that his accidental call was a th premeditated one, and that in some way or ano- ther he had ascertained Aurelia was there. Then the music. When had he ever brought songs for her to fo trv before I He did not like to hear her sing, si although he feigned raptures now and then, when she appealed to his judgment, after executing one of his favorite songs. Why should he be bitten with a mania for hearing her now, and, O above all things, when a voice like Aurelia's wassn" within six feet of him? "Pray make no excuses for joining us in this uncermonious way," she said she, suavely. "We C' are only too happy to secure you by any good t forture." "Then why didn't you invite me?" thought the Captain; but he only bowed low, and said se that she did him far too much honour. le "But have you dined?" she asked. a "Oh, yes, an hour ago, at the mess." "Then you are just in time for a cup of tea; and Y when you have taken it, Miss Gresham, I dare say, 'will be kind enough to try the new songs with you. [ have a bad cold, and cannot sing. Pic-nic parties -o not agree with me, I fear." 9 Thus encouraged, the Captain ventured, after his t fair hostess had left him, to hand Aurelia a cup of s ;ea, and eventually to seat himself by her side. The young lady was rather shy at first, remember- n zng Frederick's fit of heroics; but when the new songs were mentioned, the artiste's instinct awoke 'within her, and she was all eagerness at once. Frederick, entering the room at that moment, stop- 8 :ed suddenly and stared aghast. But his sister was 1 eside him, and drew him behind a friendly curtain o undergo a short catechism. "Fred have you seen Captain Grey since Tues- iay?" "Yes, confound him!" was the sulky reply. "( Well, don't be cross. I will put an end to that sort of amusement in a little while. Tell me when you saw him?" "On Wednesday morning." "Was lie going to town to buy a horse?" "Not-thut I know of." "Where was he!" "At Charnley?' "Who was he with 1" "Lieutenant Howard. They were riding, and they stopped to speak to me." Did you say anything about this dinner party?" Fred considered a moment. "No, I did not. But George Walters v' me, and I heard him telling Howard he could not join him on Friday, because he was engaged here, to hear an angel sing. They were both laughing at the idea." ' Then Captain Grey overheard them too 7" "'Of course." "Well, you have only George Walters to thank for all the pain you may feel this evening. She sings well, Fred, but she is an arrant flirt." "Nonsense!" i"Look at her now!" Frederick looked and ground his teeth. The Captain was leading Aurelia to the piano, and she -smiling and blushing at something he had whispered in her ear. "Confound him! I wish I was a man, and I would call him out! What business has he to behave like that? it is neither treating you or me well, and I'll be shot if I stand it!" "Never mind me, Fred; I can take care of my- self," said Miss Landell, with a slight smile. "But let me give you one caution. Aurelia is very pretty and very graceful, and she sings magniificently; but don't set your heart upon her too much. She is very young to be so greatly pleased with attention. If 'hi4ie is a flirt, Fred, she will make your heart ache worse before you have clone with her. Watch her well before you love her too dearly You will for- give your sister for saying so much when yon know that it is only for your own good and happiness that she speaks." She raised the curtain and went smiling out a- mong her guests as she spoke. But the work she vhad chosen to (do was well begun. i If Captain Grey had ridden over from Charnley purposely to hear Miss Landell's voice, he certainly showed great forbearance in not pressing her too much to oblige him. He did say to her once, i"Will you not join Miss Gersham in this?" holding up at the same a soneta which she could no more have sung at sight than she could have flown; but when she declined he said no more and busied him self during the remainder of the evening with hang. it ing over Aurelia's chair, and trying first this piece n and then that, at first to the amusement, but at last to the disgust, of the rest of the company. Peoplle who have hobbies, like people who have beloved professions, are generally great bores to their neighbours. Writers herd in groups, and criticise the lastnew novels; actors discuss the management of theatres, and the good and bad qualities of tlheir brothers and id sisters by the score ; and people who neither hold pews nor go behind the scenes, listen yawningly, and V" think within their own hearts what intolerable nui- sances they are. But, at least one can dimly guess th their meaning.- They have no particular professional jargon by which to puzzle the unipitiated. On the v contrary, when artists or musicians begin to talk of w what concerns them most, those who know nothing of "tones" or " movements" must remain for ever in the dairk. The artists, however, only talk, but the musicians play and sing. Things which to most people are mere senseless and often discordant assemblages of sound, without tune, or time, or rhyme, or reason to recommend s them to the ear,-they are musical to those who t: understand them; but who can wonder that the mas- 1] ses, hearing only a crash, a jingle, a scattering of high notes, and a growling of low ones, get tired at last, and wish devoutly that there was no such thing as a science of melody in the world? On this occasion, the Squire fretted, and his elder 1 guests fumed; and Frederick glared at every one from the corner to which he had betaken himself; e and Miss Landell smiled. The offending pair saasg on. c Aurelia was quite-uaconscious of the breach in f good manners she was committing, nor could the t Capitain remember it ;ill, looking up in his-search t after another song, the perfect silence of the room I strnck hm. A wicked smile came into his eyes. By Jove! we have done it now!" he murmured to himself; and brealing up the little musicaarty, within the next ten minutes he took Georgel Walters by thearm, and sauntered over to where Miss Lan- dell was sitting. She received him very quietly, but very graciously, and he fancied that his peace was made. From that time the conversation grew gen- oral, and the guests enjoyed the latter much more than they had done the earlier part of the visit. By twelve o'clock every one had gone, for they kept early hours at Charnley. Frederick did not. offer to see Aurelia safely home. Ho only watched to see that the Captain was not with her, and then rushed away to his own room, without even saying "good night" to her. She went home quite contentedly, however, telling Mrs Mar- shall about the songs-(she did not say a word about the Captain)-and slept as soundly as if a second set of upbraiding despai:ing reproaches were not awaiting her on the morrow. Miss Landell also went to her own room, looking somewhat more tired and somewhat less beautiful than usual. Her maid was waiting there, and evi- deutly bursting with some important piece of news. Not one word, however, did her young mistress speak---not one encouraging glance did she give her. Martin brushled away at the brown hair in silence, and thought wlhat a contrary and provoking head it eovered. Not till all her wurk was done did Miss Landell vouchsafe to open her lips. Then just as Martin was curtseying a good night, she said sharply, "Did you see that woman from the cottage to-night?" "Yes, miss. I spent the whole evening with her in Mrs. Hewitt's room." "Did she talk?" "All the time, Miss." "About the girl?" "Not at first. She seemed very cautious when she came. But when we had supper, and I got out the bottle of wine you gave me it seemed to loosen her tongue." "Yes. It all came out then, I suppose?" "Every bit, miss." "And who is the girl?" Not Mr. Leroy's daughter, miss-nor any re. lation to him," What then?" asked her mistress, looking inter- ested. "Only a girl that lie brought from London one cold winter night, just about Christmas time. Ho found her singing ballads in the street, with nothing' to eat, and hardly a rag to her back, and no home to go to. So, because she had such a beautiful voice, he adopted her, and has kept her ever since. Mrs. Marshall says she was such an object when she came down here-and only look at her to-night!' "Yes-a beautiful voice will work wonders some- times," said Miss Landell, musingly "She was from Whitechaple, miss." "Indeed! Well, I want nothing more now, and you may go. Good nighlt, and thank you, Martin." The girl left the room. But long after the small hours began to strike, Miss Lirandell was tossing rest- lessly to and fro upon her pillow. "From White- chaple!" she said aloud, as the day began to break. "I think her native air would be best for her. I'll see if I cannot get her back there." And then she 'fell into a sound, sweet sleep. CHAPTER VIII. "My heait is wasted with my woe, Oriana, There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the dun wolds are ribbed with snow, And loud the Northland whirlwinds blow, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana." TENNYSOf,. t Frederick's vigils were not much shoiter than his 1 sister's, but they broughlt about a more immiediatei page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] and, apparently, a more important result. He came down to breakfast, looking pale and ill; and when the meal was over, requested a private interview with his father. The Squire expected to hear some tale of youthful debts or youthful follies; but, to his great surprise, Frederick asked his permission to leave home-to go to college, and that at once. The Squire could hardly believe his ears. They had been scheming artfully to get the lad out of the way, and there he was, proposing of his own accord s to go and eager to turn his back upon his enchant- ress and his home. What could it all mean? He a gave him an uncertain answer, and bolted off to find t his daughter, who was quietly breakfasting in her n own room, over coffee, French rolls, and a French t novel. s She did not seem so much surprised at his news t as he had expected she would be. t "I see it all," she observed. "He is hit much b harder than we thought, and he is impatient of the t pain. He does not know how to bear it. Let him n go, by all means. Have his trunks packed, and get at him off before he has time 'to change his mind, as g he will if he gets but one small glimpse of her." "You think it is safe, then-best-to send him he laway?" s "Of course. Take my word for it, if he goes in 1 this frame of mind we shall have no more trouble with him. He will get over this folly by himself, i ind very speedily, I fancy.' "Well, I suppose you know best," said the squire, hi looking sorely perplexed and puzzled, as he returned tl to the study, where Frederick was pacing up and A down like a caged lion. lI So it was settled without any more words, and e) the Hall was a scene of bustle and confusion during c( the remainder of the day. There were a thousand things to see to, a thou- sand messages and orders to give; and Frederick wi hqrried to and fro, congratulating himself on having )a no time to bother his head about " that girl at the fi Cottage." lic No doubt the Captain was there with her, makings' " fierce love, and hearing her sing his favourite songs. Well, let him. ' But at least they should not make a fool of him, and then langh at his folly together. He would "'i show Auureiia that he was not quite so tightly bound 1' to her chariot wheels as she fancied; that'if she stretched the chain too far, or drew it too close, he rh, could and would break away, and find his liberty b again. He was young, and vain, and foolish,-a mere good-tempered, good looking puppy of a col- o lege boy: and he had no idea what a cruel thing hi was doing with such unconcern. He did not me;l. lie to stay away from Aurelia very long. He had to go ir, tq college-and it might as well be sooner or late il e but his hurried departure was only meant as a ,pun- 1 ishment for her flirtation with Captain Grey; and r all the while (though he vowed to himself, as he a packed up his books, that he never wanted to see sher face again), he knew very well that the least word, or sign, or look from her would bring him to her feet again, a pleased and willing captive. In the meantime, till she said that word, or made that sign, he would play a little at being indifferent, and see how that suited her. When people go deliberately to work to db cruel and unkind things, they forget that they have not the ordering of events in their own lhands. They may make the wound, but how can they be sure that they will be allowed to heal it again?-they may shoot the poisoned arrow, but how do they know if theirs is to be the hand to draw it out? For fear of these untoward events, it is better for every one to be as kind as they can towards those with whom their lot is cast. For a kindness done they need never ask forgiveness-need never make amends; and a kindness is the one thing they need never re- gret when they stand beside a new made grave. It so happened that Aurelia, on that day, forsook her usual out-door haunts. She was lying on the sofa, with a violent headache, all the afternoon; and Mrs. Marshall was fully employed in waiting on her. Consequently, neither of. them had any opportu- nity of learning the movements at the Hall. At four P. M. Frederick relented a very little from his severe determination, and strolled down towards the Cottage, thinking that, by chance, he might see Aurelia, and watch her face when he told her that he was going away. By the clhanges of that most expressive countenance he would shape his future course. But his good resolutions were in vain No Aurelia appeared; and after waiting and watching for the better part of an hour, he flung back to the house in a worse temper than ever, and finding the carriage waiting to take him to the sta- tion, made his adieux hastily, and was off and away. The Squire accompanied him, grumbling about the night-journey all the way, But long before midnight, his inarticulate growl ings ceased, and they were both sleeping comforta- ,ly in a West-end hotel. The next day, Frederick's name was entered upon the books of Morton College, and he was a school- boy no longer. So Aureha had lost her lover without being aware of it. During the day after his departure, she still kept iler room, but on the third morning, as s e waslook- i)g at the fading flowers in her garden, and wonder- ing why Frederick did not come down to see her, Captain Gray rode by on his beautiful black horse, and, seeing her, very naturally stopped for a little chat. He had just been calling on Miss Landell, and some observations of hers, joined to his own suspi- cions, had made him pr'tty well aware of the state of the case. But as' the ladye love was still ignorant of the true knight's flight it became his duty to break the news to her. He did so, as gently as possible, and was reward- ed for his pails by seeing every vestige of color for- sake her cheeks, and her eyes turn to him with a wild, unbelieving look. "Gone, Frederick gone-it is impossible!" she cried. "Nevertheless, it is true!" re-affirmed the Cap- tain. "But he never told me-never came to say good- bye!" "Perhaps he may have written?" suggested the Captain. She flew into the house, but returned in a minute, crestfallen and unhappy. No letter or message had been sent to her, nor, did any one within doors know that Frederick had gone! "What does it mean, Captain Gray?" she asked, pitifully. He might have said that he was equally at a loss with her, but he was a good-natured sort of a fellow, and her pale, scared face made his heart ache for her. So he said, in a simple, brotherly kind of a way:- "My dear Miss Gresham, I can only think of one reason, and perhaps you will accuse me of vanity if' I tell you." "Oh, no, I will not!" exclaimed Aurelia, on the is,3.ant. "I will tell you, then. I fancy the young gentle- man did me the honor to be jealous of me, because you were kind enough to sing and talk to me whelt I had the pleasure of meeting you the'other even- ing." "Oh, yes!" cried Aurelia, very candidly.-- "Frederick was jealous of you from the day of the pic-nic party. He was so cross and angry about that!" "Exactly. And lie has gone off in a fresh huff, because you gave me half an hour's pleasure the other evenig." "Oh!" "I got a. note from him this morn:ing, ilhatel froill London, in which lie relivves h., Iitinl a liule!,y giving ime Iis lopiioin af m1y ci,'llt't. Onle \.,uli think I had ttkeiu you off to Gretnll Gr'ee, to i'eil that letter. Do you remember Byron's poem about the waltz?" "Yes." "He quotes that by way of ending the precious epistle- "' Sir, she's yours. From the rose you have brushed the soft dew, From the grape you have shaken the delicate blue; What you've touched, you may take- Pretty wultzer, adieu!' "I cdn't know that I have quoted correctly. It is a long time since I had Byron at my finger's ends, as he has now. But that will -give you something of an idea of the state of the young gentleman's mind." "What a shame!" exclaimed Aurelia, impul- sively. Her cheek burnt hotly. "Yes. But he will get over that, and do both you and me justice further on. Where are you go- ing now" . "Toi eia s Landell-she may have a message for me." The demon of mischief prompted him to encour- age this scheme. "Go, by all means. I dare say she can tell you all about it more than I can. But don't get di- heartened, whatever lhappens. We shallhave many a pleasant song, yet, when this little trouble is well over." "Good bye," said Aurelia. She scarcely heeded what he said, in her eager- ness to be gone. Thle black horse galloped away, and she put on her hat and cloak and went up to the Hall. The Squire had not returned from London. Miss Landell was sitting in the drawing-room alone, writing a letter, She looked up with a cold stare, as Aurelia was ushered in by a servant, and neither rose to receive her nor asked her to sit down. "I beg your pardon for intruding," stammered the poor girl, " but I have just heard that Fredierick has gone to college. Is it true '?" "Perfectly true," said Miss Landell, with severe composure. "When?" "My brother left home on the day before yes- terdlay." "And he never came to say good-bye to me. I1 was not kind." Miss Landell pushed ,alck her letter, folded her hands over it, and gazed at Aurelia with a peculiar I r11ic. page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] "At least it was wise." *"Why?" "My brother and you can never be friends, Mias Gresham." "But we are friends." "Not now, I fancy." "It is only a - slight misunderstanding, I assure you," said Aurelia, eagerly. "Two words from me would explain it." "Then those two words must never be spoken," said Miss Landell. "What do you mean?" "You force me to speak more plainly than I could wish to do. Ask yourself if a Whitechapel ballad- singer is a fit associate for Mr. Frederick Landell- the representative of an ancient family-heir of a large estate?" Aurelia turned very pale. "A Whitechapel ballad-singer! You know that, then?" "I do." "Who told you?" "That is my secret." ' It matters little, though." *' Very true." "Does he know it?" 6, Of course." "Ad he despises me 1? "On the contrary, lie pities you." "I don't want his pity, nor yours," cried Aurelia, stung into a sudden rage by the mocking glance of the cold,blue eyes. "Keep it yourself, you'll want it yet!" "Thank you, and now I think you had better go." *"You need not tell me that!" The next instant the door was shut heavily, and Aurelia was flying like a mad creature down the lawn." I Miss Landell looked after her till she reached the iron gates, and rau out. into the high road. And then she folded and sealed her letter with a happy heart. CHAPTER IX. "Flow down, cold rivulet to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver; No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. "Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet, then a river; Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, For ever and forevei." TENNYSON. "A WHTECHAPEL ballad singer! A Whitechapel ballal singer!" These words were ringing in Aurelia's ears, all the way, as she ran with frantic speed towards her homle. In v{in the sun shone and the fresh wind blew; in vain the birds sang, and the late roses clustered along the path; in vain old Telnder came to meet her at the gate, to tell her, with an honest bark and wag of his tail, that she was welcome! The sights and sounds of nature, to which she was, in general, so feelingly alive--the faithful love of her dumb companion, which always received a rich return-all was lost upon her now. Worse than useless. was everything to the"White- chapel ballad singer." Cruel words; yet they were true, and she could not forget them. Vhat should she do? Where shiould she go? It would be impossible to live on calmly in her old home, now that Frederick was gone, and his haughty sister had taunted her to her very lace with the shame of her early life. Somewhere site must go--some new home she must seek, and that speedily. She leaned a moment en the cottage gate, and looked wistfully out beyond the open fields. At she stood there, two school-boys, out for a holiday walk, went by, and one said to the other as they passed- "When I am six years older, John, I snail have a clerkship in the India House, and live in London!" There was an instant eager reply, and they went towards Charnley, talking about the hopeful future all the way. Aureoias looked after them with a kindling smile. The electric chord had been touch- ed, and the school-boy, unconscious of the listener 'as he planned his own future life, had given her the key to her own. She too would go to London. he went into the house. Mrs. Marshall was. awaiting her, full of reproaches for having overstaid the dinner hour. But Aurelia could not eat. She said shle had a headache, and would lie down in her own rouou a little while. Having thus secured a quiet hour, she locked the door of her room, and sat down to think. One thing was certain. If she went to London, sihe mit go at once, and alone. Site must go secreily e too-for Mrs, IJarslhall w'as ouite capable of loc(king her up till the'return of her guardian, if she thought there was a p..s ibility, however remote, of her com- - irg to aIv 'arm. Some p'eplar'aLtions for her flight it was also neces- sarv to make. She was romanrit enoigi:., in all con- science ; but she didi nc;t t'Ci k of setting off i'n white muslin, to seek her fjortune, as Miss Edge- worth's hieroine did, to find her " ur ki own friend."' Aurelia's first 1nroceedligll was a most senlsiD!e one. She dresse'd herself firom toIl to We in the wartmest rlothing hlte possessed-put Ion a pair of wooill'n atockings, and some strong doubi,l-sole'. kid buots. Then site took I1her winter cloak of sead iskdi fi'ron, the wardrobe, laidl it with her best str:tw bumnnet, and gloves upon the bed, and went up irnlt the lofi over her ioom, in search of a small carpet bag,. which she could carry in her hand. She was supposed to be asleep, arnd looking fi'om the window of the loft, she saw Mrs. Ma,' shlall making the best of her wayv acr."ss tie fields to- wards a large farm hoeisl t!l:lt stoodL aL!Lt laif a mile away. The mistress of the "Parclihc Farm" was At first cousin of MrIs. Marshall's ; moreover, sile was famed throuugiout lthe country for a delicious teacake, with which shle was in the habit of regal- ing her guests. Now, Aurelia lhad often been one of those gr ests, and her moutli watere'd at the re- collection of the: edibles, as site watched the holluse- keeper across the fieldls. It was a point of honor with the farmer's wife to lot neither friend nor foe leave her hospitable roof without first partaking of' a cheerful mnel, and Aurelia went about her pre- paraitions very leisurely, now thiat she knew Mrs. Marshall viwas quiLe safe. She went down and ranmg for the servant, who said thati hier mistress would not be in .for two or three hoeurs, but that she had left word thaiLt Anrelia was to have a strung cup of tea the minute she awoke, atnd anything sihe fancied to eat with it. "Very well," said Aureiia, who began to feel woromantically hungry. "Go and get dtie tea at once, and toast me some muffins, Jane-I know there are some inl the house. Atld I will have some potted lobster withl it, and some raspberry jam." Jane licked her lips as she departed in antici- ation of the fragments of that delectable feast, which would surely fiall to her share. She did not get such a treat every afternoon ; neither, for the matter Of that, did Aurelia. Mrs. Marshall would soon have put a veto oil sutcl a proceeding, but for moico in a way it could do no harm. 1t is a mnorci- fil dispensation that we are all gifted in ous youth with stomnachs like ostriches. Mulfins, and potted losters, and raspberry jam, at one fell meal, wash- ed -lown with cups of hot, strong, sweet tea! It miakes one shiver, in one's old age, to think of such at repast; but at sixteen the most withered and de crt pid of us' all could have eaten it with as much aplpetito as Aurelia and Janie. Having settled this little reftction, Au relia went hack itt her work. 'First, she wrote a letter, look- ing very sorro0wful as hie did so. Then she sealed anid left it on tihe table in Mrs. Marshall's room, and brightenilg up with an effort, went again to the loft. All kinds of umlicr; were stowed away there. Disiused tables, brokea lamps, dingy cur- titains, ricketty clhairs, -and mnouldiering sofas. In one corner near the window stooi, a L, iie of trunks a1nd boxes. Among them, Auretlia sought for what site wanted. Presen!tiy she found it. With sotie e. ertion, she dragged it out to the light. Ani old-fashoned leather trav,;lling bag, with brass orntamn:t s and( hatlilc'*. T'!e kev was in the lock. She tur'inedl it, and ;law inside a silve r mounted dressing-case, wiose fittilgs were as perfect as on the day whenI t lley Iha tiar't been made. There was irooti ill the bag Ior two or three dresses, some changes of linen, antl any qna;- tity of snimall parcels and packages. And the hag was so light tiat sihe could easily c:trry it in her hand as far as the station; so Jane need know no- thing of her departure. She carried it down into her own room, and filled it from her drawers and wardrobe. Looking into her little brown purse, she fountl tlhat she had a ten potund note, two golden guinieas, lanld a fquaitity of small chlatge. Thle ten-pound note was a gift from her gt ardlian, sent from abroad( one birtlht y, and religiously preserved by her. Mrs. Maidahuil had given ner one guinea, and the cook the other, the dcay she was fifteen years old. Andi the silver was an accumulation ot her shilling-a-week pocket money, wlhich site htad been savimmg up for a iong time, in order to buy ol!d Tender a beautifnul silver- gilt collar, which site had seen one any at a. shlop in Cliarnley. Poor Tender must go without his collar now-at least, till site came back again-say in, a yea"'s time -so rich and famous that she could ualbrd him one of diamonds! Twelve pounds in all! It was a little fortune in itself, even widtiU t tile silver. She had read of many a poor boy who, go- "g to London barefooted, and with a solitaryv 'i%- pence in his pocket, had died d ied in his bed, in a stately mansion, a millionaire! What should hinder her from doing as much, of page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] even more, since she had twelve pounds to begin with, while the boy hadl only sixpence! , She hid her purse snfly in her bosom, keeping the silver in her pocket for the expenses of the j,lIiey. 'Jl .'n, firom a drawer in her writing-desk, she took a packe t of letters which Frederick had wrilten to lr, and stowed them caiefully away in the travel- oing bag. As she did so, she pressed Ihevily upon the dress- ing case, and the top flew back with a violence that Startled her. S She had touched the spring of a false lid, and in a velvet-lined cavity were other letters, not neatly tied up like hers, but flung in carelessly-apparently forgotten. - Of course, Aurelia immediately began to read tlem. Who could resist the witclery of time-stained let- ters, when discovered unexpectedly in some out-ol j die-way place? Aurelia, at least, could not. But, like the heroine of Northanger Abbey, " she was grievously disappointed," for the letters all re- 'frred to dry business details, about which she knew nothing and cared less. I There was a small, gilt-clasped, red book among the papers. fi. Aurelia pounced upon it eagerly, thinking it must be a diary. But it was only a iecord of private expenses, written in an unformed school-girlish hand; and treat ki ing only of new bonnets, dresses, aprons, and kid slippers. Disgusted and provoked, Aurelia was about to W dose the lid again, when a half-open note caught her eye. It was written in a strong, masculine hand, and ran thus: : "For the last time I appeal to you, Helen--for ftle last time 1 ask you to pause and reflect, befoire taking this mad step i By the love you Ilave for me, I beg, or rather, I command you, to stay hlere! I lie that love is'as great as I think it is, you will , ot fail to obey me "RICHARD." On the back of this note was written, by the same lea. halnd that had penned the accounts in the red-cover- ed book: "Command?-command? And you talk always of my love for you-never of yours for me! I shall go: "HELENH." S" Beneath tlesc lines was traced the first worls of t1' the old song-' tay begin " O, Richard--O, Mon Roi!" as if, at the lst, the writer repented of lelr deter- eping mination, and would have rejoiced' at being asked f tje to stily. But Aurelia could not find any answer to that fond took appeal. avel- t A strip of piper just beneath the note contained a few stanzas, evidently translations from some Eas ern poet: ress- "Tlline eyes are like two twin brilliant stars. Id in L"They rest beneath thy dusky brows, like light, nycontent to dwell in shadow, that its lustre may be eatly softened! ty When 1 look within thy face, I blush and steal away. "When I hear thee speak, I tremble let- "But when thy hland touches mine-when I meet ot lhe fll glance of thy dark eyes--I am ready to die. "Can the nightingale love the rose more than I have loved thee? she re- "Yet she sings a sweeter song. ew "She sets her breast against a thorn, and wins a rose at last. nng "The thorn is against my breast also, but Leila is far away, and will ,iot-hear me! ust "My heart burns-my blood beats whenever thy light step comes nigh! se "I watch for thy footprints among the lillies, and at. kiss the flowers thy hand hans touched! "I say often in the dusk of night, ' To-morrTow I will watch for her and tell her all!' "But when I see thee at thy lattice, I grow faiot lt and pale, and speech departeth from me! "Once I touched thy hand! "I saw the wind blow back thy veil, and press against thy softly-swelling bosom! T " O, tlhat I were the summer wind i "So would I also press against thy breast, and l die! t "My blood burns-my heart bounds-my soul dies within me when I think of thee! "And if thy mouth were pressed to mine-if thy e lhead laid upon my breast-I could not live!" Aure!a glanced over the lines, scarcely conmpre- hlending them. Then shle put the papers all back again, and clos ed the lid of the diessinig-case. She went down stairs. The tea, by no means an "sthetjic" one, was ready, and she anlld Jane par tookl of it together with gre;it al1,ppetite. While the tray was beiug removed,' Aurelia ran up to hler room put on her bonnet, and came down again with the bag concealed beneath her heavy cloak. "I'm going for a walk, Jane," she said, looking in at the kitchen door. "Don't leave the house. Good-bye!" "Go,d-bye, miss!" said Jane, cheerlully, from het dishes. Then the front door closed, and, with one glance at that childhood's home, the wanderer was free! CHAPTER X. '* * * There will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver, And here, by thee, will hum the bee, ' For ever and for ever. "A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; Bist not by thee my steps shall be: For ever and for ever. TENNYSON. YZARS and years ago, the- names of Norwood ntai of Beulah Spa were almost as well known-to ,pit asure seekers as those of Vauxhlll or Cremorne are at the present day. To go to the "Spa"' for a holiday was a treat, indeed; and from the Spa to tile re iddence of a famous gipsy, whose house still at Gipsy Elill, was by no means too long a distance fir lighlt hearts and eager feet to travel. Our grand- father.' and grandmothers thought it was fine fun to diinkl; tea in the little cottages, to wander in the shruhl:lries, to look at the booths, the shows, and the fireworks, for which Beulah Spa was so fiamous; and to 'wind up, it may be, by having tlheir fortunes told by'an old womaln in a red cloak, who knew no more about those fortunes than you or I at this pres- ent time. Thle tea-gardens are deserted now-the shrubber- ies are overgrown-the little cottages are torn down-the Spa is a lonely, dreary place, full of trees ndr bushes, and only fit for building purposes; and the old woman in the red cloak died long ago, and is buried I belieye, in Croydon or Bromley churclh- ymrd, But the house where Jane Qray was born is tlhe same as ever. Jennie Gray was a Norwood girl, whose father's house stood at the end of one of those pretty green Ilnes for which Norwood is so justly celebrated. There are plenty of houses around it now, but when it was first built it stood quite alone, with its flower garden in firont and its kitchen garden at the side --almost a little ('arm of itself. John Gray was only a gentleian's coachman, it is true; but he was a careful and industrious man, and all his leisure time was devoted to his little plots of ground, so that, in the course of years, he-became quite noted for his beans, and potatoes, and radishes, as well as for his roses, and lilies, and dahas. His wife, who had also been in service, was as steady and industrious as himself; and their little daughter, Jennie, was taught to make herself useful in a hundred ways. Before she could talk or walk, she would try to imi- tate her mother's industry in the kitchen by rubbing stoutly away with a bit of flannel at her playthings; and the first steps she made were in the direction of 'the garden, where she dropped some seeds into the ground, much to her father's delight and her own. By the time she was six years old she was one of the most helpful creatures imaginaDle. She used to clear away the breakfast things and sweep the kitch- en floor as neatly as a grown up servanlt could have done; arid the older she grew, the steadier and more industrious she became, so that between her mother's labours and her own, the whole cottage was a perfect palace of neatness and good order. The steel fender and the window panes almost made the eyes ache with their brightness; the shelves and the woodwork were as white as snow; and the blue chintz covers upon the two easy chairs becfore the fire, looked as fresh as they did the day they were put on. There was not such another place in Norwood, and no one wondered when one d;ay, a lady, who had alighlted from her carriage to beg a glass of wa- ter at the cottage door, was so. struck with the as- pect of the place, that she never rested till Jennie came to her house as her own maid. It' was a new life for the simple cottage girl. In the place of risig early and polishing steel fenders, and scrubbing flours, she had to put her lady's room in order, take up her breakfast, and afterwards dress her for the day. She had a great deal to do, it i! true, bu't the work was light, andt she had many an hour to herself, when she sat sewing in her mistress' dressing room, and thinking of her own dear home. The fine house where she lived,' the nice dresses she wore,' and the company in the servants' hall, were all powerless to make her forget the Norwood cottage and the parents, who, in plain homespun dresses, still lived and laboured there. After six years of faithful service, Jennie lost her place through the death of her mistress. Habits of independence once formed, can rarely-be given up, and though her parents were as dear as ever to her lheart, still shle felt that she would rather be work- ing for hleself, than living a mere burden upon them at home. f Accordingly, with a little money in her purse, a nice box of new clothes, and the very best "character" that any servant could have, or any mistress reasonably, effect, she set off to try her for- tunes in the city of fortune hunters-London. page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] When the train which bore her to her destination stopped for a moment at Charnley, and a young girl entered and took a sent beside her, Jennie felt no mysterious thrill of sympathy which warned her that a friend was near. She glanced at the new comer, helped her to put her carpet-bag under the seat, thought what a sweet voice it was that said ' Thank you;" and tlhen went back to her own thoughts, like that "young lady from Sweden," who, we are told, in "The Book of Nonsense," went "by the slow train to Weedon," and "When she got to the station, She made no observation, But thought she would go back to Sweden." 'Aurelia also sat silent, looking first out of the win- dow, and then at her companion. There was no one but Jane in her side of the carriage, but in the other compartment sat a stout ruddy-faced woman, handsomely dressed, and a tall slender lady witli bright, eager, blue eyes, and dark brown hair, who was talking most energetically to her neighbour, a thin-faced lawyer, wlho listened to her with a shrewd smile, and now and then took a pinch of snuff. The lady's face pleased Aurelia, more from its mobility and great power of expression than from its beauty, and she also began to listen. S6 did Jane after a time, and thie stout woman in the corner pursed up her lips and shook her head scornfully now and then, as a word or two of the discussion fell upon lier ear. Aurelia gathered enough to understand that the lady was an American, and a Northener- who was a thorough abolitionist, and a still more thorough advocate of total abstinence. Slavery and temperance were her two hobbies undoubtedly- yet she rode them well. Her legal friend was ap- parently half amused at her earnestness, and wholly unconvinced by her arguments. They dropped slavery at last, and proceeded to discuss total abstin- ence, at which the rosy English-woman in the cor- ner coughed derisively. The I awyer glanced that way and smileld. "My dear lady, he said, "it is a Utopian idea. How can people exist without any stronger beverage than water?" "Oh, bhut they do!" she replied earnestly, at the same time tak'g-a roll of papen from her pocket. "Look here; I have been getting up a digest of' facts for a friend of mine 'hio is going to give a temperance lecture in London. Every one of these statements are true-I'll swear to them if you like." The lawyer laughed. "I will take your word for it. But if it is not asking too much, will you let me hear what they are.?" She looked exceedingly pleased, sat down be- I side him, and began, to read, in so distinct a voice that Aurelia and her companion, who had a;ls changed their seats, could hear every word with pet- feet ease. "In the; New Enigland Slates, drunk- enness is, if not unknown, at least a remarkable and an uncommon thing. The great body of the people are farmers, whose strict temperance is worthy of record. They are fine, tall, healthy men and women, who will rise at six in the morning, breakfast off coffee, bread and butter, potatoes, and a little ham or bacon, work till twelve, in the field or the hous'e, dine fiugally. drinking nothing but water, and work again till the six o'clock meal, bread and butter, and nice home preserves. They take no supper, and go lo bed regularly before ten o'clock. In the autumn, when the new cider is made, every one drinks freely of it; but after it has been put down in the cellar to ferment, no one thinks of touching it, unless the tlrmer, on some leisure winter evening, may drink a glass with a neighbour, over a dish of apples, be- thre the fire. Perhaps he may taste the cider twenty times during the course of the winter, then it is left in the cellar to form vinegar, and the fairmer turns to his purer beverage, water, once more. "I think very few people in this country have any idea of the strict " teetotalism" of most New Englanders. 'From one year to another these men go on, working hard and living temperately ; and I think that they would show to advantage beside any English laborer, who drinks his mug of beer, anul his glass of spirits now and tlhn. Cold water is our natural beverage, and the New Englanders know it well. Nofie knew it better than Woodworth, the author of the great temperance song, "The Moss- covered Bucket." Many a time, no doubt, had he gone, dusty and tired, from his father's hay-f- and turning the windlass of the old stone watched the mowers far away, while he drank fully from "' The old oaken bucket, the mass-covered bus. The iron-bound bucket that hung in the well.' He went back to his work, I think, far more re- fieshed than if his draught had beetn brought from a public house, in a pewter-pot, and christened beer." The old fady in the corner siiffd disdainfully at hearing thiis. But the lawyer only took a pinch of snuiff, and said drily, "H um! a wonderful people truly. But how happens it that all our most curious, anid I may add, most palatable beverages, are only known by the name of American drinks, ' brandy smashes,' 'ing-tailed roarers,' ' Timluctoos,' ' eye opleners,' 'stone fences,' ' General Jacksons,' &c. [t seems to me that they have all a Transatlantie reputation, my dear lady." "Oh O, yes! I knew that would come next," was the cheerful reply, " and here I have answered that very objection." She turned to another page of the MSS., and be- gan to read again:- "But people often say to me, ' If the Americans are so temperate, how is it that all our new drinks come from their country?' To this I answer, tlhat in large cities druankenness will always find a place. And if you go through the New England towns, even, you will always find a 'tavern' licensed to sell spir- its-not beer or ale, because they are not made there. In that town, also, you will always find people who ' drink;' but if you discover a regular ' drunkard,' a man who gets ' tipsy,' you will also discover that he is a marked, and also a shunned man." "Hum--la!" said the lawyer, taking snuff again. "You don't believe it!" said his lady friend. "Very well; go over there and see. If you find that I have not told the truth I'll eat my head!" Both laughed, and then she went on again more seriously :- "I was brought up from my infancy in New Hampshire and Vermont. I spent every summer upon some farm, for the sake of my health ; and I relate only wliat I have seen with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears. My own home was in a very large town-the 'shire town,' where courts were held, and all the business of the county done. The only bevel-ages used in my guardian's house were tea coffee, milk, and water. I never saw a glass of wine till I dined at a hotel table, when I was four- teen years hld, and then I mistook it for vinegar, much to the amusement of my companions. During those fourteen years I once saw a bottle of rum, which was used for a dyinig person. The smell of the spirit made me ill-I could not enter the room while it wnas about. I never saw gin, brandy or any other spirit, till after I had left that home. Those early lessons, which caused me no pain, have never been forgotten. From my own experience, I can testify tlhat a human being, born with perfectly pure and simple tastes-that is, inheriting no depraved tastes from others--needs no stimulants, except in cases of illniess. The taste of wine is so disagree- able to me, that I cannot take it even as a medicine; a dose of ardent spirits taken medicinally can hard- ly be kept upon the stomach long enough to do any good; and a glass of beer taken at one o'clock will effectually prevent any literary effort on my p;irt for the remainder of the day and evening. Setting aside their effects, thie mere taste of these beverages is offensive to my palate. I have never signed the pledge. I am a teetotaller from natural inc linttion, rather than from any fixed principle; but I believe in temperance with ,11 my heart-the more earnest- Iv, mind you, since I have resided in England." "There goes a shot at the mother country, of oourse," said the lawyer. "Ah!" she said, sighing, "I have seen so much -so much intemperance here, I am getting used to ; it ncw! But I remember how it terrified me once! I remember, when I was a little child of five years t old, hearing my aunt and her daughters talk of a young lawyer who had been born in that town who had been a classmate of Daniel Webster, and the most promising, talented man imaginable. They added that he had once been engaged to my own mother, and that her marriage nearly drove him wild. At this I naturally pricked up nly ears. "Why did not my mother marry him?"I asked, indignantly, "My dear," said my aunt, " he took to drinking. He is a common drunkard now. I saw him oly this morning rolling about the streets." "I said no more. A mysterious horror seized up- on me. I had never seen a common drunkard. I was determined to find out what the thing was like. Accordingly, without a word to any one, I donned my bonnet and shawl, and ran out of thie back door, and up the village street. Before I had gone far, I met a noisy shouting crowd of boys, and in their midst, with a flushed face and disordered hair, stunm- bled a handsome man of forty-five, laughing when they laughed, stammering silly speeches, and hiccup- ing and reeling about all the while. That was the man who had loved my mother-that was a common drunkard! The shame-the misery-the horror of the sight were too much for me. With all my child- ish strength, I burst through the rabble, and seized the wretched man by the hands. He yielded st- pidly,stunibling after me with a silly laugh, till I dragged him into my guardian's kitchen, and shirt the door upon his jeering followers. Then I fliing myself upon my knees before him, in an agony of tears nnd sobs. "Oh, Mr. Cirr, don't drink-don't be a conmmtn drunkard-don't let those boys hoot at you!' I cried out. It seemed to me that my heart was broken. I scarcely knew why I was so grieved, but I sobbed and cried myself into hysterics, which brought the whole house around us, and effectually sobeted him for that time. It was long before he forgot that strange and sud- den appeal. Of course I was taught that I must not run into the streets and bring drunkards into tih house by main strength--but I never forgot nay charge, nor did he ever forget me. Even when hti relapsed into his old ways, he used to sit and cry about the cliild, as if conscious of his degradation. "And' what became of this precious frierad of yours my dear lady?" asked the lawyer, looking somewhat interested in the story. "All," she said, "you can guess. My influenee was weak, and old habits very strong. He went oa from bad to worse, and at last a fatal attack of do- page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] lirium tremens seized upon him. Four men were obliged to hold him down in his bed, but in his lucid intervals he begged so earnestly to see me, that at last they granted the request. I was taken to his house-he was lying on a sofa in the corner of tile room-a door at the foot of the sofa stood half open to admit the air. Wasted, haggard, and unshaven, he looked a terrbile object indeed. His four keep- ers sat beside him. Just as I entered the room, they all started up together. Another paroxysm had seized him. He fancied the sofa was covered with snakes; twisting about to escape them, his blood- shot eyes fell upon me. He gave a rild yell, and at one spring, clung to the top of the door, shriek- ing horribly. I burst out crying, for I was terribly frightened, and just then he fell back heavily. All was over, and they hurried me away. But the shame of that wasted life, and the horror of that miserable death, stamped a lesson upon my childish brain which I shall never forget to my dying day." She wiped a few tears from her eyes, as she finish- ed speaking. The lawyer looked thoughtful; the two girls exchanged glances of dismay. The train stopped suddenly. "Vauxhall Station!" sang out the guard, and the lady rose to go. The lawyer handed her out and saw her to a cab, then returned for his carpet bag, and walked away whist- ling. The stout woman in the corner got up and shook herself, placed one ponderous foot on the step, and by the combined exertions of two guards and a porter, reached terra firma in safety. Look- ing in at the window as she passed, she nodded a cheerful good-bye to her fellow passengers. "Well, they may say what they please; but for my part, I likes my beer!" she said, in a rich, mel- low voice, and waddled down the platform towards the door. The girls looked at each other, and burst out laughing. "What a droll woman!" said Aurelia. "Yes." "' But I like the lady, don't you?" "She talks very well," snid Jennie. "I felt as if I could have cried too, when she told about that poor man." "So did ." "It was very horrible. But at the same time I think it was great nonsense about people never drinking anything-don't you?" "I don't know. Sometimes I think that way, myself:" "Indeed! Well, for my part, I am like the fat woman, I likes my beer!" said Jennie, with so suc- cessful an imitation of the woman's voice and look, that they both laughed all the way to the Waterloo Station; Nothing breaks the ice between two strangers more effectually than a hearty laugh. The two girls felt as if they had been acquainted for years by the time they left the train. As they stood upon the platform together, waiting for their luggage, Jennie asked Aurelia which way she was going. "I don't know. To some good hotel," said Au; relia, colouring. "Do you know of one?" "Don't you?" "No!" "Is any one coming to meet you?" "No!" "Do you know any one in London?" "Not a soul!" "Bless me! Then why did you come?" "To seek my fortune!" said Aurelia, with perfect simplicity. Jennie glanced at her fair face and flowing hair, and shook her head. "Tlat will never do. You had much better come with me to night, and then we will see what can be done to morrow." "Very well. I should be glad to stay with you- you are so kind." "Now, what on earth could have sent that pretty child to London bylherself?" thought the wise Jen- nie, as she put her into a cab and saw that all her luggage was safe. She asked her no questions then; but as they sat that evening over the comfort- able tea-table, in one of the neat rooms of the Spread Eagle, the story all came out; only the names of Aurelia's home and fiiends were supressed. Jennie went to bed that night- somewhat ill at ease. That Aurelia had a " bee in her bonnet" was the most sensible explanation she could give of her wild goose chase. CHAPTER XL "I now remember thee, In darkness and in dread, As in those days of revelry Which mirth and music sped. "Though smile and sigh alike are vain When severed hearts repine, My spirit flies o'er mount and main, And mourns in search of thine." BYRON. THE next morning, as they sat down together over their breakfast of coffee, ham, and toast, Jennie took it upon herself to instruct her more inexpeii- enced companion in some of the ways of that world upon which they had both entered. "I shall get a place at once," she observed. 6' I was born, and brought up, and educated, expressly to be a servant, and a servant I shall remain to the g end of the chapter, unless I am lucky enough to find some one who will marry me, and give me a home of my own. But your case is quite different. You m have been bro'lght aup like a lady. What upon e earth can you ever find to do in this great, wicked city?" "Go and be a servant with you, my dear," was a the reply. But to this proposition of Aurelia's, Jennie shook her head. n "You are too young-too delicate-too pretty by t far--No, no, no, that would never, never do! I do s wish-' She stopped short, and eyed Aurelia very wist- fully. "Well, what do you wish!" asked Aurelia, at f length. "I do wish, with all my heart, that you would be- have like a good, sensible girl, and go back homrn. again." Aurelia laughed. "Just think how anxious they'must be about you!" "I wrote a note to them, you know, before I came away." "What's a note?" "Ah, no, it's no use! I can't go back! Iam glad I came away. My home was a very pleasant one, but so dull! Now this is life! There is real life here!" And she looked out with amused interest upon the stream of humanity that was continually passing to and fro beneath the windows of the room in whch they sat. "Yes, you are right, but the life at your home would have been far better and safer for you," said Jennie. "There!-don't preach, my dear, but get on your bonnet, and let us go out. What are you going to do first?" "I must go 'to Bayswater. I have a letter to a lady there. I think perlihas shI may take me for her maid." "Can I go with you?" "Certainly." + Be quick, then." Aurelia had on her bonnet and cloak in about three minutes, and waited for her fiiend on the wooden bridge that spans the court-yard of the hotel. "I wonder what this was used for," she said, aloud. She felt the thickness of the woodwork, gazing thoughtfully down below. "Used to have plays down below, miss, and the gentlefolks used to sit here to see them," said a brisk voice. It was the coffee-room waiter, who, passing at the moment she spoke, thought that Aurelia had addres- ed him. She thanked him, and took Jennie's arm, who came out upon the bridge at that moment, looking as fresh as a daisy in her neat straw bonnet and plaid shawl. Bayswater was soon reached by the aid of an om- nibus, and Jennie, having delivered her letter of in- troduction, was speedily engaged by the lady at a salary which seemed to her innocent mind like the wealth of Golconda. She came out into the street beaming with happi- ness to communicate the good news to her young fiiend. But Aurelia was not there. Jennie hurried up one street, and down another A-looked through squares and into alleys-consult- ed policemen, butcher boys and apple women, but all in vain. ; Some had never seen the young lady. Others fiaetiously suggested that she might have gone to Bathl to get her head shaved. One little blue-fiocked imp declared that he had just met her in front of Lord Palmerston's " a-eatirn 1 a penny ice." t This information was, of course, too ridiculous to 1 be tolerated, and at last Jennie took her way to the Spread Eagle with a heavy heart. n She hoped to find her there, upon her arrival, yet g fearing all the while that she would never see her hI again. Aurelia, meanwhile, was almost as anxious about e Jennie. d As she walked up and down the squares, awaiting her, she took a wrong turning, and so bewildered ir herself, that she had entirely lost sight of the street o where they parted and where they were to have met again. a Not knowing its name, she was ashamed to ask or any person to set her right, but walked up, and down in a state of the greatest perplexity and alarm. A lady coming, slowly down the street, looked her full in the face as she passed, then paused, and ut glanced after her in a hesitating and undecided re manner. Then she turned back, and coming up be- he side the girl, she said to her, in a very soft, sweet tone of voice :- d, "Young lady, can I be of-any use to you, ain any way? ,g Aurelia was startled, and looked up at the que- tioner suddenly. She was " fat, fair, and forty 3 A ch b page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] wrapped in a splendid Cashmere shawl, and wear- g ing a black velvet bonnet, whose plumes swept down te over her shoulder. A most magnificently-attired lady lil indeed, with a face that had onie been very hand- or some, but now looked worn and faded, and, it ec seemed to Aurelia, almost haggard. Her fair hair ca fell in loose, soft ringlets on either side of her tint- ed cheeks. Her smile displayed a beautiful set of teeth. But her large blue eyes looked anxious, and es there was something in her whole appearance that Aurelia distrusted. But still she could not have told re what it was, nor why. Yet the lady spoke kindly cl and seemed ready to serve her, if she could. S0 of Aurelia answered. her readily. "I came with a friend to one of these streets, and t I have forgotten which one it is. The houses look all alike to me, and she will be waiting, and I don't know which way to go to find her." The lady smiled very sweetly. "Oh, don't make yourself unhappy, my dear y child. We will soon find your friend again. Who y is she?" "She 'is going to be a lady's maid in one of these M houses. At least she'came to-day to see 'about the place." "And do you think she will get it?" asked the lady. 'I am sure she will." The lady looked a little thoughtful for a few mo- ments. Then she began her catechism again. "And you-what are you?" n Nothing, yet." "Do you think of taking a place, too T" "If -I can get one."o M"Where are you from?" E' Essex." a Have you any fiiends in London?" "Only Jennie Gray." "Jennie Griy!" repeated the lady, making a mental note of the name. "And when did you come to London?" "Last night." 4, Where are you staying 7" "At the Spread Eagle." "In Gracechurch street?" ' Yes."' "A very good place. Do you know I think your friend will at once go back there and wait for you? She must know that you will think of that place of refuge before any other in London. Don't you see?" "Yes," said Aurelia. But she spoke rather doubtfully. "I am sure of it. At all events, she must have gone from Bayswater nhlready if she is searching af- ter you. Now, I will tell you what to do. If you like to go back with me to my own house, which is only a few steps away, I will give you some lunch- eon, and then send you to Graceclurch street in my carriage." A pause ensued. Aurelia hesitated. "Will you come?" asked the lady, in the sweet- est way. The subtle instinct which had already made Au- relia distrust her new friend, made her also disin clined to accept this apparently kind and well-meant offer. But while Amelia hesitated, the lady went on to say: "The fact is, I am very rich and very lonely. I want a young companion who can amuse and inter- est me, and I fancy you would do both. If you like to tell me more of your own history, and I find that you are perfectly respectable, (1 am sure, my dear, you look so), I dare say I shall be able to offer you a much better and much easier place than your friend will get." That settled the business. Aurelia gladly accept- ed her invftation, and they walked up the street. Aurelia fancied the policeman at the corner look- ed queerly at her as they passed. Tlhe next moment he came tramping leisurely after them. But her companion ran up the steps of a hand. some house, opened the door with a. latch-key, and had her young charge safely within before she could discover whether the man was following them or not. The house was handsome and sober enough with- out, and the hall differed little from hulls in other residences. But when they passed up the thick- ly-carpeted stairs, and entered the drawing-room, Aurelia could not help uttering a cry of astonish- ment and glad delight. It was a large long room, fitted up with hangings of the palest rose-colored a silk, and curtains of filmy lace. The windows came e to the floor, but were hidden by rose-colored blinds. The walls were panelled with garlands of fruit and flowers and lovely landscapes, and still more love- ly female heads. A chandelier, like a shower of diamond drops, hung from the ceiling, and an oval mirror was let into the wall above each of the four doors that let out of the room. The tables were of k rose-veined marble and burnished gold. The chairs or andsofas were ofa polished wood like ebony, covered at with rose-colored satin. Above the chimney-piece it hung a splendid portrait, almost life-size, of an el- derly gentleman in an undress uniform, with a hat in his hand. Aurelia glanced at it carelessly, and thought no moie of it, till she saw the face again, ve .and in a place how different! "I always sit here when I rm at home. Do you sing?" st "A little." *' And play?" "Yes." "I am passionately fond of music. Will you favor o me with a song?" A beautiful pianoforte stood in a recess boyond g the windows. Aurelia sat down, ran her fingers over the keys, . and sang a German air. Whenl she had finished, the lady grasped her by both hands, and said warmly: I never heard such a voice in my life! Whly, you are a prodigy, my dear! You ought to go on the stage!" Aurelia shook her head, and smiled a little sadly, ' us she said: a "I am poor and unknown. How ever could I get there?" "Walk on your voice, my fdear. It would be the ^ easiest thing in the world. However, I am not go- n ing to urge it, for I am so selfish 1 want you all to , myself. If you will stay here and be my companion, I will give you board, lodging, and beautiful clothes, , and, in addition, a salary of a hundred pounds a year." Aurelia fairly gasped for breath. Here was the fortune coming, and with no seek- ing on her part. "I will stay; I will do my best to please you," she cried. "Very well. I am quite sure that we shall get on nicely together," said the lady, looking greatly pleased. Aurelia smiled. "And now, if you will excuse me for a quarter of an hour, I will go and take off my bonnet, order our luncheon, and see that the carriage is got ready directly afterwards to take you back to your young friend." She left the room. And Aurelia still sat before the piano like one in a dream. What extraordina- ry piece of good fortune was this that had befallen her? Were friends like this to be picked up by every young woman from the country, who trod the streets of London-those streets, which in her case at least, had most decidedly been 'paved with gold?' It was wonderful! It was like a fairy tale! It was like- ' Her musings ended abruptly. Some one was call- ing her from the other end of the room. She rose, crossed the room, and looked at a half-open door. "Come i" here!" said a sweet voice, and she obeyed. 4 y From one realm of enchantment she had certainly stepped into another. The splendor of the drawing-room paled before the beauty of this little boudoir. Its walls looked like delicate erections of frosted and fretted silver, relieved at certain intervals by large oval mirrors of polished steel. The carpet was of the palest sea green hue. So was the velvet divan that ran around the sides of the room. The door was of mother of pearl, with ornaments of frosted silver. Tlhe ceil- ing was domed, and painted to represent the sky. A lambent moon, and countless twinkling stars, shone there, and lit the room with a mellow yet brilliant light. There were no windows-there was no fire-place, no hangings, no curtains of any kind. The place looked like a cave in the depths of the sea. Yet, by some concealed mechanism, the air was kept at a warm and pleasant temperature, and perfumed deliciously, as if pastilles were burn- ing there. In this room there was no portrait. Only a young e girl, so beautiful, so magnificently dressed that Au- - relia held her breath as she looked at her. She was apparently about nineteen years of age, tall and graceful, with features as perfect as those of a statue, a complexion of roses and lilies, and large, a mournful blue eyes, that seemed to speak without the aid of words. She wore a morning dress of pale, blue silk, fastened at the throat, and waist, and wrists with clasps of seed pearls, and her small feet were cased in blue velvet slippers, embroidered in the same costly way. She had risen from the divan, where she had ett been lying reading. She heldher book in her hand Y as she looked with those beautiful sad eyes at Au- relia. "Who are you?" she asked! Tell me as quick- er ly as possibly! You have no time to rose! There er is more at stake, much more, than you think!" ly Thus adjured, Aurelia told her little story in as g few words as possible. "Do you read French?" the young lady asked, when she had finished. "Yes." "Look at that book!" She gave her the one she was reading. Aurelia took it, glanced over the pages, coloured high, and flung it from her. The lady laughed. "I read that book-I like it. And this is my home. Do you understand?" "No," said Aurelia,- looking perplexed and frightened. "Did you see the portrait of a gentleman in the parlor?" "Yes." page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] "He is old enough to be my father-my grand- r filther-for the matter of that. He is a married tc man ; he has children twice my age. He is rich-- oh, so rich! He has everything the world can give n --wealth, honours, an ancient name, a faithful wife, A loving children, troops of friends, a happy home! And yet this house is his! And I am his-though I bate him!" Aurelia stood looking at her with a horrified i glance. c "Yes, you may well looked shocked. My mother t sold me to him when I was a mere child; and he h has not tired of me yet-perhaps, because I hate y him! When he is in town, I live here; when he h goes to his country seats with his wife, I travel half a'day later to the same place with my own establish- ment ; when lie visits the Continent I follow, and in my own way. There is not a luxury of the earth, the air, or the sea, that he does not lay at my feet. His wife is fond of, and true to him, and he neglects her! I am neither fond nor faithful to him, and yet--" She broke off suddenly, as a street organ halted e outside, and began to play an Italian air. The colour c faded from her cheeks-her face looked white and drawn. "' That song again! Oh, why do they come here a to play it-here of all places in the world!" She wrung her hands in agony. "I used to hear it long, long ago. when I wa ' young and happy, when I loved and was loved again. He used to sing it to me in Italy. And -aow he sings it night after night to a crowd of gap- iag fools upon the stage! And they conie and plaiN it before my wind,ws till it seems as if I should g9i ,mad! But that is nothiug to you. Do you want to, ,tay in this house?" "Oh, no!" said Aurelia. "Will you help me' to get awny?" s, Yes, I will. I know why my mother brought you here. Parlly because she thought I needed a companion, and partly as a decoy to another old -..reprobate almost as bad as the gentleman yonder. But I can't stand- by and see it doi e. Where has lhe gone?" "To order luncheon and the carriage." The young girl laughed. "To drug some wine you are to drink, more likely. She thinks you are safe enough here-slit? does not know that I have left my bedroom yet. Do ifu say your prayers at night?" "' Always." "Then add a special thanksgiving when you get home fir the whim of early rising that seized upon me t-o4y. If it had not beenl for that, I should have known nothing of your being here till it was too'late to save you. -Come with me." She listened at the drawing-room door a mo- ment, and then turned with a warning gesture to Aurelia. "Not a word when we leave this room, or I shall never be able to get you out of the house." "Stay-stop one moment!" said Aurelia, catch- ing her by the hand. "-These terrible things have confused me so that I hardly know what I want to say. You will not stay here, surely, when you hate your life-when you hate this man. Go with me now to Jennie-she and I will both work to help you. Oh, don't stay here!" The girl looked thunderstruck; then she smiled bitterly. ",' You are very kind, but I couldn't go with you." "We would take care of you-we would work so hard." "My dear! if you toiled night and day, you could not keep me in boot-laces! I am the most extravagant woman iii London, and it is through my extravagance that they keep me here. They en- courage it. See! She put out her little pearl-embroidered shoes. "Every one of them real. I hate. sham pearls-- as I do shams of every kind!" "But surely," said Aurelia, "you can give up pearl-embroidered slippers, for the sake of leading a good and a happy life?" "No!" said the bright fairy, pouting her beauti- ful lip. "I' would not give a penny for a life of self-denial, I should hate to be poor! Ugh! I could not endure existence without plenty of pretty things to make it endurable. And here I have them. You should see my suite of rooms up-stairs, and my beautiful dresses. Many a lady who goes to Court and wears a coronet would give her eyes for them. I have a coronet, too, for the matter of that-and it is of diamonds. You never saw anything so mag- nificent in your life-they are brighter than my eyes, and that' is saying everything, you know! And I have such a dear, beautiful saddle-horse. He lays his head oii my shoulder, and eats sugar out of my hand, and nibbles at my pockets. I think I love my horse better than anything, except my singer and that song i" Aurelia was fairly puzzled. What could she say to this beautiful capricious creature, who seemed to have no moral sense of wrong? And yet how could ' she leave her there? She would make one effort more to win her away. "Diamonds and horses are very leasant things t to own," she said. "But there may come a time n when even these things may cease to please you. 1, What areyou going to do then?" -Die ," said the strange girl, with a merry flash of her blue cves. Am'elia felt shocked. "&Don't, pray don't talk of dying in that way!" she said earnestly. "How can you? Think what Would become of you if you should die as you are now?" For one momeht the bright face clouded over; the next it was clear again. "My dear creature your powder and shot are en- tirely wasted on me. There is not one solitary atom f goodness in my nature ; and if you stay preach- ing here till nightfiall, only one thing will happen in T consequence-and that is, you will fall into my res- pected mother's clutches. With all due deference o to her, let me hint that you would escape almost as lie easily from those of a potentate who is never men- b tioned in polite society." She was notjoking. There was no time to belost " if Aurelia herself wished to escape from that den of iniquity, "Vell, I will go," she said with a heavy sigh, "but it makes my heart ache to leave you here. At least tell me your name. "I am called the Peri. If you ever hear of me it will be by that name. But I was baptized-I was good once, you see-as Lcuisa Pearl. Lo Parl, my little schoolmates used to call me." a Tears came slowly into her eyes as she pronoun- ced the childish pet name. sy A door shut heavily on the landing above. k Heavens-it is my mother!" she exclaimed. Follow me, anti don't turn back, whatever may hap- pen."' She ran swiftly down the stairs. Aurelia follow- ed, and the woman who hlad enticed her into that horrible place caught sight of them as they gained a the hall. "Louisa!' she shrieked, leaning over the banis- a ters. "What are you doing? Are you mad." a The girl made no reply, but snatched the key of the hall door from its nail. "John! Henry! Matilda! Cook! Where are you A all? Stop her--lold her!" screamed the mistress of the mansion, running down into the hull as fast she could. The bewildered servants hurried up from the low- er regions, but before any of them could reach thie, door, Louisa had forced it open, and pushed Aurelia out upon the steps. "Run to the policeman: lie will take care of you and see that you get safely home. Good-bye!" she said ; ani, closing the door, turned round bravely to face and to defy her infiuriated nmt er, and the scared and trembling servants of the Irouse; " - CHAPTER XII. "When I heard you sing that burden In my vernal days and bowers, Other praises disregarding, I but harkened that of yours. Only saying, In heart playing, Blessed eyes mine eyes have been, If the sweetest his have seen. E. B. BROWNING. THE honest policeman, who was just going off du- ty, felt no little surprise when Aurelia, pale and out of breath ran up to him and told her story. He re- lieved his mind by a few remarks about the lady who had inveigled her into such deadly peril, and then patted her on the shoulder with an encouraging smile. "Never mind, my girl! I'll see that you get to the Spread Eagle all right. Come home and get a ]bit of dinner with me, and my wife shall go with you herself, and tell your friend all about it 1" Gladly did Aurelia accept this kind offer. She accompanied her protector to a pretty little cottage in one of the Brompton lanes, where a mild-faced little woman was awaiting her husband's arrival with a pleasant smile. A few words put her in posses- sion of the young stranger's history, and she instant- ly welcomed her with a courtesy as cordial and a kindness as delicate as if she had been a princes% instead of a lonely wanderer without friends-al- ) most without a name or home. There never was a neater home. It consisted on- Vt ly of three rooms upon the ground floor-a parlour, dt kitchen, and a bedroom--for Mrs. Rowe could not afford to occupy the whole of her house herself. But she was a perfect spirit of order and good taste, s' and her three apartments were so clean, and bright, and pleasant, that any one would have been glad to remain in them. Aurelia was first taken into the bedroom, where 3U her country tastes were gratified by the spotless pu- of rity of the window curtains, and the pots of flowere as that stood on the ledge outside. Two or three pret- ty engravings hung on the wall; the chairs, tlh w- washstand, and the chest of drawers, were all of lie; lighlt wood; and the bed, which stood in one corner, lia was covered with a beautiful counterpane, mainufao- tured from small squares of gaily coloured calico. you It was quite a work of art in its way, since a group she of flowers was formed quite tastefully and naturally y to in the centre, while a running wreath of honey- the suckle and woodDine friniged the edges, and termi- nated in a knot of violets at the head and foot 6of ,Lti bed. This counterpane wits evidently the pride page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] of good Mrs. Howe's heart, and her eyes sparkled as Aurelia began to praise it. "Yes, it ieally is very pretty," she said, with a gratified smile; "and it saves the white things so. You know they will never look white in London, if you try ever so hard to keep them clean. Now this always looks bright and fresh; and then the pattern is so pretty, and the flowers so bright, that sometimesr I almost fancy I can see them grow. It is like sleeping in the country, to sleep under that counter- pane, miss." Aurelia qiailed, and asked who made it. "I did t all-every stitch of it. You see, we had an Amirican lady lodging here for a long time,' and she showed me how to cut out the pieces, and put them together again. She used to come in and look at it, almost with tears in her eyes, because she said it reminded her of home. Poor lady! She a was very kind to us, though she never could bear to see us touch a drop of beer. She was always blow-' ing me up at dinner time, and I used to choke my- . self half to death sometimes, trying to swallow it i before she got down stairs." "And where is she now?" asked Aurelia, remem- Y bering her fellow passenger in the train. "I don't know, I am sure. She went to Germany from here, and I have never set eyes on her since. But we will go out and get a bit of dinner now, miss, if you are ready. My John will have to be off again directly." :They went into the sun-lit kitchen, where a din- 0 ner of boiled greens and carrots, an apple-pie, P' cheese, and the objectionable beer, was awaiting Y them. As Aurelia drank her glass, she related the adventure in the railway carriage, and the good-na- tured policeman began to smile. yo "'That's her! That's Miss Ginevra to a dead fO certainty. How the gentleman up-stairs would li laugh if he heard it! He's her cousin, miss, and one of the greatest composers in England, but he g' vows she is cracked, and ought to go to Bedlam; In because she is always talking about wine. Why, t when she was here, she got at all his decanters, and be put an emetic in them to cure him of drinking, and M the poor gentleman nearly died! What a row there Je was, to be sure! She went away in a huff, and I wl don't think he has forgiven her to this day." "A composer -did you say?" asked Aurelia, eagerly. "Oh, how I should like to see him." ," He's a very good looking man of his age, my dear, and he certainly does play most beautiful thbihgs on that piano up stairs-all his own compos- ing'too, l'm told. He writes operas, you know, anda. all that sort of thng. But are you fond of music?" *.' Obh, very '"' "Ai A can you sing " . ed' "A little." "Then do strike up a bit after dinner. rm so a precious fond of a good song; and my missis, here, ;o. she used to sing like a blackbird once, but she had if a fever, and lost her voice all of a sudden,a like." Ais With this request, Aurelia was only too ready to- rn comply; and when dinner was over, and honest es f John lit his pipe, and sat down to enjoy himself be-- ce fore the fire, she began to sing "Ca' the yowes to r- the knowes" in a style that made him drop his pipe, and sit with his mouth and eyes wide open, gazing at her with the most unqualified astonishment. Be. 'e fore she had finished the second verse, a heavy step e, came hurriedly down the stairs, the door was thrown d open, and a handsome grey-headed old gentleman d looked in. e "' Who is singing like that in this house?" he e asked, excitedly. o "This young lady." - "It's her, sure enough, sir," said the policeman, ; rising, and offering him a chair. "A regular night. t ingale, and no mistake!" "Pshaw! Never mind chairs, dame. Go on. young lady-go'on." Aurelia obeyed. When the song was finished he took a pinch of snuff, and looked at her fixedly. "Who are you?" lie asked. She told him. "Good!" he said, when he had heard all. "A home, which you have run away from, and which, of course, is closed against you. No friends-no parents-no one to interifere. Very good! Would you like to go on the stage?" "Oh, sir!" she said, with sparkling eyes. "Good! I will adopt you, educate you, bring you out in a few years, and let you win fame and fortune, if you can. But you will have to work like a negro all the while, mind that!" What did she care for hard work, as she eagerly grasped at the offer he made? The honest police. mail and his wife looked somewhat astonished at the hasty proceeding; but that mattered little, and, before nightfall, she had written a farewell letter to Mrs. Marshall, bade a temporary adieu to her friend Jennie, and was ready to follow her adopted father, wherever he mnight see fit to lead the way. CHAPTER XIII. fu ' If I were thou who sing'st this song, , Most wise for others, and most strong In seeing right while doing wrong, f "I would not let my pulse beat high, u As thou towards fame's regality, se Nor yet in love's great jeopardy." to E. B. B. ROwNING. i A NEw life now began for Aurelia. She, who had herethfo1' studied only to please herself, was now t obliged to regulate her taste and caprices to those l of' aaother. In the place of lounging away an hour w or two over a pleasant novel, and then playing a few 1 fanitasies by way of amusing herself, she was forced to give up every spare moment of her time to the H study of her profession. Her guardian thought every life wasted xxliich was not devoted to thhe science of sweet sounds-in fact, he was simply mu- i sic mad. To prepare Aurelia for the stage as speed- ily as possible, so that site mighlt sing his music to an enraptured audience, was his cherished dream; l and he would see, bear, or think of nothing that t did not lead directly to that cherished end. It was another version of Sinbad and the Old Man of the Sea; and thlough, at first, the girl rebelled at the yoke, her own enthusiasm and ambition woke at last, and lie found her a pupil as-apt, and eager, and ready as he could possibly desire. They went abroad at once, and spent three years in Italy-the birthplaceand home of music. These years were spent by both in study, so that Aurelia saw little or nothing of tier countrymen, who, never- theless, over-ran every phlace of note in shoals; of her early friends, she had enitirely lost all trace.- Mrs. Marshall had been so shocked and offended by her strange flight, that she would never answer the letters which the repentant fugitive afterwards sent her. Miss Landell was married, and residing in Lontdon ; Frederick had also entered the army. So much Aurelia gleaned from the public prints, but they .gave very unsutisfaictory intelligence of Mr. Leroy's movemetits. A mania for traveling seemed to have seized sud- denly upon him ; for, after visiting every nqok and corner of the Continent, he had started off"to ex- plore the Holy Landl; and, at last, had ventuied into Abvssinia, wiicl was to her much as if he had been drowned in the Styx. All hopes of ever seeing him again had well-nigh vanished; yet, if he could but come back lldd finld his poor little protegee at the very head of her profession--the idol of every musi- cal circle-how beautiful it would be! At that thought, she studied away again, harder than ever. At last, tlhy went back to England. The event- ful period had arrived; she was to be presented to.- the public, and under the most favorable auspiices which a singer could desire. The boards of the Opera House were to witness her triumph or bee failure. She had cliosen her own role, and was 'to . appear as Lucia di Lammermoor, and the hero of the piece was the greatest singer of the day, who: seemed, from the first moment of her introduction to him to beinclined to encourage'her by every mean- - in his power. Still, eveni with his praises ringing in her ears, and with the kind words of her adopted father, and the unqualified approval of the manger, to inspiro her with confidence, it must be confessed that she was horribly firightened whenever she thought of the - ordeal she was about to' undergo. The dreaded night came at last, and the Opera House was crammed from pit to gallery with fash- ionable people, .who had come to pronounce upon ,the merits of the new prima donna. All was anx- *ious expectation until she appeared, and' then on. might have heard a pin fall, while eyes and opera ) glasses in every direction were fixed 'steadily upon ; her. For one instant it seemed to her that she must t turn and fly; but the next she made the agreeable s discovery that she was near-sighted. Never was e there such a mental rejoicing over an undeniable e defect. 'She had often made dreadful mistakes in - t defining objects at a short distance, and felt angry 4 at herself in consequence. But now this misfortune proved an actual blessing, since out of that sea of s faces turned towards her she could not distinguish a singleface or feature. It was like-singing to the a walls-why need she be aftraid? "Courage!" There was no mistaking the rich, sweet voicm. that pronounced the word. It was the Italian sing- y er whlo had won and worn his own laurels so trium- t phantly, that he could well 'afford to be generous tM. a humble beginner like her. She gave him a grater- o ful look and began to sing. At the very first note, her audience looked delighI- ed. When she had finished singing, they loadAd:. her with applause, and recalled her again and aga4i d- to'mark their approval still more strongly. Sho., id went off the stage, flushed .and delighted, to receive - x- the congratulations of her friends. But, to hersur.- to prise, her guardian withheld -his, looking anxious. en and fearful. nir "Sing carefully, for heaven's salie!" was all he.- ut said ;' and, somewhat alarmed by his mannierishe- he took such pains with her execution in the following: si- scenes as to render her success unequivocal and'- lat complete. She was recalled no less than three-. er. times after -he curtain fell, Tke handsome teio/- page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] led her on twice, but at the third call l4e laughed and shook his head. "Too much for me, but you are fresh and young," he said, and placed her hand in her guardian's, while the manager followed, in obedience to the loud call for him which was just making itself heard. When the old composer, to whom the pub- lic owed this new pleasure, made his appearance, the audience rose to their feet, and the three receiv- ed an ovation that nearly smothered them with flowers. "Such a success has never been witnessed since she days of the great Queen of Song herself," said the manager, 'rapturously, when they were behind the curtain once more. But the old composer sat down in- a property chair of crimson velvet, and burst into tears. CHAPTER XIV. You'll find us all changed since you vanished- ", We've set up a national school, And waltzing is utterly banished, And Ellen has married a fool. The Mnjor is going to travel-- Miss Hyacinth threatens a rout- The walk is laid down with fiesh gravel; Papa is laid up with the gout." PRAED. IT must be a very magnificent thing to go to bed a mere unit in the world, or in society, about whose existence no one cares a rush, and wake next mor- ning to find that' existence become a matter of no- toriety, about which every one feels curious. Some people affect to sneer at this species of fame-in fact, at any fame at all. 'Tis. because they were never famous. Of course every one knows that the greatest success may be outlived-that the most brilliant reputation cannot last long beyond the grave. But what of that?"It will all be the same a hundred years hence" is very true. But a hun- dred years hence the heart that beats so now precise will be but a handful of quiet dust, and the brow longs for laurels will have strengthened the growth, it may be of a laurel itself. It is not with that aifter state that we have to do,-it't with the real and actual present, where rewards are possible, and where they often give a pleasure purer and keener than any thing else on earth can bestow. To be in love and to be loved again, is triumph enough for the early days of youth; but after one has got well on in the twenties, it seems to me, that to become famous and to grow rich are the best hllings to do, so far, at least, as this world is concerned. But one sometimes feels impatient of a certain kind of fame, which seems to be bestowed without an equivalent return. People know, for instance, that an actor, to act well, must go through a long and laborious course of training, and fight his way up from the ranks by main force of talent, energy and perseverance. So must a successful barrister and a popular clergyman toil in good earnest for the reputation they achieve. While as to writers, the brother and sisterhood of the quill are by no means disposed to pass over their peculiar grievances in si- lence, and the public know well enough all about the aching heads, the weary fingers, the dim eyes, and worn out imaginations, that go so far to make up their books. They read smoothly and well, 'it is true; but how many times has that wretched NMS. been pitched frantically across the room, in the pro- cess of compositiQn; how many times has the bewil- dered writer vowed, in the bitterness of his or her heart, to break stones upon the road, or to take in washing for a living, rather than be chained to the pen, like a galley slave to the oar, any longer for the sake of bread and butter? Take the other professions. The labour of the ballet dancer is shown in the very grace of her movements, because it is evident that human beings were not originally intended tc spin about. like tee- totums" in muslin saucers" (as Mr. Carlyle has it), or to point their toes towards the ceiling ir an exact line with- the par'ting of their back hair. One's bones acke at the thought of the practice that has produced such results, and the most hard to be pleased spectator must feel that the Cerito of thl day has fu'ly earned, so far as actual hard work goes, the shower of bouquets and the shower of go'ld which, in some happy cases, is, lavished so fully upon her. Again, when we see the piano, i made ductile and harmonious by the, human hand, I or some brass monster taught to discourse sweet music by the human breath, we understand at once t. what hours and days of hard labour have been e spent before our ears could be so leliglhted e In fact, there is not an art or science in which - people do niot recognise and appreciate the labour f and trouble of its votaries-save one. When a v singer steps upon the stage and wambles like a ,'nightingale, every one applauds most rapturously; r yet, who remembers the hours of toil llat have d been endured, in order that ,or hearts may be d thrilled by that perfect combination of melodious ,r sounds. n "So much money just for opening their mouths!" r said an old lady in my hearing one day at 6ne of II the famous Crystal Palace Concerts of 1862. She ie was gazing with an awe-struck, yet half dissatisfied a, look at a group of stars upon the stage/ consisting of Grisi, 'Tietjens, and Giugliui. "So much money just for opening their mouths!"- All the arguments of the old lady's informant i failed to convince her that the magnificent trio /.were well woffh their price. Their!eautiful voices s she could understand, but she would not believe i that it had taken time, and pains, and labour, such as she would have shuddered at, to make these 1 toices what they were. She held fast to the gen- eral idea, that a singer, like a poet, is born and i not made; and to this day, I suppose she fancies that those human nightingales sang just as well at the moment they were fledged as they do now. I am not sure that hers is not the best way of look- s ing at the m;,tter. Who cared to know,as the maeg- cal bullfinch trilled out his little song in aid of the starving operatives last summer (thus becoming in our minds a living, feathered benefactor, with a kindly heart, rather ihan a mere machine), who cared to think how ,ften that song must have been tried, note after note, with many a break and failu: before it brouglit light, and warmth, and comfort to many a desolate home? - In Aurelia's case, this popular delusion was un- usually prevalent; her- success was certain, and yet many envious people felt disposed to carp at it.- She sang so mucl like nature, that they could not( believe it was art, and so they grumbled at the fame and the gold sire won. But their grumbling did not take away the laurels or lighten her purse. iHe portrait in every window, her name on every lip. She was young-she was pietty-and she was good. She lived with her a- dopted father in the simplest style. She made no visits, and trusted to Her own dignity and his quiet pr,- tection to keep the rude and insolent at bay. T'o sing well and to make the old composer's life a proud and happy one, was all she seemed to care efor. In these two oljects she succeeded well and, perhapi, no time in her whole tlife was she so happy as tiis -when she hadi youth;' health, beauty, wealth, a kind friend, a h;ippy hiome, and the world in gen- eral at her fei t. As she s:.t one morning in her beautiful boudoir, thinking of all these things, tlhe servant announced a lady, who would not give lier name, but who most eariestly requested five min- ment s conversation with Mademoiselle Aurelia, The singer's fancy instantly turned to the im:age the pretty "Peri," fuor wholse fitte she felt so strong an interest, and she ordered the lady to be admit- ted at once. "But it was not the Peri-it was some one who would have been terribly shocked at the mere men- tion of her name.' A most fashonably-attired lady, who ran up to Aurelia, and hiehl out n pair of prim- rose-gloved hamids, crying, in a high Iffected tone of voice, "At last-at lusl we meet again!" Aurelia elevated her eyebrows, and bowed haugh- tily; but did not rise or take the proffered hand. '"O1 you are still angry, and won't be friends :" said the lady, seizing upon an easy chair, and mak- ing herself very comfortable in its cushioned depths. "That is wrong, I think, and something unchristian-' like. Don'tyou?'" "It may be, Miss Landell," said Aurelia, freez- ingly. "Oh, I have changed my name? I am Mrs. Grant Thornton now," was the hlasty reply. "Allow me to congratulate you," said Aurelia, stiffly. "When a lady like you lias attained to the height of her wildest dreams of happiness, namely, marriage-one can do no less." Far friom looking annoyed or vexed at this speech, Mrs. Grant Thornton laughed and shrugged her sholdders. "My dear creature, one must marry of course, if one can't be clever, or a famous singer, or an)- thing of that sort. How else is one to get one's living, and all the pretty things that make life worth the having?"' "Iow, indeed?' "Papa is very well off, as you know, but ours is such an expensive family ; and you can't keep up a country seat anti a house in town, For nothing. And tlhen, at lis death, everything goes to Frederick- that is, everything worth speaking ,)ff. So, of course my only plan was to get married." "I see!" "I won't say much about my hnsband epxcept to tell you, in confidbnce, that lie is the stupidest and most disagreeable man in existence, and that Idon't care a-button for him." Aurelia could not help lauglhing. "But then that does not mautter much, you know, my dear. Women now-a-days are not supposed to love their husbands very warmly." "Has the marriage service been altered, then?"' "No, you sly thing! But wlio pays any attention to tlhat now? It is a great stuff, but it serves its pulrpose, I suppose. However, let t!hat go. You will not sneer at my marriage when you see the ad- vantages I have gainled by it." "What are they '" "Such a beautiful house in Iill Street, and a country place in Berkshire ; and such a love of a carriage, all lined with blue, and drawn by a pair of dtcks- " "Ducks?" "Ducks (of horses, you know." "O11, well-go on." "T!hen I have my own saddle horse, and my - pony chaise Ibr the country, aId my toy clog, and f my opera-bo!x, and my tickets for every fashionable place of amusement in town." page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] "Well " goi "The best comes last, of course! Such numbers you of new dresses and bonnets-and oh, such diamonds, Aurelia! I declare when I first saw them, I quite held my breath! I think I would kave married Mokanna, himself, to get these beautiful diamonds." "' 1 don't doubt it in the least." "How you are laughing at me " Not at all." to "At least you are shocked." "Why should I be? 'Tis a mere matter of taste. I would rather break stones on the road than sell myself for these things-but it seems to agree with wi you. Mrs. Thorton pouted, qu "It is very well of you to talk, Aurelia. You have a profession, and you stand at the head of it. lat You can coin every note of your voice into gold, nu 'and make your hundred a night by merely opening ns vour lips. I have no such resources, yet my tastes th are far more expensive than yours. I hate poverty sL -and I like luxury. You can't have luxury without payving for it-alnd you can't get money unless you inherit it, without making some return. I had no sa ^taents-nothing but a little beauty. Mr. Thornton hi had money, and so we made the exchange." of "You are certainly growing sensible in your old age. You talk like a lawyer, or like a book," said Aurelia, looking at her with a smile. "And what h ,sort of aman is this fortunate husband of yours? Oh, a good natured, middle-aged practical h banker. We get on very well together, though I s nMust confess lie bores me terribly at times. But then I never let him know it, and I contrive to have as few lete-a-tUtes as possible ; so he is not so t great a nuisance as lie might be, if he was, encourag- ed too much." "Well," said Aurelia, " you are certainly the most honest women I ever met in my life." "Am I? It is only to you that I am so very y candid" " "And why to me" "Because you were keen and quick when a child. You saw through me then, and you did not like me, and neither dil4 like you. I might have come here to-lday i tried to pass myself off as your best friend I s the most devoted of wives, and the most discreet of women; but what good would thut have done? You hate shams, and you hate hypocrites. I found that out long ago. So I make nmy appearance in my own chwe and you can let me stay, or turn me out at y( IkeI It "I won't lurn you out ju9t yet,h you amuse me!" said Aurelia. "( But since yom are in so hon- est a mood, pray tell inme why you came at all to see me?" w "I knew you would ask that question, and & am going to tell you the exact truth. I did not like you as a child!" "I know that." "In fact, I detested you ' "Yes; but why?" "Have you never guessed?" "I did you no harm." "I am by no means sure of that.. But you ought to feel highly honored; for the truth of the matter is, that I was jealous of you!" "Indeed!" t Oh, so jealous! At that time I was in love with Captain Grey." "That 'is over now, of course?" said Aurelia, quietly. "Oh, ages ago!" she answered, with a light laugh. "I am an old married woman now-a wo- tman of the world into the bargain, and my heart is g as dry as a chip. But I had a little feeling left s then, and it was all wasted upon him. So when I y saw lhow you had taken him captive-" t "But I was a mere child!" Never mind that. You were pretty, and you * sang like an angel. That was quite enough for r him; and for me, too. I determinied to get you out of his way. I sent Frederick off, in the first place." d "Poor Fred!'" said Aurelin, sighiitig, smiling, and d blushing at the same time. ( How fond I was of Lt him then!" And so was he of you. For the matter of that, 1l he is in raptures about you again, now that he has I seen you upon the stage." Ut ("Indeed!" to "How cooly you say that! Is it all quite forgot- s0 ten, then?" ,&"We lose our first loves, b-it we don't forget them," said Aurelin, gravely. "Good! I will tell Master Freddy of that, and he'll be wilder than ever. But to ' return to our ry muttons.' After I had packed him off, my next step was to get rid of you. Do you remember our interview on that eventful morning?"' "That is another event of rny lifle which I shall never forget, Mrs. Thornton." "Or forgive. Well, never mind. If you will be as so revengeful, I can't help it. I called you a White- chapel ballad singer, you know!" "I remember it too well." "And you ran away, to the despair of Mrs. Mar- shall, the horror of my father, and the astonishment of the neighborhood in general. I held my tongue the part I had acted in the matter, for I con- fess I felt some compunctious visitings, till I heard, through a musical friend of mine, of a wonderful' singer who had been picked up in some mysterious way by Mr. Moore, the composer. I instantly mado am further inquiries, and, finding it was. really you, troubled my head no more abou t yo'9 till, to my great surprise, I recognised you on the stage lthat night of your debut.' Since then Frederick has wor- ried my life out to pay this call; and so, I have come-- "To worship the rising star," said Aurelia com- posedly. Well, why iint?" was the instant reply. "I am only following the general example; and if you had remained plain Aurelia Gresham, a good singer, not one of all these people would have besieged your door as they do now." * It is true." "1 I should never have sought you out myself, if it had not been for your success." "I like your candor, Mrs. Thornton. It almost ilis away with the old grudge tlhat has existed be- tween us." ** Ten prove it," said Mrs. Thornton, eagerly. "By coming to my house.'" Aureiia shook her hlead. "I never pay visits. "I Iknow. And what nonsense that is! Do you know whnt people say about it already?' "No.7 "That Mademoiselle Aurelia is so absorbed in th, ;wii 'y of her parts-with the hero at, her side- that she i,; s no lime to waste on ordinary mortals, who have not, like the handsome tenor, a nest of nightingales in their throats." Aurelia frowned, and turned crimson. I wish people would mind their own business," he said, petulantly. Ali, but they won't in any case, and how much yours! Come, Aurelia, let us enter into an alliance, offensive and defensive." "On what terms?" I give large parties, which, of course, I wish make as attractive as possible. If you could only come to them, it would make my success com- plete. On the other hand, my avowed friendship for you might do you good some duy. 'No lion knows when the help of the humble mouse may stand him in good stead." "It is trIue!' "Then will you come?" For the sake of Frederick and the old times, I may. I should like to see that boy again!" "Boy! 'lHe is an elegant young Guardsman now -and far more your slave than ever! He will go mad with joy when he hears you are coming-al- though, between ourselves, lie is engaged to his cousin. Shlll I say next Thursday-I have a party then?" "Yes, if you like." 6S Thanks-a thousand times!" "Shall I see Captain Grey?" asked Aurelia, with a smile. "Oh, yes! He is my right hand man at these parties. Will Signor Paolo come " "If I ask him." "Then do; and I will write him a note." She rose to go, and held out her hand. This time Aurelia took it, and held it a moment in both hers. "Mind-we are not friends 1" she said; "but we will help each other, if we can-shall we?" "With all my heart!" "In any way?" "In any way." "Remember that promise-and remember, also, that you are always to be as honest with ine as you have been to day. Now, good-bye!" So ended this queer interview. It seemed to Au- irelia more like a scene in a play than a stern and actual reality. CHAPTER XV We parted. Months and years rolled by; We met again, four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh, Our meeting was all mirth and laughter. a For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room belle, But only Mrs.-Something-Rogers!" PRAED. THERE were three reasons which influenced Au- relia when she accepted her old enemy's invitation. In the first place, though a successful singer, she was but a girl, with all 'a girl's love for gay scenes, fine clothes, and plenty of people to tell her how much she graced them. In the second place, she was a little anxious to see Frederick again. And, in the third, Mrs. Thornton's remark about the Italian singer had startled hier a little more than she was willing to own. Waas the world already beginning to couple her name with his? It was true that between rehear- sals, and acting, and private practices, tihe greater part of their time was spent together. But at the rehearsals there were always plenty of people around them. At night an applauding publlic watch. ed their every look ind movement ; and if he came s to her own house to practice their duets, the old y composer never left the room. They had never been alone together for an instant, and till those unlucky words were spokemi, the girl never dreamed that he was aniything more to her than a brother. page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] Now, however, her eyes were opened. Her curly fondness for Frederick had taught her something of Fr her own heart; the feeling for the Italian, which :at was growing stronger day by day, was to teach her yet more. He was certainly one of the most dangerous lift companions she could have selected. He was beau- he lifhl in every sense of the word, if regular features,. clustering hair, a pure olive complexion, dark flash- an ing eyes, and the most graceful of figures, could ed make him so. But his regular features and elegant loo figure were not his greatest charms. To the South- tel ern fire and vivacity which belonged to him of right, ea he added a sort of nameless witchery-a kind of im- dr patient, yet beguiling haughtiness-a careless, yet Au enticing pettishness of manner, that took 'an im- of pressioianble imagination by storm. His health was wi sufficiently delicate to render him an object of inter- est and care, to begin with; and before they had l, known each other long, Aurelia would wrap liim up n as if he had been a child, and scold him roundly ne when, through negligence, he exposed himself to the danger of taking cold. Then, with what heed- less. sweetness lie received her reproofs--how mis--of chievous were his pretences of penitence-all gener- ally ending in a burst of laughter, as musical as the ringing of silver bells! As wilful, as provoking, as incorrigible as a sprite, she found him ; and yet so gay, so pla fully fond, so innocent of all intention to i offend, that it was the keenest of pains to be angry with, and the most delicious of pleasures to forgive him. He liked ease, luxury, and splendour-'he hated everything that was harsh and unlovely; he was a thorougli Sybarite, and therefore, of course, thoroughly selfish--yet who could blame hm? lie had that fatal gilt of fiascination which blinds every eye to faults and imperfections, and Aurelia could see nothing in him that was not to be admired, loved-almost adored! Yes, it had come to that, and Mrs. Thornton was the first to teach her the real nature of her feelings towards him. Aurelia was of the order of natural queens, and those who loved or sought her were forced to do their wooing humbly, and on their l,ended knees. But now the tables were turned, and she was the one to love--perhaps the one to woo. When a proud, imperious woman finds that thifs is the case, when her whole nature is for the moment enslaved, by that little scantily-clad tyrant, who makes motre mischief in this world than he or any one els,' can ever set iight again, it seems that she cannot all;us. herself suffiieantly before her idol. She is content, nay, proud, to serve where she' was served before; and down into the .dust goes ti;it stately head tiht was crowned with a corotiet e scorn, down illLo the dust, and the luwet the belter. Happily, these inratuntions do not last very long. From their very nature, and the nature of the being -at whose feet they are poured out, tley cannot But they cast a shadow, even in their memory, over a woman's existence, a shadow which is never lifted, it may be, till the daisies are growing over her, and the weary farce of life is at an end. Aurelia had to sing on the evening of the party, and Paolo was engaged elsewhere, so she was oblig- ed to keep her appointment alone. Mrs. Thornton looked disappointed at this, for she admired the tenor singer exceedingly, and would have given her ears to have established him as a frequenter of her drawing-rooms However, it was something to have Aurelia there, and she led her forward with an air of affectionate intimacy, that made the singer laugh wickedly in her sleeve. She was introduced to Mr. Thornton, a clumsy, shy-looking man, who seemed utterly extinguished by his fashionable wife. One or two ladies were next presented, and then Aurelia found her hand seized by a tall, handsome young man, who exelaim- ed, "Have you forgotten me?" in the most meaning "of tones. "Why, it is Frederick!" she cried, and, greeted him withi the greatest cordiality. He felt inexpress- ibly vexed at the open warmth of her manner. She did not blush or sigh, but shook hands -with him, as if he had been her grandfihther, and told him how lhandsome he had grown! Not a bit of' sentimentin htier! And lie bad told Ellen Manning, to whom he was engaged, so much of Aurelia's early love for him, that that young lady had been watchilg for her Iappearance in a state of the most intense jealousy, greatly to his delight. Ellen was a woman, and therefore a natural free- mason. He glanced across the room, and saw her t ialking to one of his brother officers, with an air of the most placid unconcern. She had seen that sis- terly greeting. lie could never make her jealous of Aurelia any more, and the young coxcomb felt as if d lie could knock his head against the wall, simply o because a flamous and petted singer had forgotten her early penchant for him, and did not faint when me she first caught sight of his altered face once If he could have looked iito Aurelia's heart, he d, might have been a little better satisfied. True, her re girlish attachment'to him had died out for waut of an aliment, and was utterly eclipsed now by the s. stronger presence of the woman's love. But, at }sight of him, all the old memories of the eiarly ,aJ!,lavs came back, and in the place of glaring foot. ;.t ih hrs und applaluding crowls, there was the simple ',ft,.thage, the' g6 rden fill of roses and violets, the ,r. [lonely moor, and the singing of the birds ; A cool wind seemed to freshen her cheeks, at the first tone of his voice, and flowers bloomed, and blue skies1 beamed, whenever-she looked into his eyes. g' A feeling of unutterable sadness stole over her. Why could they not always hiave remained children? How much better was that simple, innocent exist- ence than this whirl of fashionable excitement i i which they were now moving! How much better, l even, that innocent child's love than the more fever- ish passion which consumed her heart, and might never, after all, bring her happiness in the place of that peace which it, had taken away forever! Still, she gave utterance to none of these thoughts but smiled graciously on Frederick, and was intro- duced to Miss Maniting, who was charmed by hera unaffected demeanor, and playful reminiscences of her rambles with Frederick, upon the moors and through the lanes, in her childish days; those ram- bles thait had heen sighed over by the young Giuards- E man as if they were sacred things-how simple and harmless they became as Aurelia's laughing voice desribed them. Miss Manning was fo longer jealous. It may be thut Aurelia, conscious of the engagement, and knowing something of Master Frederick's disposi- tin, had sought her out oni purpose to set her heart at ease. 'As she left the young lady's side, a gentleman crffne up and held out his hand with a friendly smile. His face was familiar to her, and yet she could not recall his name. Heo watched her eviden'l eonfusion for a moment; lie laughed, and then slie knew him. "Mr. Aubrey!" "The same! How little we dreamed when I had the h,nor of assisting Leroy to convey his little waif to Charnl'y, tlat I should meet you in a place like this?" "Oh! where is Mr. Leroy?" asked Aurelia, ea- gerly. "( In the Holy Land once more," answered M:. Aubrey. Is lihe never coming back?" "That I cannot say. He likes the East very much. Perhaps he is going to settle out there and be a Turk." "Oh, you always liked laughing at me ." ihe ex- claimed. "I know I did, Miss GCesham, but I am in earnest this time." "Do you know-has he heard of my leaving Oharnley?" 1 Of course! A letter from Mrs. Marshall, near- ly three miles long, relating the fact of your disap- pearance, reached him in China. I was with him whon it cume." "What did he say?" I would rather not tell you," he answered, ro- guishly. "Pray do." "He said you were an ungrateful little monkey, and that it Served him right for bothering Ihis head ingaili about anything of the female sex," said he, laughing. "Does he hate women?" "A little." s, Why?" u The usual reason.'? Well?" "His cousin Helen jilted him when he was quite a young man. Don't youl remember, Miss Gresham, I how angry he was when- they put her clothes ou you?" "Yes." "He has never got over it, in all these years. He hates her vry name, and -for her sake, all wo- men!" "Indeed!" "Site did serve him shabbily, and though they were engaged, the very night before the wedding she ran away with an actor, and left poor Leroy in the lurch. I'was a mere boy at the time, but I have lieard the whole story since I went abroad with lhim." "And what became of her!" a She went on the stage." "Well?" " don't know any more, because I never knew the name of the man she married. I heard after. wards that Leroy knew of him at the time, and- thlu tile last words he ever spoke to his cousin were a warning against the fellow." "Wrote!" said Aarelia. But the next nioment she remembered how and - where she got her information and, blushing scarlet, wus silent. "Perhaps so,' said Aubrey, indifferently. "At all events, lie never forgave her. But I think he will forgive you wlien lie hears nall I can say about y you. I will write Co him to-morrow," he added, d pleasantly. -Do." ". And may I call and tell you what answer I re. ceive?" t "Certainly." "We were not very good friends once, I think. g You did not like me very much when you were a child." r- "Because you did not like me," she answered, 1- frankly. n "At least you will not have that reproach to make now."' page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] She bent her head with a gracious smile of adieu. Mr. Aubrey paying compliments to her! What ev next? The next came in the shape of a musical, reproach- ful voice at her elbow. "A greeting for all your old friends except me! it said. - Turning round, she saw Captain Grey, lookilng exactly as he did when he rode away from the gate of Charnley, on that morning so long-so very long ni ago! She was really glad to see him, and to receive his' congratulations on the proud position she had an, attained. But slte was unprepared to find him mo- nopolizing her during the remainder of the evening, ta as- he endeavored to do. He a.'e her to understand, by looks, and tones, and whispers, that earth had been a desert to bim r'om the time she had disappeared so mysteriously from Charnley, till she had risen, a glorious star, up-, on the operatic stage. True, she laughed in his face at this rhapsody, and told him that pitting away had certainly made him grow stout and ruddy ; but her ridicule wislost upon him. It was his end and aim to prove to her that she had been the star of his existence; and at last, tired of uttering disbelieving exclamations, she listened to him in silence, and let her thoughts wander to the beautiful Paolo, whose pictured face, in a golden and jewelled case, rested at that momenti on her heart. The evening passed very pleasantly. People who had watched Aurelia upon the stage, as if she had been a goddess, were charmed to find her so accessible and unaffected in her manners. Of course, no one ventured to ask her to sing. Yet as they were breaking up, she sat down of her b own accord to the piano, and gave them "Good- night, good-night, my dearest' as simply as if she had been some young lady on her promotion, instead of the finest prima donna the good city of London I had ever known. The song ended, she shook hands with her host- ess, bowed to the admiring guests, and taking Fred- I crick's proffered arm, glided gracefully from the room. Captain Gray made his escape at the same time, and was waiting, ready to hand her into her carriage. "Do you sing to-morrow night!" he inquired of -her. "Yes." Then there will be no chanceeof seeing you dur-j ing the day?" "I think not. I have to attend rehearsal, you know." "When may I come?" "I am going to have a little party to-morrow evening, after the opera is over-a supper party," she said. "Indeed!" exclaimed Captain Gray, in the most delighted of tones. "Will you both join it, and bring Mr. Aubrey with you?" "Yes." "Tell Mr. Aubrey I said he was to come. Good night!" Aurelia drove away. The old rivals fell back a pace or two, and glared angrily at each other. But this time the captain certainly had the advan- tage. He was a free, unfettered man, and he regis- tered a vow at that moment in his heart which he fully intended to keep. I - CHAPTER XVI. . . blended in my wreath The violet, and the blue harebell, t And one frail rose in its earliest bloom ; 'r Alas! I meant it for thy hair, it And now I fling it on thy tomb, se To weep and wither there! 7. Fare ye well -fare ye well!" li PRAED. THE few weeks that succeeded this re-union with old friends were perhaps the happiest of Aurelia's d life. Worshipped in public, and adored at home, d she reigned the queen of a brilliant circle, to every 5. member of which her word was law. No sooner a ' had she emerged from her seclusion than invitationr er by the score poured in upon her. She was the wad. come and honouread guest of the highest in the lan t e and her own evenings were made brilliant by ar "t assemblage of wit, beauty, wealth, and rank, suct O"! us has seldom been seen in London since the davy ;of the beautiful Lady Blessington. Mary a noblh St-:malron' rejoiced to call Aurelia fi iend-many? d- Inoble matron's son or brother would gladly have call he ed her wife. If she was unspoiled by this sudder tiC storm of flattery and attention, it was owing to on. ter 'thing alone. She was in love for the first time.- IAnd a real, sincere passion will make the proudest of woman on earth feel humble and afraid. Two women divided, at this time, the attentiu,. of London. The one was Aurelia--tlhe other a ur-ibeautiful adventuress, wltose very existence was a ,scandal and a shame, according to the matrons of you Belgravia. Aurelia, hearing this, ventured to ask jtimidly, which was worst-tithe sinner, or those who I aided and abetted, and countenanced the smin -but 3-- was met with such an outhreak of virtuous indigna- tion, that she never ventured to open her lips upon the subject again. Yet how her heart yearned to- wards the poor, brilliant, beautiful "Peri," who was setting all London by the ears, and who, in the days of her poverty and distress, had been so very kind to her. More serious thouglits came, ere long, to distract her attention from the thousand and one vagaries "and escapades of the "Lady of Rotten Row." The health of her benefactor, w'hich had been delicate for some time, suddenly began to fail in a startling and unexpected manner. At first he was confined to the house ; then to h is room; and, last- ly, to his bed. The doctors recommended that last resource--" a warm climate;" but lie refused to, leave England. Nor would he allow Aurelia to re- sign her engagement for the purpose of nursing him. She spent the greater part of each day at his bedside, and, during the hours of her necessary ab- since, a faithful and experienced nurse supplied her place. Yet all the while the old man was going slowly to the grave! She knew it-she felt it ; and only the love which she dared to acknowledge at last, because it was sought, and openly returned, could have supported her in that trial. Paolo was hers! Whatever of luin and death might fall upon her, nothing could alter that one glorious truth, since he had sealed it with his kisses, as he had sworn it with his tears! One box-or. rather, the inmate of one box- was evidently the centre of attraction on a particu- lar evening of Aurelia's engagement. When Au- relia was not. on the stage, nearly every glass was turned that way ; and many a whisper, circled round the house, as the lady who sat there gazed com- ,posedly back upon the people in return. Ladies agreed together that it was shameful-that such per- sons really ought not to be tolerated-that a box should not have been given to her. Gentlemen smiled at each other, winked, and looked knowing, as if they were more privileged than their fiellows in having the lionor of thee bright stranger's acquain- tance. She was very young to cause an excitement so in- tense, so universal, and so' profound. A fair young girl, of apparently about twenty years of age, who sat alone in the box with as much apparent ease as if she had been surrounded by a host of aristocratic friends. Her dress was of pale blue silk, and she wore a coronet uft diamonds, and a diamond brace. let, that of' themselves were well-nigh worth a prince's ransom. She looked so fair, so delicate, so refined, with her liesh complexion, her bright blue / eyes, and soft, gold colored hair, that strngi'.rs who, saw her for the first time could scarcely lbelive, that she was the woman whose mad pranks and sinful extravagance were making the polite circles of Lon- don stand aghast with horror and astoilishment. Yet so it was; young and beautiful though swle might be, she bore a name whose sad significance told a tale of itself. "The Peri." Everybody knew who the Peri was, and to whom she belonged. When she drove in the Park, people thronged the iron railings to gaze at her and her ponies; when she rode, the Ladies' Mile was crowded in the same inconvenient and indecent manner. The young noblemen who had the privilege of touching their hats to, or perhaps of exchanging a word with, this goddess of the houi, were looked upon as the most fortunate of their sex. Her picture in the shop windows jostled that of the virtuous and matronly Queen-nay, was often put beside that of a fair young princess, or the daughter of some lordly house. Wives and mothers, abhorring her presence, were yet obliged, in public, to tolerate it; and there was one proud home, on which the sin and shame of her existence rested with a double shadow, a double significance. Two members of that home were present at the Opera on this particular night. One, a gentle lady, whose pale face bore marks of patient care, and lonely self-sacrifice; the other a proud young beauty, with flashing eyes aiid raven hair, who scarcely at- tended for an instant to the business of the stage, but sat apart, leaning her head upon her hand, and looking moody and irritated to the last degree. Both ladies were aware of the presence of the Peri -both knew, only too well, thie relationship in which she stood to one whom they loved, and would have been glad to honor, if they could have done so. It was one of those bitter cups which, I think, are held oftenest to the lips of those who are highest in the land-one of those deadly outrages for which nothing short of a coronet, an opera box, and prince- ly settlements can possibly compensate. Just as the curtain was about to rise for the last time, the door of the Peri's box opened, and a handsome young nobleman looked in. She turned towards him will an air of freezing courtesy, and asked what he wanted. "Aw-only to say how lovely you are looking, and- !" What else, he had no time to explain, for the lady, though she knew him well, was in no mood for jesting just then. She drew a little silv r mounted pistol from her bosom, and, turning he back to the house, said, in a low voice," My lord, you are an insolent puppy, and if you don't shut that door, and take yourself off in just two seconds, I shall offer you my compliments through this Lube." page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] The young man vanished with commendalle cle w rity, and she beard his friends laughing at him in I dred the lobby, for his want of success. "Brainless idiots!" she muttered, as she turned stra with flushed cheeks towards the stage. But the sive look of annoyance vanished an instant after, when! the curtain rose, and the favourite tenor came on int to sing his great song. She listened with clasped hands--with tears in bi her eyes. How often-oh, how often had she heard i that song in Venice-how often had that same an- un gelic voice sung it, and to her-to her alone--as i their gondol;. glided slowly over the still lagoon. s And now those breathless people were hanging oil his lips as well as she-the Peri, who stood no longer at the gate of Eden, but rather on the brink hai of Hades i AM the last notes died away, the Italian glanced up at the box where she was sitting. She knew it. that he would do so; she knew how that song must o remind him of her,.and the happy days gone by. She had a knot of flowers in her breast, and, as lhe h storm of bouquets began to fall, she threw hers oi down among them. lie picked it up and hid it ill his vest before he secured the others. Quick as the bl action had been, it was noticed by some whose eyes it were upon them both, and a slight but distinct hiss sa resounded throuugh the theatre. Nevertheless, the t. Peri did not shrink away, nor did the singer throw wo her flowers down again. Thnking, apparently, libat w so long as he sung his best, the public had no possi- w ble excuse for meddling with his private attachments or friendships, he marched off in triumph, laden with his floral spoils, and the heart that was so lov- u - ing, if so guilty, beat happily again. So far, so good. But in the next scene Aurelia 1 appeared, and after the first glance at lihe, the "Lady of the Camelias" sat back in her box breathless with astonishment. She had many . ' whim, and her latest one had been an almost total 1 avoidance of the places of public amusements, of which, in general, she w is so fond. Consequenltly, she had never seen the new prima donna. But she recognised her at once. There she was-the poor, unknown girl whom she had saved from a fate like her own. Years had passed, and they met again-i- the one the cynosure of every eye; the other--al what was she'! The pale fugitive of that sunny morning was now the brilliant queen of the stage-- her preserver was a by-word and reproach to every honest man and woman alike! The poor girl hung her head sadly, and watched the scene through her tears. They dried at last, however, and her blue eyes began to flush. Paolo -her Paolo-was siinging I But ho was lie look- ing at this woman whom she had saved? What glances-what smiles were those-what embrace was ithat? She had seen him on the stage a hun- I dred times before, and had felt horribly jealous of the actresses witl, whom lie played; ,but now the strange sinking at her heart, so new and so oppres- sive, warned her that a far more dangerous rival was befor'e her. Was it likely that Paolo, thrown into constant and familiar companionship with that handsome woman, associated with her in all the brilliancy" of her triumphs, and dependent on her, in a measure, for his own-was it likely that he could turn firm this queen of song, in her fresh and glow- ; ing loveliness, and remain constant to that pale siadow of. the past, to which she herself, in spite ot i all her sins, was, at heart, so faithfiul! She felt that it could not be. She felt that she ; had lost him, and that Aurelia occupied her place. In that moment, the pale lady opposite, in her ducal d box, was amply revenged, could she but have known v it. For every pang she had inflicted upon that ;t gentle soul, a hundred, nay, a thousand, tore the heart of the poor Per. In the wreck of her life, e she had clung fist to one jewel of great price-her 's only love, and the memory of its pure endearments, in which seemed like a green oasis in the waste and e barren desert where she was wandering now. And s it was gone! At least, its beauty was tarnished, ss and it could never be a spell and talisman against ie the lowest depths of evil to her any more, Paolo w was false-Paolo loved another. It mattered little at what the 'future brought, after that one fatal truth si- was known. ts He did not look up as he went off the stage for en the last time. She had scarcely expected it, and )v- yet lhe wore her flowers! She would not wait to see him lead Aurelia out before the curtain, but wrap- li.; ping her cloak closely around her, and taking tho lde diamonds from her hair, she stole softly out, under ,x cover of the applause, and gliding down a private a staircase where she had often been before, waited tal ,patiently in the darkest corner of the narrow hall. of A door opened and shut upon the landing above; ly, then slhe heard voices and steps. she " ' Take care!" said those musical tones which she ll knew so well. "lThe stairs are slteep, and I think' ike they have turned off the gas, purposely that we may i- break our necks." ah i!"Oh, we are too precious for that," said the lady, lny laughing. "So long as we draw houses like that e- of to-night, they will not make away with us. But very you are right, they might give us a little more light, considering all things." :hed1 "What have you done with your flowers?" asked last, the Italian, as they gained the hall. aolo t "My maid takes charge of them. They are her ook- perquisites, after the rings and bracelets are taken VliaL out. 'Do you know, I fancy she sells Lhem?" )race I, "Very likely!" "Be6ause sometimes they look so very familair. I wonder if the same people buy them to fling at me each night?" Paolo laughed. A dark figure glided out of the shadow, and stood before them. "What is that?" asked Aurelia, shrinking closer to her companion. "Some supernumerary I suppose. Who is there?" "A friend," said a soft sweet voice, and the heavy cloak fell aside, and revealed the graceful form of the wearer. Both started back with surprise. But while Au- relia fixed a glance of astonished recognition on the stranger, the Italian turned very pale, and muttered si,nething between his clenched teeth. "Louisa!" said Aurelia, "Can it be you?" "It is me!" said the girl, quietly. "Do you wish to speak to me?' "Yes." "1 am going home. Will you come with me' in the carriage?" At this the Italian interposed. "Impossible, Aurelia! Do you know who she is?" The girl shrank back as if he had struck her. "Paolo! Paolo! You to say that!"- she wailed. She had had many a bitter moment in her life, but never one like that. But he never even heard her, he was so busy exppstulating with Aurelia. "Think what people will say if you take her home with yon." !"She was my friend when I needed one," said Aurelia, steadily. "And I will be your friend again!" said the girl, in a tone that made Signor Paolo wince. "OCome then, with me." Aurelia seated herself in the carriage. The girl followed. Signor Paolo shrugged his shoulders and turned away.. "Paolo," said'Aurelia, softly, "what else can I do? She was kindl to nme, and she wishes to see me. Surely there is no great crime in my granting - her request. My dear father is so much worse tt , I dare not stay here any longer to listen to her. Don't be angry, Paolo, but just shake hands and say good night." "You disregard my wishes, and slight my coun- sel!" he said, coldly. "Very well! Go your own way, and see if you are any the happier for it. 'For my part, I shall go back and take a look at the ballet." He walked away, humming the serenade he so often sung, and, with a sigh, Aurelia gave the order i ,to dri+e home. 'Neither she nor her companion spoke till they reached her home at Brompton. The patient was sinking rapidly. The doctor, meeting her on the stairs, told her frankly how much she hd to fear. "He is unconscious now," he said, "and he mnay never speak again. But I fear he will not see an- other day. Tears were in Aurelia's eyes as she entered the drawing-room, where the Peri wns wandering rest- lessly up and down, looking at the books and pic- tures. "I cannot stay with you long," she said. "My dear guardian-the kindest friend I have in all the world-is dying, and I must be ..beside him at the last." The girl looked greatly shocked. "If 1 h;d known that, I would not have come. You will have trouble enough to bear without my telling yon,-and yet you ought to know!" ' Ought to know what?" "\Vill you answer me one question frankly and truly?" "Yes." "Do you love Signor Paolo?" Aurelia had not expected that, ana she blushed violently. "Pray tell me? I have a motive for asking!" "Yes, I do love him!" said Aurelia, bravely. "And so do I. He was the young lover of whom I told you when we met before. I worship the very ground he walks on. I shall always..do it till I die." "Have you any claim upon him? Is he your lover still?" asked Aurelia, sternly, feeling herself wronged and outraged by the mere suspicion. "I have no claim upon him. But another has." "What do you mean 7" "Paolo is married." Aurelia sank into a chair. For an instant the whole room whirled round hier. Then she rallied a little. "Are you sure of this?" she asked. "I swear that it is true! I have seen' his wife a hundred times. She is an Italian ; but they separat- ed years ago. I came to tell you this out of pure kindness-without knowing who you were. I heard you were flnd of each other-that it was thought you would marry him at the end of the season. It matters nothing to me now. He has cast me-. ff- lie caies for me no longer; and i am going taAus- tralia to-morrow with some one who is foolish enough to risk hiis heart, his fortune, and his honor, in my keeping. But, before I sailed, I came to. see you upon the stage. I knew you at once, and was all the more determined to save you. Hate me, if you 4 page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] like, but beware of him. I have told you nothing alo] but the truth." a Aurelia sat in silence for a long tuine, her face hag shaded by'her hand. 'hen shl. remembered the e death-bed of her friend, and stat tc d up. she "I must go,", she said. "As for you, poor child! smi is there nothing I can do for you? I have heard of loo you so often, and my heart has ached!" The girl smiled. "Yes, I am pretty well known-one of the lions'her of London, in fact." as * "Why will you not give up this life? I will fatl be your friend; I will find a happy home for you hei among good people, if you will but stay here a little while." "Good people! They would be the death of thr me!" said the Peri, with a musical laugh. "No;iSh I must go on as I have began, so long as I can find Sh fools in the world to dance down the broad road wa with me." "It is a pity. So young, so beautiful, and so kind frc as you a e,". said Aurelia, with a sigh. Ul Don't trouble vour head about me; I am not dil worth it. And now I will go. Will you kee p these kn in memory of a wretch whose only good quality ha was, that she loved you, and would have died to hi serve you?" She laid a brace of miniature pistols, elegantly it wrought and mounted with silver, on 'the table. m "They may be of use to you some day," she said. hi "And n1ow good-bye for ever." di She caughit Aurelia in her arms--kissed her- - cried "Forgive me!" and ran solbbing from the sa room. They never met in life again. tl Aurelia went up to her guardiai's room, sad nd troubled about many things. He died that night, t so quietly that those who watched beside him e thought at first th t-ha was sleeping. And Aurelia, S sobbing upon his silent heart, prayed wildly that she i might tloiow him-and yet lived ona b CHAPTER XVIL t dI His eyes grew cold, his voice grew strange, They only grew more dear; She served him meekly, anxiously, With love, half faith-half fear. UAnd can a fond and faithful hleart Be worthless in those eyes? For all! it beats-all, woe to those Who such a heart despise!" L. E. L. ON the evening after the funeral, Aurelia t alone in her drawing-room, her head bent upon he hands, her eyes full of tears. She looked pale, haggard, and wretchedly ill. Her beauty was dim- meal rather than enhanced by the deep mourning she wore. Slhe needed bright colours and pleasant smiles to make her lovely, and without them she looked almost plain. But for that she cared very little just then. She felt wretched and thoroughly alone. Her best and truest firiend had gone from her forever, and she missed and mourned for him !as if he had been a real, rather than an adopted, 'father. There had been miny inquiries made at !her door during her seclusion; there had been let- ters by every post offering advice, aid, comfort, and counsel; but half of them lhad been read idly and. ' thrown aside, while the rest were still unopened, ISlie felt sick of the world and all its people. She wanted nothing more to do with them in any way. She fancied this new feeling proceeded solely from grief at her loss. But there she was mistaken. Undeilying all that sorrow, was a lingering thrill of t distrust and alarm which she would not as yet ac- i nowledge to herself. The stoiy of the Peri still haunted her; and though the illness and death of l her benefactor had prevented her from ascertaining if it was really true, she felt in-her own heart that y it must be. Whaetver'the fauits of the poor Peri might have been where thers were concerned, she L. had acted the part of a friend towards her in her direst need. Might she not be acting that part - again, and stretching forth an ever-willing hand to e save Aurelia from a far greater danger than had threatened her before? d As she mused, and sighed, and wondered over t, this question, the door opened softly, and some one m entered. She looked up. By the filding twilight ai, slhe recognized Paolo himself, and held outher hand. ie He took it with a fervent pressure. They had not been alone together till then, since the evening they had parted at the Opera House--parted unkindly, andt now they were triends once more. "I will ask him to-night. It cannot be true," th()ouht Aurelia, as he took a seat by her side, and begai to say a few words of condolence. d"Do you miss me at the Opera?" she asked, looking up suddenly. Horribly!" "And the people?" "If they did not know, and feel for the cause of your absence, they would get up a riot, I believe. As it is, they listen to your successor with a placid, bored look, such as you iever see except on an English face. When shall you come back to us, Aurelia?" J "That depends. I want first to talk with you sat Paulo." He began to fidget about in his chair, and look annoyed. "It is best that we understand each other tho- roughlly." "Most certainly." "We have been very happy during this season, singing together." ' Happy?" he said, clasping his hands, while his beautiful face lookod positively radiant. "It has been the sweetest, the dearest, the most golden time of my whole life?" "And I, Paolo," she said, looking at him with the most undisguised tenderness and admiration, for his beauty and grace might well have turned a cool- er head than hers-"I can also say that, till now, I never knew what real happiness was!" "Carissima!" he murmured, bending over her, and gazing into her face, with his dark eyes full of melting love. "Stop!" she said, struggling against th e flood of idolatory that filled her heart at that look and tone. "Beautiful as you are, Paola, much. as I love you, something stands between us still." "What is it, m y a'ngel?" "The Peri." He bit his. lip and frowned, "Wlhat is she to me, now?" "Ah!" said Aurelia, tenderly and sadly. "I wonder if, in years to come, you will say that of me?" "Impossible!" "I don't know. If anything should part us, yon may yet say to another woman, ' Aurelia!-surely you are not jealous of her? What is she to me- now?' Will you ever say that, Paolo?" "' My love, the stars may fall from heaven, but I shall never chaige to you. ' Did you tell her so?" "Nevel;." "And yet you loved her 9? "Yes, hut not as I love you. She was a mere child, you must remember. Why should that early love stand between us, now that it is quite over and gone?" "You saw her,--you visited her until she went away? "At limes." 5 Paolo's face flushed scarlet as he spoke these words. I But Aurelia was looking thoughtfully at a ring t she wore, Iand did not notice it. Holding ip that ring before his eyes, she said, , softly: "Do you remember when you gave that to me. I. Paolo?" a "Do you think that I could forget? It was on u 4 k the evening when I first dared to tell you that I loved you." "And you told me something else lt the same time." "Yes." i, "That I was to wear it as a pledge of your love till you could replace it by another, a plain gold S one."2 s ".I remember." e "But' the Peri told me that that time would never come," she exclaimed, looking suddenly up in his h face. r Again the scarlet color tinged his cheeks and mounted to his brow. "What do, you mean, Aurelia?" he inquired. quickly. "She told me that you had a wife already," she "replied. There was a long silence. His eyes fell; he could not meet her eager, ques- tioning look. Her heart sank heavily.- Was it, indeed, true? No, she could not believe it! It was too horrible a thought to be credited for an instant. "Why don't you speak, Paolo?" she asked, at length, shar:ply. "What shall I say?" "Have you a w;ife?'V He hung his head sadly. "What did she tell yon that for? What good could it do her to mt ke us both unhappy?" he ex- cla imed. "Is it true, Paolo? , Yes." "You have a wife 7tv "Yes y "She is living?" "Yes." There was another long silence. Anr'.lia looked stunned. At last she drew off the ring that she had kissed so often before she sunk to sleep. "Wly,did you give me this, then?" she asked. "Why did you lead me to believe that I was to be your wife?"t Ho flung himself at her feet, clasped his arms aroltd her, laid his bead in her lap, and burst into tears. At that, she forgave him all, even before he had askedi for forgiveiess. She loved him so dea;ly, thiat to see him siiffi ritg was positive pain and tor- t1.t'e to her. She was ready to do anything, to bear anything, rathler tlian any sorrow should so bow hig proud, beautiful head iu the dust. page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] "Hush, Paolo!" she said, bending over him with ed th all the tenderness of a mother. "I did not mean to all m pain you so. Never mind; tell me how it happened. who Come, that bright face ought never to be stained by He looked up at her almost with a glance of ado- ofh ration. "You are a forgiving angel, Aurelia, I swear I never thought of wronging you. Do you believe that?" iv "If you tell me so." "Upon my honor, upon my soul, I never did! he T exclaimed. "Well, tell me more about it. When were you to married?" "Years ago." "In Italy?" "Yes?" "Well?" "I wals a mere boy at the time." "And your wife?" "She was of humble birth, a beautiful peasant girl. But, you know, Aurelia, that I am a peasant's me "'I never knew it before, but, my bright Paolo, you are the son of Apollo as well, and who can have higher parentage than that? Where did you meet her'first 'i" "We lived near each other as children. W a were always togcther on the holidays, and when I was eighteen and she was sixteen, we were mar- ried!" "Poor boy!" murmured Aurelia, softly. Did you love Iher?" "Yes, as a boy loves." "Go o." ohe is "She was very beautiful, nay, she is beautifu still." "Did she love you?" "Not a whit?" "Why, then, did she may you?" asked Aurelia, in astonishment. "To get away from her home, and from her old grandmother, who worried her life out with rosaries and the penitential psalms," answered Paoio, almost laughing. Well, go on.' "We went to Florence. It was my most earnest wish to study music, but I was too poor. I wis too poor," "Well, Paolo, what next?' "I was lucky enough to fall in with an American gentleman witlh more money than he well knew what to do with, and no relations to give him al- vice as to its disposal. He took a fancy to me, aid that I was sure to have a fine voice, and defay- ed the expenses of my education himself. I owe all my success, such as it has been, to that kind man who is now dead." "Did your wife sing?" "No, she was a danseuse, one of the most famous of her day." "And where is she now?' "In Paris." "Do you never see her?" "Aurelia, she left me of her owrnaccord. She is living there with an English nobleman." There was no more to tell after that. And cer- tainly there was some excuse for Paolo's conduct towards her. "I loved you with all my heart and soul!" he said, sadly. "But I know if this miserable story reached your ears, you would not listen to me. I wish that girl had had the sense to hold her tongue." "So do not I," said Aurelia, gravely. "She has saved us, perhaps, from a greater sorrow than we feel now." t "What shall you do, Aurelia? You will not give s me up?" "Alas! I must!" , "But why?" e "We love each other. We have confessed it, ,t and it can never be forgotten. I had hoped to be your wife-but you are already the husband of e another. Paolo, we must meet'no more." I He pleaded-he prayed-he wept-but she was film. To lose him was to let the light, the sunshine, and the happiness go out from her life for ever. id And yet to lose him was safety, honor, happiness. It was a hard struggle; but in the end she knew that a good life must be the most happy one, and she turned a deaf ear to the passionate adjurations ul ' of her lover, and oply promised to write to him once more, vhen she should have had time to weigh the matter more thoroughly in her own mind. She felt that her answer would still be the same. He trusted to the love which she could not dis- guise and hoped that she would relent. Like Jamie and Jeannie, in the old ballad, the s hopeless lovers " took but one Kiss, and tore them- ieselves away," and then the romance, the passion, t and the beauty faded out from Aurelia's life for ever. Late that nightwhen Paolo was singing the nest songs she loved to a crowded and enthusiastic house, was she still sat as he had left her-crushed-miserable; but' stern in her resolution to sacrifice love, honor, happiness to right. ican She roused herself at last, and began to look over :new the neglected letters which laid upon her desk. ad- Tle last one which she opened was startling enough. me, It was a proposal of marriage, and from Captain fivTay, Grey. If one half the world does not know how the other half lives, certainly it does not know how it marries. How many matches nowadays are made from true love? Some marry for money-some for beauty-some for rank-some from pique. Aurelia was doomed to marry from mere fear of a painful memory. She was not a woman to sit down in the dust, and spend her life in moaning for a lost love. She was not romantic enough to long for a blighted or broken heart. She did not want to think she pos- sessed one. She loved Paolo with her whole heart, it is true, but he was the husband of anothier, and she must learn to unlove him as fast as she possibly could. If she married herself, would not the new life, the new ties, distract her thoughts from the old one, and make it possible for her to meet Paolo again, no longer as a lover, but a dear and valued friend? The experiment was worth trying. As for Captain Grey-there was nothing positive- ly disagreeable about him; he was handsome and gentlemanly, fond of music and evidently very much in love with her. That argument had its weight just then in her mind-for although she had forgiven Paolo fieely and fully, a feeling of humiliation still lingered almost unconsciously in her mind. It was as if some one had scruck her a blow; and the Captain, with his professions of admiration, Iis vows of love, seemed to heal and soften the sting- ing pain. If she was to remain upon the stage, and meet Paolo there, some safeguard was surely necessary for them both. If she was a wife-it she had one heart devoted and faithful to rest upon-the fidelity she would owe in return would surely keep her pure; and though Paolo might bitterly resent"her marriage at flrst, surely he must come in the end to see the wisdom of the step. And since she had decided upon taking it, it might better be Captain Grey than another of whose attachment she could not be so sure. Slhe took up her pern and wrote to him. She told him frankly ;hat she did not love him, bue that for many reasons tlum thought it best to marry. If he could be satisfied with affection, fidelity, and regard, rather than a first and a passionate love, lie might come and ase her, and then she would he his wife. Certatnly nothing colder in the shape of ac lettel of acceptance was ever written. The Captain swore over it, ground his teeth. and pulled his mustaches, and finally lit his cigar wiith the delicate perfumed sheet. He was not in love witlh her, thotglh hle had said so; bat she was beautiful, and her splendid voice bewitched him. Then, too, if he non her, he would be envied by every man in London. He would have liked her to be devoted to him it was true, but it was something that she gave him the preference over noblemen. He knew that two, at least, had laid their coronets at her feet, and been obliged to take them up again for their pains. So, swallowing his wrath at the cavalier answer to his proposal, he called upon her, placed a splen- did diamond ring upon her finger, and had the feli- city of hearing her name a very early day for her marriage. She stipulated for only one thing, aitd that was absolute secrecy. He was obliged to consent; and they had been in Paris some four-and-twenty hours, [when London was startled out of its propriety by the announcement of the marriage in the Times. A little note came on the same morning, from Folkestone, to Signor Paolo. Only two lines. "All is over now. I am married. It is for the best. We shall meet again one day. t AURELIA." That night the habitual Opera goers were de- prived of a treat. Signor Puolo did not sing, owing to a " sudden indisposition;" so said the bills which were scatter- ed all over the house; and for more than a week he was invisible, so serious did that sudden illness prove! CHAPTER XVIII. g Two years have passed. -Ilow much two years Have taken in their flight! They've taken from the lip its smile, And from the eye its light." L E.L. WHAT could be expected from a union like this? A true marriage means love, and confidence, and respect, and most weddings mean the two latter things, even though the first, and most indispensable one. inny be wanling. But this one was barren of everything. 'The bride was throwing herself away paroxysm of wounded pride, caring little who put the ring upon her finger, so that it glittered there; and the bridegroom, though fascinated for a time with her beauty, and keenly alive to the eclat of bearing off a prize for which so many more worthy had striven in vain, had ix reality no. heart to bestow upon her. Possibly he lad possessed such an article in his younger days, but a long life spent in garrison towns page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] and foreign stations had reduced it to a battered -condition, or rather to the plight of a withered ker- hus nel in a hollow shell. Aurelia cared little for this, just then. She did Sh not want him to love, she only wished him to marry as her. Her only thought, as she turned from the altar, was that Paolo must now feel a pang for her akin to see those she had felt over and over again for him. And in in that thought she triumphed. But in her haste to wound and pain him, she had an not reckoned upon the discomfort that must inevit- co ably ensue to herself . She had not thought of the distasteful compan- m ship of a man whom, in her secret heart, she des- pised. She had forgotten that by day and by night he must be alivays by her side. There is no need for the novelist to cry out against h marriages made without love. They carry their own punishment with them, and g few who have felt it will ever err in that particular way a second time. Aurelia was well educated, and, ia spite of her Whitechapel birth and breeding, singularly re- a fined. People and things often jarred upon her too sen- sitive nature, in a way which a coarser mind could scarcely comprehend. So it happened, that before she had been a wife three days she took a strong dislike to her husband, P which grew stronger day by day. It was one thing to meet him in society, amiable, well-dressed, entertaining, and always eager to a please. It was quite another to see him in the familiardis- habille of married life. V To see him in dressing-gown and slippers, un- kempt and unshorn-to see him lounging for hours, over a cigar and a Bell's Life-to feel that anything higher was certainly beyond his comprehensioni-to know that his love bfor music was the ot0ly thing that redeemed him from being a fool and a brute-to hear him use the coarsest language-to probe to the very depths the vileness of his nature ;--all this was a task from which Aurelia shrank, yet which she lad thoroughly to learn. Hie was not worse than a thousand other men. He was simply a handsome, idle, conceited, sel- fish, and ,fprincipled man, whh considered it was his highest duty, as well as pleasure, to take as much care of himself as his means would allow. She knew all this before she married him. But these amiable qualities stood out in quite a diffErent light, when she sauw them developing beside her own heaithstone. I Captain Grey might be what he liked;'but her husband, whether loved or unloved, could not go down into the depths without dragging her after him. She felt insulted, lowered, debased, and hated, him as the cause of these feelings which were so new to her. She fretted and pined from morning till night in secret, while the Captain smoked, ate, and drank, in the most serene unconsciousness of the tempest that was raging in her heart. His ignorance was almost ludicrous. He was like a man sitting un- consciously upon the very edge of a powder mine smoking a cigar, and gazing placidly into the sum- mer sky. -Happily, in his case the mine did not explode, for Aurelia found a safety valve in time. Their honeymoon had been spent in Paris; but when they returned to London, the gallant Captail thinted, much to her surprise, that she should an- nounce her intention of goinig upon the stage again. At first she hesitated. Buthe insisted, and so she went back to her old life once more. The public were only too glad to welcome her again, and the manager almost wept tears of joy as she signed the contract which bound her exclusively to him for another season. He had tried to fill her place, but in vain. The ears that had been accustomed to her full e rich tones, refused to be satisfied with anything less pleasing; and there had been such a falling off in the receipts in consequence, that the poor man had been actually thinking of giving up the house, u and retiring into the disappointed ease of private life. "But now that you have come back, all will go well once more .0, he said, rubbing his hands with rapturous delight. '-"Would all indeed go well? It might with the 'sl manager and the play, but Aurelia had the strongest g doubts as to herself, when she stood upon the stage to again, face to face with that dangerous singer, at whose exquisite voice seemed to take a tenderer Lo tone that night-whose beautiful dark eyes had a li new meaning in their depths, whenever they were as turned upon her. ad They had not spoken at rehearsals-they had only met that eveil:'n upon the stage. I n When the cuttain fell for the first time, and Au- el- relia was led out to receive her well earned wel- 'asIcome, Paolo uttered some words of congratulation as in a low voice, and then said, as they regained the wings, "Are we never to be fri'endl again? You doi't know what I have suffered ; your marriage has a half killed me.' idle 1" iush!; said Aurelia, hurriedly ; there is my husband.' That gentleman was indeed making his way' leisurely towards her, stopping to glance at a re- markably pretty ballet-dancer whom he passed. Aurelia's lip curled, and she sighed involuntarily as she met the Italian's eyes. "Good evening, signor," said the Captain, care- lessly, as lie came up to them. "Well, Reley, you have made a great hit again. It would have been a shame to shut 1 such a voice in one's house; wouldn't it, signor?' "A great pity, and a great loss,'" said the signor, bowing. "They are all telling me what a lucky fellow I am, Reley," he went on. "Who are they?" "Oh, Halleck, and Hazletine, and Grant, of "Are they here?" "Of course. Didn't you see us?" "I was busy wirh my part," said Aurelia, evasive- ly, not willing to confess she had never thought of him. "Well, we're in the omnibus-box, mind you lookli that way when you go on again. They've all got a boquet for you." "I am infinitely obliged."' 1I'll tell them so. Now, ta, ta; and I say, signor, when that embracing scene comes on, draw it mild, will you?" The signor bowed again, and the Captain strutted away Aurelia bhlushed. If her husband knew with what mingled feelings she thought of that embrace, what would lie say? It came-and for one moment she was in Pwaolo's arms. "Oh, Aurelia!" he sighed, with his lips on her cheek. And then she was free again, but giddy and confused. It was only a stage embrace, and the captain, who was watching it rather jealously, saw nothing to offend Irim. "They kiss as if tlhey were icebergs, which is very proper," lie thought. And all thie while the lights were wlirling round and round in Aurelia's dazzled eyes, ald Po;lo s voice quivered, as he sang his serenade with a feeling lie hiad never before ex- hibited. But if the Captaiin's eyes were shut, that embrace had effectually openedl Aurelia's. She knew that her marriage had made-no difference as regarded Paolo, that one hair of his head was more precious to her than her her husband's whole body would ever be!, It was wrong, of course. From her own observ- ation, and fi'omi some things that had leaked out since the depariure of the Peri, she knew pretty well in wliat relation she had stood to him. Their intimacy had by no means ceased in Italy. It had 'been carried on in England, even while she was liv- ing openly under the protection of another, up to the tiime when Paolo first saw Aurelia. One smile from him had more effect than all the luxury of the ducal lover, and up to the last, the poor child would have thrown that wealth to the wind, if he had said the word. But he did not. He grew cold to her and dlevoted to Aurelia, and in a jealous passion, she ,loped with a rich young lover, and left the Duke to console himself as best he might for her unexpect- ed loss. "All this Aurelia knew, and with sad yearnings over the poor Peri's fate, came deep misgivings about her own.. If she would save herself from the Peri's doom, she must follow her example, and fly from the fatal influence which could only work her harm. She sat in the green room waiting for' her turn to go on the stage. Paolo approached her, unusually sombre and silent. "I have a favor to ask of you," she said, with a trembling voice. "Whlat is it?" "Paolo, you must never kiss me again, at any ,time." "' Not when the scenes demand it 9" he asked, with a forced laugh. "You understand me."' His eyes fell. "I'm afraid this miserable marriage has made a prude of you."' She was silent. "And-l hate prudes!" "Vell, hate me, then!" "F wish I could! It would be better for joth of us "Ah, you see the danger as well as I do, though you try to turn everytihing off with a laugh," she said, with a sigh. "Why did you many?' "What else could I do?V He said something about a divorce, but she shook her head. "Do you. think me a baby 1 I know you are a Catholic, and there can be no divorce for you e*xept by death.' " That is true." "And I was very fond of you, Paolo-very fond, indeed!" "You have forgotten all that now," he said, jeal-' ously. "Surely, you do not expect me to make profes- sion of love to you now that I am married," she safd,' smiling. "I don't know, I am sure," he said, sitting 'dowt dejectedly, and leaning his head upon his hand. '*I only know I am very miserable, and if ihe sword,' in' page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] the next act, should happen to slip by mistake, and ; stab me, it would be about the best thing that could s happen-to me." The strong, passionate desire which she felt to take that beautiful, drooping head on her bosom-,- the very intenseness of her anxiety to comf ort him, made Aurelia feel her danger even more keenly than before. "Come, let us und stand one another," she said, frankly. "I am quite sure that you still love me well enough to wish me peace and happiness. Do you not?" "You know that you are dearer to me than any ting on earth!" "Prove it to me by helping me to do right. I am married, and owe a duty to my husband. And our familiar intercourse must end here to-night. Do you understand me?" "Yes." "And you willhelp me V? "I will try." [ She took his hand in both her own. "I thank you more than words can say. And I trust you!" They stood gazing on each other in silence. Both were faithful in their hearts to the covenant they had ,made. The prompter called them, and they went on the stage to play a mimic tragedy. But the real tragedy had been played in the green room, without an audi ence. CHAPTER XIX. ' Long, lonely days she passed, With nothing to recall, But bitter taunts, and careless words, And looks more cold than all." L. E. L. CERTAINLY, Captain Gray could never have dreamed of the good resolutions his wife ihad formn- ed, or his conduct towards her would have been far -different. The romance of his marriage had died. He was not one of those faithful-hearted men whose honey- moon lasts through a life. Carried awy by ly the ex- citement of winning the woman for whom so many had sighed in vain, he had fancied himself in love. When he became accustomed to her beauty, he be- came indifferent to her, and when he saw she dlid not permit the attentions of other men, he troubled his lead no more about her. She was his wife-his property, like the horse he drove and the cigar he smoked. She did credit to his taste-looked well at the head of his table--was magnificent upon the stage, and he was content. But as for wasting a thought on her, now that she was his own-pshaw! His heart and his fancy were both on the wing once more. It was as well that he did not love her too much, since she had none to give him in return. But he might have observed that strict fidelity to her which it was her pride to observe to him. He did not, yet she did not suspect him. She was so refined that she could not understand a want of good faith where it was deserved. This blindness could not last al- ways. One of those officious friends, whose chief delight is to carry bad news, enlighted her as to the Captain's proceedings. She was shocked, disgust- ed. She thought of her own great sacrifice. To what good had it been? Since, all the while, this wretched man, whom she neither loved nor even re- spected had made her name a mockery and a re- proach! She looked so pale that her informant repented having told her. "After all, my dear, you are not the only one who has beei served so shabbily,7' she said. "Every one sympathizes with you and blames him, and I suppose if you take no notice, he will grow ashamed of it in time." "Take no notice!" cried Aurelia. springing to her feet. "Do you think I will submit to such an insult? ' "Many women have to." "I shall not! He has dishonored me!-we part to-night!" "But, my dear-" "Words are wasted in a case like this. Who is this woman?" "That's the worst. She is. in good society. I can't imagine what possessed her to throw herself away in this absurd manner. Well, it is Mrs. Tre- lawney." Aurelia was dumb. She knew her well. A wo- man, young, beautiful, beloved and wealthy, the ,wife of one of the kindest and most indulgent men, the leader of fashion. and a particular "'friend' of Aurelia. "Is she mad?" she asked. "It would seem so. It has only just been found out. She is living at a htel, and her husband is going tq sue for a divorce.': "How disgraceful!" "Yes., But I came here to-day to tell you be- cause I heard a rumor. It's too bad, but you have a pafy' to-night." "My dear, I have heard that lie means to bring her here. I could not rest without letting you know." Aurelia flushed. "Here.! to insult me and my guests! Here! Let him if he dares, and you shall all see what I will do!" They parted soon after. * * Ic * *-' 0 The guests assembled early. Dancing and sing- ing went on with divided interest. Every one was wondering if that wretched woman would really ap- pear, and if so, what the fair hostess would do o, say. Aurelia, dressed magnificently, moved like an empress through the rooms-not a dethroned, one, by any means. Yet she was a little nervous, and watched the door furtively. The hall clock struck ten, and there was an arri- val at the same momrent. Aurelia was talking to some one in an inner room, and did not hear it. Presently Mr. Aubrey came and whispered some- thing to her. She flushed, rose, drawing a long, deep breath. "Where is she 7" "In the music-room. Captain Gray came with her." "Give me your arm, then, if you please." "A hundred hearts and hands are at your service, here," whispered Mr. Aubrey, eagerly, in her ear. "Let me deal with this matter. It is not proper for you!', "Is it not?" said Aurelia, haughtily, and her col- or rose high, and her eyes flaslhed. "I am mistress here!" She passed into the music-room, the dancers fol- lowed-the ladies looking pale, yet delighted-the gentlemen uneasy, as if they expected a pulling of caps. The piano stopped, and there was a short si- lence which made the Captain look up for the cause. Aurelia stood before his lady-love. Slhe looked most beautiful and dangerous, and the Cap-, tain shoolk in his shoes. [ie saw that she knew. She took no notice of lIimn, but she spoke to Mrs. 1 Trelawney in a tone that was not to be mistaken, ii, spite of its perfect courtesy. ' "It appears to me that you have made ali the mistake, madam. Amnong the invitations wiich 1. despatched foir this evellzii, 1 cannot remember dilai t I had the honor of sendinig one to you.'; Mrs. Trelawney silniled flippantly. She was no, great adept in the rules of ,physiognomy. In the serenely beautiful faice and regal figure He- fore her, she saw nothilng more than a rival iu; " hit. of a tantrum ;" in the polished ease of manner ain, the suave voice, she thllugllt she detected an evi- dence of the '" white t'ea'llr.' Becauise Aieielia did not box hIer ears, or r;iik hr by the shoiders i. und tulrn her out ol ti e ruoill, she fancied tlhat. sie i was afraid to " shov fight," and that a little brazen ! assurance would carry her safely through the dilemma "So all the answer she made was :- "No mistake at all, I assure you, my dear mad- am; the Captain was kind enough to invite me as one of his friends. As Paul Pry says, 'I hope I don't intrude,' for really this is a very pleasant-par- A murmur of impatient disgust ran round the cir- cl'e o'f listeners, and the Captain knawed his mous- tache, and wished he was at the bottom of the Red Sea; anywhere out of the reach of those scornful eyes. "Captain Grey probably forgot that it was my du- ty, as mistress of this house, to invite my own guests,"' said Aurelia, as politely as before. "And since you were not included in those invitations, I must request you to be good enough to withdraw." Mrs. Trelawney laughed 'incredulously. She was a woman of good birth-she had a joinuture of 5002 a year-she had moved in the best society all her life. Was a wretched creature who had been upon the stage-who would sing there the next evening -to turn her out of her house, merely because she took it into her stupid head to be jealous of her su- perior attractions? The idea! She expressed this opinion aloud, but made no move from her seat, and Aurelia quietly stepped back and rang, the bell. A footman instantly appeared, to know her pleas- ure. "Show this lady down stairs, and call her car- riage,'" said Aurelia, stepping back with a bow, in order to allow Mrs. Trelawney to pass her. There was no help for it. The lady was foiled with her own weapons, and slunk away discomfitted behnd the servant. Captain Grey vanished ten minutes later to his own room, where he fortified hiumselfwith strong potations of brandy and water, and countless cigars, fur the "jolly row' lie intended to have with Aurelia as soon as her guests bad gone. The fracas over, Aureiia summoned her maid,: ?ave her a few -orders in an undertone, and then turned to hei guests with at pleas ant iumile. "Youn viii parrdon this inplDoS:tl! seone. I know, :o!',' it was not ,of my seelking," s!he added. "Ler \,\ fin gt it, anid enl,.y cur"selvesl agaii." It was e.,Asier said than dono. l'ul,lic opinion was dividcd as tuo i:e jI'rp:.ety of AureHia's i)ehaviour Sotme if Oi' piar) thought she had done well : odtlr-,:. a-id thesc were mostly Ildies of the milk-im,1J-'waer rtp,',petmr );, fhne-ied Illat her procee'ding h}vl f,en ..,qii u hat . ruthn ini:uo and abrupt. One 01I two diwageirs-who O)elonged page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] to the old school, (which advocates the absolute ex- w trinction and absorption of a wife's individual exist- " ence) and who, like spaniels, hlad been beaten and I bullied into thinking such doctrines perfectly riglht l -made their adieux, and scuttled off to their res- .1 pective carriages as soon as possible. It was all very wrong (they agreed among them- selves) for a man to introduce such a person into " the society of respectable- women ; but yet Mrs. ,Grey should not have resented the insult so publicly. h It was the wife's duty to screen her husband firom blame and reproach--not to drag him out before all his friends and acquainitances, and expose his faults 1 and follies with such a merciless scorn. 9 Poor old souls! as they twaddled on in this man- I ner, I fancy they actually believed that doctrine t which Engl;shmen enforce (tacitly at least) and Englishwomen mostly accept as gospel-viz: tlmt for offences like Mrs. Trelawney's, two laws are recognised by the great Lawgiver himself. In a woman, this is the unpardonable sin-when it is found C out ; in a man, nothing worse 'than a venial error. Yet, at the great day when the secrets of all hearts are laid bare, I wonder if the sex of a sinner will C prove of any avail t Will Magdalen be for ever condemned, while, guilty of the smnne, Dives escapes? Who shall say'! But, at last, does it seem reasonable to sulppose tlhat this shall be the case 1 ? Aurelia had her own notions on this subject. She i required, as she gave, full fidelity, full faith, in the 1 niarriage relation. She did not love the handsome, I selfish, brainless creature she called her husband- in fact, in her own heart she despised him. But at least'she had been true. True, through struggles of which lie could know nothing, because they were struggles With a passionate, unselfish love, which he could never feel. She had given her heart away once, and for ever. The mere fact of her marri':ge did not annul tht other and more important fcit. If marriage is a sacrament, then Aurelia had coam- mitted a great crime in marrying Captain Grey. BwtD she viewed it ruther in the light of a civil contract, instituted for the benefit and preservation of society. As such, she knew to what it bound her, and was faithful to thie letter, at least, of that bond. Wheni her husband insisted upon her going upon the stag, again, perhaps she yielded too readily. It was joN unspeakabhle to be near Paolo once more-to leave uor halth Ihome, and ttread the boards by his sidt --he, the emperor, and she the empress, of' an en,- chanted iund. But bevond this, she would not al- low her: hiart to go. Site bore, as she thought ai, honest mun'.s namen-and she swore to herself o. her wcddi g-,iav th!;,t ihe sihould never be wron,.'l j1v her. Aile t tultn oi raiptiiouls kiss, she h,;ad '; a siern guar1d upon her leeitngs i when upun the totg, i with Paolo. Their embraces were now indeed, of "the stage ;" and if, during the play, he touched her hand, or knelt at her feet,.or sang some melting love-song, whose meaning his beautiful dark eyes ranslated all too well, she was like stone-like iron -like adamant to it all. What was her reward? Her husband deserted her-insulted her publicly by his preference for an- other-brought tlat other into her own house among her own invited guests. She felt herself dishonored--degral ed-even as a man might have done. But strange to say, her an- ger was for her husband alone, not for her rival. This, of itself, showed how little place he hiad in her heart. It was her self-love, but not her love that was wounded. It 'was her pride, and not her ,ffection, that cried aloud for revenge. 8he stood in her dressing-room alone,' after all her guests had gone. She took the jewels from !her neck and head, and placed them carefully in a casket which she took., under her arm. Then, put- ting on a heavy cloak- and a Spanish hat with a drooping feather, she took something firom the draw- er of her dressing-table, thrust it in her bosom, and turned to go. Her husband stood at the door, flushed, insolent, anti more than three parts tipqy. Aurelia had the greatest horror of drinukelnness, event in its most fashionalble forms. The Captain could Inot have hit upon a itfetf' way of disgusting her still further, if he lid t ea. - Bi3ute!" shle muttcred, as she attempted to pass him. tHis dull ear caught the word, and he made an unsteady grasp at her cloak. "Brute--eh? What d(o you mean by that? And what do you mean by insulting my friends and ma- hiug me look like a fool before everybody--you cat?" "You always look like a fool, if that is all," she said haughtily. "Stand out of my way, if you 'please." "Eh? who set you up to crow, Madam Impu- s dence? I tell you what it is, my dear! I've been iullied by you quite long enough'. Now I'll have n ay turn. Where are you going at this time of , night?" "tL What is that to you?" "A great deal." "Find out, then." I- "L Don't you answer me like that, you white-faced i, mninkel, o'r I'll strangle you where you stand!" ' 'iy it!" she saiul, contemptuously. -The most aggravatiing, cold-bloodled, insolent ; Wv(1, ornl ni ,an d tI'r . ald hi' il I td ' yU What do , %u lmeial by your'coindiuct to-nTiigl . L'i faring Man. Treiawney here to-morrow, and you shall go down on your knees before all the servants inthe. hall, and ask her pardon, you shameless hussy! I'll see who is master here!" Aurelia's color rose high, and then faded, and left her ghastly white; with eyes that, fi'oni their dilated pupils looked black as deatIh. "Don't speak to me like that!" she cried. I will not bear it. Get into that room, and hold your tongue." "That's a good one!" He caught her by the arm, and tried to force her back firom the door. "You had better not touch me!" she gasped be- tween her teeth-and she made a snatch at the bo- som of her dress. There was a short sharp stru,- gle-he was too much intoxicated to hairm her- and the next moment she forced him down into a chair, and held him there, with one of the Peri's elegant little pistols held at the distance of half an inch from his left temple. "I am not going to be struck!" she said, passion- dtely. "No man sliall strike me alive! If you at- tempt it again you must take the consequences!" He sat looking at her and the pistol--thoroughly cowed and frightened. Without another word, she : locked the door behind her, and gave thekkey to k the footman, who-was w'aiting anxiously in the hall. "Has thecaD come?" sihe asked. "It is at the door." "Then take this key, and in half an hour go up i to my dressing-room, and see to your master. I re- r ly upon you, James : you will keep my secret? ' "As faithfully as possible!" f "Thank youi. My maidl will see you again, and let you know if 1 require anything. Good-bye, ,. Jamies." "Good-bye, man'am, and God bless you!" b He saw her safely inito the cab, amid watched, with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, as she drove awy. A Like all the other servants, lie adored his beautiful pi and lamous mistress; and she had left that house for ever! i CHAPTER XX. "Who calletli thee, Heart? World's Strife, With a goldlen heft to his knif ; World's Mirth, with a fingvr fint, Tihat draws on a board in wiine Her blool-red plaitns of lifte; 6 World's G;iin, with a brow knit down; Wodrld's Famie, with a laurel crown,- Whhhicvh rustles most as the leaves turn brown. Heart, wilt thtou go; No, no! id Calm hearts are wiser so." th E. B. BROWNING. Cot THEE; are some acts in a person's life. of which,oi ,wn the world at large is by necessity a spectator.- rall, Aurelia's separation from her husband was one of see them. The story of tihe interri'pted soiree was in everyvbody's mouth, and whlen to( that was added the left elopement, public excitement knew no bounds. ted Fashionable London was split into two parties- one of which sided with the husband, the other with "I the wife. our Captain. Grey's friends declared thiat it was all nonsense about Mrs. Trelawney-that though shoe was a little gay and flighty in her manner, she was ier as respectable a woman as any in London. Her husband had separated from her in a sudden e- fit of firantic jealousy, for which he had not the bo- slightest cause; and Captain Grey, happening by Ug- the merest chance in the world, to find her crying - her eyes out in the hotel where she had taken refuge, a kindly asked her to join the party, whereupon Au- i's relia had instantly flown at her like a tigress, boxed ai, her ears, pulled her hair down and scratched her face, and finally turned her by the shoulders out of n- the room and the house. it- Not content with this, the lovely virago had watched her husband into his dressing-room after ly the party was over, inad insulted and abused hima oe to the last degree, and finally locked him iin, leaving :o him unable to escape fi'om" durance vile" for many 1. hours. So far, so good. But, on the other hand, Aureiia's defenders gave the true version of the Trelawney p affair, and enlightened the public as to the dressing- e- roonm escapade, so that every one was roaring with laughter at the Captain's awkward predicament, be- fore forty-eighlt hours had elapsed. d There were sly allusions in the morning papers, e, rich jokes at the clubs, daily bon-mots in Mhir ladies' boudoirs and dressing-rooms, of all of which he i was the unwilling hero. It nearly drove him wild. And when an actual caricature was said to be in i p,'ocess of publication, which iil due timte would r adorn the shop windows, and set all London on the g'rin, his rage and mortification knew vno bounds.- l- threatened every one, fi'iends and foes alike, with castigation and judicial proceedings, till they had thouglit him either mad or idiotic, and "' as cracked a s Grey" became the by-word of the fashionable circles in which he moved. Meniiwhile where was Aurelia? Siatf with hier faithful maid, and among her most fIithfil friends Her earliest acquaintance in London, Jenn)io Grey, hlad advanced many steps in lilie since their first meeting. From ladies-maid. she hiadl become the wife of a butler, had left service altogether, and thlroiugh Aurelia's interest was established in a little cott;ge in the Bronmpton lanes, close to the friendly no)licemain and his wife. who were never tired of page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] telling how they had introduced the famous singerI of the day to the notice of her kind protector, andi how, in return for their services, she came again and again to their humble home, and sang as if she were upon the stage. Jennie Grey, or rather Jennie Kent (if we must call her by her husband's name) listened to thesel stoies as if she had been reading them out of a book of fairy tales. When she went to the Opera, and sat grandly in one of the upper boxes, to see her friend upon the stage, it seemed like a dream that the magnificent woman in splendid robes and flashing diamonds could ever have sat over a homely breakfast in the parlour of the Spread Eagle, and consulted with her as to the best means of seeking that fortune which 'had come, after all, in such an *unexpected way. And whern. she talked to her little daughter of her early days, and told her how her beautiful godmother Aurelia was then also poor andI alone in the world, the child would then open her round blue eyes wonderingly, as if she could not believe the tale. To this house, which had known her as a wel- come visilant in the days of her prosperity, Aurelia came late on the night of the party. Her maid had gone before with her boxes to tell the shameful tale; so that when the cab drew up, she found Jennie waiting with the door wide open, and the worthy butler standing, sympathetic, in the background. Ne empress could have been welcomed with greater faith and royalty than she ; and her bruised and acliAng heart found consolation unspeakable in the stubborn partisanship of these humble but faith- ful friends. Here she remained quietly during the week that followed her departure from her own house. Cap- tain Grey made no attempt to see hei. He content- ed himself with writing abusive letters and thrieaten- ing her with proceedings in the Divorce Court. Aurelia only laughed, and threw the letters in the fite, and took no further notice of them. Although many of her stanch fiiends found out the place of her retreat, she would see no one.- She pleaded fittigue and indisposition as an excuse for her retirement. It was no fib, asshe laughingly said, for she was certainly tired of the people, and indisposed to see them. She passed her days in reading, writing, practising her songs for the ensuing week, and riding and driving about the green roads of Brompton, Ful- ham, Putney, and Wandsworth. On the thiid day after her arrival, Mrs. Kent made her appearance, with a great look of perplex- ity on her fiice and an open letter in her iaid. "Well, Jeinie, whlat is it?' asked Aurelia, look- ing up from ier ',ook. "Such a lbeCildering thing. I'm sure I hardly know what to say. Our friends' next door have just had a letter firom an old lodger of theirs-an American lady who wants to come back again for a few days. The worst of it is, that she will follow her letter directly, and be here to night. And all their carpets are up and the drawing-room floor let. and that young baby down stairs. Youa see, they can't have her." "WAell?" "They want me to take her-to give her the two parlors." Aurelia's eyes began to sparkle. "My dear creature, it is just the very thing I should like. Do you kpow who she is?" "No Y "In the first place, the nearest living relative of my dear adopted father." "Oh, in that case, the- whole house and' its con- tents, and everybody in it, are at her service," said the warm-hearted Jennie. "But thakt is not all. Do you remember our going up to town together?" "'Of course." "And have you forgotten the lady who advoca- ted the cause of temperance so strongly, and told so many anecdotes of the New England States."' "It cannot be her, Aurelia." Indeed it is!" "flow oddly things turn out in this world, to be sure! Who would have thought, then, that the time would ever come when you and she would be to- gether under my roof, and you so famous, too!" Aurelia sighed. "I think it quite possible that we should be aston- ished even yet, Jennie, if we could look forward and see what our future lives are to be.'" "Well, I'm sure I don't want to do that, do you?" "On no account. Things are quite bad enough, or good enough, vhen they come. I have no wish to anticipate them." "Well," said Jennie, folding up her letter, "I suppose I must go and see about the rooms." "Let me help you,' said Aurelia, throwing down her book. "I am tired of this stupid novel, and should like to do some sweeping and dusting by way of a change. I wonder, Jennie, where that good lady who ' likes her beer' is now." ' "Miss Moore would tell you in the work-house, where her depraved tastes had gradually led her," saidl Jenn'ie, as they went laughing up-stairs like two school-girls bent on a frolic. At seven that evening Miss Moore came. Aurelia waited till she had refreshed herself with tea after her journey, and then went to pay her respects to the relative of her benefactor. ' The lady was much rmoved at the sight of her and her black dress. "Poor child!" she said, taking her hand aad pressing it kindly. "You have had a sad loss--the more sad, since I understand that your private life has not been a happy one. But you must make a fricNhd of me, an d I will fill his place, as far as I can." Thus encouraged, Aurelia opened her heart in good earnest, to her abrupt but faithful friend. She told her the history of her life-of her unhappy mar- riage. She did not even hide the episode of her love for Paolo, which she had never breathed to mortal ear before. Miss Moore listened earnestly, and shook her head. "My dear, you did quite right to leave your hus- band," she said, when the story was finished. "I have no patience with women who endure such in- sults meekly. Talk about children, and family ties, and all that nonsense a$ reasons for submitting to such outrages! Bah! it is disgusting! If I had nineteen children, I would take them and beg in the streets, or go to the workhouse, rather than endure it. I am going to be married-old fool that I am! -to the vtay lawyer you saw me with on that day. He has managed all my affairs for me since I have been in England ; and now, I suppose, thinks he had better wind up the business, by undertaking to man- age me. Undertaking, mind you!" she added with an odd twinkle in her keen blue eyes. "I don't mean to say he will do it! However, I shall noi read the declaration of independence, or flourish tint stars and stripes -too often, so long as he behaves himself' propeily; but, if he begins any 'Captail, Gray' vagaries, I shall gently remind him of Bunkel Hill with a strong horsewhip, and then take myselt off, as you have done 1" "But I did not horsewhip Captain Gray, my deal Miss Moore." " ,urt'e shame for you, then. You ought to have done it. If half the women in England would add a double thong or a cat-o'-nine-tails to their trous- i; seaus, and use it with moderation'on their husbands k the state of society would be much healthier and' better than it is now." tL Aurelia burst out laughing. The novelty of the P theory tickled her fancy wonderfully-the mor e when she thought of the looks and whispers of con- si sternation that would follow, if Miss Moore shouid \v take it into her head to proqmulgate it openly some evening in a fashionable drawing-room. There wae ,( no certainly that she would not do so, since she saidl everything that came into her head, no matter in , whose presence she might happen to be. C However, she took Aurelia's quiet quizzing in ,1 very good part, and they grew to be the best of friends. If Miss Moore advocated the horsewhip- w ping of husbands, she certainly did not approve of the favouring of lovers; and after she had once see , l'aolo,' and heard him sing, she was continually urg- ie ing Aurelia'to leave the stage, at least until he was fe out of the country. a Was there, then, sogreat a danger? Aurelia's I heart failed her, as she asked herself the question. But she was deaf, both to her friend's entreaties, and n to the certain aud honest reply. e Chance, however, brought about what common r- sense and Miss Moore could not achieve. The night. 'r of Aurelia's re-appearance came, and she took care o to furnish Jennie and Miss Moore with a box, from r, which they could witness at their ease, what she had good reason to expect would be a perfect ovation. 4 I The curtain rose that evening-the house was - crammed to overflowing, and all went smoothly till the heroine appeared. As she came slowly on the, r stage, dressed in white and looking very pale, there -l was an unmistakable hiss from the boxes. She stop- e ped short, so did Paolo, who knit his brows and looked as if he should like to murder some one. The hiss increased'- it was drowned by a round of applause. Again it made itself heard. There was- t general tumult. Hundreds rose in their seats; here were cries of "Off, off!" mingled with "Aure- - i for ever!" cat-calls, whistles, shrieks, loud ap- )lause, waving of handkerchiefs, &c., till the man- iger on the stage, and the police in the house, came Io the rescue, and managed to restore something like 'wder between them. During this scene of confus- ion Aurelia stood at the back of the stage, pale and dilent as a statue. When order was at last restored Paolo led her forward, and without taking the slight- Iest notice of those who applauded, as if to encour- -ange her, she began to sing.- Never had her voice )een so magnificent-never had she thrown such nergy and spiril into her part as now. The house was electrified. In the last scene there was a still- iess like the death they witnessed, among the spec- tators. But when the curtain fell the spell was bro- ken, and -then the whole house rang with the loud- 'st applause. They called Aurelia. Contrary to the expectation of her intimate friends, she came. Paolo led her on as usual ;. but he looked pale, un- easy and embarrassed. Aurelia, on the contrary, was smiling ; her cheeks burned, and her eyes flashed with the excitement of the moment. The house rose to receive her, and every one who could beg, borrow, or steal a bouquet, flung it at her feet. She stood smiling still as the floral tem- pest rained around her. WI e n' ea d- vanced to the footlights, an lifted her han d as if about to speak. In an instant all was quiet. "I cannot pass over the occurrence of the night without notice," she said, in a clear, unfaltering voice. "There are some among you who have for- gotten that I have a private life as well as a public one ; some who have taken a mean advantage of page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] an occuU wrench so painful that it should have I,eeia1 held sacred, tr. least, in this place.:; and who have testfied their disappiovadl I .MY' own ,induct in a! most unmistakable way ;--i a most utnkind and ntn- gentlemanly way. let me, add: for I take it for. granted that no lady joined in hbal hiss of reproba- tion." An instant waving or hianidkerchifs a ovr tile house confirmed this asserlion. Whhatever the ladies might have thought ,.f ner conluct previously, her spirited app;?.i touched all thei heart, nill th ey were not auhauiamd to own it. HLer face briihtenedu as she saw that. token o( wonmanly symplaty with; outraged womanly fe.'ohgs. and she went on again: I-" do not come forward to-night to justify myi sblf or to condemn anolher. But the insult his , been public and must be publicly rebuked by me. In this place you are not the judges of my prix ate actions. You come here to hear me sing; if I sing badly, hiss me, and I shall feel that you do well., But so long as I try honestly to pleast: you, inll' ducceed, you have no righlt to taunt me publicly upon the stage with a misfortune that has mad,- myp private life more wretched than you can ever know. ': A tempest of applause broke out. "I should not have spoken at all," she said smil- tI ngly, "if I had been going to remain upon the tU stage. You have been kind enough to call me the n ,ueen of Song. Well, you must find another and a r jetter Queen. I have been insulted-wantonly, N ;rossly isulted! I resent it, even while I thank ny kind friends in this. house for their warm sup- tort throughout the outrage. Never again shall my one hiss Aurelia here! I lay aside my crown -I throw down my sceptre-the throne is vacant! Fill it-for you will never listen to my voice in pub- ic any more. Farewell to all, for ever!"' She was gone in an instant, while they still sat lumb with astonishment. Paolo followed. They called her back in vain. She would not come ; and aflter half an hour of uproar, the mana- ger appearedl once more upon the stage, and begged them to disperse quietly. Aurelia was at her own house by that time, and his entreaties, as well as theirs, had been utterly thrown away. She would not return. Hearing this, the crowd went home sulkily. The next day the humble house in the Brompton lanes was besieged from one o'clock till nightfall by coronetted carriages and mounted ca- valiers. But to each and all the faithful Jennie gave the same answer-"Aurelia had left town l six o'clock that morning, and she could not say in what dirCction she had gone." With that scanty bit of information, the clubs, and green-rooms, anu salons were forced to be content. CHAPTBR XXI. "Tell him I love him yet, As in that joyous time; Tell him I ne'er forget, Though memory now be crime - Tell him when faides the light Upon the eairth and sea, I dream of him by night- He must not dream of me!" PRAED, OUR old friend Jennie, in disposing so uncere- moniously of her aristocratic visitors, forgot to tell them one thing, which would have rejoiced their troubled hearts--namely, that, although Aurelia had left town withont informing her of her destination. it was only for two days. At the end of that time she returned as quietly as she had gone, and, according to promise, made 'one of the party at Miss Moore's wedding. The breakfast was given at a fashionable hotel; but, though every delicacy of the season was upon the table, iot a drop of wine was to be had for love or money, and the health of the bride was drank in pure cold water, much to'the disgust of the waiters who supplied the wants of the guests. Nor was it in other ways'a festive occasion, to be chronicled in the Morning Post, since Miss Moore carried out her ideas of perfect equality to the end. and Jennie Kent and the policeman'swife sat amicably side by ! side at her table, just as they had stood among the group before the altar. Mr. Alton, the bridegroom, looked indeed as if he thought their presence was ,somewhat unnecessary; but, of course, at that time, his lady love's will was law, so he only relieved his I mind by taking huge pinches of snuff, and said no- thing. I- At last the final speech was made, the final good- I byes exchanged, and the happy pair set off for s Paris, where they were to spend their honeymoon. d Aturelia drove from the hotel to the house of Mrs. e Grant Thornton. Although she did not class that e lady among her intimate friends, still the cha:m of II early associations-of childhood's days-lingers a- round her, and made the prima donna anxious to ie exchange that farewell with her, which she so per- it sistently denied to all the rest of London. ill She found her on the qui vive about the importti ty news. Aurelia's separation from her husband and id retirement from the stage were events of such over- whelming interest in her eyes, that they quite eclipsed the mnir case of Frederick's marriage, which was to take place tlat week. ic It was very spirited, very grand!" she said. ' But surely Aurelia could not be in earnest. She might perhaps intend to punish the public for that unlucky hiss, but surely she was never going to give up the stage!" Aurelia assured her that no public should ever in- sult her again. "How foolish!" sighed Mrs. Thornton, 'rrang- ing her bracelets. "Because every one admires you for the stand you took-by the way, have you heard the news about Captain Gray?" "That he is living publicly with Mrs. Trelaw- ney?" said Aurelia, quietly. Oh, yes, I heard of hat." "How coolly you take it!' Aurelia slrugged her shoulders. "He has pleased himself, and if Mrs. Trelawney s satisfied, I cannot see that I have anything to say about it." "Are you not jealous 7" "Not the least." "Y ou don't care for himl? "Not a whit." "So much the better., What are going to do, now?" I thought of going to Chnrnley.1" Mrs. Thornton nl!apped her hands. "To thie Cottage?" "Yes." I "That will be splendid. We shall go down next month, and Frederick and his bride will be with "That is settled, then!" said Aurelia, rising and offering her hland. "Give this to Frederick's bride, with my love." Mrs. ThornIon tore open the parcel, almost as soon as Aurelia left the house. It was a splendid ring of diamonds and pearls, which the bride wore, with the greatest pride and pleasure on her wedding day. One more parting remained for Aurelia. IWhen she reached home, Paolo was there, looking ill and haggard, but his face brightened as she entered the room. "Thank God you have come! I began to think that you must have gone away without bidding nime farewell!" "No, I told you I would not, but you must stay only a few moments, for I leave town in an hour's time." :' You are really going, then?" IsYes." 'You give up all your splendid triumphs, wealth , and love you might yet win?" "I have wei;lth enough to live comfortably, tlihe love I dare not accept, and the fame ends, after all, s in a hiss." i. "Is it possilble you take so serious that silly hiss, e a mere manifestation of party feeling? I've been it hissed a dozen times. Every one is hissed now and e then." "Once is quite enough for me," said Aurelia, i- bitterly. "Will you ever think of me?" he asked,'in his - softest voice. s "You need not be cruel now, when wev are part, u ing forever." She pressed her hand to her brow. "Cruel!" he cried, throwing himself at her teet. if "Can you call me cruel whlen I dream always of you? It is you who are cruel Think how you have treated me. You have foribidden my visits, cut off all communication, even on the stage you have y been ice! Yet you knew all the while I would have y died for you!" She did not speak. "Do you love me, Aurelin, in the least," he cried, excitedly. "For heaven's sake, stop-you must go, indeed you nmust!" "I will never leave you. You love me, Aurelia! [ see it in your face, I feel it in your trembling form!" He clasped her in his arms, and . ',2sed his lips to hers. "Go, you forget yourself," she cried, pushing him t violently away. "My wife is faithless, and your husband makes an open boast of his profligacy among those who 1 know you best! Why should we give a thought to them?" "Not to them, perhaps-but to what is right!" , "My love-" "Oh, hush!"' she said, .despairingly. "Paolo, you have my heart, and you' know it well. I never 'loved any one as I love yon; and if ever I was in dlanger of forgetting that there is a rig ht and a wrong, it is now. Now that I have been so candid, will you leave me?" "Can you think it? If, indeed, you feel this for me, then you are mine. Human laws are nothing. Hluman or divine, I care not, so thlat I have your heart. Aurelia, let me decide Lor you." There was but one way of escape. To stand there, looking into that be;iltilul face, meeting those pleading eyes, hearing that exquisite voice, was niot the way. Her head whirled, her heam t raDidly, every emotion of her nature was aurryed upon the side of the tempter, and only the one stern, Iarren principle of riglir, upon her own. It was a desperate strug- gle, and but for the one thouglit-- a thought of the poor Peri-she might ha;ve yieldcd. But that sweet, sad face seemed to Oe superior to rlie tumult of her soul, and say " a i warned by me!" She turn- page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] ed around, and looked at Paolo with her tear-dim- L* meed eyes ayi "m can never be your wife," she said, sadly; "-I led will never be more to you than a friend. Farewell, The Paolo! you will never find another heart to love you an as mine has done." She raised his hand to her lips, a tear fell on it, able too, and then she was gone. 'In vain he waited, and sent message after mess- Ag age, hoping that she would return, if only for one Ma last word. She would not come, but sat with her ad door locked, and her face buried in her hands, wait- ing till he left the house. When Jhe-ad really gone, the carriage was order- are ed round, and half an hour later, Aurelia was on her way to Charnley Cottage, quite alone. It was nearly dusk when she approached the Cot- ' tage gates. She had left alr her luggage at the sta- mi tion, and walked across the common unattended The heather was in bloom, the air was calm and bo mild, and the breath of the garden flowers came out ha to meet her as she walked up the little footpath to li the house. There were no lights in the front win- ab dows, but as she unfastened the latch of the gate, di she heard a low growl and a great black dog came round from the garden, and stood menacingly before th her. "Tender, my dear old. boy!" she said, and the brave fellow uttered a cry of joy almost human in its intensity, and leaping up, nearly stifled her with his ill rough caresses., - . "Be quiet, you dear old idiot," she said, clasping her hands over Iiis muzzle, as he began to bark s loudly. "I don't want any one to know I am here. s Don't you understand, goose? There's a good dog; I and now see what I have brought you!" She had brought a ikmall parcel in her hand all the way from the slntion; and now, unfastening it, she took out a magnificent collar of wrought silver, fastened with a clasp of gold. She put it upon the dog's neck, and kissed his broad forehead; i but her tears fell fast all the while, for she remembered the time when she had left those gates to "seek her fortune," and when her childish vow had been that Tender should have a collar of diamonds one day, if he would but wear it. She was back again at last, and Tender had his collar, though not exactly of precious stones. But ah! what kind of a "for- tune" had rewarded her seeking . The dog looked, up in her face with mute sym- pathy, and then snuffed suspiciously at his magnifi- cent decoration. "If you dare!" said Aurelia, smiling through her tears, when she saw him preparing to scratch it off. "Go in there, sir, and show yourself. You oughtto be proud now, if ever a dog was." Looking as if he quite understood what she was, saying, Tender marched off by the garden path which led to the back of the house. Aurelia followed him. The windows of the great kitchen were all alight, and in the room she could see the familiar figure of Mrs. Marshall, who looked more stout and comfort- able than ever, while she gave an awkward servant girl some instructions in the art of making preserves. A great kettle of fruit was upon the fire, and Mrs. Marshall was just bending over it, candle in hand, and spectacles on nose, when Tender stalked in. "So you see, Elizabeth, you never ought to let, it I go .without skimming longer than-What on earth are you staring at, child 1" "At the dog." 'Drat the dog! What has he got to do with raspberry jam, I wonder?" "But look at the thing he has got on his neck, - missis." Mrs. Marshall turned round Tender was sitting 1 bolt upright in the middle of the floor, with his tongue t hanging out of his mouth, sighing, winking, and o blinking, in the most extraordinary manner; while ,- about his strong neck shone and glittered the splen. i, did token of his old friend's love. e "Good gracious! Where on earth did he get re that?" exclaimed Mrs. Marshall, bending over him, candle in hand. "Perhaps he met a fairy out on the common," ts suggested; the small servant, who was just undergo- ing a course of "The White Cat," and "Riquet with the Golden Tuft." "Yes, that is very likely," said her mistress, sharply. "But look how it shines. I declare it is solid silver, and the clasp is real gold! Oh, gracilus! It must be Aurelia that gave it to him! I feel quite ill " "And if it was Aurelia, would she be welcome?" asked a deep, sweet voice. Elizabeth turned, and saw a tall, beautiful lady, with golden hair and a pleasant smile. The next moment the candle went into the kettle of preserves, and Mrs. Marshall was in the arms of the elegant stranger, while Tender executed a pas seul around the group, and barked till he was as hoarse as a raven. As Elizabeth said afterwards, "it beat all the fairy tales out and out." Every one in Charnley had felt a strange interest in Aurelia's fate. There was not a simple cottage- girl playing upon the moor who did not know that the great singer in London had played and romped there before her, and Elizabeth especially, had her d eamed of her by night and by day, and had taken off. service at Charnley, simply that she might listen to Mrs. Marshall's tales of the beauty, grace, and goodness of her young protege. And now, to have her walk in upon them in that romantic way-to' see her hug Mrs. Marshall, and kiss old Tender, and shake hands, kindly with Elizabeth herself-- was it any wonder, after such an event, that they never went to bed till the clock struck two, and that the preserves burned themselves away unheeded, in company 'with the tallow candle, till the fire went out, and the bottom of the kettle " was not." Certainly, if ever there. was an occasion for kil- ling the fatted calf, this was one; and Mrs. Mar- shall, I assure you, did not fail to take advantage of it; but kept high festival and rejoicing over the re- turn of the wanderer, for many days. CHAPTER XXII. "And I must go! I cannot choose But love thee, and thy love refuse! And if my brow grows pale while young, And youth fly cheated from my cheek, 'Tis that there lies below my tongue A word I will not speak; For I would rather die than deem Thou'rt not the glory thou did'st seem!" ( PHLIP BAILEY s AURELIA. tired out with the arduous life she had f led-disgusted with:. the first sign of disapproval l1 from the Dublic, who had been used to idolize her, t galled by the faithllessness of her husband more than ihe could say, and pierced to the heart by the ar- rows of a love which she could not subdue, it must o e confessed she had not been lying on a bed of roses. But when she had fled from all annoyances, sE ,esigned all the honors, her situation was still worse. She was not formed for solitude, and she found in h( i week's time that she was horribly bored So when th Mrs. Thornton came down to the Hall, Aurelia was 4ry glad. There were riding, walking and boating parties without end. in all of wtich Aurelia joined, th and the excitement seemed to dispel her nielan- :holy. Among the guests she was very popular. The :own was ringing with tier strange 'disappearance. firom public life, and to be able to date letters from ou ;he house where Aurelia was staying, and to boast f having been her companions and cavaliers were great privileges to the fashionables assembled. But da still they couild not unde rstand why, being gay and hi free, and friendly witl all, she preferred none in pe particular, and never once spoke of her former ca- sa; reer. If aity one mentiollel the Opera, she was si- tdi tent, but listened eagerly. What could it mean? Mrs. Thornton was as mystified as her guests, but ly, -to" determined to watch Aurelia till she could make het lert out, and at last she was convinced, from one or two.. f- sighs, absent looks, etc., that there was a gentleman ley in the case. Who was it? Was it Captnin GrayI iat Absurd? Who ever heard of a woman falling 1ia. sd, love with her own husband? It was not Frederick. ire True, he and his pretty wife had slightly tired of " each other, and he was at Aurelia's feet, while she ;il- flirted with a tall, handsome dragoon officer, invited ar- to the Hall at her special request. But Aurelia did of not care to rank a married man among her admirers re- and her gentle dignity kept him at a proper dis- tance. Then, by any chance, could the Squire be the lappy man? He was now a widower, portly fresh-looking and devoted to Aurelia. That very day, she had seen in a glass on his toilet table, a flower which had graced Aurelia's hair the evening previous. But Captain Gray was in the way, and Mrs. Thornton puzzled over the problem for a week, when by accident she solved it. There was a young Guardsman invited to the Hall, who, as the ladies were remarking in the half-hour after dinner, on the day of hIs arrival, bore a remark. able resemblance to Paolo, the great tenor. Aurel- ia, who had been in her room all day and had not seen 'him, said nothing, but Mrs. Thornton noted her eager attention. When the gentlemen entered, slie saw that Aurelia turned pale as death. Now, though this little lady was married and cor- d fortably settled in the worldy she had not forgotten al her old grudge against Aurelia. Here was a chance r, to pay it off, and she took a seat beside Aurelia. " "* How very like Lieutenant Horton is to Signor Paolo," she said, going straight to the point at ;t once. Af Aurelia said she thought there was a slight re- 5, semblance. "1 Slight. my dear? They might be brothers. I i hope, though. the resemblance is only eternal, for 1 the Lieutenant's sake." Why 1?" "I am afraid Signor Paolo's morals are none of the best." i* Is he any worse than those who condemn him?" snapped Aurelia. "Ha, ha I Perhaps not, only he is more noticed, my dear. And really, this last affair is too scandal- ous." ' "What affair, pray?" * "Why, the beautiful opera dancer who always. dances on the nights he sings, or else he throws up his engagement. They say he is devoted to her, a perfect slave. But though she is so lovely, I must say he ought not to make it so public. Don't you think so?" "That is Signor Paolo's business," she said, stiff- ly, shrugging her shoulders and biting her lip. page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] No more was said. Aurelia pleaded a headache ment soon after and left the room de "I think I have paid you now for what you made me feel a long time agog thought Mrs. Thornton, triumphantly. ly sh z. held wonc CHAPTER XXIII y "I charm thee from the agony tel Which others feel or feign; g From anger and from jealousy, li From doubt and from disdain. D I bid thee wear the scorn of years last Upon the brow of youth; ject To curl the lip at passion!s tears, unu And shake the head at truth. ew HEMANS w littl A STOR. of jealousy shook Aurelia's soul. She w was not angry with her rival, but with her recreant lover. Another woman might be more beautiful more fascinating than herself-that was easilyth granted! But, oh! why should Paolo have evesto wa see that fatal beauty?-why should he have a heart that could feel that fatal fascination? It was a bitter cup. Perhaps it was crueltoundeceive her, since it de- Lo stroyed her faith forever in any constant loe b at least, it did her this servie--it enabled heron throughl the stirrings and searchings of wounded pride and misplaced devotion, to check, in a meas- ure, those sickening yearnings after a forbidd presence, that had intruded upon her gayest m-- a ments like a spectre at a feast. The charm was broken. She never wished to meet Paolo again, since could forgedand atone for her loss so speedily When he proved faithless, her thoughts, which had y followed him, true as the needle to the pole, brole free, and asserted their right to inependence agthe For a time she suffered horribly. Then came dead calm of indifference, and the memory of took a softened, saddened tone, which chastened, without subduing her soul. As she turned over the daily papers, the triumphs of her rival, which she had read at first with thrills of jealous anger, only woke a passing pang within her heart. She had lost the power of feeaing too acutely to disturb her loit the power ofeeling t f gift, which she own peace of mind; and for tis gift, which she would once have considered a ery doubtful good, she was most deeply thankful. The beautiful pictured face of Paolo, that seemed to smile, with mocking sweetness, upon her troubles and her tears, disappeared from the walls of her pri- vate room, and the books, the pictures the orna- ments he had given her were also banished from her sight. Deep,in her heart she buried his memo-: ry and went back into the gay world once more. But her manner was so different that every one noticed the strange and sudden change, though onb ly shrewd Mrs. Thornton guessed the reason. She held her tongue discreetly while every one else wondered what ailed Aurelia. So gay, so sprightly -yet so bitter at times. so sarcastic, and oh, so uvP terly indifferent to the homage still paid to her-so politely bored by the expressions of love, sympathy, good-will or friendship to which she was obliged to listen. Days went on, and the riddle was not solved. At last a startling event happened which put all con- jectures and questiolings to flight. There was an unusually gay party at the Hall one evening, which ended il a. full dress ball, and Aurelia was waltzing with the enamored Frederick, and listening, with a little scornful smile to the nonsensical rhapsodies h e was murmuring in her ear, when the Squire, looking Lt pale and frightened, made his appearance at the I, door, passed the groups of dancers, and signed to y ,the musicians to stop playing. In an instant, all o was confusion. regardless of which he made his way rt to Aurelia's side. "My dear, dolnt waltz anymore," he said, grave ly. "We have just received some bad news from e- London." at ' From London 7 What has happened? Is any er, -one dead?" Led Her heart stood still at the thought of Paolo. as- i' No, but he is dying.7 le "i He? Who?" she cried, turning deathly pale, Oo-- and clinging to his arm. ras "Don't agitate yourself, my child. Captain Gray has -met with a serious accident, while out with the he Pytchley hounds. They have t akel him to London ily. and telegraphed for you. He longs to see you-will had you go?" Dke "Yes," she said quietly. in. But oh, that look of infinite relief-though tern the pered with a sorrowful gravity befitting the occasion him -what could it mean? ned, the i v CHAPTER XXIV. When the viols played their best- Lamps above and lamps below- Love me sounded like ajest, Fittfor yes, or fit for no. Call me false or call me free- Vow. whatever light may shine, No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine." E. B. BROWNING. THE hardest heart is moved by suffering which must soon end in death. Aurelia's pride had been terribly wounded by the infidelity of her husband, and in her anger she had vowed that nothing should ever induce her to forgive him. But when she re- ceived that fatal piece of news. something seemed to drive that pride far away. He had wronged her, it was true, but he was dying, and how could she refuse his prayer? Attended by the Squire, and accompanied by his daughter, she went to town, and straight from the station to what had once been her happy home. She looked anxiously out as they neared the house. The street was strewed with straw; but the blinds were not drawn-he was still alive! James her own footman, opened the door, and burst into tears at seeing her. "Thanik heaven!" he exclaimed. "Master is dying, and they have just telegraphed again to Charnley, for fear you would not come." Aurelia grasped his hand. She felt so faint that she would have fallen, but for his quick assistance. "Dying " she said, in a low voice. "Take me to him at once, before it is too late!" Leaning on James's arm, she went up the stairs, while the Squire and Mrs. Morton were shown into the drawing-room, to wait better tidings from the sick room, or to hear that all was over. . The doctor was bending over his patient as Aure- lia entered. He rose and shook his head, but at sight of the young wife his face brightened. "Come here, my poor child!" he said very kind- E ly. " I want to see if your voice will rouse him." a Aurelia went up beside him, and looked at her c husband. Could that be the gay, handsome, light- t hearted "man about town,"-that wasted, feeble t figure, with its ghastly face and attenuated hands? a She faltered as she looked, and burst into tears. "Don't cry, there's a dear!" said the old physi- cian, who, like every one else, was well informed as o to her very peculiar position in that house. "Speak s to him; if that will not rouse him, he will never a know you or any one again!" r With difficulty, Aurelia obeyed. At last, she bent down with her mouth close to the dying man't face, and said aloud, "Arthur, you sent for me! I am here! It is Aurelia-will you speak to her?" A smile played round his lips-a slight color suf- fused his face. "Aurelia," he said, faintly. Then, opening his eyes widely, he looked up at her, and tried to take her hand. His own fell heavily back, the jaw dropped, and all was over! All her resentment was gone! She could feel nothing but passionate regret in the presence of that poor pale corpse. Her husband's sins were all for- given by her, though he had not been able to ask for that forgiveness. That they might find a pardon as free, before the tribunal where his shrinking d spirit stood, was her most earnest prayer when she knelt in her own room that night-a widow, and e alone. d r. * * * * * s e If ever Aurelia haclawronged her husband, in thought, or word, or deed-by ill-concealed con- is tempt or open anger, during that short, unhappy pe- e riod of her marriage, he was amply avenged during t. the week which she spent in seclusion, with all the a. melancholy preparations for his funeral going on a- s round her. She had a dread of death which was almost childish in its intensity ; and the thought of d that one room, where something lay ready for the grave, thrilled her with inexpressible terror. She s was afraid to pass by the door-she dared not even o enter the apartment where her husband had died She could not go out-she could not read-she t could not sleep or eat. By day and night, she sat a melancholy prisoner in her dressing-room, starting e nervously at every sound, and brooding, hour after hour, with her head resting upon her hands, till Mrs. Thornton feared, and with some reason, that her health or her brains must eventually give way. At last the day of the funeral came, and with all the mocking show of nodding plumes, and velvet palls, and mourning coaches and sad-faced mutes, the poor Captain was borne to his long home in Kensal Green. Numbers of his old friends and as- sociates stood around that grave with serious faces and saddened hearts. His death had been so sud- den and unexpected, that the most careless among them could not help being shocked and sobered by the event. It was whispered round polite circles afterwards, that a brougham, which stood at the cemetery gates during the ceremony at the grave, 6ontained the notorious Mrs. Trelawney. But no one ever knew if the report was true or false, since she departed for the Continent the very next week, and was afterwards reconciled to her husband, who resigned his country for ever, for the sake of dwell- page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] ing with her once more, in her beautiful villa, be- sId aide the Lake of Como. Aurelia returned to Charnley with her friends. ear The remainder of that year, and the greater part of the next, were spent by her in seclusion, so far as out the world was concerned. By her husband's will, her she inherited the whole of his property, which, ad- ken ded to her own income, made her, in reality, what every one had long supposed her to be, not only "well off," but positively rich. She might have had ears her carriage, her opera box, and her house in town, i if'she had liked. But she preferred to remain at 1001 Oharnley Cottage, with Mrs. Marshall for her fiiend,j and Tender for her body-guard. Rest!-rest! She an had learned at last to know that it was all she want- wh ed-and she had it there! In simple amusements and pleasures, in kindly charities to the poor, the Th sick and the aged, who learned to look upon her rel beautiful face, as if it had been the face of an angel -in an interchange of friendly visits with the fami- she ly at the Hall, the time passed happily away. She ba grew younger, prettier, and rosier day by day. The wearied haggard look left her face-a placid quiet contentment took its place. Never was a life more C uneventful, and yet more redolent of peace and com- fort than hers at that time. But this was one of ce the beatitudes which Mrs. Thornton could not pos. Lc sibly understand, and which she determined should be brought to a close as soon as possible. She' wished Aurelia to marry again and to be jiappy- which meant, in her vocabulary, to be a woman of iashion. While casting about in her own mind for a hero worthy of her heroine, he presented himself A before her most unexpectedly one afternoon, and pouring all his troubles into her ready eat', led her to espouse his cause as warmly as if he had really a been the candidate proposed by her for Aurelia's selection. The very next morning after the important in- 'terview, she drove over to the Cottage (for she never walked anywhere if she could help it), and asked to see Aurelia. She was in the garden, Mrs. Marshall said; and proceeding there, the daintily dressed lady found her future Queen of Fashion down on her knees on the garden path, with a hammer in one hand, and a mouth full of tenpenny nails, with wlhich she was mending the. door of Tender's kennel. The dog sat beside her gravely regarding the operation, as if it had been something got up for his especial gratification. Mrs. Thornton uttered unaffected little shrieks, :-md dropped her delicate, silver-grey parasol, which Tender immediately took up in his mouth, und presented it to her, with as near an approach to I stately bow as a dog could be supposed to make. "Well, le is a gentlemanly v iirae, whcls i s i'"' tau can be said of som y two-fuotEdi ti'ieiddi said the mollified visitor, patting his broad head with her dainty gloves. "But, my dear Aurelia, what on earth are you about?" "Can't you see?" asked Aurelia, taking the nail . out of her mouth, as she rose and shook hands with her visitor. "Old Tender would not stay in that kennel five minutes if any one else mended it." "How you do pet that dog'" "So I ought," answered Aurelia, pinching him ears. "He is the best ,friend I have on earth." "You say so, but I don't think you mean it-just look at your hands." "Never mind ; they will wash, thank goodness; and there is no one now to care whether they are white or black, which is a great comfort." Mrs. Thornton looked at her silver-grey kids. Then she opened her errand, which was to get Au- relia to dine at the Hall on the ensuing day, and in the place of stealing away in the early evening, as she always had insisted upon doing since her hus- band's death, to stay later and sing. Aurelia shook her head. "I don't like to exhibit myself in public again, , Cl'aia, I am getting too old, and also too lazy." "I assure you there will not be a soul there, exe f cept ourselves, Fred and his wife, and a friend from London." I Aurelia pricked up her ears. e "And who may that be?" "A friend of yours, I should have said." "f "I have no friends'in London." ,r "Oh, what a fib! Have you forgotten Gerald If Aubrey?" (1 Aurelia looked pleased, and answered, "Is he r' here? I remember him well. He wrote me such ly a kind letter when Captain Grey, died." ' He is at the Hall now." "When did he come 7" 1. "Yesterday." ie '"How long is he to stay 7" ,d "I know no more about it than the man in the nmooIn." he, "Who has he come to see ." of "Me, of course. How very inquisitive you are th, to-day!" ,f t"I never knew you were very intimate with }im the il London." her ; "My dear, I suppose we both had a long list of een friends there. But I never knew half the names of ionl yours--nor you of mine. :,ti 'IT'ue. So I am to conclude that Mr. Aubrey "chI belongs to the list of the great unknown." and. d Yes." "O i4 " "Did lie ask after me?" - ". WWhata t1questiolu Of course he did. And he l0'?.e il SO ; ii )jximis to sr'it you again. ,d"i "1 t H ia veti kind." "He says he never goes to the Opera now-- but he would give his ears to hear you sing once more." "I don't happen to want his ears." "Now you are never going to be so barbarous as to refuse?" "No; if it will give any one any pleasure to hear my cracked voice, they will not be disappointed. Mind you tell him it is cracked, though!" "What nonsense you talk! Come early, will you?"' "Will half-an-hour before dinner do?" "Admirably." "And what about Tender?" "He has a special invitation, of course, and shall dine like ii prince in the housekeeper's room. Now are vou satisfied?" "Quite. .And I will be there punctually at the time you name." Mrs. Thornton hurried-ome as first as her horses could take her, to report progress to the expectant lover. One thing augured well for his cause. Au- relia had never sang since her husband's death ; she was about to break this established rule to gratify an expressed wish of his. With a very hopeful, happy heart lie went up tlat day to dress for dinner; and made his appearance in the drawing-room half-an- hour before that meal, in order to profit by the tete-a- tete which Mrs. Thornton had so kindly plotted to procure for him. But, greatly to his disappointment, and his fair ally's secret amusement, Aurelia did not enter the drawing-room at all. If shle suspected the exist- ence of their plot, she never hinted at the know- ledge, but went straight to MrIs. Thornton's dressing- room, where she remained till the dinner-bell rang, and where she never once mentioned the name of Mr. Aubrey. So their first meeting was, after all, at table; and one cannot look very sentimental in the Tres- ence of soup and fish.,:s Mr. Aubrey glanced at Mrs. Thornto,, with an unmistakable look of annoyance, as Aurelia shook hands with him, and then sat down to eat her dinner with the utmost composure. But he rallied in time, and was able to bear sufficient part in the conversation to prevent her from thinking him either a bore or a bear. The evening ended as it had begun-aill wrong-at least for hinm. Therest of the party seemed to enjoy it well enough ; and if to hear Aurelia's splendid voice had been, as lie augured, the one thiiig wanting in his life, lie cer- tainly had that wanit well supplied. 'She sang for more than an hour, but alas! she sang as readily at the request of the old Squire as, at his, and so the songs were spoiled. Nor was it better when the clock struck eleven, anti she rose to go. Hlere, at least, hethought hitm- - Iself secure of a tete-a-etet: but. to his inifinite dis- e gust, Mrs. Marshall, cloaked and hooded, w'as wait- ing in the Hall, with Tender by her side. Aurelia kindly declined his offer of an escort, and marched is away with them, laughing in the avenue at some- thing the old lady was saying and never giving a r thought to him she had left behind. I. "Courage, mon ami!" said a voice behind him, as he stood still, in the hall-door, gazing after them. [1 "Better luck, let us hope, to-morrow. And now, good-night, and pleasant dreams." It was Mrs. 'Thornton who spoke. And after one or two inaudible growls of dissatisfaction, he took her well-meant consolation, and a candlestick, 1 and went to bed. CHAPTER XXV. "The sin is on us both! Time to dance is not to woo;-- Wooing light make fickle truth - Scorn of me recoils on you, "Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high; Bravely, as for lif'e and death, With a loyal gravity." E. B. BRaowNIte. EARLY the next morning-so early that the break- fast things were hardly removed from the table-a visitor firom the Hall was announced at the Cot- tage. Mrs. Marshall was in no trim to receive callers. Aurelia went into the little parlour, ex- pecting to see Mis. Thornton, full of some expedition into which she was to be tempted by the beauty of the day. Wliat was her surprise at seeing Mr. Aubrey com- fortably ensconced in the easy chair, instead of thi gay little lady, whose presence would not have been amiss. She could not exactly ask him, in so many words, what he wanted, but if eyes ever looked the interrogation to an unwelcome guest, hers did then. He did not seem to notice it, however, but, after greeting her respectfully, looked 'round the room with a thoughtful, almost a sad, glance. "How familiar, and yet how strange, does this place seem to me!" he said, at last. "I used to come here often with my friend Leroy before we met you. I have passed more evenings quietly and happily here than I ever passed in any other house except my mother's. I wish Leroy would come back."' "So do I," said Aurelia, with an involuntary sigh. page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] He looked at her with a smile. im You were very fond of him as achild, Hthink?"I "Had I not reason?" an "Of course. And yet you only saw him for one foi wening." "One evening was long enough to show me what sta v lind, good heart he had."' it "Yes; he was a good fellow. Poor Leroy, how in wild he was when he got Mrs. Marshall's letter say- un ng that you had run away." an "I fear he will never forget it, said Aurelia. ea "Do you?" s "'It was setting him and his authority at defiance, 'fol know." "Oh, quite." w ",And lie must have thought me the most ungrate- to eul or mortals." he "I told you once before that he did; yet, knowing ar jl thWis, do you regret the step you took?" i"O. ti "( knew you could not. To have been ' Aurelia' G evenafor a day, is enough to cancel the deepest sin of imprudence or ingratitude." a" wish Mr. Leroy would think so," she said, I mlw ing. n "Perhaps he may." "What do you mean?" "When I first had the honor of seeing you in h town, I said that I would write to-him." C * "Well?" "I did so at once." "And has he received the letter? What does he ( ay about it?" a "Certainly. The post-offices are very well ar- raged out there in Abyssinia," said Mr. Aubrey, 1 meditatingly. " Post-offices 'in Abyssinia, indeed! Have you heqd from Mr. Leroy?" "My letter followed him, though slowly, almost into the bowels of the earth." "And he answered?" 4' I should judge from the envolope of his letter that it had seen service under every civilized and uncivilized nation on the face of the globe ;" and he held up a dirty, creased, extraordinary-looking document, just out of her reach. "- Ol, how provoking you are," she cried. Is it Seally from him 1" "It is." "May I read it?" "Yu shall have the postscript, if that will con- "Give it to me." He drew a small slip of paper from within'the envelope, and placed it in her hands. It ran tnus: -"-.Vhat you tell me of Aurelia has done my heart goof 4 i all my wanderings, the fate of that poor eAf impetuous child has troubled me beyond measure. I have blamed myself continually, first for adopting, and then for leaving her; and to hear that she las found other fiiends, and worked out for herself a destiny so splendid, is indeed a relief. But the stage! oh, how I hate it-and how, for her, I dread it! You tell me that she is beautiful and fascina- ting, and that the world is at her feet! How long, under such circamstances, can she remain innocent and unspoiled? I shall come at once, to see if my earnest entreaties can prevail upon her to relinquis! so dangerous a mode of life." "You see," said Mr. Aubrey, gaily, when she had finished reading, " it is England, home, and beauty with him as with everybody else. Deaf, for years * to every question of expediency or common sense he is aroused at last by the knowledge of your peril , and is rushing to the rescue like a knight of old.' "He knows nothing of my marriage-my separa tion-my departure from the stage-or Captaii ' Gray's death?" said Aurelia looking very grave. i "Nothing at all. You see, events march quicke) than letters now a-days. I wrote to him as soon a , I met you, but the letter never reached him for months. In the meantime, you had married, am left the stage. And the other-that is to say--. He stopped short, quite confused. He did not know n how to say that the separation, and the death of the Captain, had followed the other events so closely, that within a very short space of time Aurelia had been a bride, a deserted wife, and a widow-the ie Queen of the English stage, and the humble tenant of the cottage on Charnley Moor. r- "I understand," she said. "It seems so very y, long ago-and yet, two years has covered all! It is hard to believe!" " ,u "Hard for you, who have been the actor in these scenes. Harder still for me-a mere spectator!" st replied Mr. Aubrey, with real feeling. "We will not think of those things," said Aurelia, trying to slake off the sadness that always crept er over her at the thought of bygone days. 6 Tell me nd more of Mr. Leroy." nd "What do you want to know?" ng "When he is coming to England." "This letter was,mailed last at Canton, you see.' 'Is "Yes." "it had been coming from heaven knows where, and was so long on its way, that Leroy actually sailed in the same steamer with it." on- Aurelia clasped her hands. "Is lhe in England?" "He is." the "And have you seen him?" us: "The letter was delivered at my lodgings the day eart before yesterday by the postman, at nine a m. By ,oor the time I had finished it and my breakfast, and ,as wondering what I ,1,ould1 do Wvlth myself nill day, Leroy walked in. I leave you ,to guess my surprise." How does he look 's he not well! Has ie aite red 1 Hi a he gr,wn old? Does he lo k sad 1 Did he ask ;ibout me!'" As Aurelia poured out these rapid incoherent questions, one after another, Mr. Aubrey elevated his eyebrows, and sat looking at her with comical astonishment. "Which of the hundred am I to answer first?" he asked. "I beg your pardon!" she said, laughing and blushing. But I am so well pleased to hear that he has come, and that I shall have an opportunity of thanking him for all he has done for me. Why, you horrible man!" she added, suddenly, "you must have known of this last night!" "Of course I did. Htve I not already told you that I saw him in the morning?" 'And you positively spent the evening with me, and never said a word about it?" 'I plead guilty. A very delightful evening it was too!" "I have a great mind never to speak to you again!" "You will forgive me, I am sure, when I tell you that I was acting under Mr. Leroy's express instruc- tions!" ' What do you mean?" "Of course, his first inquiry was after you. In fact, he came back to England expressly to claim you, to assert his authority as a guardian, if you would allow .it, and withdraw you from the stage,- which, between you and me, he looks upon as the entrance and the gateway to that naughty place where we hope all our enemies, and none of our iends and acquaintances, will go!" "Perhaps he is right; but pray go on with your tory." "How flattered he would be to see your impa- tience!" said Mr. Aubrey, with a slight air of an- noyance. "Well, I only live to obey you, and so I will proceed with my tale. You must know, that he had pictured you in the jaws of a hundred dra- gons. I cannot tell to what his fears did not point. It seems that his first love wentupon the stage; but I think I told you that story before. He got a ward hen, I fancy, and his horror of the theatre is some- hing ludicrous. When lie heard, however, what I was glad and proud to be able to tell him-with strictest truth-that the honor and fair fame of Au- elia lad never for one instant been called in ques- JoH, hI cooled down wonderfully." "It ws kind of you to speak a good word of ne," said urelia, holding out her hand. Mr. Au- Ibrey raised it rtv-prtfli!y to lis lipa. and went on wl rh lhi story. I told hiim also of youtr marriage, and-and the other things. Wlhei he heard of your retirement l(, Charnley, I nievei. s Av any one so pleased in my life. And then he selnt in* down as a kind of ambassador, to say he was in town, and to ask when he couid have the honor aind pleasure of kissing the fan hand, as I have done to-day." Aurelia looked puzzled and annoyed at hearing this explanation. "Charnley is Mr. Leroy's house-not mine," she said stiffly. "Has he forgotten that?" "No-not exactly. But, under all the circum- 'stances, he thought it would be better if I came first." "Does he fancy I shall not be glad and proud to meet my first benefactor?" "No, not that!" said Mr. Aubrey, beginning to nestle uneasily about. "What then?" "Well, you know, to begin with, you are not ex- actly the 'girl he left behind him.'" "He can scarcely expect that." "You are a famous singer, now. And, besides that, a widow; don't you see?" "I confess that I do not." "He cannot run down here without any ceremo- ny, now, as he might have done if you had still beea in frocks and pianofores." "Very well. If ceremony was needful, which I am inclined to doubt, why could he not write, and - say that he was coming? Where was the aeedfof employing-an ambassador?" "And that ambassador Gerald Aubrey, I suppose you would say, if you spoke your thoughts out free- lv?" he answered, looking half offended. She was silent. "There are a hundred things he must do, before he leaves London, you know,'i he continued, with a faint smile. "He has to see his tailor, to begin with. To my certain knowledge, he has not a civil- ized coat to his back. And his beard-you should just see his beard, and then you would ask no more Questions!" Aurelia shrugged her shoulders. "And the Royal Geographical Society-bless me, I nearly forgot that!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, going off at a fresh score. "What of that, pray?" "Oh, he must present himself there, you, know; every one who has crossed the 'briny ocean' must appear at Burlington House; and it is my firm be- lief that Leroy intends to present himself il the full costume of an Abyssinian chief, with a gorilla on f one arm, and a princess from the nountains of the moon on the other. What a lion he will be. I only page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] - hrop lhe :nay not bring his fair compa1nicnt d.,w a 1to Charodey. Fancy him taking a morning wilk with them upon the common, to the edification f the ltaager-s , and your own intense (dlight!' Aurelia rose from her sent impatiently "Mr. Aubrey, you must excuse me for telling you that you are -talking the greatest nonsense in world, and that is a privilege which, as a woman, I cl reserve exclusively to myself. Now. I am going to l send you back to the Hall at once." "One moment," he said, growing perfectly seri- ous. "I am here expressly to say something'to yOU.'t "And remarkably well you have said it!" "I did not know how to begin. I have been, as you say, talking great nonsense, simply because I L was afiraid rt say anything else." "Hiump'li ! what does that mean, I wonder?" saii Aurelia, giviing him a sharp glance, and beginning a to have a pretty tolerable idea of the cause of this confusion. "It means this,' he said, frankly "I love you, and I have come here to-day to ask you to be my wife." The murder was out at last. Aurelia bit her lips in and frowned. An offer which shle had no intention ce of accepting, was a nuisance from which she always tried to escape. In this case it came so unexpect- edly, that she was more than half inclined to be an- b gry with the individual who had presumed to make th such a blunder. "Mr. Aubrey, you must acquit me of all unkind- ness in what I am going to say,", she observed. "I am really pained by what you have just told y me." "Why?" - "Because I thought I had a kind friend in you, - and not a lover." "I have been devoted enough to you, if that is all!" She raised her eyebrows. "When, and where?" "I mean that I have been devoted-for me!" "Oh!" "I never was a marrying man, Aurelia; but I I hwave a handsome fortune, and you have seen enough of English society to know how English girls angle for husbands in every direction: I have been pur- sued from pillar to post." "Poor fellow!" "Oh, vou need not be ironical-it is the truth! I have been hunted in all directions, and if I had ven- tured to pay aiy particular attention to any young lady, I should, have been snappedr up long ago. So I never flirted-it was the only safe way." W"What vanity these men have!" said Aurelia, in a stage wdisper. "WAiil yvon .,.e serinis tfr five minutes 1" '"Not if you are goi, to ronmance about your irt resistibility in tlhat ulasur I slyle!' "I am not-- am goillg t(o talk albut yours. (f course you will be all atterntil nfow!" "Most certainly!" "When I first knew you-when you were a little child here in this very room, I confess I did not like you." "And I detested you." "I know it." "I used to make faces at you." "For which I longed to box your ears." "You did pull them once. I remember" it well." "Never mind old injuries. At that time I thought Leroy almost mad for adopting you, and prophesied *to him as we journeyed up to town together again, that the first thing you wpuld do would be to run away with the spoons." ' "Thank you." "You did run away." "But I left the spoons behind me." "Yes, I did you that justice, even 'when Mrs. Marshall's indignant letter arrived," he said, smil- ing. "But I imagined you had gone back to White- chapel. Don't be angry with me." "I am not. "It was a most natural supposition." "When I met you again, beautiful, elegant, and L bewitching-the queen of the stage, and the star of the best private society-I fell in love with you, na every one else did." "Well?" "If you had not accepted Captain Gray's offer I you would have had one from me." "And if I had I should now have been yonr wife," said Aurelia, tdreamily thinking what a , -mere act of desperation that wretched marriage had been. s His startled "Eli? what 7" recalled her ta corn sciousness. "I beg your pardon-it was a foolish remark. Go on with whlat you were saying." "Only this. That after you were married, 1, of course, classed myself only among your friendsa I But you surely remember how I stood by you on ih that unfortunate night, when Mrs. Trelawney m;ade le her tappearance 7" r- 6"Yes, I remember." "The moment you were free, I hastened to place my services at your disposal. You did not accept I them, but my intention was the same. I have only n- waited for a propel length of time to elapse before g I addressed you formally; and now I ask you the So question, which I never asked any woman before in my life, will you marry me?" in "Does my guardian know of this?" asked Au, relia. "He does. I spoke to him at once about it." "And he approves?" "He will give his consent-his blessing-anything you like----" "That was why he sent you down first?" "It was. What answer am I to have?" "' I cannot give you the one you wish." "'You will not marry me?" She shook her head. "Do you mean to marry again?" "Is that a question you ought to ask?" she said, blushing deeply. "Never mind ; I will answer it. I do mean to marry, again, Ibnt not at present." "' In time then, may I hope?" "Hope nothing, Mr. Aubrey. I shall never marry you!" "May I ask why?" he said, looking intensely huffed. "Because ithough you are my very good friend, I do not lve you well enough to make you my hus- band." "Pshaw! a girl's romantic folly," he said hotly. I thought you had more sense. I love you, but I don't rave and protest as I might if I was eighteen. And for my own parrt, so you give me a reasonable and faithful affection, I shall be very well satisfied." "Precisely what I mean, and what I cannot give to you!" she said, quietly. "The romance, has been pretty well knocked out of me, I think; but a reasonable, faithful affection, even a heart like mine may offer to the man it chooses, and you are not that man!" Mr. Aubrey sat in silence for some time, digesting his mortification as best lie might. At length lie took up hi's hat. "This is your final answer?" "It is." "I am to repeat it to Mr. Leroy T" "If you choose." "Then I had better take myself off as soon ns pos- ; sible, and try to find some other lady who will be able to look upon me without that repugnance which you seem to feel. "Nonsense, Mr. Au4rey!" said Aurelia, holding out her hand, with a frank smile. "I like you very 1 well, and hope to keep you for my friend for many a day to come. Surely you are not going to be un- a forgiving because you made a little mistake, and I have set you right 1 It is my bad taste that is at fault. I have no doubt you will find that ' There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, Who will gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar..' And when you have made your selection, let me I know, and I will come and dance at your wedding. Now, shake hands, ard forgot, a. IT will do, that i*o have ever spoken upon this seibject at all!" Only hnlf-pacified by her Iriendly--ailiing, he shook " hands somewhat sulkily, and kt, tl t house. Ho was-as good as his word--he sougl.- out another la- dy at once, and before three weeks had elapsed, Aurelia received his wedding/cirds. She only smi- led as she read them, and wished tim joy with all her heart. In the meantime, her time was taken up in pre- paring for Mr. Leroy, who, hearing in due time of the unsuccessful result of his friend's mission, had written to announce his own speedy arrival. The days were fair and sunny, the nights full of moon- liglit; the flowers were in bloom, the trees in lea'f; everything was beautiful around Charnley, and be- fore the beauty of that freshness fa:ded, he would bL here to admire it too. CHAPTER XXVI, "How shall I woo her? I will 'ry The charms of olden time; And swear by earth, and sea, and sky, And rave in prose and rhymc. And she will thiiik that lie who bent His knee in other years, 'Was not one half so eloquent- He could not speak for tears!" PRAKb. THE morning post was often late at Charnliey. Not that it mattered much to Aurelia, for, since her, retirement into private life, she neither wrote nor re- ceived many letters. But one day, as she walked out upon the moor, with old Tenderii by her side, the postman met her, and touching his liat, handed her ; small package, with the post-mark "New York" upon it. Wondering greatly who it could be fi'om -for she had no correspondents in the "Empire City"--she stood still, and broke the seal. A letter, and a small oval case of blue velvet, ern ' broidered with seed pearls fell to the ground. She picked them up \\ith a sickening paig of memory and fear, touched the spring of the case, and as she had expected, the beautifil fice of "Tle Peri" looked out upon her. She turned to the letter. It had a black seal! She tore it open. It was written in a ftiint and feeble hand, and ran tlius:- "I am dying-alone and in a strange land. I have been ill for many months, and duritg that time I have tried hard to be good. 1 selid yo(u ly pictuure, lor I think you liked me once, und you may be will & page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] ing to keep it, in memory of the poor butterfly, whose wings were soiled and broken so early. When you look at it, pray for me. I am dying a Catholic, and I think I shall know when you are praying. "Don't qui;e forget me; and when you see Pa- olo, tell hi m I loved him-only lfim-to the last. "LOUISA." Oh, voice from the distant grave-how it spoke to her aching heart!"Tell him I loved him--him only-to the last!" Slit sat down among the heather, and covered herI eyes with her hand. It was long since she had wept; but now the tears fell one by one upon the smiling Fce and the lat letter, till they were blurred and hidden from her straining sight. Oh, wasted life! Oh, lingering love, that sent that one pathetic ap- peal far over the wide blue sea-to be read long af- ter the hand that penned it was mouldering in the dust! As she sat there upon the lonely common, with the sunshine brightening the heather, and the birds singing sweetly over her head, how far away it all seemed-that tumultuous fever of life, in which she had known the Peri, won the applause of the fash- ionable world, and loved Pablo! Paolo! What ailed her? What had become of all the passionate fervour that once filled her heart at the memory of that name? Sorrow she could not but feel-but it was a tender sorrow now. Her thoughts and dreams blossomed no longer into rich red roses -they were but the pale forget-me-nots upon a lone- ly grave. i She leaned her head upon old Terider's strong shoulder, and looked wistfully up into the deep blue sky. She was no longer unlappy. Her laugh was as sweet, her song as joyous as ever. Yet sie was changed. A sort of quiet weariness had fallen up- on her. Sle was getting averse to all trouble. She cared nothing for society; she liked her book before the fire, or her stroll upon the common with Tender by her side, better than any other pleasure which could be offered to her. Anything which involved the slightest amount of exertion invariably bored her and she would look with a kind of placid wonder up- on those people who, having never possessed a first enthusiasm to lose, could go on tranquilly to the end of life, happy in the things which had made the hap- piness of their youth. She knew, perhaps-better than any one, the reas- on of this change. A certain portion of happiness is meted out to every individual on earth. Some, of calm and unimpa;ssioned natures spread out that hap- piness over Illeir whole lives, as a gold-beater refines, and thins, an, lelngthens the precious metal which he works. Otilers to whom existence is to be a brief and bright glory, treat their dowery as Cleo- patra treated her pearl-they dissolve it in a " cup of sparkling wine," and quaff it at one splendid nev- er-to-be-forgotten d raught. Aurelia had done this. No more such rapturous moments awaited her, and yet she was content. Al- though a veil of tender meltncholly bung over her whole life, it could not sour her naturally sunny spirit, or make her feel one pang of discontent. Friendship, love, happiness, she had lost her faith in them all. But honest Tender was at her side, and not far away, a quiet home. And quiet is a great gift, for which those who have been nearest to take shipwreck in the waste ocean of life, can feel most deeply thankful. Aurelia appreciated it thor oughly. For the rest, what mattered it?' What if even over sea, sky, and moon, trees, flowers, and plants, hung something of her soul's sadness, like a cloud that prevented her from seeing its beauties as plainly as she once had done? Lying there among ithe heather, with her arms around old Tender's honest neck, she began torepeat the words in which I the poet of Nature so well depicted the feelings of iNature's worshippers, when the world has come be- tween them and the beautiful face of the goddess they adore:- "Then sing ye birds-sing, sing a joyous song, And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng- Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May; What though the radiance that was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight? Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, or glory in the flower, We will grieve not-rather find Strength in what remains behind- In the primal sympathy Which, havingheen, must ever be!" "Tender, my Tender," she said to the dog, who was lifting his head and growling in a strangled key. i"Wordsworth is quite in the right, so you need not make those heathenishl noises.7' "Tender is not expressing his disapproval of Wordworth, but of me,' said a voice behind her, and the next instant the dog bounded upon the new ;comer with a noisy welcome, and Aurelia started to I her feet. She knew the face as soon as she looked at it ' She held out her hand with a warm, frank smile. "Mr. Leroy!" "The same!" "Welcome back to England and to home. For I suppose you are going there?' "Yes. I walked over from the station as the day was so fine, little thinking that I should find a night ingale among the heather on the way." He stood holding' her hand and looking into her downcast face. At last hesaid softly, "how strange it all seems. I left you a little child in pinafores and short frocks, and now I come back to find you a stately and beautiful woman, and the queen of the lyric stage. A wife too, and a widow- " The colour rose to her forehead, 'and he broke off abruptly. "The less said about that the better, perhaps. Did you like your life upon the'stage, Aurelia." "At first it was exciting, charming, magnificent! But at the last, I think I got tired ;" and she sigh- ed. Mr. Leroy observed it. "You are young to grow tired of anything, much less flattery and applause," he said. "I don't know. There are some things in life that don't depend upon one's age, I think." "True." "And that is one." "But you have found it out earlier than most wo- men do." "Possibly." She looked out towards the distant hills with an absent weary gaze. His eyes wandered from her face to the little jet miniature lying at her feet. "The old story, I presume!" he thought, while a scornful smile curled his lip. "However, as she will certainly step upon the darling's face in a min- ute or two, I may as well pick him up and restore him to her." He suited the action to the word. "I think you have dropped something," he said, and he laid the tear-stained letter in her hand, and removed a dry leaf or two wlich had clung to the face of the miniature, with his handkerchief. As he did so, he caught'sight of the face, and his own turned white. "For heaven's sake, tell me where you got this?'" he exclaimed. Aurelia glanced up sharply and suspiciously. She could not tell why she disliked to see him so much moved at the sight of another woman's pictured face-she would not have told if she could. "Where did you get this?"' he asked again trem- bling with excitement. "It was sent to me from America," she answered oldly. "But where could you have known her 7" he ask- ed, more calmly. I met her in London." "On the stage t" j "No; she was never on the stage." "You are mistaken. She passed the best part of her life there. The best? I ought, rather, to say the worst part, for it was a shameful existence! I must tell you all about it, some day." Aurelia looked thoroughly puzzled. Evidently they were talking of two very different people. She ventured to hint as much, but he laughed aloud at idea. "You will tell me next that I donotknow my own name," he said. "That is Helen's face, Helen's smile, those are Helen's eyes and Helen's curls, just as I saw them last. Who would think that a face so fair could be so false?" "But, Mr. Leroy," she said, earnestly, " her name was not Helen. It was Louisa." "Louisa what?" he asked, with a sudden start. "Louisa Pearl." "Her child! Can it be possible?" "Oh, never!' cried Aurelia, thinking of the false woman, who had so cunningly lured her into the den of infamy, where tl;e poor Peri was kept an unwill. ing prisoner. He gave one hasty glance at the miniature, and shut the case. "Here, take it-keep it out of my sight for the present. Some day I will tell you the whole story, if you would like to hear it; but I don't like to spoil my first coming home by mriemories like that!" She put the picture and letter in her pocket, and he looked immensely relieved when they were fairly out of sight. Then they walked quietly home to- gether, old Tender stalking in front as guard of hon- our, with his tail and eyebrows elevated with impoe, tance, to an tingle of forty-five degrees. After the first outhurst of joy oln the part of Mrs. Marshall, and the first exchange of civilities with the faimily at the Hall, and one or two of the other country magnates, the party at the Cottage settled down into a calm and pleasant routine, which Au, relia fancied at first would content her for ever. They breakfasted early, in the morning parlour, Mrs. Marshall taking the head of the table, Mr. Leroy the foot, and Aurelia the side. After the post was in, and all letters read and answered, it was time for a little music. Then came a long and pleasant wa'k upon the moor, then luncheon, and an afternoon spent in reading, music, or riding and driving, as the case might be. They dined at six. and after coffee, Mrs. Marshall invariably dozed in an easy chair over her knitting, while Aurelia sang to Mr. Leroy. One evening in each week was spoat at the Hall. That was the extent of the dissipation in which they in- dulged. I once saw two very old pictures, in a country inn, which told their own-story without the aid of words. The filst was a cottage interior, where a cat slept page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] cosily upon the hearth, nnd nai old 'lame slumbered placidly in a high-backed cnair. The latticed win- dow was open, and a dark girl in pink and a fair girl in blue were very busy there, pulling in a little wing- ed urchin, with curly flaxen hair, remarkably short petticoats, and a bow and quiver. The old lady snored tranquilly through it all. But in the com- panion picture the scene ig changed from the interior to the exterior of the cottage. The girl in pink and the girl in blue were sobbing by the door-post, and young love pouting and sulky,' was being marched off the premises at the end of a stout birch-broom, wielded by the old lady who looked as fierce as'a grenadier, with her high cap, and her steel spectacles all askew over her aged nose. Here, in Charnley Cottage was the same thing over again, only that the urchin flew in without any assistance, and the old lady never woke at all. Aurelia, tired of the storm of passion in which she had lived so long, abjured the very name and thought of love, and fancied that she could never feel anything beyond the mildest friendship for any man again. Imagining-herself so vpy safe, she never suspected the arrows that were beginning to fly so fist around her. When she loved Paolo she could ;neither eat, drink nor sleep for thinking of him. lie troubled her dreams by night, and her'rest by day. Now her appetite never failed, and her slumbers were profound. It never occurred to her that there might be a milder form of the disease, as well as of the measles. She did not know that, even after a heart has burned itself into ashes, you may still put a brazier within the charred and empty walls, and liglit some semblance to a fire there. Mr. Leroy was the first to open his eyes to the danger, He sat thinking about it one morning in the breakfiist-parlour, when1 Aurelia came running down, in the greatest spirits to get a cup of tea. "Why do you look so serious?" was her first question. "Have I offended you 1' "What an idea!" 6"Are you in trouble, then? Can I do anything to help you 1' "No. There are some things in this world, strange as it may seem, which you cannot do." 1"I wonder what," It was on his tongue's end to tell her all, but he refrained. He feared that it would affront her, and seeking for-an evasive' answer his eye happened to fall upon a book of navigation, which he had been consulting the day before.' It suggested an idea. "A number of things," he said, smiling; " and one is this. You cannot box the compass, Aurelia!," OCan't I, though?" she said, laughing: " you don't know half my accomplishments yet. Now, just listen. Nortlh--mnrthi and by east-n-or'--nor' aor'-east--and by north-nor'-east--nr'-east and by I' east-east-nora-east-east and by north--east-east - and by soutli-sou'-sou'-east-sou'-east and by east 1 -south. What do you think of that?" she added, - saucily. t "Who on earth taught you?" "An old sailor carpenter we had at the theatre. - Such a dear old Jack tar, with a quid for ever in his r mouth. He said I was the prettiest woman he 'ever I seed in his life,' and I assure you I valued the cam- II pliment. I always used to ' box the compass ' to a Ilwaltzing tune while I practised my dances. You have no idea how it regulates the steps." "I certainly have not." ," Look, then." She caught up the long, fiull skirt of her dress Idisplaying a very beautiful foot and ankle as she ,did so, and glided gracefully round the room sing- ling a waltzing tune. "4, But you are not boxing the compass," he cried, playfully. I "Oh! you wanit the rest of it, do you? Very [well :-South and by west-soun '-sou'-west-sou' jwest and'by south-sou'-west-sou'-west and by west-west-sou'-west-west and by south-west-- west and by north-west-nor'-west-nor'-west and jby west-nor'-west-nur'-west and by north-nor'. nor'-west-north and by west-north." j She paused laughing and out of breath. She was I right; it made a very 'good waltzing tune, as she sang it, but he was not thinking of that, just then. ' He was ihinking of her, once the idol of the stage, and now content to dance and sing in the breakfast- parlour of a country cottage for his amusement. He was thinking of the freshness, the sparkling piquant simplicity, the childlike gaiety of spirit, which had survived that stage life-her fashionable and her married life alike. She was bewitching, fascinating, bonnie; yes, that was the word-' a bonilie lassie'- and the light of his eyes and the desire of his heart. Should lie ever dare to tell her so? Something of this was written in his face, for as he 16oked up at her when she finished her dance, the merry speech she was about to utter died upon her lips. For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Then Mr. Leroy said, "You dance beautifully." "Do you think so?" Hie rose and took her hand. She began to blush !vividly;, so did lie. There they stood silent and stu- pid. In spite of her agitation, the ludicrous side of the siluation, struck Aurelia so forcibly, that she wae almost bursting witlh suppressed laughter. "Aurelia!" said Mr. Leroy, in his deepest tone. She looked up in his face, turned' crimson again, twitched her hand away and ran out of the roum. Few words were really needed after that. But I question much if two people ever found out tlat'they aatircd forveach other, by "boxing the compass" to a waltzing tune. CHAPTER XXVIL "Green, green upon her brow The laurel wreath shall be, Although that laurel now Must not be shared with me? ", Tell her that day by day Life looks to me more dim; I falter when I pray, "And bid her, when I die, Come to our fav'rite tree- I shall not hear her sigh, Nor let her sigh for me!" rRAED. POR the rest of that day Aurelia was not visible, and Mr. Leroy had to walk, ride, and dine alone. After dinner, however, he caught a glimpse of her straw hat in the garden, and joined her there. She was bending over a double red rose, which filled the evening air with its rich perfume. She looked up as she heard his step, and held out her hand with a smile of welcome. "Truant!" he said. "Where have you been all day long?" 6 "In my own room." "What have you been doing?" "Reading and writing letters, I never write let- ers except on one day in the week, and this hap- pened to be the appointed time. I hope you have enjoyed your solitude." . "Remarkably." "How sweet this evening air smells. How calm and quiet the twilight is!'9 "Will you walk?"V "If you like."' "Come, then."' He gave her his arm, whistled to Tender, and they strolled out upon the common together. The fine silence of the twilight hour was around them; r the sky in the west burned with a hundred different dyes. Aurelia did not speak. She seemed out of spirits. At last Mr. Leroy told her so.- t "I may be,"' she said, looking away from him. 1C "Mr. Leroy, I am going to leave- Charnley very soon.' "What do you mean?" he asked, stopping short. v She repeated what she had said, and lie looked t greatly vexed. "Are you tired of this quiet home-of this quiet life?" A yearning, wistful loolowas in Aurelia's eyes; but still she answered, "Yes, I think I am. And I must go away." "Is it your intention to go upon the stage again T," he asked, stiffly. "I cannot tell." At that moment Mrs. Marshall, who had gone to the Hall on an errand, appeared in sight. At the end of the little path they were traversing, Aurelia watched her nervously. The instant she saw them she shook her head, and when she reached the place where they stood waiting for her, she instantly at- tacked her master. "It will not do, Mr. Leroy. I tell you it will never do!" "What will not do?"' "Mind, I don't think you mean any harm by it, neither does Reley, for she is as innocent as a new- born babe; but I told her this very morning that I should sveak to you about it, and so I will." "It does not matter-it is of no consequence. I will tell Mr. Leroy myself," said Aurelia, who look- ed terribly annoyed. "You? Not a bit of it! Didn't you almost go down In your knees to-day to beg me not to tell him?" "Pray what is it?" asked Mr. Leroy, whose cu- riosity began to grow rampant. "Why don't you tell me at once, Mrs. Marshall?" "So I will, sir. You see this is just the loing and short of it-people are talking!" ," Talking! They always do that, so far as I know, Mrs. Marshall." "Yes, sir; but now they are talking about you and Miss Aurelia." "Indeed! That makes a difference. Pray what do they say?" "They say, sir, that you are far too young and too good-looking to be guardian to a beautiful young widow like her; they say you ought not to live in the same house, nor to walk or ride together; in fact, sir, I can't tell you what they don't say. You know what people's tongues are."' "That I do, to my cost," said Mr. Leroy, looking rather grave. "And what are you gointg to do about it, sir?" "Finish his walk, I hope, and pay no attention to such nonsese," said Aurelia, gaily. "I wonder how you can repeat it, A'Irs. Marshall." "Aurelia is quite rig!ht," said Mr. Leroy, rousing out of a profound reverie. "We will take our walk, and then come back to the Cottage, and talk the matter over with you, dear friend." Mrs. Marshall went off, grumbling and shaking page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] her head. Aurelia and Tender walked on; Mr. Leroy followed. "So this is why you ure going to leave me?" lie asked, after a little while. "I have no patience with them!' she said, turn- ing round wrathfully. "We do not meddle willt their affairs; why cannot they let ours alonej" "So this is why you are going to leave me 1? hu repeated. "Vell-yes! It is not pleasant to feel that my every word, and action, and look is watched and commented upon. I would rather go!" "Do you remember the American poem, about the little shepherd and shepherdess? How the shdp- herd grew tired of his simple life, and Jonged to leave the valley where, he was born? How he eays- ' , Ah, the world is very wide. And I weary of my flocks?' Are you like ' Ulna' in that poem, Aurelia?" "Scarcely. I don't know that I have any parti- cilar desire to see the world. I have seen enough -bh, yes!-too much of it! Anid I could stay here very happily all my life long, if they would but let me alone!" "Could you?" he cried, seizing her hand. "Then stay!" She bit her lip and blushed. "' I should not have dared to ask you two hIbbrs ago. But if these people decide that I am still young and handsome enough to be dangerous -" Aurelia burst out laughing. "Oh, vanity!-thy name is man N" "Well, anything to make you smile. Now, tell me honestly, could you, indeed, be content here with me? And will you stay as my wife?" He drew a long breath as lie asked the question. To him it was something terrifie-an event to be re- nembered during the remainder of his life. But. Aurelia had heard too many such queries' to be greatly startled by a fresh one. She felt awkward and nervous, and at the same moment a thought of Paolo crossed her mind. Upon that hint she. spoke. "You have done me a great honor." she said. quietly, " and I suppose I ought to feel greatly oh. iged to you. But I doubt the wisdom of the step you propose." "Why?" "Do you think we should be happy?" "I know that I should. With-you for my wife- my very own-I should feel that I was spending each day in Paradise." "Humph! How long would that last, I wonder?' she said, wickedly. "No, Mr. Ler',y, I think, tC quote from Mrs. Marshall, it will never do."' "At least, give your reasons," he said, lookinj greatly mortified, "In the first place, you are a gentleman. You can trace your family back for hundreds of years- to Adam himself, for aught I know." "Well 1" "I can do nothing of the kind. My mother was but a poor woman, who died in a hospital--I was reared in Whitechapel, and I do not even know my father's name." "The name of Aurelia is enough," said Mr. Le- roy, proudly. "You are very kind to say so; but, if I should marry you, would you always think so?" "Always." "Then, again, I have been on the stage-end I know you hate the stage." "I have good cause. But let that pass. Sgae or no stage, I love you, and I ask you to be my wife." "And now for the last and most important reea son," she said, turning crimson. "I have the great est regard and. esteem for you-I am fond of you, "n a word-but I don't love you." "That will come in time." "Don't be too sure. I -am not going to be re- mantic, and. rave about exting-uished volcanoes, or anything of that kind. But I must tell you the truth-I have loved once with my whole soul, and in vain!" "'Well," he said, after a slight pause, "I am- not one of those men who expect a woman to remain untouched in heart till they come upon the scene. You have loved, and you married; well and good. Let me hope that you will manry and love again." "I lid not marry the man I loved," she said, in a low tone. Mr. Leroy started. "Wh'o was it, then?" "Never mind his name. He is married now!" "Ls he still living?" ' Yes." "And you love idm still 7" I icalnnot say that. But, at least, I remember him, and I could never love any one like that a"'inl. "am willing to trust to time," said Mr. Leroy, gently. "Not for that! If I thought I was ever to go through with that more than mortal agony again, I think I should quietly take a strong dose of laudan- um before the time came!" She spoke lightly-she even smiled as she looked 5 in his face. But if she had sought the world over thr twords which should express the depLth of her feelinlg lor Puolo, she could not have found better ones. Calmly as they were uttered, they carried weight; and Mr. Leroy, looking at her, felt that his witfe might love, and respect, and pet, and caress him; but that the golden time of perfect, passion- ate love could never come to her agaiii. However, we grow philosophical as we grow old; aid if we cannot get the thing we want, we take the thing which is next best to it. At one time, Mr. Leroy would have scorned the thought of ac- ceptinig a heart that was not all his own; but now, even the friendship of the woman lie adored seemed a gift to be desired and won at any price. He told her so ; and then she smiled, and placed her hand in his. "If, knowing all, you can still wish for it, it is yours," she said, gently ; and lie pressed her to his heart, and kissed her for the first time since she stood at his knee, a little innocent child. There never was a quieter, a more unromantic be- trothal. Mrs. Marshall seemed much more elated at hearing the news than the bride elect, who went about her preparations in the most unconcerned manner, and tallied about her wedding very much as if it had been a trip to Brighton. The good Squire, hearing the news, came over to congratulate Aurelia, and brought witl him a beautiful pearl necklace, which had once belonged to his wife. Au- relia promised faithfully to wear it on her wedding-. day, and he galloped off towards home with positive tears in his eyes. Certainly it was not the Squire's fault that she was not reigning, at that very moment, lady of the manor and mistress at the Hall. On the night before the wedding Mr. Leroy told Aurelia the whole history of his attachment to the fair "Helen,' and its results. As she listened, the conviction grew upon her still more strongly, that this was iinde d( the mother of the beautiful"Peri.*" But she said nothing of her own first strange intro- duction to the pair. Mr. Leroy supposed that she had met the Peri in some of her charitable visits to the sick and poor in London. She never unde- ceived him, and Lo to this day he does not know to what depths of degradation and infamy his first love fell. Aurelia told him, however, of her discovery of the dressing-case and letters, in her search through the old lumber-room, and hr. grew pettishi at the mere hearing of the tale. "It was ,ne of mny bridal gifts to her," he said. hastily. I hl,'e to heaven I 1ahal never set eyes on it again 1 i dc'ac;re, when I rin'ik of her treachery -of whati. eh in idre me su tcr--i am angry with myself for hahi:.g .,uen suoh , f,l. [t is moritity. Ing to look lacl, rncd see what a lIpppet I was in the hands of a "w..:nan without one good feeling in her heart, or an utinco of braints in her head. BuL. thank God, L have found yo, at last-the very type of all 'that I love and worship in your sex, if you would but like me a little better. However, that will come in time. It shall come for I have sworn it!" "You see, it was one of my bright dreams as a child that I was to marry you," said Aurelia, ro- guishly; " and now it has come true!" "Yes, it has come true! May I be worthy of such happiness, by being grateful for it!" he an- swezed, in a tone so fervent, that it checked the jest still hovering on her lip. CHAPTER XXVIII. THEY were married next morning in the parish church, and all the world was there to see. Aurelia had an earl's daughter for her bridemaid. Mr. Le- roy had a baronet for his "best man." The road across the common was strewed with flowers, and the bells rang as if they were going mad with joy, ,when the bridal party walked back to the Cottage, with old Tender, wearing his silver collar, march- ing gravely in front. Troops of villagers lined the road, to see the bride, whose goodness had endear- ed her to them even more than her beauty or her fitme. Within, the rooms were crowded with the rank and beauty of the neighborhood. To be an invited guest at Aurelia's wedding, was a distinction for even the proudest there; and the breakfast went off far more merrily than if it had been given in a ducal hall. At last the carriage was at the door. Tender, who was to accompany the happy pair, took his place beside the coachman on the box, much to the delight of the village urchins, in whose eyes the great black dog was a being far removed above his race, and only second, perhaps, in importance to his beautiful mistress. The noble guests came crowd- ing to the door, to see the bride away. There were handshakings, kisses. blessings, and some tears. Then the nandkerchiefs were waved-there was a chorus of good-byes-a shower of old shoes; the bells rang out, and they were off, over the wide common, and into the wide world together! "Well, love, do you think we can be happy?" asked the fond husband, as he drew the bright head down upon his breast. "At least, we will try," she said, with a smile, and let her hand lie quietly in his. "How did the marriage turn out?"I think I hear some fair young lady reader say. To which [ answer, far better than most marriages ir. The husband idolized his wife-the wife liked and respected her husband-and their home, whether in Belgrave Square or at the humble "Charnley Cottage,': was a very peaceful and happy one. Only once again did Aureli:a see the hero of her early dreams. Paolo was about to leave the stage, page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] on account of his failing health, and Mr. Leroy was! anxious to hear him for the last time. Aurelia did not object, and most unsuspiciously her husband led her into the very danger which he would have most ecrupulously avoided, had he but known of its ex- istence. They went early' to the Opera-on her way to some lall or party-and Aurelia was in full dress, with diamonds on her neck and arms, and in her hair. On the very boards where she herself used to sing, Paolo stood, with another prima donna by his side. Did the old times come back to his mind, as to hers-as' to the minds of everyonle in tht house? Few knew of the attachment which hlad really existed between them,and it had been forgot- /ten in the lapse of years, or colnfounded with one of those many idle rumours that coupled their names together during their two seasons of triumph. But tq have Paolo singing on the stage, while Aurelia sat in her box beside her husband, to listen, was at least a novelty, and many an opera-glass was turned that way during the intervals between the acts. Mr. Leroy bore the general scrutiny very well. Handsome, dignified, and unconcerned, he studied the play-bill or listened to the music, little dreaming what it said to Aurelia's heart, as she sat so silent, looking at the stage. Only once did she lose her tranquil self-possession. They were singing the "Miserere" in the "Trova- tore," and tlUough the solemn chanting of the chor- us, Paolo's perfect voice rang out, "Non ti scordar di Tme! A pause-and then again the sweet, sad prayer of passionate love and grief- "Non ti scordar di me! Leonora, addio! Her box was very near the stage, and Paolo look- ed up at her as he pronounced those words. She felt, by the sinking of her heait, that he was utter- ing a last adieu! What did it mean? Where was he going? Why did he look so pale and ill? Above ,11, why did he gaze so mournfully at her? : She never saw him again after that night. The papers announced his departure to a " warmer cli- mate,'? on account of his fiiling health; and, within three months, the music-loving world of London was shocked with the tidings of his death. Like the swan, his dying notes had been his sweetest ones. And THEN Aurelia knew the meaning of-that strange farewell-knew that he had loved her best of all-and that his last thoughts had been, as the poor Peri said, " of her--her only." She never breathes hls name, and the secret of her life is buried in that grave at Florence. To this day Mr. Leroy never dreams that shel loved Paolo. Yet surely he might forgive that temporary infidelity of her heart, since its whole study seems only how to make him as hlppy as man was ever intended to be-this side of Paradise! THE END.'
