Mr. Connor was a man whom few liked but very many dreaded. He had the power of ingratiating himself in favor when he was least sought, and his bland oily manner could scarcely be disconcerted.

"That old nuisance of a Connor is always poking his nose where he is not wanted," was often heard from any outspoken Miss who had the audacity to express her honest thoughts.

Mr. Connor always appeared to take a very great interest in church affairs and from his indefatigable labor generally strove to be at the head of all measures advanced in the interest of his own church. Whether or no the congregation of the pretty Presbyterian Church on the outskirts of the town appreciated such labor we will not say but let the reader judge for himself.

But to the subject in question. Mr. Sharpley had no hesitation in disclosing his mind on the present burning question.

A great inducement was to be held out to Mr. Lawson to enter into partnership with the said Mr. Connor, Barrister. Nothing was to be left undone in order to accomplish this scheme. The wide field, large practice, wealth of the country; its future greatness was pictured in a wonderfully clever manner.

Mr. Sharpley had been made acquainted with the affairs of the St. John barrister in every particular.

Hubert Tracy had carefully noted the average salary of the latter and found that it was only by dint of perseverance and up-hill work that he could meet all his demands.

"The stronger the inducements the easier the job," was Tracy's advice to the Winnipeg lawyer and it is needless to say that such advice was carried out to the letter.

Portage La Prarie was indeed an enterprising little town and possessing many of the characteristics of earlier settled districts.

On Main street are to be seen several fine buildings, fine stores and fine residences, while Pacific and Belliveau hotels are quite imposing.

And the education of the youth is not forgotten. On an elevated position commanding a fine view of the town stands the new schoolhouse, a pretty and imposing structure with surroundings in keeping with such an institution.

And to this habitation the young lawyer was to be consigned. He could not see his way out of the arrangement to which he had partially given his consent. And when Mr. Sharpley's letters were read and re-read, Phillip Lawson was in no enviable state of mind. To do or not to do—to do was invariably the answer. Then there arose another side to the question, which the young man hardly durst think of.

"I may stay here until my hair is gray, and what matters it? I have no reason to think that there ever will be any hope for me in that respect."

Here Phillip fell to musing, and what his musings were, we may divine from the foregoing speech. He considered Mr. Tracy in several ways, and though he felt a little uneasiness in the matter attributed it to the morbid state of his own mind.

"With a wider field I can do something," murmured the lawyer, as he gathered up the loose sheets of paper lying around and threw them into the waste basket.

But Phillip Lawson only saw one side of the proceeding—the alluring, tempting side.

There was, indeed, a complication of schemes already concocted, and each one was to follow in a well conceived and nicely arranged order—"a wheel within a wheel," as Hubert Tracy coolly expressed himself.

Perhaps no more diabolical scheme could have been more cleverly planned to ruin the character of a fellow-being. But it is ever thus, and shall be until the arch fiend, who first plotted in the Amaranthine bowers of Eden, shall be cast out forever beyond the reach of mortal ear.

Had Phillip Lawson now received the timely warning of one kind friend—but there was none to warn. If he asked the advice of some older members of the profession, the answer invariably was: "Try it, my boy, if you think you will succeed." So the outcome of it all was that the young man had made up his mind to try it, and, after a long conversation with Hubert Tracy, resolved to inform Mr. Sharpley of his intention at the earliest opportunity.

But Tracy was not so deeply enthusiastic as might be expected. He seemed quite indifferent as to the result, and the change would have puzzled as wise a head as Mr. Lawson's. Great was the surprise of the latter when a few mornings earlier Mr. Tracy called to bid good-bye. He was ready to take the train for Halifax, whence he was to sail for England.

"I may never see you again, Lawson, so think of me as you will," cried the young man, with a sudden outburst of energy quite foreign to his nature.

"You may not go to the North-West?"

"I certainly shall," answered the lawyer, determinedly.

"Well may God prosper you, old boy," cried Hubert Tracy with a choking sensation in his throat, and rushing madly out Phillip Lawson caught the peculiar glance in his eye which he many a time called to mind years afterwards when he could interpret it with all clearness—the look which seemed to plead for forgiveness—which seemed to say, "I was desperate and the devil tempted me, I was indeed brought up by a good, pious mother."

But it matters not that Hubert Tracy had been early trained in the paths of right, he was possessed of a weak many-sided nature and fell a prey to vice on the first opportunity.

Worse still, he appeared in good society and was looked upon alike by maidens and mothers as a most desirable acquisition by way of alliance, notwithstanding the fact that many had doubts concerning the tone of morality set up as his standard.

Let us, however, earnestly hope that the pure heart of Marguerite Verne shall never come in contact with such deadly poisonous influence. May she ever remain the guileless, sweet creature that she now is.



CHAPTER XV.

HELEN'S CELESTIAL SKETCHES.

A few mornings after Marguerite had arrived from "Gladswood" she was sitting in the library writing a note to cousin Jennie.

A fresh young voice gaily greeted her and Helen Rushton stood before her, a pretty picture in her morning costume of delicate cambric.

"Madge, darling, it seems a year since I saw your dear old face!" cried Helen enthusiastically, at the same moment embracing the former in truly genuine style.

Marguerite returned her friend's salutation, and putting her into an old-fashioned arm-chair drew her own seat near and was ready for a good chat.

"Madge, I have news for you."

"Good news or bad news?" queried Marguerite.

"Both," said Helen, "can you guess?"

"Spare my patience, Helen, I am no good at guessing."

"Then you give up?"

"I do, but you know full well that I have as much curiosity as any of Eve's daughters."

"Indeed, Madge, I will not give you credit for any such thing. I do think you have the least curiosity of any girl I ever met—you are far above it, you precious darling."

"Be careful, Helen, or I shall begin to have more conceit than is strictly in accordance with what is right," said Marguerite earnestly. "But of the news, Helen? You see, I cannot conceal the weakness after all you have said."

"Well, I shall not tease you any more. Last evening I received a letter saying that papa was called away to England on business to be absent for three months, and as mamma's health is delicate the physicians thought the trip would be highly beneficial to her. Papa and mamma both write and ask if I would like to remain here while they are absent."

"Oh, I am so glad Helen—of course you will," cried Marguerite in earnest pleading tones.

"Yes Madge, I will stay. My brothers are in Philadelphia and the dear old home would seem very lonely."

Helen was about to say more but the unceremonious arrival of Josie Jordan brought it to an abrupt end.

"Well, of all things! You girls here! I do think I am mean to come when I wasn't sent for. Now Madge Verne, you are one of the meanest girls I ever met."

"What have I been guilty of now, Josie?"

"Oh yes, to be home more than a week without sending Fred. or Charlie to let me know. And this precious article," pointing to Helen, "I thought in Halifax."

"Am sorry you are so sadly disappointed, Josie."

"Come now Miss Helen, I mean no offence and though it is nearly two months since I saw you, remember I have not forgotten your promise."

"What about?" asked Helen.

"Celestial entertainment, my dear," ventured Madge.

"I thought myself to be free, for you know, my dear, that was some time ago," said Helen, laughing.

"I'm ready with questions girls. Let us call the House to order. Is the House ready for the question?" cried Josie, jumping to her feet and brandishing a lignum vitae rule which she held in her hand.

"Well girls to be serious I don't know how to begin. Last evening I had a note from Marion and she says they had a most delightful time at the Encaenia and spoke of two young gentlemen who graduated with the highest honors. I met them frequently and received much kindness from them."

"Suppose you saw in them a 'Roland and an Oliver,'" cried Josie, making a series of amusing grimaces.

"One was from Westmoreland and the other from Kings—the latter, I am told, is the banner county for intelligence and ability."

"Now Helen Rushton, I am not going to stand that," exclaimed Josie, her eyes sparkling with good natured repartee—"indeed the famous county of St. John has been the birthplace of men who ranked high in intellectual ability, proud attainments and held their own with the professionals, legislators and statesmen of other countries."

"Well done Josie, you are true to the core," cried Helen in rapt admiration at the defiant and fearless girl.

"What if York could have her say, I suppose she claims to be historic and grand too," remarked Marguerite with a sly glance towards Helen.

"Aye, and that she is, too," said the latter, the bright color on her cheek betokening the earnestness of her speech, "surely you will give to York the credit of the 104th regiment. It was while there I heard much of that glorious march which is unparalleled in history. When the brave veterans set forth amid all the hardships of piercing winter winds and boundless wastes of snow, the patriotic band, their hearts kept warm by the patriotic fire within, toiling on without a murmur, and singing snatches of song to sustain their drooping spirits, at last reached the goal; and when called into action, fought bravely and to the end, shedding greater lustre on the Province of their birth than if each soldier had been raised to a peerage."

"New Brunswick has many such true, loyal and brave sons, Helen, and if the hour should come when our country demands them, not one will shirk his duty."

Marguerite Verne was the speaker, and at that moment the enthusiastic expression of her face showed that the girl would not stand idly by if she could also administer to the sufferings of the wounded and the dying.

"Well, I do believe we are the oddest crowd of girls in existence. Just look where our conversation has landed us, and for goodness sake look at Madge! One would suppose she was starting off with an ambulance and all the other requisites necessary for a field nurse! Ha! ha! ha!"

Josie's ringing laugh infected the others, and a general laugh succeeded.

"This reminds me of an evening while in Fredericton," said Helen. "Some company happened in, and after music we formed a party for whist, and during the first half hour as the game progressed the conversation was, strange to say, of a serious nature, when in an instant a bright, happy girl sitting near me, by an unconscious remark, completely changed the current of thought and convulsed the entire party with fits of laughter."

"How I would have enjoyed it, Helen. If there be anything in this world that I admire in people it is a propensity for laughing," said Josie.

"Yes," added Marguerite, "if people laughed more heartily there would be less doctor's bills to pay, and less palatial drugstores at every corner."

"I believe so, too; but as I have many friends among the medical faculty, would not like to take a shingle off by advising too frequent hilarity," said Helen, laughing herself as contradiction to the speech.

"Oh, I forgot, Helen; you said that you visited in a professional gentleman's family. I hope your host would not be among the list to be boycotted by our new method of prescription?"

We will not give Helen's answer. Suffice it to say the girls received all the facts they wished to know, and felt more than ever impressed with Helen's ideas of celestial hospitality.

Then followed a vivid description of several of the M.P.P.'s, particularly the younger members of that august assemblage.

"The Crichton's of the House, did you say, Helen?" cried Josie, abruptly.

"Yes, several are considered quite beaux; I believe many of the young ladies have had designs upon them."

"And they are invulnerable?"

"Not exactly so, if rumor is correct; but as I never met the young ladies in question, cannot tell you much about it. Yes, I was at several parties, and had a good opportunity of seeing many people."

"Did you form as favorable opinions of the fair sex, there as those of our set?"

"You absurd girl! what a question! Well, to be candid, I saw much to approve and much to disapprove. One thing I did not like—that was the young ladies invariably flirted with the married gentlemen, and vice versa,—anything I despise in this world is a male flirt."

Helen Rushton drew herself up proudly and looked the embodiment of scorn and disgust.

"And I dare say little Helen was not behind in the list, for you see, girls, she favors it among the fair beauties."

"Josie Jordan, I would not stoop so far beneath the dignity of woman as to indulge in the most 'harmless flirtation,' and I pity the woman who does so; but man, with all his high sense of honor, and in possession of those manly graces which, when properly directed, are a guiding-star to society, falls low indeed when he becomes what is generally termed a flirt."

"Dear me," cried Josie, "and you really passed through the campaign without making an attack upon any of the celestials?"

"I am not going to tell you, Josie. I only wish you to know that I walked, danced, sang and was kindly entertained, and hope that I may only have an opportunity of returning such kindness when any of those acquaintances should happily tread on Haligonian classic soil."

"I believe the poetic and aesthetic of the celestial have taken, deep root already! Girls, just listen to the style of speech—tread on classic soil!"

At this Marguerite smiled, yet she did not altogether endorse Josie's repartee, and going to a cabinet took out a portfolio, which she passed to Helen.

"Excuse me, Josie, I had almost forgotten to have these sketches ready to send by the evening mail. I have promised two of them to Cousin Jennie, and really am at a loss to decide—which do you like best?"

Marguerite had now arranged several pretty sketches before her companions, and to decide was no easy task.

"This is cute!" cried Josie, holding up the foremost of the group.

"The banks of Nith," remarked Helen, examining the pretty Scotch landscape with the air of a connoiseur.

"Yes, I believe Jennie will like that," said Marguerite, taking the proffered sketch.

"Like it? she will adore it! for if she be like me she will admire anything that is Scotch—Scotch music—oh, girls! is there anything on this earth more enchanting than a quaint old Scotch ballad?"

"Yes; and if Madge or yours very humbly ever gets to Halifax we may expect a daily repast of oatmeal bannocks," turning towards Helen, and was about to exercise some of her latent strength upon her, when a reminder from Marguerite caused her to turn in dismay.

"Look what you have done!"

The sketches were lying upon the carpet. Instantly Josie was on her knees; and as she placed each sketch upon the cabinet, described its merits and demerits most heartily.

A pretty companion sketch—"Kilchurn Castle," rendered famous by Wordsworth—was also selected, and when the package had been sealed it passed into Josie's hands to be mailed on her way homeward.

Before the girls separated, Helen had given a glowing description of a choral service in the Cathedral. She described the building itself with the precision of an architect, not excepting the massive key which was also in keeping with the style of architecture—the form of a cross. And this grand and imposing Gothic structure, its solemn service, inspiring music pealing along the corridors, echoing and re-echoing through the vaulted arches, the solemn procession wending slowly down from the altar and entering by the eastern door, the prelates in the order of succession.

"It was a sight I shall never forget," said Helen, with a peculiar earnestness. "I stood long in the grand tesselated vestibule and took in the scene, and as I did so, I noticed a young gentleman who seemed spell-bound; he was wrapped in deep enthusiasm, and on making enquiries learned that the dreamer was an artist—a native artist— in fact I could almost see the poetic glow overspreading each feature of the expressive face."

"And thus it ended that Helen Rushton went to the Celestial and fell in love with a Celestial artist. Amen, so let it be!"

"Josie Jordan, how irreverent!"

"Forgive me, Madge! I forget that I am in the presence of High Church people. Now dear, I will be ever so humble."

Josie's contrition was of short duration. Within a few moments she had to be reproved for interrupting Helen in the midst of a short but clearly-defined picture of the University and the pretty groves and avenues.

"I am determined to see those places later in the season."

"Then you will be repaid a thousand times, Helen," said Madge, a smile resting upon the madonna-like face and throwing a halo around her. "Last summer a number of friends were staying at the 'Barker,' and in the meantime Cousin Jennie and I found ourselves in Uncle William's care and registered at the 'Queen.' It was a lovely morning in August, and as we were engaged to attend a garden party on the self-same evening, we set off in the direction of Mr. Bebbington's garden, to get some of his choice roses. I was somewhat ahead of the party, and on turning the corner of Queen and Church streets the scene was truly enchanting. I was pleased to be alone to drink in the grandeur. I never could half describe that picture, it was as one brief glimpse of some paradise that appears only in dreamland. Not a sound marred the effect. All was calm and peaceful indeed. Stretching out in graceful curves lay the river, looking indeed like living silver; the soft, green sward and grassy bank; then the Cathedral in its sombre Gothic dress, its leafy grove, its hallowed associations. I looked further, and there stood the outlying hills crowned with lovely foliage, and above all the soft, fleecy clouds chasing each other through the blue sky. Soft and beautiful as an Italian landscape! And the neat, suburban cottages with artistically-arranged flower gardens in front. All was in keeping with the scene.

'No sound of busy life was heard.'

"As I stood in wrapt admiration, the Cathedral clock chimed out in soft, silvery tones, summoning the worshipper to the morning matin. Presently a figure emerges from the doorway of a neat residence and crosses the street. It is the Lord Bishop, who for so many years has crossed the same well-beaten path. The calm serenity of the place, the hour and the solemnity of the scene was overpowering. I dared not wait until the ethereal sweetness of the music would cease. I took one lingering gaze and murmured: This is indeed Elysium—a step nearer Heaven, and with feelings of reverential awe set forth on my errand."

"It must indeed have been grand!" cried the listeners in concert.

"I can never forget it," said Marguerite, "and if you should ever happen to see the same picture, you can imagine my emotions at the time."

"It is growing late, and I must attend to business," said Josie, taking up the package and setting off for the post office, while Helen and Marguerite stood on the balcony throwing tokens of affection, and as the coquettish form was lost in the distance, Helen, turning towards her companion, said:

"If Josie could only remain as she is—a grown-up child!"



CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. ARNOLD AS A DIPLOMATIST.

Some evenings later Phillip Lawson found his way to "Sunnybank." He was received by the stately mistress with more than usual courtesy.

"You have surely forgotten us of late, Mr. Lawson," exclaimed she, in a playful and remonstrating style. "Are we to attribute your delinquency to business or total neglect?"

"I must plead business to a certain extent, Mrs. Verne," said the young man with a quaint dignified reserve.

"I understand that you intend spending your vacation at 'Gladswood' Mr. Lawson. Really I envy you the prospect, for it is a truly delightful spot."

Mrs. Verne had seated herself upon the sofa. She wore a rich black moire robe which, with the addition of a magnificent display of garnets with setting of gold, made an elaborate costume.

"I am sorry that circumstance has cancelled my engagement in that direction. In fact I regret it deeply, I was anticipating too much and was justly punished."

"It must be weighty business that would thus interfere, Mr. Lawson. I am inclined to believe that you are already becoming too worldly." Mrs. Verne had raised her jewelled fingers and rested them upon her forehead.

Among the many weaknesses of Mrs. Verne was her vain and uncontrollable desire to show off her beautifully shaped hands—fit models for the sculptor's chisel—rivals for those of, the Venus of Cnidos by Praxiteles.

The young barrister had kept his negotiations quiet and had no intention to gratify the woman's curiosity.

Marguerite now entered accompanied by Louise Rutherford. The latter had returned from Montreal and was making her first call at "Sunnybank."

"Mr. Lawson has just been receiving a slight reproof, young ladies, and I think you have arrived in time to assist me," said Mrs. Verne glancing at Louise with a bewitching smile.

"I for one always think that when Mr. Lawson neglects any part of his duties it is wholly from inability to perform them," said Louise.

"Duties! That is the great trouble. It is to duty that we attribute the true source of our complaint. To the stern goddess is sacrificed every would-be pleasure."

"Forgive me Mrs. Verne, I believe that Mr. Lawson is right, and forgetful of every presence Louise exclaimed:—

"Stern daughter of the voice of God, O duty, if that name thou love, Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove— Thou, who art victory and law, When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free, And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity."

"Noble girl," thought the young man, "those words give me greater strength."

Little did Marguerite Verne dream of the thoughts passing through Mr. Lawson's mind as he bowed acknowledgment to her companion's quotation.

The rising blush betrayed Louise Rutherford's embarrassment.

"Really Mr. Lawson, I beg to be excused. I have a habit of committing to memory any subject that I admire and it sometimes makes me seem very ridiculous when they unconsciously repeat themselves."

"Not in this particular, I assure you, Miss Rutherford," said the young man very earnestly, and as Marguerite fancied, with a hidden meaning in their depths.

"I presume you are aware that Mr. Tracy has sailed for Europe?" said Mrs. Verne, casting a meaning glance at Marguerite and watching the effect upon Mr. Lawson.

"Yes; I was somewhat surprised when he called at the office to make his adieu. It must surely have been an impromptu arrangement. Within a fortnight he had been planning a different course," said Mr. Lawson, quite cheerily.

"Sooner or later he will join Mr. and Mrs. Arnold," said Mrs. Verne, referring to the newly wedded pair with proud delight.

"That will be very pleasant, indeed," said Mr. Lawson.

"Would you not like to be one of the party, Madge?" cried Louise, with all the honest enthusiasm of her nature."

"I cannot say that I would," replied Marguerite.

"Oh! you are such an old-fashioned home body, Madge; I might know your answer without asking the question. Suppose I might ask you, Mr. Lawson," ventured Louise, persistent in getting a favorable reply.

The young barrister smiled, and that smile was a conquest in itself. It had powers to enable a mild and spirituelle maiden to form a resolve that was as unyielding as the marble hearthstone beside her, while on the other hand it exercised a spirit in the calculating matron that no human influence could brook.

Mr. Lawson had little thought of the agencies at work in those two beings of widely different natures, and of which time alone will interpret the result.

Marguerite Verne was sweetly irresistible. Her dress was simple—a sweet simplicity in every look, motion and gesture. The pure white draperies gave to the spirituelle face the radiance of a Madonna, and placed the maiden in striking contrast to the sparkling bright and witty Louise—a striking and high-spirited brunette, with a mind of no common order.

As Mr. Lawson sat in the Verne drawing-room with the being that he idolized so near him, a deadly struggle was going on within. What a conflict—what doubt, what irresolution!

It was worse than ever to give up all earthly hope, all earthly happiness.

What prevented the young man—aye, every inch a man—from falling on his knees and declaring his love, and begging a slight return for such love?

Go ask the weird sisters upon whose spindles hang the threads of every human life! Go ask the winds that echo the wails of human hearts and often carry them along with a cruel insatiable spirit of revenge, until all is hushed in the stillness of death.

Mrs. Verne dwelt with pride upon the adulation which her firstborn was receiving in them other country. Mrs. Arnold's beauty had been commented upon in the journals; her face was sought after in all the fashionable resorts, and her queenly torso was the subject of every artist.

"They are going to remain for some weeks in Paris, and I am really afraid that Evelyn will be intoxicated with gaiety. She is such a lover of society, the dear girl, and Montague is just as fond of gaiety as Eve. What a happy couple they must be—they write such sweetly interesting letters. Really, Mr. Lawson, it would do one good to read them."

The subjects of those remarks were in the meantime enjoying life at a hotel in Picadilly. They had seen the sights of the great French metropolis, but were they really enjoying life as it should be. Was there real true happiness existing between these two hearts—"this happy couple?"

This is a question to be answered in due time, and which will be "sweetly interesting" to know.

When Mr. Lawson rose to take leave he was uncomfortably conscious of the patronage bestowed upon him. Mrs. Verne was radiant in smiles and gave her hand to the departing guest with the grace of a dowager.

"You must not stay away so long again, Mr. Lawson. Remember if you do, I shall be very angry, and, perhaps, not so easily conciliated."

It did, indeed, seem a coincidence that at the very moment that Louise Rutherford had asked Marguerite if she did not wish to be one of the tourists that a thought flashed through Mrs. Vernes' head with the rapidity of lightning, and in less time than is conceivable was formed into high and daring resolve.

And more surprising still is the fact that some hours previous the same bent of thought was being cherished by the wily Mrs. Montague Arnold.

The latter was determined that through her influence upon her worldly mother that Marguerite should wed Hubert Tracy, heir to Sir Peter Tracy's grand estates.

"Mamma will accomplish her end if any person on earth can do it, and Marguerite is too good, too conscientious, to disobey."

Was this peerless beauty so fond of Hubert Tracy? Did she entertain, such high opinion of this fashionable young man? No! He had riches— that was all in all. That was one reason; and another, it would be the means of outwitting Philip Lawson, whom she hated with a bitter hate.

When Evelyn Verne gave her hand to Montague Arnold she never gave her heart.

Her marriage was in the eyes of the world a good match, and that was all that was necessary. Mr. Arnold was a man of the world, addicted to many habits that were not what the better side of life would approve of; but his wife had her failings, likewise, and she availed herself of the license thus given her—the liberties of fashionable folly. Mrs. Arnold being a beauty, was courted by the gay and fashionable world. She flirted without restraint, and took delight in making conquests among the degenerated nobility, and lost no opportunity of displaying her charms. Excitement was as necessary to Mrs. Arnold's nature as the air is necessary for the support of animal life. She was buoyed up by excitement and kept alive by excitement. Life was one giddy round of delights—the dejeuner fete, opera, and ball-room.

It matters not to know whether this woman of fashion ever gave one thought to the real object of life—whether she even dreamed that God gave man an intellect, with mind-power capable of being brought nearer that state from which he fell ere he lost the impress of the Divine; but it matters us to know that she strove to bring every one whom she met on a level with her own superficial mind.

"Madge must marry Hubert Tracy; once with us she is perfectly safe. Papa will be beyond reach, and his counsel or suggestions will not come in time."

Such was the comment of Mrs. Arnold as she stood opposite the elegant plate mirror which reflected a life-size portrait of herself.

"I am beautiful, and it is but in justice to myself that 'I improve the shining hour.' Oh, Montague Arnold, you were a lucky man to wed such a prize," murmured the woman, clasping her hands over her head in an attitude often seen upon the stage when the actress is exhibiting much feeling: then looking into the depths of the brilliant dark eyes, exclaimed, "What jewels can compare with thee, my priceless orbs?"

The elegant evening costume was a marvel in itself—creamy lace, shining satin, and flowing draperies, while bright jewels gleamed from the dusky hair and burned upon the heaving bosom.

"Evelyn, my queen, you are ready for the conquest!" cried the beauty, taking one long gaze, and then picking up the jewelled fan that fell at her feet went forth at the summons of the waiting-maid to receive a visitor in the drawing-room.

"The Hon. Cecil Featherstone! The man is my slave! Why is he here at such an early hour?—it is too bad! What shall I do with poor Huntington, my latest flame? Oh, dear! I wish the men were not so incorrigible! Featherstone—it ought to be Featherhead, for I believe his head is sadly light of brains. Featherhead—Hon. Cecil Featherhead!—ha! ha! ha!"

Had not the grand drawing-room been at the other end of the spacious hall the latter part of Mrs. Arnold's speech would have been heard by the subject of these remarks. Be it said, to that gentleman's ease of mind, that he was in the meantime admiring some choice paintings and counting the minutes hours until the fair hostess should arrive.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Featherstone! I was really wondering what I should do with myself until the opera—and how kind of you, Mr. Featherstone, to think of me! I believe that I am one of the most favored of mortals!"

Having made this speech, Mrs. Arnold cast upon Mr. Featherstone one of her duly-organized smiles—a smile that was magnetic, and that set the heart of the luckless visitor into a flutter beyond recall.

"My dear Mrs. Arnold, you certainly do me the highest honor that can be bestowed upon a human being"—Mr. Featherstone felt considerable difficulty in getting off this speech, but another glance at the fair creature and he continued—"for you are certainly born to be worshipped at a distance—a something too lovely to be approached by anything this side of paradise!"

"Oh, Mr. Featherstone, spare me this flattery—I cannot really receive such, and from you-one endowed with such intellectual power, such ability and such genius! The thought is really dreadful!"

Mrs. Arnold's assumed earnestness of manner was indeed flattery of the seventh degree to the superficial Mr. Featherstone. He was transported to empyrean air. Mrs. Arnold had insight and her opinion was something to cherish. Poor Mr. Featherstone!

The conversation that followed was extravagant to the highest degree, and he went away that evening in a state of great disquietude, wondering why it was that it had not been his good fortune to meet his ideal of female loveliness ere she was wedded to another.

"That miserable bore! I am late in writing mamma's letter. I really wonder what she would say if she saw me flirting with the Hon. Cecil Featherstone! but I must be cautious, for I want the simple-minded Madge to share my blissful fate."

A servant in livery entered in answer to the summons of the bell-rope.

"Has James gone for the evening mail, Watkins?" demanded Mrs. Arnold in an imperious tone.

"He has not gone yet, my lady."

"Go and see how long before he does."

"Yes, my lady," said the servant, bowing very low, and with an air that seemed to say he was in the presence of royalty. The said Watkins had seen service in distinguished families, and the habit, though a ridiculous one, had become second nature, he invariably addressing every woman of fashion as "my lady."

Mrs. Arnold was pleased to learn that she could put her plan into execution without a moment's delay, and being a rapid writer she wrote and sealed a formidable-looking document, which she styled "mamma's letter," and within a few minutes saw it safe in the mail-bag awaiting the arrival of James, the trustworthy footman.

What the letter contained and its effects upon the different members of her family will follow in another chapter.



CHAPTER XVII.

MR. SPRIGGINS MAKES A DISCOVERY.

It is indeed, a warm July day—a fine hay day—and the people of Mill Crossing are taking advantage of the occasion. They are turned out en masse. Mowing machines are called into active service, and the new inventions—reapers, binders, etc.—are also at hand. The farmers of this favored locality are pretty well to do, and conspicuous among the number is our friend Mr. Spriggins.

The Spriggins farm was well cultivated. A good frame house and commodious barns speak of the industry of the Sprigginses.

There was also a heavy stock upon the farm, and that fact alone is sufficient proof of its thrift.

On the day in question we see the healthy, beaming face of Mr. Mose Spriggins in the doorway. He had been very busy in the earlier part of the morning, but now had a few moments to talk to the young man who had been hired to help in haying time.

The homestead, like many others that we see in country districts, had a snug room on each side of the narrow entrance—the one on the northeast side being fitted up for the best room, and used only on state occasions, such as weddings, quarterly meetings, etc. Into this apartment Moses peeped with an air of great caution, as much as to say "I must be keerful the old lady don't spy me in here with my big boots on."

But important business was on hand. The mantel piece must be reached! The old clock that didn't go stood there, and within, its sheltering recess was a valuable document.

"Well, I never; if this eer room isn't as dark as Egypt," exclaimed Moses, going to the end window and hitching up the blind in that remarkable style peculiar only to the sterner sex.

The light sun streamed in and brought out each article of furniture in bold relief.

There was a brand new set of cane-seat chairs that the old lady had bought at Stewart & White's the last time she had been to town. A woollen carpet from A. O. Skinner's had lately taken the place of the home-made one which now graced the spare bedroom up stairs. A motto, "God Bless our Home," hung over the mantel, and a few chromos relieved the walls. A large, beautifully bound Bible lay on the table, and beside it a photograph album, which had been subscribed for a few days previous by the persistent, efforts of an indefatigable canvasser. A white tidy covered the back of the rocking-chair, and another the back of the lounge. An old-fashioned pitcher filled with sweet-brier and some of the old-time flowers, such as bachelors' buttons, London pride, blue rocket and jump-up-johnnie stood on a kind of sideboard and showed a desire to make the room attractive and inviting.

In this apartment the young man stood for about five minutes' time, then exclaimed:

"By golly! I must soon git; for if the old lady catches me I'm a goner."

Suiting the action to the words Moses made his exit, carrying in his hand a sheet of paper which, on gaining the door, he folded and thrust into his bosom.

"Where's N'h'miar gone, Bill?"

"He's up to Widder Smith's; Ned was here a few minnits ago and said he was a' wantin', so off he sot; but he said to tell you he would be back less 'n ten minnits."

"The 'tarnal fool, to be a runnin' arter the Smithses every time they want him," exclaimed Mr. Spriggins, seating himself under a tree to take the afternoon lunch which now had arrived.

"Why didn't mother send a bushel more?" exclaimed Moses, eyeing the basket of bread and butter, cakes and pie—real raspberry pie.

A slice of bread was followed by a mug of milk. Then Moses took a glance at the document, probably as a means of facilitating digestion.

"Great scott! what's this? Well, if I'm not one of the darnd'st fools on this side the crossin'. Well, if that ar' lawyer won't think me a nice 'un, and like as not a thief."

Mr. Spriggins had been at Mr. Lawson's office some days' before, and bore away some advice, written down, that he "might not forgit."

The barrister had received several visits from his client, and each time had treated the said client with considerable favor.

Mr. Lawson somewhat admired the honest-hearted young farmer, and really was interested in him, and felt a sympathy which was unaccountable.

"One good turn deserves another, Mr. Lawson, and I may throw something your way some day."

There really did appear to be little value in this remark; but strange to say, in it were bound up Phillip Lawson's hopes, happiness, yes, all that was dearer than life. The sturdy son of toil proved his truest friend, and to the hour of his death he will ever cherish the thought wholly sacred.

But of Mr. Spriggins' surprise!

He had opened the letter to read the advice on trespass (which sooner or later is the experience of every farmer), when to his dismay another letter dropped out. It bore the address of the Winnipeg solicitor, and evidently was some private correspondence of his respected counsellor, Mr. Lawson.

"Ginger, I must git to town soon, for it must be something important! Darned if I know whether to read it or not. P'raps I'd better not. I couldn't go and tell a lie and say I didn't when I did. It would make a feller feel kinder streaked when he thought on't."

Mr. Spriggins reasoned thus, and the upshot of it was that next morning, after he had got a man to take his place, set off to town, a distance of twenty-two miles.

A pallor overspread the countenance of Mr. Lawson as he glanced at the missive which Mr. Spriggins placed in his hand, with the impression that it was business.

"Yes, it is indeed business, Mr. Spriggins, and I am your debtor for life," said the young man, extending his hand to the obliging Moses and giving him that hearty shake which often betokens lasting gratitude.

"Call on me at any time, Mr. Spriggins; you will be in again soon, I presume."

"After hayin', sir."

"Very well," and bowing the visitor out the lawyer once more took up the letter and read it slowly through.

"Heavens!" exclaimed the young man, excitedly. "I have it in my power to bring the scoundrel to justice. Thank God, I have not fallen a victim to the villains. And to think of the simple way by which it is brought about. Oh! Heavenly Father! to Thee I am truly grateful." The speaker raised his eyes upwards, and a light shone upon the broad manly brow—a light that seemed really to descend from Heaven.

Phillip Lawson buried his face in his hands and remained thus for some time.

During these moments what a rush of thought passed through the busy brain. What a change from the last fortnight, when he had made up his mind to leave for a distant town in the far West.

"And yet, if it had not been for the second part of the offence, I could have borne it; aye, it might have been better for me in the end. But the dreadful pit into which I was inevitably to fall—God forgive them. Hubert Tracy—we may never meet again, and if we do, you shall never know. And all engaged in it were of the profession. No wonder lawyers are denounced in the holy writ—"

"My dear old brother looks as if he had lost every friend in the world."

Looking up Phillip Lawson saw a petite figure in white cambric frock standing at his elbow. The child put her arms around her brother's neck and looked steadily into the honest grey eyes, so full of thought and so striking in their depths.

"Phillip, you are troubled, and you are hiding it from me. Dearest and best of brothers, can I not help you? I am not the little child you think me. Oh! Phillip; I can be a woman when I am needed," and the large bright eyes filled with tears.

"What nonsense, Puss. What an imaginary little creature you are. Now please drive away such silly thoughts, and when Brother Phillip is in need of sympathy he will ask none other than his little sunbeam."

The young man then kissed back the sunny smiles and listened to the playful prattle which fell from the bright lips. Then he thought of the lines—

"The tear down childhood's cheek that flows Is like the dew-drop on the rose; When next the summer breeze comes by And waves the bush, the flower is dry."

"What have you there, Puss?" said Phillip, glancing at the volumes in the child's hand.

"I can scarcely tell you, but I believe they are good, for Miss Lewis recommended them."

Mr. Lawson took up one of the volumes. It was Miss Alcott's first work—"Moods."

"It is very good, indeed, but I fear you are too young to appreciate it. There is an analysis of character that requires much mind knowledge, and that is why so many young girls consider it dry. If I were to explain it fully you would not understand; but you can read the volume through, and we will have a little chat when you have finished. I hope my little sister will not be impulsive and moody as the heroine."

Phillip then patted the golden curls, and as he stooped to kiss the pretty pouting lips he saw a fair vision of a lovely maiden, no longer a child on her brother's knee, but a sweet and amiable maiden, with a subdued and thoughtful look that showed she had struck a sympathetic chord in a fond brother's breast and given him the devotion of her first and purest love.

Then the dreamer vainly tried to draw another picture; but all was chaos. No bright form could be exorcised from the conglomerate heap. All was disorder—a ruined mound of buried hopes!—a blackness dark as the Stygian shore.

"Is it not nice that we have a Public Library now!" cried the child in gleeful tone, so sadly in contrast to her brother's thoughts.

"It is, indeed, Puss. I wonder how you young ladies got along before we had one?"

"We did not get along at all, Brother Phillip. Annie Morrison says that it was not living, only staying."

"I suppose Miss Annie must be right," said the lawyer, turning to the other volume.

"'Tales of a Grandfather.' In this you have something nice. I read it when quite a little boy, and I can remember much at it yet."

"It is Scott's, and anything of his I love," said Lottie, with a womanly air.

"It is historical, and such books are great helps to study. You must read some of it this evening, child. I am somewhat, tired, and will be both amused and entertained. You can sit in the old chair and I will play lazybones upon the lounge."

Hand in hand went the pair in the direction of the cottage.

When Phillip Lawson sought the asylum of his own room he knelt down, and offered up a fervent prayer at the Throne of Mercy.

A sense of relief followed, and a light seemed to break forth amidst the gloom—a light that lightened the dark path of life and portended to usher in a new and happier day. The last look of Hubert Tracy received interpretation, and as Phillip Lawson thought over and over of the deep abyss into which he was so nearly to be plunged, tried hard to feel kindly towards the perpetrator of the double-sided crime.

"God forgive him! Let him pass into other hands than mine," was the young man's decision as he turned over the pages of the cruel letter. The young barrister was magnanimous in the highest degree. It was then the grandeur of his character shone in its purity and nobility, and as his sister came in with a tiny note she fancied that she heard him repeat in earnest tones the words "never— never—never!"

"This is for you, Brother Phillip; Fred. Verne left it this afternoon."

A smile followed the reading of the note. It was from Cousin Jennie. The young lady had arrived in the city and was ready to convey him to "Gladswood," free of charge.

"Lottie, can you get Edith to stay with you this evening? I shall be out."

The girl, with all the impetuosity of her nature, set off on the gleeful message, while Phillip Lawson mapped out a letter that was energetic and full of decision.

"There will be no more solicitation from that quarter. Heavens! it was a great temptation. Well, if I had exposed them, what good could come of it."

A few hours later Mr. Lawson was announced at Sunnybank. Cousin Jennie was in her gayest mood.

"I am ready for you. Mr. Lawson; what is your verdict?" cried she, giving him a hearty shake of the hand.

"That the law must take its course," said Mr. Verne, who at that moment entered and gave the young man a warm greeting.

"You have been sadly delinquent of late, Mr. Lawson. I ask the women folks, and the answer invariably is in the negative. Now, if it were not that this little country girl is here I would carry you off to my den."

"Yes, Uncle Verne, it is just such an ungallant thing as you would do," cried Jennie, giving her head a saucy toss.

"Madge, you are just in time to support our claims."

"Pray enlighten me, dearest," said Marguerite, who, hat in hand, stood on the threshold.

A second look caused a slight blush to mantle upon her cheek, and she came forward with a sweet smile and gave her hand to the welcome guest.

"Mamma has a severe headache and wishes me to convey her regrets to you, Mr. Lawson," said Marguerite, on her return to the drawing-room a few minutes later.

After the young girl made the above speech her eyes met those of her father, and she knew that he felt annoyed. Did he think she had done wrong? She could not refuse to deliver her mother's message. And that headache! It was a purely conventional one—arranged for effect. Mr. Verne had occasion to say some hasty words to his wife. He could not sanction the steps she had taken in direct opposition to his advice, and he must speak his mind. He was a man of few words, but those words were to the point.

Thus while the rest of the family enjoyed themselves in the drawing-room Mrs. Verne gracefully reclined upon die gorgeous crimson lounge in her own room, and was as deeply interested in the heroine of the novel which she was reading as a maiden of eighteen.

"Half-past nine. How the time flies over a good book. It is better that I don't go down. I would be almost tempted to break the news. Enjoy yourself while you may, my verdant friend. Money will triumph over brains, especially when you have none of the former to back them up."

Mrs. Verne picked up the ivory-backed hand glass within her reach, and looking into its depths, exclaimed, "Mrs. Verne, of St. John, New Brunswick—not exactly beautiful, but a pretty and fascinating woman."

As Mrs. Verne laid aside the glass and once more took up the novel—but not to read—her thoughts were bent upon conquest of an important nature. Accomplish her end she must at the risk of all that was near to her, and all that ought to be dear to her.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE VERNES GO TO EUROPE.

"I declare nothing need astonish one nowadays," exclaimed Mrs. Montgomery, throwing aside the Daily Telegraph announcing that Mrs. and Miss Verne had sailed for Europe the day before.

"There's something that will explain matters," said Mr. Montgomery coming in with a letter with Marguerite's initials on the corner of the envelope.

Jennie tore open the missive and hastily scanned the contents.

"They went quite unexpectedly, mother," said the girl, with a slight quiver on the healthful lips, "else Madge would have come to bid good-bye."

Jennie Montgomery loved her sweet-faced cousin as she loved no other companion.

Madge was to her all that was good and lovely, and the thought of separation sent a strange thrill of emotion through her frame—a sense of loneliness that she had never known before.

Mrs. Montgomery felt for her child, and adroitly referred to the fine opportunity of having a correspondent from the mother country, and the pleasure it would give Marguerite to see the sights and curiosities and grandeur which she would hourly meet in her intercourse with the world.

But this shrewd, penetrative woman took another view of the matter when alone in the presence of her husband some hours afterwards.

"Matilda needn't try to stuff such nonsense down our throats. She cannot make me believe but that she concocted the whole thing herself."

Mrs. Montgomery was evidently aroused. Her sallow face assumed a deeper color, and her eyes spoke out the honest convictions of her thoughts.

"Poor Evelyn, indeed! She is just as much sick as I am at present. How they can trump up such things and make people believe them is more than I can see."

Mrs. Montgomery plied her knitting needles with almost lightning rapidity, and the exercise seemed to give relief to the angry feeling that accompanied it.

"You need not say a word in Matilda's defence, William. I pity Stephen Verne from the bottom of my heart. It is always such men that become martyrs to the whims and tyrannical grievances of their wives."

Mrs. Montgomery stooped to pickup the ball of yarn that had rolled under her chair, and her husband went towards the door as if to depart.

"I tell you what it is, William, Matilda Verne is my own sister, but it grieves me to think so. Talk of pride or dignity. She has none. Pride—yes, a nice kind of pride that lives on lies and falsities of every description! But she cannot deceive me, thank Heaven; I can read her through and through."

"In some instances, my dear, your boasted accomplishment is not always of the most agreeable kind," said Mr. Montgomery, in his bland, easy manner.

"Never mind that part of it. I can bear it, since it gives the preciousness of seeing people as they are, their shallowness and their shams. Is there anything genuine in this every-day world? Really, each day I see something to disgust me."

The speaker's face gave proof to her speech as she fixed upon her husband a long, earnest look.

"Poor Marguerite it should be instead of Poor Evelyn. It is the pure minded girl that is to be pitied. Marguerite is the victim of this freak. Matilda will drag that child to the four corners of the earth to accomplish her ends."

"My dear, you are severe. Have some moderation," said Mr. Montgomery, in a conciliating tone.

"Moderation!" retorted the self-reliant wife—"moderation towards a weak-minded, unscrupulous fortune-hunter and match-maker—a despiser of those genuine graces which adorn the female mind and make woman what she should be. Don't talk thus to me, William, else I shall feel that you would abet Matilda in what she has undertaken, and what she may evidently accomplish."

"God forbid," said Mr. Montgomery, with more vehemence than was peculiar to him.

* * * * *

Marguerite had only one week's notice to prepare for the projected trip. She did not receive the summons with joy and eagerness, nor did she evince any pleasure in the preparations.

"I shall have some beautiful costumes ordered for you when we arrive in London, my dear," said the fashionable mother on inspecting her daughter's wardrobe and commenting upon the array of materials before her.

"Really, mamma, if I am to be bored by modistes from morn till eve I should prefer to remain at home. I know it is wrong to say so, but I almost wish that Eve was well enough to get along without us."

"I believe you, my dear," said Mrs. Verne, stroking her daughter's head, "but then you know it would be cruel to have the poor girl break her heart, moping away her time and begging to see a dear face from home."

A wicked thought entered Marguerite's head. She wondered if it were possible that her haughty sister ever possessed a true, honest heart? and was there in her marriage with Montague Arnold the least approach to sympathy? Did the proud heart ever beat with one responsive throb for him whom she had chosen?

As the maiden reasoned thus there was a slight pang which told her she had a heart, but that it must be silent—it must not be allowed to assert itself, but masked in conventionalities she must act the part of the worldly wise.

Mr. Verne was piqued to the highest degree when his wife spoke of her intended tour.

"Why not put it off until next year and I may be able to accompany you. Arnold can take care of Eve without out assistance."

The sound sense arguments were of no avail.

"We must certainly go, and I should think it would be much pleasanter for us to think that we left home without any disagreeable feelings."

"I suppose it is the best way to look at it," said Mr. Verne, quitting the room and going to his office, where in a few moments he was found by his beloved Marguerite.

"So my sunbeam is going to leave me," said the father, taking the girl in his arms and kissing the soft oval cheeks until a faint flush overspread them and the lips grew tremulous.

"I do not want to go papa, but mamma says that she cannot think of going alone," said Marguerite, as she nestled closer in her father's embrace and wound her arms lovingly around his neck.

"Perhaps the invigorating sea breeze may coax a few brighter roses," said the fond father, emphasizing his words by patting Marguerite's cheek with childlike playfulness.

"Never mind, you dear old papa, they cannot force me to stay very long away from you. Remember, if you hear of my doing desperate deeds it will be through madness to be once more beside you in this dear old spot."

"Ah, you silly little Madge, you will soon find other attractions than your prosy dull old father, but you must reserve one little spot for him."

Mr. Verne glanced at his pure and lovely child, and inwardly invoked God's blessing, and prayed that she might pass through the many temptations and dazzling allurements of fashionable follies unharmed.

"Darling papa, believe me, I care so little for society, so called, that I would rather spend a few hours each day among my dear home friends than be lionized in the highest courts in Europe."

"I believe you, my child," said Mr. Verne, placing his hand reverentially upon Marguerite's head, "but it appears that it is a duty to go."

"Yes, papa, but I am inclined to be rebellious, and ask you to pray for me. Sometimes I feel that I am not doing my duty in any way. It seems so hard to know the way before us."

Marguerite's face had a perplexed look and a shade of gloomy foreboding succeeded.

"Put your trust in God, my child—never forget Him. He will be your best Friend, when earthly friends will fail you."

Mr. Verne was what is generally known as a "good-living man." He made no parade of his profession, but he tried to live at peace with his God and do right to each and every man. His religion was not put on with his Sunday coat. He wore it into the counting-room as well, and carried it to Chubb's Corner, aye to every business resort and doled it out on every opportunity by acts of charity and Christian benevolence.

But of the departure.

Mrs. Verne was in ecstacies of delight. Everything pleased her. She superintended the manifold duties as if her whole soul was in the work, and beaming with smiles, flitted from one room to another with the playfulness of a child just setting out on its holiday season.

"I hope we shall have no scenes from Madge," said she to one of the friends who graced the drawing-room the day previous to their departure, "for anything I hate is a crowd gathered around with faces all gotten up for a funeral."

Here Mrs. Verne shrugged her shoulders and assumed a look of abhorrence.

Marguerite was leaving the conservatory as she overheard the remark, and she pressed more firmly the sprays of heliotrope and azalea which she held in her hand.

"Heaven help me," murmured the girl; "am I always expected to go through life with my feelings put away far out of sight-far away—

"Deeply buried from human eyes?"

Looking upwards she remained motionless as the marble statue of Psyche that adorned the recess in which she stood. Then the lips moved and the words "Put your trust in God," came forth soft and bewitching as the strain of an aeolian harp, and leaving, as it were, a holy hushed spell, subduing the soul of her who uttered it.

It was well for Marguerite that she had those precious moments of communion, and at no other time in her life did she need them more. They were the only beacon lights to guide her through the treacherous shoals into which she must inevitably steer her course.

It was with such feelings that the girl stood at the station and shook each friend by the hand without the least tremor in her voice or tear in her eye.

It did, indeed, cost a struggle to keep the pallid lips firm as Marguerite returned her father's parting embrace; but strength had been given her.

And the manly form beside him, Phillip Lawson, stood unmoved and erect, his face quiet in expression and not the least betrayal of the passion within his breast.

Mrs. Verne, with the tactics of a shrewd diplomatist, had arranged matters to enable her to perform her part without opposition.

Marguerite had to devote much time to the pressing duties devolving upon her, and when Mr. Lawson called at "Sunnybank" it always happened that she was out making her farewell calls.

It was the last evening that Marguerite should gladden her home, perhaps, for many months to come. The bronze clock on the mantel shelf struck the hour of eight. The drawing-room was unoccupied, and Marguerite stealthily glided towards the piano and sat down.

Her beautifully-moulded hands rivalled the ivory keys before her, and would have tempted the genius of a Phidias or a Lysippus.

Soon a low, soft symphony sounded through the room a music that had power to move the soul and hold it entranced.

"Marguerite, darling, do not play like that. I cannot hear such music without feeling sad, and sadness must not intrude to-night."

"Perhaps this will suit you, papa," and instantly Marguerite commenced to sing the old-time ballad, "The Campbells are Coming," in the liveliest manner possible, looking indeed the picture of happiness.

"How is it that my little girl cannot attend to the social demands that press so lightly upon her?" said Mr. Verne, as the last notes of the song were ended.

"I do not understand you, papa dear."

"Mr. Lawson called and I heard one of the maids tell him that you were not at home."

"It is strange that mamma did not send up to my room. I have not been out since ten o'clock this morning, when I went up to Manchester's to buy the pretty little work-basket that I wish to carry to Eve."

"A work-basket for Eve!" cried Mr. Verne, gaily. "What extravagant taste my little Madge has!"

Marguerite smiled and then looked thoughtful. She tried hard not to see her worldly mother's feelings. Yet she could not be blinded to the fact.

"It is ungenerous of mamma to deny me," she thought. But her mother's shallowness was sacred to her innermost thoughts. Much as she desired Mr. Lawson's visit, she offered not a word of complaint, but smilingly said, "Papa, when you see Mr. Lawson please apologize for me and explain matters to your satisfaction as I know that you feel sensitive about it."

"It will all come right soon—perhaps before you leave."

As Marguerite Verne waved her last adieu to her fond parent and received his tender recognition, a second glance convinced her that all was made right, as Phillip Lawson raised his hat and stood with uncovered head until the train was out of sight.

"Crying at last, Madge; I thought you could not bear up much longer," said Mrs. Verne, as she entered the seat with a new novel ready to devour, and smiling and bowing to several passengers whom she recognized. But the remarks were lost upon Marguerite. She remained in deep abstraction for some moments, and then regaining consciousness, threw aside the pretty wrap, murmuring—"Papa says it will all come right."



CHAPTER XIX.

GRATITUDE.

We will now direct attention to our much esteemed friend, Phillip Lawson, who has much to be grateful for. He hourly thanks his Maker for the great mercies received at His hands.

"Let them fall into other hands than mine. It would do no good. Poor wretches, I envy them not their ill-gotten gains. There is a day of reckoning, and may God cleanse their guilty souls." Such were the lawyer's remarks as he sat alone in his office with a heavy load off his mind.

He had just returned from witnessing Marguerite Verne's departure, and he felt calm and content.

Mr. Verne had accompanied the young man to his door and left with many kind invitations for "Sunnybank."

How comforting was his kind, cheery voice and his parting: "Now don't fail to drop in often, for I shall be very lonely, indeed."

Mr. Verne is a thorough gentleman and true friend, thought Phillip, as he turned over the last half-hour's conversation. "How thoughtful to explain Marguerite's failure to see me last evening." Then a slight frown settled upon the broad brow, showing that some disagreeable subject had in turn claimed the young lawyer's thoughts.

"Perhaps she may be better than I give her credit for. Are there any of us perfect?" Then musing for a few minutes he arose, the poet's words recurring to his mind—

"The best of what we do, and are, Just God, forgive."

On opening the daily mail the color rose upon Phillip Lawson's cheek, and his fingers became tremulous as he seized a letter showing the unsteady chirography of Hubert Tracy.

"I will never open it," he thought, and instantly the missive lay a mass of shreds in the waste basket. "'Out of evil good may come.' Hubert Tracy has taught me to be more grateful to the God who has done so much for me."

"Keep your temper, old boy," murmured the young man afresh as his eyes ran over the next letter—one dated from Winnipeg.

"To the flames I consign thee", said he, lighting a match and holding the provoking article over it until it was consumed.

"Halloo! I smell brimstone here. Suppose you're practising so it won't be so hard on you when the time comes?" cried a genial, hearty voice from the open door.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Montgomery," said the occupant, offering a seat to his visitor.

"How are all my friends at 'Gladswood'?"

"Have hardly time to tell you, for I'm in a hurry. I promised to meet several of the sports at Breeze's Corner. We are going out to Moosepath: but this will explain everything, and more too," cried Mr. Montgomery, producing a neat-looking note, and passing it to the young lawyer, making a hasty exit to meet said horsemen friends from Sussex and the city.

"I shall go to-morrow and stay over Sunday, at any rate," said Mr. Lawson to himself when he had gleaned the contents Of Jennie Montgomery's note.

It was just what was necessary to the lawyer's existence. A day or two at "Gladswood" was panacea for almost any ill that flesh was heir to.

The self-reliant matron, with her healthful, stimulating advice, and the bright, merry-hearted girl with her vigorous and true resolve, were indeed incentives of good, and none could fully realize the fact more than the young lawyer. He always went away from "Gladswood" with a high and lofty purpose and firm resolve to tread the path of duty.

And this occasion proved no exception.

Jennie Montgomery's happy face would put to shame the most inveterate grumbler. Her buoyant spirits were infectious. Her ringing, merry laugh was cheering to the highest degree.

The sprightly maiden in her neat muslin frock and broad hat trimmed with freshly-plucked marguerites was a fit model of the fair daughters of Kings County, and it was no wonder that many of the villagers predicted that "the young gentleman from the city must surely be payin' attention to Miss Montgomery."

Three days at "Gladswood"! What a world of thought it conveys— three days to revel among the beautiful glades and linger among the bewitching groves of graceful elm and tasselled pine! to hear the lowing of herds and the music of the winged songsters blended in one exquisite harmony.

Yes, devotees of the world, who build upon the style of your neighbor's dress or equipage and trifle away God's precious moments in silly show and vain trumpery, go to the retreats at "Gladswood," follow Phillip Lawson in his daily rounds, and if you will not, like him, feel your heart expand and seek aspirations of a higher mould— a something which gives comfort each breath you draw, each word you utter and each thought you frame!—then, we will make bold to say, your heart is irrevocably sealed beyond recall.

Cousin Jennie was shrewd and witty. She knew how to act that she might afford the least embarrassment to her guest.

For hours her guest was allowed to roam at his own desire, and felt not the pressure of conventional restriction.

Mr. Lawson was gallant in the true sense of the word, but he was no empty-headed fop, paying that amount of overdue attention to the fair, which, at times, becomes a bore and a pest.

It had been arranged that a small pic-nic party should relieve the quiet of the third day, and a jolly pic-nic it was. There was mirth enough to last for a month. Jennie's companions had mustered en masse. Groups of merry, rollicking youths and bright-eyed maidens lent a charm to the scene, and reminded one of the revels held in classic groves, when each sylvan deity, at a blast of her silver horn, made the wood resound with the voices of her myriads of subjects.

As the sayings and doings of all pic-nics are much in common it would be wasting time to describe the one at "Gladswood."

"All went merry as a marriage bell."

The sun was sinking in the west in all its glory—a blaze of living gold. The purple tops of the distant hills were enchanting and stood as huge sentinels of the scene below.

"Come here, Mr. Lawson," cried Jennie Montgomery, in breathless suspense. "Is not that grand? This is a sight I have been wishing for. Just look."

Mr. Lawson was truly a lover of nature, and his profound admiration excited her.

"I never stand here without thinking of Marguerite," exclaimed the girl, vehemently; "she would sit upon that bowlder and gaze around until I would think that she had lost her senses. I believe if any being has a soul for the beautiful it is cousin Marguerite."

The young man looked down from his proud eminence and encountered the fixed gaze of his companion. That look gave anxiety. A painful silence was the only reply, and both gazed upon the panorama before them for fully five minutes before the girl spoke.

"I can never forgive my cousin Evelyn for forcing Madge away. We all knew it was against her wishes that she went."

How comforting those words to Phillip Lawson's ear.

"Mr. Lawson," said Jennie, coming close to his side, "I am not going to hide my feelings any longer. You are a very dear friend and must have my confidence."

The young man's looks were proof of the girl's words. His face reflected thought sublime as Aeschylus, beautiful as Sophocles, and pathetic as Euripides!

"Thank you, Jennie," was the reply, and the eyes had a far-off look that went to the girl's heart.

"You are going to-morrow, Mr. Lawson, and I may not have another such opportunity."

It was then that the beauty of the maiden's nature shone resplendently, showering scintillations of pure native goodness that forever sparkled as sunshine and cheered the rugged path of Phillip Lawson's life!

A crimson flush momentarily suffused Jennie Montgomery's face, then she became pale and agitated.

"Mr. Lawson!" she exclaimed, "I love my cousin dearly, and I grieve for her more than I can tell you."

The young man's face blanched under the effect of the girl's tones, but he made no reply.

"Forgive me if I weary you, but I seem to feel in you a friend—one in whom I find sympathy."

"Trust me fully, Jennie, I will try to be all that you think me."

Phillip Lawson's earnest tones went straight to the girl's heart, and tremulously she continued:

"Mr. Lawson, you have not been a frequent visitor at my Uncle Verne's without seeing much to condemn in my worldly aunt. I know it is wrong to judge, but I cannot help it. I cannot help judging the motive of Aunt Verne—indeed I cannot."

The listener had fixed his eyes upon the huge trunk of a venerable oak tree covered with a luxuriant growth of velvety moss.

"I really cannot feel kindly towards cousin Evelyn, for she has ruled with an iron rod, and she is so wily that Auntie thinks her every action something perfect. Now, Mr. Lawson," said Jennie, with greater earnestness, "Mrs. Arnold is determined that Marguerite shall marry that unprincipled Mr. Tracy, and the thought makes me sick. I loathe him—he is almost as contemptible as Mr. Montague Arnold."

Mr. Lawson knew not what to say. A struggle was going on within. Would he reveal the plot to the truthful girl and ask her assistance—or would he let the secret die with himself and perhaps see the lovely Marguerite become a victim to the merciless trio?

The girl knew not what was passing in her companion's, mind, and the latter felt sadly puzzled. He durst not meet the gaze of the thoughtful brown eyes, but found words to reply:

"You put me in a strange place, Jennie; but I know it is from a sense of right that you speak."

"Mr. Lawson, I appeal to your manhood to help me. I want to save Marguerite, and you alone can do it."

The girl's manner was vehement. Tears glistened in her eyes, and the pathetic nature of the appeal visibly affected Phillip Lawson.

He stood for a moment as if in a study. Had the girl in any way found out the plot? Could it be possible? What did she mean that he alone could save her?

"Mr. Lawson, I can be a friend when charity demands one; trust me; perhaps I am too bold—but it is my regard for both that forces me. Mr. Lawson, you love Marguerite Verne. It is in your power to make her happy, and oh!" cried the girl, seizing the hard, strong hand, "Mr. Lawson, promise me that you will do it."

The young lawyer held the girl's hand tenderly, yea, as that of a dear sister, then raised it to his lips—

"God bless you, Jennie," cried he, fervently, "I only wish it was in my power to do so; but Marguerite Verne is as far above me as the heavens above the earth."

"Believe me, Mr. Lawson, you are the only one towards whom my cousin gives a thought."

"She treats me always as a friend, and at times more as a brother," said the young man abstractedly.

"Phillip Lawson, keep this secret as you value your soul," cried Jennie, clutching the lawyer by the wrist in an excited manner, and lowering her voice to a whisper—

"Marguerite loves you as she will never love another. It is sacrilege to watch every movement and steal the secret from every breath she drew, but love prompted me and I did it, and I feel that I am not doing wrong in revealing it."

"God grant it, my true-hearted girl—yet I dare not trust myself to think of it. I love Marguerite Verne as no other man living can, yet she may never know it. She may one day be wedded to another, and live a life as far from mine as it is possible for circumstances to make it. Yet her image will always be sacred to my memory, and no other woman will ever hold a place in my heart. The sprig of cedar which one day fell unobserved from her corsage, I shall treasure up as a priceless relic. Yes, truly, I live for thee, my peerless Marguerite."

"If Cousin Marguerite could only hear those words," thought Jennie. "Why have the winged winds no mercy? why do they not hurl down the great sounding board which separates these two beings and transmit those valued sounds to the ear, where they shall fall as music from the spheres!"

"Jennie, as a friend, I ask you to solemnly promise that what has passed between us shall never be unearthed again—let it be buried deep in the grave of lost hopes."

"I shall make no such promise, Phillip Lawson; but I promise that I will never place you in an unworthy position. I will never utter one sentence that will compromise your dignity as a gentleman. Will you trust me?"

"I will trust you in anything, my noble girl," said Phillip in tones of deep reverence.

"You know that my Uncle Verne's interest in you is real—he is your friend," said Jennie, trying hard to brighten the path of her friend's existence.

"Thank God for it," said the lawyer. "Indeed I have much to be grateful for. Jennie, some day I may tell you more: at present my lips are sealed."

"Your sense of honor is too high for the nineteenth century, Mr. Lawson; yet I would not have you otherwise."

The girl was mechanically picking to pieces the white petals of bright-eyed marguerites and strewing the ground beside her.

"You ruthless vandal! look at your work, Miss Montgomery," exclaimed a bright romping miss of fifteen, bursting upon them without regard to ceremony and pointing to the ground where lay the scattered petals.

"But it is romantic, you know; one always reads of some beautiful maiden picking roses to pieces to hide the state of her feelings."

"Thank you, Miss Laura, for your well-timed allusion, for Miss Montgomery and I have been romancing indeed," said Mr. Lawson, bowing to the young miss with an air of deferential homage.

"It will all come right yet," said Jennie, pressing her friend's hand with the tenderness of a sister.

The young man smiled sadly, murmuring: "'It will all come out right.' How those words seem to mock me—'it will all come out right.'"



CHAPTER XX.

SCENES AT THE GREAT METROPOLIS.

Mrs. Montague Arnold sat, or rather reclined, in her handsome breakfast-room. She was awaiting the morning mail, which had been somewhat delayed. A bitter smile played around the daintily curved lips.

"The saucy little minx; I shall teach her better," murmured the beauty in angry tones and gesture.

Montague Arnold paid no attention to the half-spoken words. He looked the veriest picture of dissipation. Late hours, cards, and wine were stamped upon his hitherto handsome face and left an impress at times anything but flattering.

In private, few courtesies were interchanged between the husband and wife. It would, indeed, be wrong to say that Montague Arnold on his marriage morn did not give to his fascinating bride more adulation than he ever bestowed upon any other woman, and had the haughty beauty given more attention to her husband he might have become a different man; had she shown a true heart, a truthful, honest nature, and a mind adorned with what is lofty and elevating, what a different life those two might have led? But Evelyn Verne was without heart, and we might almost say without soul. She lived for society alone; it was her first duty, and worshipped more zealously than the goddess Hestia that occupied the first altar in a Grecian home.

Mrs. Arnold was indeed an object of admiration in her superb morning toilet of fawn-colored Lyons silk, with faultless draperies and priceless lace. It was the beauty's ruling passion that no toilet was ever neglected; hours were spent in putting the finishing touches to some becoming style that brought out the wearer's charms and set the hearts of her admirers in a flutter.

As the soft white hand was raised to suppress a yawn a solitaire diamond caught the ray of sunshine that found its way into the elegant mansion, and reflected a radiance that was enchanting.

Mr. Arnold could not fail to be impressed with the sight. He at last found words to say, "What is your programme today, Eve?"

"I have promised to visit the studio with mamma and Madge. Lord Melrose is to be there, and I am very anxious to see his portrait."

"Don't flatter yourself that you are his latest charm, my dear," said her husband in sarcastic tones.

"You are altogether de trop, my amiable husband," said Mrs. Arnold with an angry gleam in the brilliant and wondrous dark eyes.

"I was sorry to hear that the young and beautiful Mrs. Maitland has possessed the fellow body and soul. What an honor to the young 'squire to have his wife thus lionized in the London drawing-room."

Mr. Arnold could be tantalizing without mercy, and when he had fully aroused his wife's anger he was happy.

Mrs. Arnold had received much flattering attention from Lord Melrose, and it wounded her pride when she heard that another had supplanted her. The remarks that had escaped her lips referred to the merciless young matron; and well Montague Arnold was aware of the fact, but he winced not, and only plunged deeper into the whirlpool of dissipation, which sooner or later would be his inevitable destruction.

"I was really tired waiting," exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, when Mrs. Verne and Marguerite entered the reception room an hour later. "I had begun to think that some prince in disguise had eloped with little sobersides."

"I don't think we will be quite so fortunate, Eve," said Mrs. Verne, with a significant look which annoyed Marguerite more than she was willing to acknowledge.

"Really, Madge, you are growing prettier every day since you came on English soil. Mamma, just look at her color; is it not bewitching? I tell you, Madge, you will turn half the heads in Piccadilly."

Marguerite saw with disgust the real object of her mamma's visit, and she was determined to show her dislike in a manner that would save herself from being the object of ridicule.

"Eve, I wish you to understand that I am not interested in love affairs. Please choose your conversation from other sources, and I will be much obliged—indeed I shall be forever grateful."

The girl's manner was serious, and her pleading looks would have given pleasure to a sensible woman, but they were scorned by Mrs. Arnold and her mother.

Mrs. Verne had been expatiating upon the immense fortune which had fallen to Hubert Tracy, and took the greatest of pains to impress Marguerite with a sense of his importance.

"How I wish that I had waited, mamma. You know that Mr. Tracy was devoted to me in every way, but you preferred Mr. Arnold."

"I preferred his riches, my dear, and you know Montague is so handsome and distinguished looking. Why, he really was the handsomest man in the ball-room last evening."

"But Hubert's fortune is tenfold that of Montague's. His income is immense."

"Well, all we can do is to consign him to Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, with an affected air of deep regret. "It is certain that he clings to the family, and his great wealth would be an heirloom for many generations."

"Quite a speech, Eve," said Mrs. Verne, clapping her white palms together by way of applause.

Crimson silk portieres separated the party from Mr. Arnold, but not a word had been lost. "You will have to play your little game quick, else the fortune will soon be a thing of the past," muttered the husband under his breath. "Curse these women, they are nearly all tarred with the same stick. And my charming wife. What a pity I stand in her way. Well, she can go on in her way and I will stick to mine. Heavens! is there one true woman?"

Montague Arnold's face, reflected in the mirror opposite, was not then a pleasing study. A sardonic grin was on his lips and a dangerous light in his eyes.

Just then Marguerite changed her seat, and, unobserved, the dissipated man glanced at the pure spirituelle face which had appeared as answer to his questioning words.

"Yes, Madge, I am a veritable scoundrel; already I see before me one true and pure being."

Was it a tear that glistened on the maiden's cheek as Montague Arnold once more contemplated the fair brow and madonna-like eyes?

Marguerite, in her courtly surroundings, was indeed indulging in day dreams, woven from scenes of her native land. And when she contrasted the picture with the vague, undefined reality, her emotional nature was stirred within her, and the gushing tears would force themselves in spite of all efforts at control. She was longing for one glimpse of dear old "Gladswood" and the fond embrace of Cousin Jennie.

"What would I not give to be free from this," murmured the girl in an undertone; then glancing around she recognized her brother-in-law, his eyes fixed upon her in close scrutiny.

"Upon my senses, Madge, you look like some one in a dream. I really might imagine you a piece of rare statuary—one of the Niobe group strayed from the Florentine gallery to meet the wistful gaze of the sight-seers of London!"

Marguerite smiled, and the color rose to her cheeks.

"I have dispelled the charm!" cried Montague Arnold, pointing to the vivid, life-like and roseate hue of the oval face.

"A flirtation, I declare!" said a lady who formed one of the party for the morning's entertainment. "Mrs. Arnold, I really would not allow it."

"But you must remember we have liberty of conscience, my dear. Each is free to act as he pleases within the realm of British jurisdiction."

"I am afraid you are giving us a wide license, Mrs. Arnold. Please be more circumspect," cried the lady in playful tone, "else your suggestion may have a very bad effect."

Mr. Arnold looked askance at the fashionable woman beside him, and thought what a world of deceit lurked within—a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Instantly he was at the woman's side, and began paying her those compliments which the most enraptured lover might pay to her whom he adores above all women.

At the studio Marguerite was introduced to many persons of distinction, among those a German Count, a blaze looking Captain of the Life Guards, and a bright, dashing young officer of the Dragoons.