Mrs. Spriggins now stopped for want of breath and fawning herself violently with the bottom of her blue gingham apron made a second onslaught.

"I tell ye what it is Mose there is no good comin' of this 'ere gallivantin' to town every t'other day, anyhow."

"Mother, if you would only have patience a few minits I might make some explanation, but you seem to want to have it your own way," said Moses, who had now determined to venture a word or two in his defence.

"Be keerful, Moses, how you speak to your own mother. It's time I had everything my own way, when other folks can't manage their own affairs," said Mrs. Spriggins, with an angry toss of her head.

"Now jest listen a minit, mother, and if I'm wrong I'll give in," said Moses, trying to effect a compromise.

"Well, let's hear what you have to say for yourself; but remember, you must not palaver it up to suit yourself, or I'll soon find out—sure as my name is Jerushy Ann Spriggins."

Moses had, to a certain extent, allayed Mrs. Spriggins' fears, and brought matters to a satisfactory close, when a load knock at the front door caused the latter to utter a startling exclamation, and then run to the glass to see if her hair was parted straight.

"Gracious goodness, mother, if there ain't the greatest crowd you ever saw. There's Mister and Missus Squires and Deacon Rider, and Missus Rider and little Joe Rider, and there's Huldey Ameliar Dickson and Marthy Ann, and a hull lot more."

"Moses Spriggins, are you a-takin' leave of your senses to be a-standin' gapin' with your mouth open instead of runnin' to the door and a-showin' 'em into the best room, and I'm not fit to be seen. It's allus the way. If I had all my fixin's on there'd not be a soul to come, but let one sit in their old rags, and the hull country side will pop in."

Moses had not heard the last part of the speech, for in less than a minute he was at the front door, doing the honors with all the grace imaginable.

"Nell has gone to the store, but mother will be here in a few minutes, so make yourselves to hum," cried the genial host, showing the female guests the way into the spare room "to take off their bunits."

When Mrs. Spriggins appeared not a trace of the recent encounter was visible.

"Wal, Mrs. Spriggins, yer growin' younger lookin' every day," said the good old deacon as he glanced at the hostess in her best gown and black lace cap, not forgetting to admire the coquettish white linen stomacher that completed the costume.

"Deacon Rider, I'm afraid you are guilty of sayin' little fibs as well as the rest of the folks. What do you think, Mr. Squires?"

Mrs. Spriggins' appeal placed the minister in a trying position, and his better half came boldly to the rescue. "I tell you what it is, Mrs. Spriggins, I'm not going to allow you to get all the compliments. Just think of it, Deacon Rider drove all the way over, and never paid one of us a compliment."

"Well, well, if here ain't all the folks," exclaimed good natured Simon Spriggins, bursting into the best room with several straws clinging to his trousers—a practical illustration of attraction of adhesion.

"Missus Squires, I do declare! Why, it does one's eyes good to see you. And Missus Rider, too—I haven't seen her for an age. Why it makes me feel young agin to see one of my old beaux around. Eh, Jerushy."

"A pretty thing you, to be a-talkin' of beaux. Better go and get off your old clothes first, for you'd scare the crows."

Mrs. Spriggins then became deeply interested in the affairs of her visitors and began bustling about at a great rate, and making hosts of excuses for things "not a-lookin' as nice as they had orter, for Nell had been a-spinnin,' and they had extry work besides."

"Come, come, mother, you needn't be a-puttin' on airs now, for the folks won't believe you, nohow."

At this sally from Moses Spriggins the younger visitors set up a laugh, and the older ones smiled and said "Moses is full of fun." And after a few such preliminaries the party were ensconced in the best room, enjoying the unbounded hospitality proverbial to the Sprigginses, while Moses went up to his room to have another spell at the important letter, and as he read over for the seventh time the neatly rounded sentences, he felt that he could well afford to bear reproof for the sake of having the good will of such a man.



CHAPTER XXVII.

VISITORS AT "GLADSWOOD"—THE FISHING EXCURSION.

An interesting trio graced the cosey parlor of "Gladswood" on this glorious September eve. The balmy breeze stole softly through, the open casement of the old-fashioned lattice window, and shed its fragrance profusely.

"Really, Jennie, this is more like an evening in June than September. Why one seems to think there must surely be some of the roses around."

"And so there are, my dear," said Jennie Montgomery, taking Helen Rushton by the arm and pointing to a small flower stand whereon sat a fragrant rose bush crowned with tea roses.

"They are indeed magnificent, Jennie, but I meant the little June roses that made such a gorgeous sight the morning that Madge and I arrived sans ceremonie."

"You prefer wild flowers to the more brilliant sisterhood of the hothouse, Miss Rushton," exclaimed Mr. Lawson with an air of interest.

"I must confess that I do Mr. Lawson, they seem so natural, so pure and so unaffected. They are always associated with life as it should be, and not as it is."

"Helen you are a darling," cried Jennie Montgomery, "those are just my ideas too. How is it possible that a refined city girl can foster such sentiments when surrounded by such opposite and antagonistic elements."

"Jennie, my dear, you must not infer from this that I do not approve of the forms and usages of society, for I do, but my society is common sense society, if I may be allowed the expression."

"You are quite right, Miss Rushton. Halifax will never lose her prestige while she sends out women gifted with such ideas of true worth."

Helen slightly changed color but felt no embarrassment.

Mr. Lawson had listened to her clearly advanced views and was pleased with the style she argued and his last remark he considered as no flattery.

"What a pity Marguerite is not here," said Helen enthusiastically.

"And Josie Jordan to enliven the scene," returned Jennie with a look of mischief in her bright sparkling eyes.

"Yes, and make one feel as if always eager and ready for the fray," said Helen, "for commence as meekly as a saint that girl will have a pitched battle before one gets half through."

Jennie Montgomery's voice rang out in peals of hearty laughter and ended by infecting her companions.

"Poor Josie," exclaimed Jennie when the laugh subsided, "she is as Charlie Verne says, 'a regular romp,' but she has a big tender heart."

"I think her manner is becoming much more subdued than when I first saw her," said Phillip Lawson who had seen much of the wilful Josie at the Rutherford mansion, whither he often spent a quiet hour in the company of his friend Herbert Rutherford.

Helen Rushton was truly fond of the hoyden girl and it was only from a desire to get the others' opinion that caused her to make the above remarks.

"We need just such girls as Josie, Mr. Lawson, to keep the world in a healthy state. I'm sure it would never do to have all wiseacres like a certain young woman of my acquaintance."

"And of mine too, Miss Rushton," cried a voice from the adjoining hall.

"Josie Jordan," cried both girls in amazement on beholding the subject of their remarks standing upon the threshold, hat in hand, and her hair in wild disorder about her neck, adding:

"Yes, Josie Jordan, if you please. What's all the fuss about. Can't I run up here without making your eyes stick out like rabbits'?"

Phillip Lawson being almost concealed behind the window curtains now betrayed his presence by a hearty laugh.

"You're not surprised at all, Mr. Lawson, and as the children say, I'm not going to play pretend," exclaimed Josie, shaking the young man heartily by the hand, then giving him a vigorous push in the direction of the door, added, "Run out and see for yourself."

The girls now indulged in hearty embraces, and Josie breathless with delight went on to tell how she had planned the surprise and the manner by which she effected her escape from her aunt's house.

"It's no use, Josie, I believe you are capable of doing anything after this," said Helen Rushton, raising her hands in holy horror at the thought of the escapade.

"I am not a party in the matter at all, young ladies," exclaimed Herbert Rutherford, who now entered with Phillip Lawson, looking as handsome as a prince with his large dark eyes and brilliant brunette skin, with the least possible tinge of ruddy carmine exquisitely blended.

"Don't tell me that women can't keep a secret after this," cried Josie, rocking to and fro in paroxysms of laughter. And in the straggling explanations that followed they learned that Mr. Montgomery had been concerned in the plot.

"I couldn't stay down there back of sundown when I heard there was such lots of company up here. No indeed; talk of solitude, I believe Robinson Crusoe lied when he said he liked it. Yes, and Old Friday too, if he said so."

"Oh! Josie, you are beginning to disgrace a fellow already," cried Herbert, alternating the words with genuine laughter.

"Auntie will be weeping and wailing my absence. Poor old soul; she don't deserve it, but I couldn't stay. Good gracious, there would have been the expense of a funeral, and I'm sure that's something to consider up in Brookville."

Mr. Montgomery had now joined the company, and with Josie's enlivening speeches it had a merry tone.

"I cannot see how friend Herb should be so opportune," said Mr. Lawson, with an arch glance at the incorrigible Josie.

"Defend yourself, Sir Knight," cried the latter, in her pretty artful way, that made the wavy ringlets play hide-and-seek with the utmost abandon.

"I was on my way to the fishing grounds, and you can imagine my surprise on being hailed in this wise:—'I say, mister, can you take a passenger?' On looking around I espied a young lady and bundle waiting for transportation to Sussex, five miles out of my way. Just think of it, and I had to stop, and here you see the passenger, while your humble servant is without doubt the subject of a few prayers from the boys who are anxiously awaiting a further supply of rations."

"They'll not starve till morning, Mr. Rutherford, and I think we had better all form a party and go with you," exclaimed Mr. Montgomery, who now occupied a seat beside Josie, and was as much a youth as his fourteen-year-old son who had entered unobserved while the conversation was going on.

"Won't that be glorious!" cried Josie, springing from her seat and clapping her hands with delight.

"And I suppose the pantry must suffer for it," said the cheery hostess, who had overheard her husband's suggestion.

"Well, mother, I think you can afford us a good supply, and not suffer the inconvenience of hunger either," said Jennie, placing her hand caressingly upon her mother's shoulder, and thinking in the meantime of the delicious pumpkin pies, tempting doughnuts and soft gingerbread that were piled upon the pantry shelves in a manner that, to quote a younger scion of the Montgomery family, "would make a fellow's teeth water."

The evening was indeed a jolly one at "Gladswood." Josie being sufficient entertainment for a much larger company made the most of her time, and the most shrewd observer could not detect anything like gloom in Phillip Lawson's manner as he laughed and chatted among the happy party.

As the hour was growing late Helen Rushton requested that Josie would sing something for them to "dream on."

The latter possessed a soft, rich and musical voice of much flexibility and easily adapted to meet the tastes of her audience.

"What shall I sing?" cried she in imploring tones as her eyes instinctively met those of Mr. Lawson.

"Anything you like," replied several voices.

As the girl took her seat at the piano she looked everything but a hoyden. A sweet native grace possessed every movement and gave dignity to every gesture. The pretty fingers, somewhat browned by recent exposure, ran over the keys and a prelude soft and bewitching floated around the room, then the bird-like notes warbled forth that well-known song—

"'Tis evening brings my heart to thee."

A solemn stillness prevailed. An exquisite sadness seemed to possess each member of the company, but there was one who felt it keenly.

As Phillip Lawson sat there listlessly turning over the leaves of a handsomely-bound portfolio who could tell of the deep agitation that almost unmanned him? Not a muscle moved, not a sigh was heard, not a look was conveyed, yet deep down in his heart was a fierce conflict.

"My God," thought the young man in the bitterness of his heart, "will the dead past never bury its dead? Why does it come forth from its shallow sepulchre and meet me on the most trifling occasions? Even that romping girl has power to unearth the mystic presence."

The last notes had died away and Jennie Montgomery cast a quick glance at the young lawyer. Her intuitive nature was sadly alive to the effect produced upon her friend. "Poor Phillip," thought she, "he thinks he is secure, that none intrude upon the sanctity of his thoughts. Poor Phillip, I would wish him happier things."

"Such a song to amuse a company," exclaimed Herbert Rutherford. "If Maude was here you might expect a crying match, and judging by the rest of the faces I think we could count upon a pretty fair exhibition of the pathetic."

"Well, Herb, it is not for your individual benefit," cried Josie, closing the book and rising from the piano.

She was about to say something further when a glance from Mr. Lawson caused her to stammer and blush in sad confusion. "What have I done?" thought the girl. "He is angry at me." And whenever she turned the reproachful eyes seemed to confront her.

Was there any real cause for such alarm?

Josie Jordan was of a highly-wrought, imaginative mind, quick to suspect, impulsive and full of vagaries and oftentimes those susceptibilities led many a wild-goose chase. There was another that interpreted the look from a different standpoint. Jennie Montgomery learned to realize Phillip Lawson's thoughts, and she felt that a yearning sympathy had arisen within herself; yet, she knew full well that her friend Josie was ignorant of anything which would suggest the song, and as she was going to ask the hitter for one of her favorites, Mr. Lawson came and stood beside Josie, exclaiming in the softest and most gentle tone, "You sing well, Miss Josie, I'm afraid that you have got yourself into trouble, for I am a lover of song and—"

"Have become a perfect bore," cried Josie, "there I have done you the service to finish the sentence, Mr. Lawson."

"Look here, Miss Jordan, the genial atmosphere of Kings County has not any beneficial effect upon your good behaviour," cried Herbert Rutherford, glancing at the pretty half-grown child with an air of much gravity, and wondering if she will be a child-woman as well.

"I like Mr. Lawson only he has a strange way of looking at you," was Josie's comment as the girls sought a snug little nook upstairs to have a quiet chat before retiring.

"Mr. Lawson is a deep thinker, and ever in his brown-study his eyes may happen to be riveted on you or any other object, yet he sees it not. He is looking upon a picture perhaps fairer, perhaps less fair, as circumstances may suggest, but depend upon it, he is lost to all outward surroundings."

The words had no sooner escaped Jennie Montgomery's lips than she regretted them, but happily her remarks did not take deep root in the minds of her girl companions.

The many little tidbits of girlish gossip and jokes were followed by merry laughter until the heavy stroke of the old clock of the household suggested that if they wished a good day's sport they must first have refreshing sleep, and soon all was still within the quaint sleeping-rooms, wherein the merry maidens dreamt their girlhood dreams. But in the snowy white chamber hitherto described in a preceding chapter there were subdued sounds which betrayed the disturbed state of the occupant.

Phillip Lawson's couch was yet bedecked in its snowy draperies and its perfect folds showed that no hand had marred its effect by actual contact.

The heavy hunting-case watch lying upon the dressing-case pointed to the wee small hours. Yet it mattered not. The song was ringing in the young man's ears. Ever and anon the beautiful refrain sounded through the quiet room with increasing volume.

"Why am I such a fool?" murmured the young man as he leaned upon the window-sill and looked out upon the beautiful scene below.

"Why are not my thoughts in harmony with this glorious picture— this realization of a poet's dream. Ah, truly, the heart is an unruly pupil. It is ever rebellious against the teaching of the stern monitress—Duty."

Phillip Lawson heaved a sigh and then continued: "Whatever the future will bring God only knows; whatever is is all for the best."

A hush fell upon the troubled heart, and taking up the Book of Prayers, the young man read the beautiful and sublime Evening Service of the Episcopal Church, of which he was a consistent and conscientious member, and in whose prosperity he took an active interest, laboring hard both by his purse and by his personal influence to increase its growth, and cherish sacred those memories of the bye-gone past. But of the incoming morn. An unusual babble and hurry-scurry time was going on long ere Herbert Rutherford had thought fit to arouse his friend.

"I say, Lawson, what in the mischief is the matter? Why, the folk downstairs have been kicking up the biggest fuss for the last three hours. How could you sleep? Gracious, how those girls are tearing around—no allowance for nerves here."

Phillip Lawson laughed and soon began to make his morning toilet, while Herbert Rutherford betook himself to the stable to see if everything was in readiness to start. To the latter's surprise he espied Jennie Montgomery coming across the field with her favorite spaniel close in pursuit.

"Good morning, Miss Montgomery. What errand of mercy has demands upon you at this early hour, for certainly it can be nothing less," and the glance at the substantial errand basket was significant of the interpretation.

"I am the errand boy on particular occasions," said Jennie, her face aglow with the healthful exercise.

Herbert Rutherford looked at the beaming face and then at the trim but graceful figure in neat print frock just of a length to show a well-formed foot encased in heavy-soled shoes.

"Talk of your city girls—there is a match for any of them," muttered the young man as he saw the maiden spring over the opposite stile and then throw back one of her sweetest smiles.

* * * * *

"A pretty fellow, by Jove," said one.

"A nice commissariat," said a second.

"Why didn't you wait until you came to pick up our bones?" shouted another, with force sufficient to show that starvation had not yet attacked the camp.

"You're all right yet, I guess," said Herbert Rutherford, reining up the pretty and spirited animal beside an old hut that served as dining-hall for the party.

"Herb, say, hope you didn't forget the corkscrew this time," shouted a voice from behind an old stump.

"Caesar and Anthony!" was the exclamation as the smiling maidens and their attendants came in sight.

"Josie Jordan!" cried a trio and the congratulations that followed need not be repeated.

A jollier party never fished in that well-known brook and better appetites never were known than when the table was thrice set and thrice cleared of the most tempting dishes that ever graced a festive board.

"Who would have ever thought of meeting you here, old bookworm?" exclaimed a happy-looking youth hailing from a shipper's office on the South Wharf.

"Well sir, I would as soon have expected to see old Herodotus stalking along with his wonderful Nine," roared another, slapping Mr. Lawson with more force than elegance.

"And I haven't steered across you since that night at Verne's. Quite a change there since then, eh Lawson? Have you heard the latest news?"

Phillip had now drawn the speaker aside. He learned with regret that Mr. Verne had suspended payment but had been granted extension.

"It may turn out better than people think," returned Phillip.

"Not a ghost of a chance for him. He's sure to go and a big smash it will make."

"It will go hard with Mr. Verne," remarked the former.

"It will go harder with his fool of a wife," returned the other, "she worked for it sure and is not to be pitied; but there is one I do feel for—that is Marguerite."

Phillip Lawson's reply was inaudible for the merry group came on at a rapid rate and surrounded them with all the fishing apparatus conceivable.

"Poor Marguerite," muttered Phillip and he went on with his work as if nothing had happened to mar his day's sport or divert his thoughts across a wider stream.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE LOVERS' MISUNDERSTANDING MADE UP—MOSES KEEPS HIS SECRET.

On the evening after his arrival in the city Phillip Lawson found his way to "Sunnybank." As he stood on the vestibule his thoughts reverted to the missing paper.

"It was so important; and now that I could have more hope than before."

It must not be presumed that the young man exulted over the reported insolvency. He fervently prayed that Marguerite Verne should have moral courage to bear up under the pressure of circumstances that must necessarily follow, but he hoped that a life of usefulness would be more acceptable than that of luxury hitherto enjoyed.

"If it were only in my power to pay off every farthing of those enormous debts gladly I would do it for her sake though she might never know who was her benefactor."

Such were the tenor of Mr. Lawson's thoughts as he advanced towards Mr. Verne and received a hearty welcome—almost an ovation.

"Mr. Lawson, you cannot imagine how much I missed you, else you surely could not have stayed so long!" exclaimed the host springing from his chair like a boy of sixteen.

"Only five days in all, sir, since I was here."

"Five days!" cried Mr. Verne drawing his hand across his furrowed forehead as if to gain clearer perception, "five days! dear me, it seems like five months—five months."

Mr. Verne seemed for a moment or so to have forgotten that he had a guest for he was lost in thought. Presently his mind cleared.

"How did you leave all at 'Gladswood.' In fact I forgot that you were there."

Mr. Lawson then gave a brief description of the days spent at the farmhouse and was pleased to note the very great interest with which Mr. Verne listened.

The solicitor was puzzled. He expected to find his friend in a state of deep dejection, but instead he was more cheerful than usual, and seemed to be exulting over some secret or newly-found joy.

"He may be rejoicing in the thought that his child is soon to be in a position which his reverses cannot affect."

Phillip Lawson had no sooner uttered these words in an undertone, than a deep chill seemed to paralyze his muscular frame.

"Just as if that should be of import to a poor beggar like me, who has no more than can keep the wolf from the door."

Strictly speaking the last remark was somewhat hyperbolical, for as we have hitherto been informed the young solicitor's professional emoluments were now anything but scanty, but it was in the bitterness of spirit that he made use of the words.

"Have you heard from Mrs. and Miss Verne, sir."

"There, I would have forgotten! It seems to me I am getting old fast—nothing tells on a man like that," said Mr. Verne, smiling and drawing from the pigeon-hole of a small desk a neatly-folded letter.

"My little girl refers to you—listen to this"—and the fond father read a portion of the letter, in which she referred to the young lawyer, and begged that her father would convey her thanks for the very great thoughtfulness of Mr. Lawson in trying to cheer him in her absence and filling up the vacant place beside him.

"Tell him, dear papa, I shall never forget him for it—never."

Mr. Verne was deeply affected as he read the last sentence; also was his visitor.

"My Marguerite, she cares yet for her doting father. Yes, Mr. Lawson, my child worships those who are kind to me."

"You can never fully express Miss Verne's worth, sir. I am only too happy to do anything that would secure her good wishes, for coming, as they do from one so good, they most certainly result in good."

"The man is honest," thought Phillip Lawson; "he does not wish me to think that his daughter has any other feeling than that of gratitude, and I honor him for it."

The young man glanced around the elegant parlor with its glittering furniture and costly vertu, and felt sad at the thought of the great change that was in store for the delicate girl who had been reared in the lap of luxury. He wished to refer to business, but Mr. Verne evaded him at every turn, and when he rose to go, felt somewhat uneasy and disappointed.

"There is something astir," thought Phillip, as he passed down Mecklenburg street and turned up Carmarthen, on his way home. "There is something in the wind. I can already feel it in my bones," exclaimed the young man, striding along with a rate of velocity equal to that of his thoughts.

A sudden fancy seized him. Quick as lightning it darted through every nerve and electrified him with pain.

"It must be so! Fool that I was not to see it before. Tracy has proposed in the nick of time. He has had an accomplice whom it is easy to guess. It's all up with me now, and she can send kind wishes without a feeling of restraint"

Phillip Lawson was indeed sore at heart. He reasoned long and argued the ease to the best of his ability; but love is one thing and law is another—the two abstracts cannot coincide any more than can a parallelogram coincide with an equilateral triangle. "But must I stand calmly by and make no effort to save her from such a fate. Merciful heavens! There's no clue for me to prove what I had already known. Why was I so unfortunate. Surely heaven will not suffer Hubert Tracy to accomplish his designs. I wish him no bodily harm, but I trust that he may yet atone for his deeds, and live to see the error of his ways."

By the time the solicitor reached his home he was calm and collected.

"Brother Phillip," was the first exclamation he heard; "look, are not these beautiful. Josie Jordan brought them this afternoon. She kept me laughing nearly all the time she was here telling about the fun she had at 'Gladswood'."

"Ah! the ferns are from Jennie Montgomery, I presume," said the brother, giving them a second glance of admiration.

"Yes, and the sweetest little letter you ever saw beside. Isn't she lovely, Brother Phillip?"

The petite little maiden had now nestled closely in her brother's arms; her flaxen curls showered around her in sad disorder, while one plump little arm was entwined around his neck.

"You must be dreaming, Brother Phillip. Why, you never heard my question."

"I beg your pardon, little one, for this time. Miss Jennie is all that you think her to be," replied the brother, somewhat gravely.

"Do you know what I was thinking of, you dear old brother," said Lottie, emphasizing the speech with an affectionate hugging. "I was thinking of all the nice young ladies you are acquainted with, and wondering which one I would like you to marry."

"What put such notions into your head, you silly child. Have I not a little wife already. But let me hear the rest of it."

Phillip Lawson indulged his pet sister in all her pastimes, and was now an attentive listener to her proposals.

"You know, Brother Phillip, there is Miss Verne—."

"Yes—go on," said the brother in a quick, nervous manner.

"And there's Jennie Montgomery and Louise Rutherford and Miss Rushton and Josie Jordan, and—"

"I think you have got enough now to decide from."

"Well," continued Lottie, not appearing to notice the interruption. "There is Miss Marguerite. I love her dearly. I feel like kissing her picture every time I see it—well she is an angel, Brother Phillip, and sometimes I think she is too good to marry anyone."

"A compliment to the sterner sex," remarked Phillip, in an undertone, then he exclaimed, "Child, where did you get such ideas?"

"Oh, I hear the girls in school nearly every day, and yesterday Belle Morris asked me if I would like you to get married."

"I think the young ladies might find more profitable employment during study hours."

"Oh, we don't talk only at recess. Now please don't be angry, Brother Phillip, for I never said anything."

"Thank you little Miss Discretion. I am very glad that you do not indulge in gossip. Listen to what Solomon says," and going to the book-case Phillip took therefrom a Bible, and read from Proverbs xvii. 9,—

"He that repeateth a matter separateth very friends."

Lottie saw that her brother did not wish to hear more on the subject, and she again took up the bunch of pressed ferns which had arrived from "Gladswood."

"I wish that I could be as good as Jennie Montgomery. Why she's scarcely ever idle one moment during the whole day, and she never seems happy but when she is helping some person. Do you know Brother Phillip the oldest people around love her, and she goes and reads to the sick and runs all the errands for the sick herself."

"I am glad you observed so closely my dear, and I hope Lottie Lawson may one day be as good a woman as friend Jennie," said Phillip very earnestly.

"Oh, I know I never can have the happy way of setting everything right that is wrong, and taking the tangles out of the most common affairs the same way that Jennie does. Oh, no, Brother Phillip, don't expect me to be anything like that."

The fond brother could not fail to see that there was a vein of good sense running all through the child's remarks, and he also noted her quaint style of application.

The appearance of Kitty, the housemaid, interrupted further reply. With a respectful air the domestic made known to her master that, owing to the death of a near relative, she had to remove to the country to take charge of a family of small children.

"Indeed, Mr. Lawson, you have been a good, kind master to me, and that angel there"—pointing to Lottie—"the likes of her is not in St. John. But I'll hear from yous often and when Tim is in town he'll run in to see how yous are gettin' on."

"And you must go immediately, I suppose?" said the young man who indeed regretted the loss of an industrious and honest domestic.

"Next Saturday, sir, Tim will be after me, and the children is a sufferin' between whiles."

"Very well, Kitty, we must do the best we can," and Mr. Lawson was already prospecting over a trip to Mrs. Lee's Intelligence Office to procure a successor to the lamented Kitty.

"Look here Brother Phillip, I believe that I can get a new girl without any trouble."

"You little one!" cried the young man, laughing at the idea of such a grave responsibility being associated with the child.

"Wait a moment until I come back," said the latter who in a very short time reappeared, breathless with anticipation.

"Yes indeed, Melindy Thrasher is going to leave Mr. Verne's—Kitty says so. Please let me go down and see. You know I am growing quite old now and ought to be able to do lots of things."

"As you wish, Lottie; but remember you must first find out if Mr. Verne is aware of the fact."

Within a week Melindy Thrasher was duly installed as general servant in the Lawson cottage, a fact which is worthy of mention as it is connected with other important matters relative to the affairs of the solicitor.

The new help gave general satisfaction and Lottie was much amused with the girl's primitive manners, which even the associations of "Sunny bank" could not altogether affect.

One bright morning as the former was getting ready for school, she was accosted by Melindy in the following strain:

"Law sakes, Miss Lottie, how things do come 'round. Jest to think that you and the young lady that was up to Mr. Montgomery's happenin' to be the same identical one, and I was up to meetin' the same Sunday. It seems so queer that of all places I should happen to get here. But as I say there's no tellin' what may happen."

"What a coincidence it is," thought Phillip, laughing as on passing through the back parlor he overheard Melindy's remark.

He had gone to the post-office on that morning and as he took out the contents of the well-filled box discovered a letter which on opening he saw was from Marguerite.

"What can have prompted her to write. It would seem as if some one else had written it. Marguerite Verne would as soon think of cutting her right hand off as to write me unsolicited. And for what is she grateful. It seems so ridiculous when all that I have done was to entertain myself."

The young lawyer once more read over the precious missive which was written in the most simple, yet graceful style. It stirred him deeply.

It recalled the fair girl in all her spirituelle beauty, and made him doubly rebellious over the circumstances that thwarted all his hopes.

"Why was I not some heir to an earldom, for nothing less is befitting such a one," thought the young man, feeling all the bitterness that a heart can feel.

Strange indeed, that from the moment Phillip Lawson uttered these words he was a richer man, though he knew it not. He had to drink deeper of the dregs of adversity ere he shall have cause for rejoicing.

Marguerite gave short pithy accounts of her visit, and was quite enthusiastic over the wonderful sights that she saw on every hand; also, the walks, drives and various places of entertainment.

"It's no use to think any more about it. They have at length succeeded in making her what I would have one time sworn that she never would be—a woman of the world. Ah truly 'the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.' Six months ago I never could have believed that Marguerite Verne would have yielded to such worldly influence. She seemed an angel among sinners. And she speaks of Hubert Tracy in such a gushing style—so foreign to the modest high-toned sentiments which always inspired me with a love of truth."

"Can it be possible that Marguerite Verne wrote that letter?" exclaimed Phillip Lawson, holding it up before him and scrutinizing every line. Then throwing it aside, added, with a deep tone of resentment, "Is it possible that one must lose all faith in humanity?" Then, as if some good spirit had whispered better things, He raised his eyes and faintly exclaimed, "Father forgive me, I have been sorely tempted," and set about some work with a fiercer determination than ever to make his will subservient to his reason.

Melindy Thrasher had not seen more than a fortnight's service in the Lawson family when Mr. Spriggins made it convenient to stay and spend the evening.

Phillip being called away upon business the happy pair solaced themselves in the inviting back parlor, and whiled away the hour in the way that only such lovers can when one takes into consideration the candies and peanuts that were conspicuous on this occasion.

When the latch-key turned in the front door all was quiet within, and the back parlor in perfect order. Faint sounds beneath the window told the indulgent master that Melindy was taking leave of her lover.

Mr. Lawson was not guilty of eavesdropping, but what could he do—the voices became more distinct.

"I tell you what it is, Moses Spriggins, there hain't been no secrets between us afore this, and I'd like to know why you can't tell me what business took you to Mr. Verne's office. Now you know you was there just as well as you know the head is on your body."

"Come, come, Melindy—I ain't got no secrets from you. It's only a little bit of bisness that I was a-doin' for 'Squire Verne—(Mr. Spriggins had a habit of addressing all men of any importance by such appellation)—and it's his secret, not mine, and you can't blame a fellar for a-keepin' it when he is asked to do it, can you, Melindy?"

At this declaration the said Melindy was somewhat mollified, but muttered something about the two being one.

"Wal, never mind now," said Moses, "that's a dear Melindy; let's make up," and suiting the action to the word the lovers made up, and Melindy was satisfied that the secret did not belong to her affianced.

"But hold on, Melindy, how did you hear that I was at the office? That's the stickin' pint; eh, Melindy, I've got you now."

"I ain't a-goin' to tell you, Moses Spriggins; that's my secret," said Melindy, affecting an air of disdain.

"Now you've been a-listenin', that's a sure thing, Melindy, and I think it's a-cryin' out shame to do sich a mean thing."

"Now look here, Moses Spriggins; I'm not a'goin' to stand no lecturin' from you, for if you don't like it, you can git as soon as you like, for there's Ben Buckler would give his eye tooth to cut you out!"

"Come, come, Melindy; we won't say anything more about it. We ain't a-goin' to be quarrelin' over nothin'." And very soon the lovers made up a second time, while the solicitor turned away, indulging in the same amount of curiosity as expressed by Melindy Jane Thrasher.

"It is strange, indeed. Moses is truthful. Mr. Verne has some secret, and he could have no more trustworthy confidante than the self-same Mr. Moses Spriggins," and soliloquizing thus Phillip Lawson sought the land of dreams—

"Tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep."



CHAPTER XXIX.

A CHARACTER IS LUCK.

"Truly an interesting girl. There is a vein of good sense about her that I admire. New Brunswick sends us some fine specimens of females."

The man who made these remarks was not a gallant of the ninety-ninth degree, but was a sober, intellectual man of threescore-and-ten and, judging from the clear, penetrative eye, one who had seen much of the world as it is.

"From St John did you say, Mr. Metcalfe?"

"Yes, sir. Her father is engaged in the shipping business there, and I am told is a very fine sort of fellow. I have met Miss Verne several times and each time am more interested," said the old gentleman, rubbing his gold-rimmed spectacles in a way that implied "now for business."

"By the way, sir; that reminds me of a case I have on hand. The McGregor heirs are at a discount around here and our object is to hunt up a branch of the family who emigrated to New Brunswick some forty years ago.

"Old Hugh McGregor, from whom the bulk of the property comes, was an ironmonger who at one time did a large business in Glasgow, after which he removed to Manchester, and resided there until his death in 1829.

"His son Robert succeeded in the establishment and was prosperous, living in good style in a suburban residence five miles from Manchester.

"As Robert McGregor had no children the nearest heir was his sister, Jessie McGregor, who unfortunately fell in love with a young student who attended the same institution as herself. Her parents becoming acquainted with the facts had her removed and forbade all intercourse; but love is stronger than bolts and bars, and the fair Jessie set out to face the world with no visible means of support but her husband's blandishments. But love is strong and the fair maiden managed to eke out a subsistence and by untiring effort they were at least in comfortable circumstances, and succeeded in educating their first-born for the ministry, but ere the talented young minister had preached a season his health gave way and he was called away to reap the reward of the faithful.

"The remaining child, a sweet girl of fourteen, was now the only solace of the bereaved parents, and fearing that they would also be deprived of their only joy, sold out their small property and emigrated to New Brunswick, where they purchased some land, and also by carrying on some other speculation were once more in prosperity.

"Now," said the old lawyer, glancing up over his spectacles, "our object is to trace this girl, who is the only surviving heir of the McGregor estate."

"But on what ground do you ignore Jessie McGregor, who may yet be alive? She cannot be a centenarian yet, sir."

"True," replied the former, "but Robert McGregor was aware of the fact of his sister's death some years ago. The latter was too proud to ask forgiveness for her rash act, and all intimacy ceased when she left her parent's protection, for old Hugh McGregor was a harsh, unrelenting man, whom if once thwarted could never be conciliated."

"And how do you intend to proceed? Have you any further information?"

"None, sir—except that by some intelligence from New Brunswick about ten years ago, Robert McGregor heard that his sister's child married a farmer and was comfortably settled."

"There is little trouble in finding the heirs then. Is the property a valuable one?"

"Real and personal estate amounts to something in the vicinity of forty thousand dollars."

"Not a bad heritage, I assure you, sir," said the other, with the least perceptible smile.

A month after the above conversation took place the lawyer was interviewed by the same individual.

"Yes, indeed, I immediately forwarded the notice to the St. John Daily Telegraph and to the Daily Sun, two leading journals of that city, and yesterday was rewarded by a letter from a young solicitor of that city making such inquiries about the McGregor family that evidently shows that he is in possession of all the facts that we wish to become acquainted with."

"Are you at liberty to give his name. I am acquainted with the majority of St. John lawyers," said the other, feeling a lively interest in the subject.

"Not at present, if I were really disposed to do so," said the lawyer in the most good-natured manner. "The fact is I am not exactly in the writer's confidence myself. He wishes, no doubt, to communicate farther with some of the family in question ere he gives himself publicity."

"A sensible young man, indeed," ventured the New Brunswicker, for such he evidently was in his unconventional aspect and easy-going habits.

On the evening of the same day the same gentlemen held a second conversation, but this time it was not in a dingy lawyer's office. The scene was a neat and pretty drawing-room, with all the necessary adornments native to such an apartment, and also a higher class of adornment—that of several interesting and fascinating women.

"Home, sweet home," exclaimed Mr. Metcalfe, taking up the newspaper which Marguerite Verne had just laid aside. "I see you don't forget our old sheets. Well, they do look familiar."

"I must be very deeply engaged when I cannot find time to run over the Telegraph and Sun—the former I have read since I was able to spell the words. It occupies a warm spot in my affections," said Marguerite, smiling, while the soft roseate blushes rose in sweet confusion upon her face.

"You are a Grit, I presume, Miss Verne," said the host. "I see that your favorite journal advocates that policy?"

"I cannot say that I am, Mr. Stanhope. I have many friends on that side, but really my sympathies go with the present government."

"Then you should transfer your affections to its leading New Brunswick organ, Miss Verne," said the New Brunswicker.

"I admire it upon principle, sir. But pardon me, I am not versed in politics, and cannot express myself upon the subject," exclaimed Marguerite, taking up the Sun to have a second glance at the locals which graced its columns.

"Not versed in politics, Marguerite! Do I hear aright?" cried a vivacious and interesting maiden of medium height and fair proportion, with an air of hauteur in her bearing characteristic of a model English girl.

The speaker was the lawyer's only daughter—a clever conversationalist and well read in all those branches of literature which elevate and ennoble the mind, and if applied to the female character make woman more than a kind of being that can only talk about what she eats, drinks, and more than all, what she wears and what her neighbor wears; discuss the latest bit of scandal and take a superficial view of everything upon which she languidly condescends to pass judgment.

"Miss Verne is an out-and-out Conservative, I can assure you," said Mr. Metcalfe, who now came to the relief of his countrywoman with a feeling of pride. "She can advocate the National Policy in a manner that would gain over the most stubborn Grit."

"Ah! Mr. Metcalfe, please do not over-rate my abilities in that respect," said Marguerite in a manner which coolly implied that she did not wish to get up such an argument as she certainly must if confronted by the strong Grit views of her interesting and witty companion.

"Never mind, Marguerite, we will not measure weapons this time," cried the former, "But I must try to shake some of the Tory off before we have done with you. Remember I have made more than one staunch Liberal convert."

Marguerite laughed at the girl's spirit of enthusiasm and thought "what a power is woman when her energies are directed aright?" Then her thoughts took rapid flight to another and different subject. She was thinking if it were possible for woman to exert her influence in the manner she would like that the end would justify the means.

"Not that exactly," mused the maiden as she thought of—but, perhaps, it is better we do not unearth Marguerite Verne's thoughts at that moment. She is doubtless sensitive, let us act accordingly and turn to other subjects. There was a sweet simplicity in her attire on this evening. Her dress of pale-blue bunting was plain indeed, and save the silver bracelets upon her beautifully-rounded arms, there was no other attempt at ornament.

Her cheeks were pale, and a shade thinner than usual, and to this fact the girl may attribute her liberty or rather freedom from the giddy rounds of dissipation into which she was reluctantly forced from morn to dewy eve and from dewy eve to rising morn.

Mrs. Verne had to acknowledge that her daughter's health was getting impaired, and that nothing but rest would restore her former strength, therefore consented that Marguerite should spend a few days with the young lady whom she met and became on intimate terms during a short time spent on one of the steamers plying between Liverpool and Belfast.

Edith Stanhope, as we have hitherto intimated, was a bright, witty English girl, and her companionship was healthful and invigorating.

She admired the gentle, winning, child-like ways of the New Brunswick maiden, and together they formed a pretty picture.

Mr. Stanhope had been a widower for many years, his household affairs being managed by a maiden sister, whose affection for the child Edith increased as the latter grew to womanhood, and nowhere could be found a more peaceful, inviting and cosy little nest than that of the much esteemed and venerable lawyer—Charles Stanhope, of Cheapside.

Edith Stanhope had reached the age of twenty-one, and still "in maiden meditation fancy free." Her life was an undisturbed and peaceful dream—her days an enjoyable round of simple domestic pleasure, broken in upon now and then by a few of the young schoolmates or companions of her childhood.

How keenly Marguerite then felt the difference of their respective positions as she glanced up from the newspaper and saw the real happiness that shone so steadily upon the girl's countenance, while she, wearied with the gaieties of life, was yearning—oh! so longingly—for the real domestic happiness that she must never realize.

"Marguerite Verne, am I to attribute that gaze to fond admiration or pertinent curiosity?" cried Edith, going up to her friend and playfully shaking her by the shoulders.

"To neither, Edith," said Marguerite, almost sadly, "but to a worse trait in my character—to jealousy," and the short sigh fell faintly upon Edith's quick and acute ear.

"To jealousy, you minx," cried the latter, who had a habit of repeating the speaker's words, which, in many cases, gave more effect to her arguments.

"To jealousy, indeed. Is it because I have the audacity to address your countryman, 'whose way of life is fallen into the sere, and yellow leaf'," replied she, her eyes sparkling with animation and keen enjoyment.

"Thank you for the quotation, Edith," said Marguerite, running her small, delicate fingers through the meshes of her friend's golden-brown hair.

The reply was interrupted by an exclamation of the New Brunswicker. "Miss Verne I presume you have read both editorials. Is it not amusing how each goes for the other."

"Yes, Mr. Metcalfe, but I must confess that I am somewhat like a lady whom I once heard say, 'Well, dear me, I think everything in the Telegraph is all gospel until I take up the Sun and it upsets every speck of belief as fast as it went up. Dear me, I wish I knew which side was genuine, for both cannot be truth.'"

A general laugh followed and Edith Stanhope exclaimed, "I think that your friend must have been on the fence, Marguerite."

"Yes, and watching to see which side to jump on in the coming election," cried the old lawyer who had hitherto remained a listener.

A burst of merriment arose from the trio on the other side of the room and rang out in peals of laughter.

"Oh, papa, you naughty man to make such an unscrupulous remark about one of our sex," cried Edith, assuming an air of injured innocence and trying to look very severe.

"I take it all back my dear. Come let us have some music. It is too bad to be wasting so much time when one has an opportunity of having so much ability on hand."

"Do you allude to Marguerite or myself, papa," cried Edith gaily, while she arose and playfully led her companion, to the piano.

"It is dangerous to say much here unless one very carefully considers ere he speaks," said the fond father, casting a glance at his daughter that was worthy of the most ardent lover.

"Well, well, papa, you will go scot-free this time. Of course Marguerite will favor us."

The latter needed no coaxing. She played a selection of old-fashioned airs that were more appreciated than the most brilliant fantasia or classic opera. Then followed a few of the songs she used to sing for her father and one which had caused the heart of Phillip Lawson to beat wildly as he stood listening to the voice he loved so well and bitterly thought of the world that lay between him and his buried love.

"Miss Verne, you have certainly much power of expression," said the New Brunswick gentleman as the last note had died away, and, Edith Stanhope sat silent as if fearing to break the spell.

"I seldom sing except to amuse my father, and the class of music I practise is simple," was the quiet reply.

A young girl attended by a gentleman several years her senior, now entered the room. The former was Edith Stanhope's favorite cousin, and the latter was a distant relative, who was home on a vacation from a neighboring town, where he held a responsible position in a banking establishment.

"Ah, my fair cousin; and you have condescended to come at last," ejaculated Edith, embracing the latter, and then extending her hand to the gentleman, exclaimed, "and you, Frank, it is time that you presented yourself. Just think, you have been here nearly a week—"

"Not so hard, cousin Edith. Your humble servant arrived on Monday, and this, I believe, is Wednesday."

"That's right, my boy, defend yourself," said Mr. Stanhope, looking proudly upon the fair group around him.

As conversation set in lively and amusement was the order of the day, Mr. Stanhope and his friend quietly sat and looked on, occasionally answering to some of the sallies sent off at their expense.

A servant now entered with the evening mail, and assorting the pile Mr. Stanhope passed to Mr. Metcalfe the two provincial dailies.

"The very information I was seeking," cried the latter in excited tones. "Just read that."

Mr. Stanhope glanced at the article in question and seemed lost in amazement; then hastily exclaimed: "It is wonderful how these fellows get things so soon. The matter has indeed gained publicity, and the young fellow need hesitate no longer."

"Miss Verne will no doubt be able to give you much information, as the young lawyer is quite popular in her native city. I may have known of him, but I'm inclined to think he has established himself since I left St. John."

Mr. Stanhope passed the newspaper to Marguerite, who, for some unaccountable reason, felt more curiosity than she was willing to acknowledge.

As she silently read the paragraph a tremor passed through her frame, and her heart began to throb wildly, but no emotion was visible.

"I am quite well acquainted with Mr. Lawson. He is a very great friend of my father's," were the words that rose to the girl's lips when she had gained courage to speak.

"That is splendid," exclaimed Edith, who now became interested in the matter; "I suppose he is young, and handsome beside," added she in a different tone.

"Keep that part of it to yourself, Miss Verne," said Mr. Metcalfe, in a tantalizing manner; "Miss Edith is not going to rob New Brunswick's daughters of what is theirs by right."

"But if the fortune be forthcoming here we should insist that the heir give some fair one here the benefit of it," cried Edith, who thought she had the best side of the argument.

"Don't quarrel over this matter, I pray," said the distant relative with a merry twinkle in his eye, "I am going to ship for St. John one of these days, and will, if possible, visit the McGregor heir and make him acquainted with the designs of my fair Saxon Edith."

"And you will exonerate Miss Verne from any complicity in the matter."

"Most certainly I do," said the relative, while Marguerite Verne hurried carelessly away to hide the tell-tale blushes which sooner or later would betray her.



CHAPTER XXX.

FINANCIAL EMBARRASSMENT.

And now let us turn to Mr. Verne, who is in a sad state of physical prostration.

The financial storm which overhung his daily prospect has at last swooped down upon him in merciless fury, hurling down every hope that hitherto buoyed him up and whispered encouraging words as he struggled on.

Mr. Verne had shut himself in his private apartments and asked that he might be left alone.

But ere long he was besieged by interviewers. Reporters, anxious to give the full benefit of the sad disaster to the clamoring public, who must know to a farthing the amount of the liabilities, and, of course, the assets.

But before "morning wore into evening" Mr. Verne had the comforting assurance of a sympathetic heart. Mrs. Montgomery had a telegram conveying news of the assignment, and in a few hours she was at home in "Sunnybank," trying every means within her power to console her stricken brother-in-law.

"It will never do to allow him to give up in this manner," said the true-hearted woman in a conversation with an old and tried friend of the family. "Something must be done to rouse him."

On the same evening a Globe containing the news of the failure was handed to Mr. Verne as he sat with bowed head gazing mechanically at the list of figures before him. The notice was favorable to the man of business. It spoke of the sterling integrity of Stephen Verne, and showed that the disastrous crash was from circumstances over which he had no control.

The cause of the assignment, it said, was due to the uncertainty of the moneys due him. The liabilities were large, but the assets would nearly cover them, and one thing was certain, the estate would not hold back one cent.

"Thank God," cried Mr. Verne as he threw down the paper and once more folded his arms across his breast, looking, as indeed he was, a total physical wreck.

But human charity is not common to the general public, nor among the weaker sex.

"What will the Vernes do now without their grand carriages and retinue of servants? That stuck up old Mrs. Verne will have to go into the work herself, and do as other people, and not be sticking on any more airs or she will get snubbed up pretty often."

"Yes, and I wonder how she will manage her trains now going through the kitchen when it was almost impossible for her to get along the aisle in Trinity."

"Pride always has a fall," chimed in another.

It was indeed a noteworthy fact that throughout the whole range of uncharitable remarks made upon the matter not one syllable was uttered against Marguerite.

On the contrary she excited the compassion of the most callous- hearted. "Poor Marguerite, she will feel it bitterly."

"Yes, most of all, for she loved her father dearly. It will almost break her heart to see him looking so ill."

"It was none of her doings I assure you. I have seen much of Miss Verne, and have learned that her tastes are of the most simple kind, and if she had her own way they would have lived in a more quiet style than that of Sunnybank."

The speaker was an intelligent woman of the middle class, whose business brought her in daily contact with the young lady, and she had thus formed a correct opinion of her.

Mrs. Montgomery did not wish to intrude upon the privacy of the stricken man, but she saw that he must be aroused from his apathy.

"It will kill him sooner or later," thought she, "but he must live to see a change for the better."

"Stephen, you have not written Matilda. It is better that she should know at once," said the woman, taking a seat beside her brother-in-law, and placing her hand upon his shoulder as gently as if he were an infant.

"God bless you, Hester, I am not alone; I yet have warm friends, let the world say what it will."

Mr. Verne's frame shook with emotion, and the tears stood in his eyes—a pitiable sight to the friend beside him.

"The world may say that you are an unfortunate man, Stephen, but it cannot say that you are a dishonest one," said the woman, cheerily; "and remember, Stephen," added she, "it is partly to the delinquency of others that you owe this."

"True, indeed, Hester," said Mr. Verne, brightening up, "had they given me time I would have redeemed every dollar of my common debts, but as it is now, every cent's worth of property I own shall go into the assignee's possession as assets, for the benefit of each and every creditor."

"Why, then, take such a gloomy view of the affair, Stephen? Hundreds have been in the same position and came out all right in the end, and I see no reason why you should form an exception."

"That is true enough, Hester, but I feel that I am going downward." And as Mr. Verne spoke he shut his teeth very firmly as if suffering intense pain.

Mrs. Montgomery was quick to detect the cause, but she made no comment upon it.

Prom the woman's heart went up a fervent prayer that Heaven would avert the threatening blow, and that quiet and content would yet reign in the now desolate home.

It was only by the utmost persuasion that Mr. Verne could be induced to eat a morsel of food.

"You are doing yourself a great injustice, Stephen. Think what you owe to your family. Think of Marguerite. Surely you will break her heart."

"Ah, Hester, you have spoken truly. I must bear up for the sake of my child; but oh God, it is hard to be branded in the eyes of the world as a rogue and a scoundrel. Mothers will curse me, and the orphan's wail will haunt me throughout time and eternity!"

Once more Mr. Verne placed his hand against his breast as if to ease the spasmodic pain which had then seized him.

"He is going fast," murmured Mrs. Montgomery, as she noted the livid lips and pallid face that followed the spasm.

"This cup of coffee will tempt anybody, and the rolls are delicious; just taste one, Stephen."

"I was thinking of my darling child, Hester; how do you think she will bear the news? And to think of her being exposed to the scoffs of the world. Hester, I can stand anything but that," and the groans that followed were agonizing.

"Stephen, I have more faith in Marguerite than you have. If you think she will mope and worry herself to death you are sadly mistaken." Then in assuring tones added, "I do not wish to hurt your feelings, Stephen, but I firmly believe that as regards the financial trouble, Marguerite will not care a straw. She is not one of your namby-pamby girls, whom you could dress up and put under a glass case to look at. No, Marguerite is a rational, human being, capable of taking her place in the world, and looking misfortune in the face with a determination to succeed in whatever she may attempt."

"Hester, you are a student of human nature. You are capable of judging aright. God grant that my child may meet this trouble as you predict," said Mr. Verne, as he tried to swallow the food which had been so temptingly prepared by the ministering angel who now strove to make smooth the hard, rough pathway over which he now daily trod.

It was Mrs. Montgomery's hard, strong hand, that penned the lines conveying the news to Marguerite. "I11 news comes soon enough." was the former's remark, "and we can afford to await the next mail."

As the important missive is on its way across the broad waters of the Atlantic, let us take the liberty of intruding upon the privacy of the mother and daughter who are still occupying their handsome suite of apartments in Picadilly Square.

Marguerite had returned from "Ivy Cottage," the pretty little home of the Stanhope family, feeling much stronger and looking brighter and more cheerful.

"Mamma," exclaimed the girl looking intently into the handsome face. "I have been thinking so much of home lately that it seems as if I had room for no other thoughts, and, oh, you cannot imagine how much I want to see papa."

Marguerite made a striking picture reclining beside her mother, and one arm resting on her knee. Her delicate morning wrapper lay in graceful folds around her, and reminded one of the draperies of a Venus de Medici.

What a world of expression was in the violet eyes as they pleaded for the return to the dreary cheerless home. What a depth of meaning lay in the purely oval face so beautifully defined in every lineament. What nature could withstand Marguerite Verne's entreaties?

"My dear, I am thinking just as much about home as you are, but I keep it to myself. It is impossible for us to go for another month, and you know we have promised Sir Arthur to make a visit at his country seat—a beautiful spot I am told."

"Surely mamma, you did not expect me to go there. I cannot endure the thoughts of coming in contact with that disagreeable man," and Marguerite shrugged her shoulders in unaffected disgust.

"Marguerite, I am ashamed to think that I have a child capable of such ingratitude. It is enough for Evelyn to become obstinate and oppose me in everything, but, really, I did not expect it of you."

At this point Mrs. Verne became deeply affected, and very much inclined to cry, but she thought such a course inopportune and availed farther provocation.

"Has Eve been here lately, mamma," asked Marguerite, suddenly.

"If you have any respect to me please don't mention her to me again, Madge. I have done everything for that girl that a fond, idolized mother could do, and what is my reward? Base ingratitude of the worst kind. Talk of mothers; what do they live for; and Mrs. Verne stood with clenched hands, looking, indeed, a living representation of one of the Three Furies.

"Mamma, dear, do not look like that, I cannot bear to see you thus," cried Marguerite, catching hold of the fold of the cashmere gown and attempting to draw her mother towards her.

"I cannot help it, Madge, when my children are so disobedient. Surely you cannot have forgotten the teachings of that Book, which says, 'Children obey your parents in the Lord' for this is the first commandment with promise. Oh, it is so hard to think that my children have such unchristian spirits."

"Come mamma, let us think of something else for a little while, and then we will both act differently," said Marguerite, trying to appear more cheerful than the circumstance would admit.

"I may just as well tell you once for all, Madge, that nothing will conciliate me but your acceptance of Sir Arthur's kind invitation which we can forward without delay."

Marguerite remained in silence for some moments. She was sorely tried, yet she brought reason to bear upon every point at issue. "If I go," reasoned she, "Sir Arthur will think that I give him encouragement, and that would be acting dishonestly, and again if I do not go mamma will have her feelings so deeply outraged that I fear the consequence. Oh! that I were once more in the protecting arms of my dear, dear father." The girl then thought of the lonely, silent man, plodding on so patiently amid the daily straggles of life, and her heart went out in deep fervent sympathy.

Presently her mind was made up. Going straight to her mother's dressing room, whither the latter had retreated in a state bordering on madness, Marguerite threw her arms out in imploring gesture and stood for a moment, then exclaimed between tears and sobs, "Mamma, do not judge me harshly, I want to do what is right—but it is so hard."

Mrs. Verne saw that her daughter was relenting, and uttered not a word.

"Mamma, dear, give me time and I will prove a dutiful daughter." She was going to say more when a servant entered with a note, which from its negligent appearance was evidently written in much haste. It was from Mrs. Montague Arnold, and contained only a few hurried sentences, so unintelligible that Marguerite did not attempt to interpret them.

"I will go at once, mamma," said the latter, "and see what is the trouble. Poor Eve, she seems always in some fuss."

As Mr. Arnold's residence was only a short distance, Marguerite was there in a very few minutes after the delivery of the note.

"Oh, Madge, how can I tell you; I know it will break your heart. Oh, poor papa? Oh! Madge—is it not dreadful?"

"What do you mean, Eve?" cried Marguerite, her ashen face sufficient proof of the shock she had already undergone. "Speak, Eve; for heaven's sake tell me the worst. Is papa dead?"

"Oh worse than that, Madge—worse than that. Death is nothing in comparison!"

"Eve, I cannot stand this horrible suspense; for mercy sake, I implore you tell me the truth," cried the girl, her bosom heaving wildly and her limbs trembling so that she had to grasp the mantel beside her for support.

Mrs. Arnold then pulled the bell-rope and a servant, or rather page, answered the summons.

"Bring me that package of letters lying on the small cabinet in my boudoir," said she, with as much nonchalance as if nothing of any importance occupied her thoughts.

The boy returned and presented the desired package on a small and unique silver salver, lined with gold and enamel.

"Here it is, Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, passing a somewhat lengthy telegram into the girl's hand.

The latter run her eye hastily over the contents and turned deathly pale. "Poor, dear, papa!" were all the words she could say, when an icy chill ran through the delicate frame, and the tender-hearted daughter fell into a deadly swoon.

Mrs. Arnold did feel something akin to pity when she saw the graceful form prostrate at her feet, and as she stooped down and took the cold hand in hers, murmured "poor little Madge—you were not fashioned for this decidedly calculating world. Your heart is too tender—far too tender."

"You must be brave, Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, on seeing Marguerite restored to something of her former self. "I'm afraid you would be more of a drawback to papa at present than a help."

But Marguerite was of a different opinion. "Oh! if I were only near him, to comfort him," thought she, "I could indeed do something. My sadness to-day was but a presentiment of this. Oh, dear! will I ever see papa alive again!"

"Papa will be all right, Madge. It is to yourself you must now look, for more depends upon you now than you at present realize."

"You speak in enigmas, Eve. Tell me what you mean," cried Marguerite, in a bewildered sort of way.

"I will wait until you are a little stronger, Madge. Go home now and tell mamma what has happened; I know she will act like a sensible woman. You know, Madge, she is always composed. I verily believe," added Mrs. Arnold, "that mamma would feel at ease if all the friends she had committed suicide, or died from some fearful epidemic."

"Don't talk about mamma in that way, Eve; I cannot bear to listen."

Mrs. Arnold thought just then that the girl would listen to something, perhaps to her, far more disagreeable, but she held her peace.

Poor Marguerite. All prospect of happiness had now fled from her vision. She saw instead sorrow, disappointment, and, perhaps, death. "If papa survives the shock I will face the world, and, amid poverty, and the slights of my former companions, I will toil—yes, I will work at anything that I can do in honesty." And with this high resolve Marguerite set forth to break the sad news to her worldly-minded mother.



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE STORM THICKENS.

It would be much easier to imagine than describe the violent paroxysms of grief (if we may use the expression) which seized upon Mrs. Verne when Marguerite calmly broke the unwelcome news. Grief did we say—yes—"not the grief that saps the mind," but grief for the deprivation of those luxuries which the woman had considered as part and parcel of herself.

"It is just what one might have expected from the loose way in which your father has been transacting his business," cried Mrs. Verne, wringing her hands, and lamenting wildly; and then turning upon her daughter the full benefit of her penetrating eyes, added, "and it is not himself that will suffer the most, but think of us Madge. How nice you will look going out to earn your living, perhaps, behind some counter, or worse still, apprenticed to a dressmaker and blinding yourself over such rags as we would not condescend to put on, nor, more than that, recognize the people to whom they belonged."

After this harangue, Mrs. Verne threw herself into the elegant fauteuil of carved ebony and oriental tapestry, and poured forth another volume of tears more prolific than the first.

"Mamma, dear, what is the use of all this. The affair is bad enough, but it might be a great deal worse. Papa is still alive and we can live just as happily on a small income as indulging in such luxury. Really, my dear mamma, I feel that we are going to be much happier. I need not, as you remarked, have to submit to any great drudgery, I can teach music and painting, thanks to those kind instructors who took such pains in my education, and if I fail to make that kind of work remunerative, why I can easily fit myself for a school-teacher."

"Marguerite Verne!" cried the horrified mother, raising her hands in gestures of dismay, "You will drive me mad! A daughter of mine a school-teacher! Oh! dear, did I ever think I would raise a child to inherit such plebeian ideas. Bad as Evelyn is with all her faults she would not hurt my feelings in such a manner."

Marguerite looked at her mother with a feeling of compassion, yet there were rebellious thoughts in her mind.

"Is it possible that mamma forgets poor dear papa, who is most to be pitied?" murmured she, as she strove to hide the tears that would flow in spite of all her efforts.

"And only to think of your papa's slackness. I shouldn't wonder one bit if he gave up every cent's worth of property, and all the furniture into the bargain. It is just such a trick as he would do, for the sake of being called an honest man. Yes, it is very nice to hear people talking of 'honesty being the best of policy' where no one is concerned in the matter; but when it comes home, I say a man's first honesty is to his family."

"Pray, mamma dear, do not worry over our worldly loss; it will all come right," whispered Marguerite, in tones of endearment, and stroking the luxuriant mass of silken hair that crowned the pretty, classic-shaped head.

"Well, I hope so, Madge; but I am sorry that I cannot entertain your very convenient sort of opinion," returned Mrs. Verne, in a half angry and petulant mood; then rising from her seat, took up a piece of crewel embroidery, saying, "I suppose if I have to turn out and earn my living I had better begin at once," and suiting the action to the word, was soon busily engaged in making some pretty stitches upon the handsome panel of rich garnet-colored velvet.

While Marguerite sat buried in deep thought, turning over and over in her mind what she must do, an attendant arrived with a letter.

"It is from Aunt Hester," cried she, as she broke the seal and eagerly devoured its contents.

"It's just like her," said Mrs. Verne, as Marguerite passed the letter for her to read. "Yes, she is one of Job's comforters, and will make your papa feel a great deal worse than there is any need. Of course, she will be preaching day and night of our extravagance, and make him believe that we alone are the cause of all his misfortune—I should say, mismanagement."

"I think it was very kind of Aunt Hester to come to papa when he was so lonely," replied Marguerite, with a choking sensation in her throat.

"Yes, and it is a great wonder she did not say that her friend, Mr. Lawson, was one of the company, for it seems that not one of the whole Montgomery family can exist without him."

Mrs. Verne had emphasized the word friend in a very uncharitable manner, and her tone was spiteful in the extreme.

"Of course that letter means come home at once, but I think it would make us appear very ridiculous to go until some settlement was made and the gossips had their nine days' wonder over," said she in a very cool and decided manner.

"Mamma, dear, let us not delay one hour more than is necessary," cried Marguerite clinging to her mother's arm as if to gain assent. "We surely can be ready for the next steamer of the Anchor Line (the Olympian) which sails on Saturday."

"What nonsense, Marguerite! and only think of Sir Arthur's disappointment! Poor man! It is such a pity, and we have received such kindness." Mrs. Verne drew a long sigh and then added in an altered tone: "If your papa insists upon our return we shall go, but I cannot see why your Aunt Hester should take upon herself to dictate to us."

"We will, no doubt, hear from papa as well. You know, mamma, he owes me a letter now," said Marguerite, hopefully.

A caller was now announced and Lady Gertrude Fortescue, in her beauty and amiability, was ushered in with all the deference due her rank and position.

Mrs. Verne was intoxicated with delight as she thought of the great honor thus conferred upon her, and she soon forgot all her recent trouble in the sunshine of her ladyship's smiles.

"Miss Verne is certainly deserving of our most bitter hate!" cried the latter in affected severity. "You know we English women cannot tolerate a rival and this clever little Canadian (pointing to Marguerite) has outshone us all."

Marguerite was indulging in thoughts of a different nature, but she managed to reply to her ladyship, and occasionally ventured a remark upon some trivial matters.

"You will be at the reception to-night, my dear?" exclaimed the blonde beauty as she rose to go.

Mrs. Verne glanced at her daughter for answer and was pained to see the utter serenity of the pale but interesting face.

"Miss Verne has been slightly indisposed to-day and I fear that she will plead that as excuse to remain with Muggins."

"You naughty little thing," said her ladyship, poking the said Muggins with the top of her parasol and exciting lively responses from his poodleship, then turning to Mrs. Verne exclaimed, "Mrs. Arnold is looking well. It really seems to me that you Canadians have found the long-sought elixir of youth and beauty."

"You are inclined to flattery Lady Gertrude, but if you should ever visit New Brunswick you will find many pretty women."

"Now, my dear Mrs. Verne, you are inclined to teaze," cried her ladyship. You know full well that it is the gentlemen in whom I am solely interested. What have you to say in their behalf."

"New Brunswick can boast of many handsome, brave and clever men," was the reply, and this time Mrs. Verne spoke the truth.

"Oh well, I shall, perhaps, go and see for myself. Good-bye Mrs. Verne, and you my little rival, adieu until we meet again."

Her ladyship pressed the tips of her dainty fingers and playfully threw a kiss to Marguerite as she leaned against the balustrade and watched her visitor depart.

"What a sweet but sad face," thought the latter, as she was being assisted into the grand old family coach with its richly-caparisoned steeds and gay trappings.

"To Hyde Park, James," then leaning back amid the luxurious cushions the almond-eyed beauty murmured "that girl has a tender spot in her heart which all the pleasures and gaiety of a thousand worlds like this can never heal. Ah, well we women must endure," and with the last remark there arose a sad and weary look that would seem strangely at variance the gay, sporting butterfly who talked and chatted of airy nothings in Mrs. Verne's drawing-room.

And now to Marguerite. She has donned her tasteful gray walking costume and accompanied by Muggins is on the way to Mrs. Arnold's residence, not far distant.

"I am so glad you have come, Madge, I was just going to send for you. My head has ached all morning. I can think of nothing but dear papa. Just imagine him without a cent in the world, and at his age. Oh, it is too horrible for anything."

Mrs. Arnold now drew her elegant lace handkerchief across her eyes to arrest the falling tears.

Marguerite was accustomed to her sister's demonstrations, and was not at all affected as she should be.

"Madge, you are aware, I suppose, of the trouble between mamma and me, and now I have no one but you to offer any sympathy."

Marguerite looked at her sister in surprise.

"You need not look that way, Madge, I mean it, and when you have—" Mrs. Arnold checked herself. She was on the eve of a declaration which she must at all hazards supress. "I say it is most cruel of mamma to treat me in the way that she does. Really, Madge, it makes me feel terribly; and oh! poor, dear, papa! I don't know why it should affect me so strangely, but really, Madge, I cannot get it out of my head but that papa is going to die."

"Oh, Eve!" cried Marguerite, clinging to her chair for support, "pray do not say such a dreadful thing."

"Well, you know, Madge, that grief will sap all the vitality of stronger constitutions than papa's."

Mrs. Arnold sat watching the effect of her words upon her sister, and tried to be engaged assorting some letters that had been misplaced in her desk.

"If it were only in my power to save papa such trouble I would make any sacrifice," cried the latter, suddenly glancing at Marguerite.

"And would I not, too? Oh! Eve," said the girl, with an eager, hungry look upon her face.

"You can now, if you wish, Madge," said Mrs. Arnold, in the coolest possible manner.

"Eve, this is too serious a matter for jesting. You know not what you say," cried Marguerite, wildly.

"I know that you can pay every cent of papa's debts if you will only marry Hubert Tracy!"

"Eve! Spare me!" exclaimed Marguerite, turning deadly pale.

"Yes, my dear—I knew full well that you could not make such a sacrifice. Why did I mention it. Forgive me, dear Madge, I shall never mention the subject again. I told Hubert that I knew it was useless for him to urge the suit."

"And he has spoken of it lately?" cried Marguerite.

"Not later than this morning, my dear. He called a few moments after you went away, and seemed to be in great distress at papa's misfortune. Poor fellow, he was deeply moved, and said that if you would only consent to be his wife that his immense fortune would be at your entire control. What a pity, dear Madge, that you cannot treat him as he deserves—he is such a generous-hearted fellow."

Marguerite Verne was, indeed, an object of pity as she sat with her eyes fixed upon the wall opposite, while a look of anguish now settled down upon her features, and made them rigid as death.

"Don't worry, darling. I cannot bear to see you thus. If Hubert Tracy is not willing to settle papa's affairs without sacrificing your happiness, why let it go. Papa may get over it, and if he has to face the world and earn his living by drudgery, it may do him good in the end; if not, we cannot help it, my dear: So don't worry any longer." And Mrs. Arnold swept across the room with the air of an empress, while with her lace handkerchief she wiped the tears from Marguerite's eyes.

"Has Hubert Tracy the full control of his estates, Eve?"

"Yes, Madge. He has had ever since his uncle died, which was more than three months ago."

"Poor dear papa," murmured the girl in very bitterness of soul.

"She will come to it yet," thought Mrs. Arnold, "nothing succeeds like moderation," and with the most consummate adroitness commenced asking questions concerning her mother.

"You know, Madge, that mamma is so much wrapped up in Sir Arthur, the ugly old bore, that she can listen to no one else, and for no other reason than to have you addressed as 'my lady.'"

"Oh Eve, do not say that."

"I will say it Madge, and more than that I will say that mamma has no more respect for her children's feeling than for those of her meanest servant. She would think it splendid to marry you to a gouty old baronet old enough to be your father, yes your grandfather, while I would not insist upon your favoring a handsome young man with wealth and a large heart into the bargain."

"Eve, you do mamma a great injustice," cried Marguerite, who be it said to her credit, always defended the absent one, "she already knows my feelings towards Sir Arthur and has used no coercion since and now that we are soon going home there is no need of referring to the affair."

Marguerite was annoyed and her sister saw that she had said enough, so with diplomatic tact, she became doubly tractable and tried to appear in sympathy with every word that the girl uttered.

"Are you going to accompany us to the opera this evening, Madge? My amiable husband, anxious to make reparation for past neglect, has formed a set and I must certainly go."

Marguerite was pained at her sister's composure and thought of the protestations of grief she had hitherto exhibited.

"Is it possible," thought she, "that Eve can dissemble so much?" Then turning to her sister she exclaimed: "Eve, I cannot go; I am miserable enough already and—"

"I see how it is, Madge, you are inclined to be selfish, and cannot bear to see the happiness of others."

"Happiness!" murmured the girl, "as if there is much happiness under all this false glittering surface." But Mrs. Arnold heeded not the remark and added:

"Poor mamma, I know she feels badly, I will ask Montague to call and invite her to join us. I know I did wrong to say so much, but at times you know, dear Madge, I have an ungovernable temper."

"I am going now," said Marguerite rising and holding out her hand to Mrs. Arnold.

"I know Madge well enough to perceive that she will have no peace of mind this night. How she will brood over what I nave said!" and turning to the spacious mirror Mrs. Arnold exclaimed, "Ah! madame, you can dupe more clever minds than that of your confiding little sister."

In the quiet of her own room Marguerite Verne gave full vent to her pent-up feelings in an outburst of tears. Hers was not a nature that could endure with fortitude the ills that oftentimes befall humanity; but like the fragile reed that bends with the storm, and when the force of nature has spent itself raises its head heavenward.

And now the girl was prostrated, and bowed her head in keenest agony. She wished not the interruption of mother or friends, but remained silent and preoccupied.

On the third day in question a reaction set in, and Marguerite had made up her mind to act.

"I am reconciled to my fate," murmured the girl, as she carefully arranged her pretty morning toilet, and then went to her mother's apartments to receive the extremely conventional style of endearment.

"You should have been with us, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Verne, as she glanced at the interesting maiden, and thought that grief, if anything, made her more bewitching.

"You should have been there, dear," cried she in ecstasies of unfeigned delight. "It was such a charming little coterie, and the dear girl has such a happy knack of making her friends appear at ease, while Montague is so attentive that with all his faults one can forgive him, and admire his highly-polished manners. And you should have seen Lady Gertrude, my dear. She looked radiant in that eau de nil satin and honiton-lace flounces, but really I think that her ladyship is very forward, as she certainly was making love to Mr. Tracy and using all her blandishments with a master stroke."

"And what matters that to me," thought Marguerite, though she expressed it not She was puzzled to know what had wrought such a change in her mother, as the latter talked of dear Eve and Mr. Tracy in one breath and seemed enthusiastic over each particular.

In order to explain the cause of Mrs. Verne's altered manner we would have to repeat a conversation which a few hours earlier took place in Mrs. Montague Arnold's boudoir with mother and daughter as occupants. Suffice it to say that a reconciliation was effected, and that Mrs. Verne agreed to everything advanced by her daughter, also that they were now united in a common cause, and that Sir Arthur Fonister was ruthlessly cast aside for a more profitable consideration, and one which would gratify the wants and wishes of both.

"But enough of this for the present, my dear," said Mrs. Verne, then instantly changing look, tone and manner, exclaimed, "It is strange that we have not heard from home. Madge, I trust, things are not growing worse. Indeed, I feel uneasy, but we must be prepared; nothing seems improbable nowadays."

It was Marguerite's turn now to speak. Looking steadily into her mother's face she asked, "Mamma, did Eve tell you what had passed between her and Mr. Tracy?"

"Yes, dearest, and I begged that she would think no more of the matter. When she declared that she would make double such sacrifice for her dear papa, I told her that I believed she would, but that she was of a different disposition from you, and would suit herself to circumstances, and besides she is of a strong mind and possessed of much will, and is capable of smoothing all difficulties, while you, my dear Madge, are a tender, sensitive creature, whom it would be more than cruel to submit to anything contrary to your wishes."

"Mamma, I am capable of more than you think. I have never looked upon Hubert Tracy otherwise than a friend. Indeed I have friends whom I like very much better, but I will receive him as my future husband, and try to do the best I can to repay him for unreciprocated love."

With these words died all the hopes that Marguerite hitherto vainly cherished, and as she received her mother's warm embrace, her heart seemed to have suddenly turned to ice, and her breath more chilling than the piercing blasts of the frigid zone.



CHAPTER XXXII.

MONTAGUE ARNOLD IN DIFFICULTY.

Scene, a London club-room. It is an early hour and the dons of the gay metropolis have not yet put in an appearance. The handsomely-furnished rooms are almost silent while the endless array of porters and waiters are on the alert, and cooks are busy in getting up the various epicurean compounds for which they are noted and to which the gay votaries of these resorts are ever ready to pay devoted attention.

"What! here already, chum? You've kept your word for once." Montague Arnold was somewhat inebriated but still in full possession of his senses.

Hubert Tracy glanced moodily at his companion and muttered something in the fashion of an oath, then exclaimed, "and a deuced hard time I had to get here."

He was dressed in the most elaborate style and notwithstanding his irregular habits was a prepossessing young man. His chestnut curls gave a romantic look to his well-shaped head and would have elicited the admiration of many a fair maiden. "Let us have what you want to say, Mont."

"I'm afraid that you're not in the listening humor, boy," said the other with an ill-at-ease look and manner.

"I ought to be pretty well used to it by this time," was the reply.

"Well, the truth of it is I'm on the rocks again and you must get me off somehow. Cursed fool that I was to risk my last ten thousand!"

"Yes, and a kind of a fool that never sees his folly until too late," exclaimed Hubert Tracy, in anything but sympathetic tones.

"Heap on the agony, my boy! I can stand more than that!" said the other taking a cigar from the elaborate case and puffing the fantastic wreath of smoke into all visible space.

"It's no use for you to be fighting against fate any longer. You can't keep up this thing forever. Mont, your last venture was a failure. What do you expect from this?"

"As true as the heavens are above us you will be more than repaid. I have spoken to Eve and she says that you can count on her sure. Yes, sir, you're one of the family already."

"Remember, Mont Arnold, if you fail now, when I need you most, there will be the devil to pay."

The young man gave his companion a look that almost startled him, then added, "If I am fooled, Mont, there will be a just retribution."

"Good-heavens! don't look like that, boy; you would freeze a fellow to the very joints and marrow; besides, there is no need of it now, when you have everything your own way. Why, man, the old dame has thrown over Sir Arthur."

"Egad, I thought as much, from the way the old clown, glared at me last night at the Plough and Harrow."

"Plough and Harrow! what the deuce took you there?"

"To see the country lasses have a glass of hot punch, and hear the orations of the country squires."

"And my would-be brother was representing his fair estate."

"Representing the gout, more like, for as he got tipsy I could see him wince, and when an old yeoman, with a big red head, made light by the whiskey, fell over our friend, he roared louder than a calf."

"It's all up with him and my precious mother, at any rate," said Montague Arnold, twisting his waxed moustache into the most artistic style, and laughing vociferously.

Wine was now passed around, and both gentlemen became extremely amiable. Family matters were discussed and confidences were exchanged, and Montague Arnold received a cheque for five thousand dollars "to straighten him out once more," as he expressed it, until he could make some settlement of his own financial resources.

Montague Arnold was not in want. He was possessed of a large income, but owing to his extravagant living and dissipated habits, his demands were daily becoming more pressing; and when he had staked ten thousand dollars at the gambling table and lost, nothing but the helping hand of Hubert Tracy could save him.

The dissipated husband became very happy and at the same time very garrulous. He discussed several of Mrs. Verne's qualities both as negative and positive quantities, but more particularly the former, and then referred to Marguerite.

It may be said in justice to Montague Arnold that he considered her the living embodiment of womanly perfection, and though leading a fast life and seeing much of the grosser side of human nature, he still considered pure, noble-minded women the most exquisite production of God's handiwork.

"Mont," exclaimed Tracy interrupting his companion, "if I can only secure Marguerite Verne as my wife I will give up all my vices and follies. I will lead a different life. Oh! if I had reformed years ago I might have had no rival; but then, there is Lawson and he has all along had the inside track."

"And as poor as a church mouse; bah! No fear of Madame Verne allowing her daughter to wed a penniless lawyer. Man, the chances now are all in your favor."

"The old lady was charmingly condescending last evening, I could almost feel her smiles," said Hubert, becoming more buoyant in spirits as the wine took effect.

Other members of the club began to drop in and Montague Arnold being a general favorite soon forgot his former straitened circumstances. His spirits rose to an almost uncontrollable degree, while his companion complaining of headache sought the outer air.

As the club-room was situated in the fashionable West End of the city, the young man turned his steps in the direction of Regent Park, and sought the delightful shade of its sheltering foliage.

Like Rotten Row, Hyde Park had also its favorite resort and in this delightful spot Hubert Tracy sat him down to rest. He had not long remained thus when he heard voices; and presently the rustling of leaves showed that the speakers had taken seats on the other side of the shrubbery.

"She is one of the sweetest creatures I ever beheld," exclaimed a lady rapturously.

The voice and style of expression indicated the speaker as a woman of rank, and from the outline of her form Hubert Tracy could discern she was also a woman of taste and fashion, also that she was young and exceedingly graceful.

"Lady Gertrude is greatly in love with her, and she says that she is the most interesting girl she ever met."

"I am of the opinion of her ladyship," said the other, who also appeared to be of rank and culture, "but I cannot say that I would rave over Mrs. Arnold, as the most of our gallants do. In my eyes Miss Verne is far above her sister."

Hubert Tracy now felt a nervous sensation which made him uneasy, and yet he was compelled to remain. His curiosity was aroused, and he leaned eagerly forward where he could almost feel the speaker's breath upon his cheeks.

"It was reported that Mrs. Verne was very anxious to secure Sir Arthur Forrister for Miss Marguerite, but it was hinted at Mrs. Arnold's drawing-room, not many evenings since, that Mr. Tracy is the lucky man."

"What—not that young fellow who is so much in the company of Arnold?"

"Yes, the very one, Ernest. It is to be hoped that he will give up his bad habits, for if all reports be true he is not a proper husband for Miss Verne."

"Who the deuce can they be?" thought Hubert, as he tried to get a better view of the pair. Lovers they certainly were not. As he listened he further learned that they were brother and sister, who had met after some weeks of absence—the former being a cadet in a military school in a neighboring borough.

"Egad, my young fellow, if it were you who made the speech there would be some fan before you shouldered your knapsack again," muttered Hubert Tracy, as he sat eyeing the pair with no very great affection; then adding, spitefully, "curse the women; they are first and last in everything," stealthily crept out and was soon in the open walk, jostled in turn by every pedestrian that crossed his path.

Not more than an hour had intervened when Hubert Tracy found himself chatting at his ease and listening to the pretty society talk of Mrs. Montague Arnold. She was attired in robes befitting a princess, and diamonds flashed from the superb necklace of antique design.

"You recreant!" exclaimed the beauty, throwing down the novel which had occupied the moments intervening the completion of the extravagant toilet and the arrival of an admirer. "I feel very much inclined to impose severe punishment upon you. Is it becoming a suitor to play truant when he wishes to hear favorably from his 'ladye fayre'?"

Hubert Tracy's eye brightened with expectation, and possessing himself of an elegant lounge, reclined in real oriental style.

"I was at mamma's not an hour ago, and she is delighted at the change I have made in Marguerite. She says that I am to have the whole credit of her conversion. Really, Hubert, I am more than delighted, and Madge is such a deaf good girl."

"She is too good for me," thought the young man, but he deemed it best to maintain a spirit of independence.

Presently Mrs. Verne arrived, and also Marguerite, the latter smiling and apparently cheerful, but very pale. She was dressed in the utmost simplicity, and looked more childish and confiding than ever. As her eyes met those of Hubert Tracy, a deathlike chill seized her, but was unnoticed by the company.