CHRISTMAS STORY.

Evening Star, Issue 3695, 25 December 1874, Page 2

CHRISTMAS STORY.

MES FENMORE. | BY IVY AKSIYTAGE. * ! The most determined of lookers on the bright side of things could not have said ] that it was otherwise than a most dismal day. i The* rain came down with a steady, persistent rattle ; and the clouds—grey, heavy masses tossed and scudded above as if in a rage that they could rot come down more quickly to drench and saturate things more thoroughly— if that were possible—than they The wind, too, tore abou* fn noisy, mad humor • catching Unawares round the corners of streets AnffrfSfleys ; blowing small children into gutters, making umbrellas into funnels, aud taking the breath out of the nostrils of everyone it came in contact with ; then rushing in to scream through keyholes, and boom down chimneys ; rushing unbidden, in a cloud of smoke into snug little sitting-rooms ; playing pranks with the chimney pots, and making itself as generally disagreeable as an Australian winter north wind is capable of doing. Perhaps, therefore, it is not much to be wondered at that Mrs Fenmore, usually so cheery and bright, was on that particular day in a discontented, not to say peeA r ish state of mind ; nor that she spoke to her sister in tones not quitefeojplacid as usual ; for, as she said, “Such weather was enough to make anyone cross.” She stood there rubbing her hands one over the other before the fire, shivering and shrugging her shoulders every now and then aa she looked gloomily out of the window at the falling rrin ; and the sodden wind tossed shrubs in the garden. “ What a detestable day,” she said at last. “ I do hate such weather ; just look at the rain, Ellen ! Did you ever see anything like it ? It looks as if it never intended to eease. And listen to the wind tearing round the corner of the house—one would think there Avas a pack of demons in full cry after a Christian’s soul out there.” “Really, Chrissy, what an idea,” said Ellen. “Well,” replied Chrissy, “ I hate that howling and moaning ; it almost drives me frantic. If anyone calls to-day I don’t intend to come downstairs.” “I think you may set your mind at rest on that score,” remarked her mother, Avho was •itting knitting by the fireside, “ I don’t think anyone will even dream of coming out such a day as this.” “Except John Marsden,” said Ellen, looking slyly at her sister, who, hy-the-by, did not seem to approve the remark. She stood with one slippered foot on the edge of the fender, and stared meditatively down at the big rosette that all but hid her toe from view. After a while she turned abruptly round to Ellen and said : “ If John Marsden does come, Ellen, and if he asks whether I am going.to the party or not, don’t tell him.” “Very well/’ said Ellen. Then Mrs Fenmore, having apparently relieved her mind, betook herself to the upstairs regions, leaving her mother and sister rather bewildered as to the meaning of her behaviour. “ Mamma, 1 can’t quite make Chrissy out lately; can you ?*’ said Eller, when she had satisfied herself that Mrs Ftumore was out of ear-shot. “ I have never professed to understand Christine since her peculiar behaviour after her husband’s death.” replied her mother. “She has ideas of her own, and she evidently intends to have ways of her own too ; but such were not the ways of young people when I was young : they submitted their affairs to the management of theirclders then, and were willing to be advised.” And Mrs Averil shook her bead dolefully over the degeneracy of the times ; and only desisted when she observed that she had shaken three of the bells off the lily of the valley in her cap. Mrs Fenmore was a widow—a young one too ; for though this was her second year of widowhood, she was only twenty-three veara of age. Her husband had been a colonel in the army, and not having been either a rich or a provident man, had left his widow in such straightened circumstances that her income barely sufficed to keen her in dress and pocket money. She was now living with her father ; aud it was in the sitting-room of bis house that the foregoing conversation was parried on. But though she lived with her father, it was as a visitor only, Mr Averil bad brought his family up on a system that appears to be very much in vogue now with parents—that of treating their children very well and liberally while they are children, but expecting them to betake themselves out of the parent nest, and to find for themselves, just so soon as it is possible that they are ab e. Out of his six children, only one was left on bis hands, his youngest daughter Ellen ; Chrissy was considered out of the family, having married ; and the four sous were men making their way in the world, as it becomes young men to do. Mr Averil Avas a barrister, realising a handsome income, and spending every penny of it as fast as it came in. Thus, as he said, his children need not look to him for money, either during his life or after hin death ; for he had none to give or leave. His life was insure i for his wife’s benefit and that was all there would be for anyone. As to Chrissy, she was welcome to what she ate and drank, and also to his house as a home ; but it was her own look out that she should have a place to go to if anything should happen to him, for in such a case there would be no home for her. And Chrissy accepted the position without murmuring. From her husband’s relatives—the Fenmores -Chrisf-y never expected anything: and so far she had got nothing. She knew very little of them beyond the facts that they were people of a very old family ; that they were living on some very old property ; and that for people of their family amt position they were very poor indeed. So much her husband had told her, and it is doubtful whether he could have told her much more if he would ; for all his life, from the time he entered the army, an ensign of eighteen, had been spent in foreign service. He had been continually roving from one country to another, and his visits to his home hail been few and far between, and of very short duration ; consequently he seemed to know almost as little of his relatives as his wife did. He had never encouraged them to write to him, aa he hated the bother of writing in return, and was content to consider bo news good news. Thus, beyond a. cold, stiff letter of congratulation to them both on their marriage, the colonel and his wife had had no notice taken of them by the old people at Home. After the death’of her hus band Mrs Fenmore received a formal invi-a tion to visit her fa her and mother-in-law at Fenmore Park, and she had accepted it. C lonel Fenm* re had arrived in A us tralia. very indignant at having to come That he, experienced officer as ho was. having seen so much service, being besides so fond of society—so gay, and so fascinating, should be banished to a place that could hardly be said to be on the face of the earth at all, and where there was neither fun nor fighting, was, he considered, very hard indeed ; and he was of opinion that he was entitled to grumble at such treatment: and ([fumble he did—till he reached his destination, and then he ceased to growl. The place was not half so had as he had expected. * The right of re publishing this tale is reserved.

Melbourne was, he admitted, a very fine J c city. And he really liked the free indepen- 1 \ dent manners of the colonists. So he made t the best of it, and enjoyed himself; and at < the end of six months surrendered himself i a willing victim to pretty, lively Chrissy i Averil, and became a benedict. i The first year of their married life was i passed by the Colonel and his young wife in gaiety and pleasure, and both being of pleasure-loving dispositions they considered them-elves; and were considered by others to be very happy in their new life. But ere half of the second year had passed there came a little stranger—a daughter, and her advent was bailed with anything hut joy by her father. “ Plague take it!” ho grumbled, “ what do I want with a parcel of children ; 1 suppose she’ll have half-a-dozen now she has once begun. And how the dickens are wc to live, I should like to know ?” To do the Colonel justice he kept the grumbling and discontent as much as possible from his wife’s knowledge. It was to Ellen that he used thus to unburden his mind—much to her indignation. “ And now T suppose,” he would continue, “ she will always be wanting io stop at home to fid-fad after the brat; there’l' be no more getting her to go out with me, eh !” “Of course she will want to stop at home and look after her baby,” Ellen would say, “Just as a good motlvr should do. A pretty idea it would be if she should go gadding about with yon, and leaving her child to the care of the servants, Oswald, you ought to be ashamed of yourself: you don’t deserve to he a father.” “Don’t I? Then I wish I had my deserts” he would answer. * His wishes were to be gratified in a way he had not anticipated ; even while he was bewailing his fate that a child had been born iintojhim, the little unwelcome one was gradually fading away ; and within a fortnight of her birth her little life was ended, leaving her mother all but inconsolable, and her father secretly rejoiced that they were once more childless. 0 here was no cloud on the Colonel’s brow now when he paid his visits to his wife’s sick room, for there were now no shrill infantile cries to internpt his best stories, and his eye was not offended by all the pretty disorder of the dainty lace-trimmed bits of lawn and muslin, and soft, warm wraps that Chrissy had gathered together with such pride and care for the use and decoration of her baby. No—things were as they should bo now; only he wished his wife would make hast t and get well: she seemed to take a long time about it. He wanted her to ; regain her good looks, which had gone off somewhat during the last few months, and be blooming and merry, as she hj id been in the first blush of her married life. There was i a ball coming off iu the coarse of the next ! two months—an officers’ ball—expected to he ; a brilliant affair—and he was very anxious i that she should attend it, and be looking her r very best at the time. And when she still remained pale and wan, and would not rouse I herself at the prospect of the amusement he r offered, turned a deaf ear to all the little bits of news he gathered for her, and lift unreatl all the novels and other books he . brought to her. altogether refusing to be . comforted by such things for the loss of her r baby, he got out of patience, and vowed that r "women were the most unreasonable, unmanageable creatures in existence; they t were always fretting and fuming about things I that could’nt be helped. What did she t want? What was she grieving about ? The child was much batter off where it was, and I they were much better off Avithout it So* why r could’nt she see the matter in its right light . —as the very best that could have hap- . pened. bho might just as well exert her- ; self to get better, and go with him to this a ball. Nobody would ever expect her to r mourn, and fret, and shut herself up, about , a child who could hardly be said to have a lived at a'l. It was sheer nonsense ou . her part taking the affair to heart that way. 1 But vain were all his arguments, a vain his sophistries; Chrissy was weak r and ill, and fretted and grieved after her poor little babe bitterly, till at last the Colo--3 uel in despair gave up all attempts to console f her, and left her alone. 3 Then as time passed on and she grew i stronger, she became more resigned, and her i sorrow was leas violent; and by-and-by her i health and strength returned, till even 3 Colonel Fenmore himself was satisfied that, 1 if only she could be induced to go to the 3 coming ball, there would be no fear of her f being eclipsed by any rival there as regarded 3 appearance—the slight look of delicacy re--3 maining through her illness and trouble being, . as he well perceived, rather an improvement 3 than otherwise. But though never mention--3 ing her dead baby to her husband—which y was her way of resenting his want of 3 parental affection for it or giving any . reason for her resolution, she refused abso--5 lately to go to the ball. The Colonel tried . his best to induce her to alter her deterc ruination : he coaxed, reasoned, scolded, beg- , ged, stormed, sulked, insisted, and after all, 3 went alone, saying to himself as he walked , down the garden path to his buggy that—- “ Chrissy could be confoundedly stubborn , when she liked.” There had been no quarrel, no scene about j the affai . The Colonel had said by far 3 the most about it ; and it was a kind of i* melancholy pleasure to Chrissy’ aftenvards 3 to remember that such had been the case. 3 Nay. her refusals had beeu c inched in even I “jkl language, such answers as these being s all she gave—“ I really had much rather not. 3 Oswald”; “You must try and do without ; me this time, dear” ; “ Indeed I do not feel I equal to it ” ; “ My dear, J cannot,” and so . forth. But as the Colonel said, she might 1 just as well have said bolt outright I ‘‘l won’t,” for that was evidently what she meant. It was a pleasure to re- . member however, that she had stid : nothing sharp or irritating in answer to him, i I° r ft wa s the last request he ever made to t her that she could recollect. Taking part iu t a review on the Queen’s birthday, whi L ; occurred very shortly after the officers’ ball, he was exposed to a violent storm, and re--3 burned home in the evening drenched to the ] skm—shivering as if stricken with ague. £ Chrissy was frightened ; but he assured e her that he should be all right in the morn- ’ , Bufe wiien morning came it was evident ] that he Avas seriously ill ; and on the tenth V day after the revieAV all that remained on 1 earth of the gay, handsome Colonel Fenmore t was conveyed to the grave with the v pomp and ceremony of a military funeral, e . Poor Chrissy ! The blow was a terrible one 0 to her—the more so as it fell so suddenly, Ann f there were many of her friends—amongsl . them her mother- -who could not understand 1 her manner of bearing herself under it. At. t first she seemed stunned, and went about 3 the house with a calm face and teailess eye*, ! hearing orders given and arrangements made about the funeral, and assenting to sugges tious made to her, in a dull apa hetic Avay, t that caused the doctor to look keenly at her and remark, he wished someone would “make her cry. yfie insisted on watching the procession leave the house, iu spite of the wishes of the more conventional of her advisers, j who would have had her remain in some , aecl »ded back room till all was over. Sh. | stood at her dressing-room window looking i betAveen the laths of the Venetians, to • all appearance as uninterested by Avhat she . saw as if she were looking at the funeral i of a perfect stranger. Yet she never forgot [ one single detail of the scene : it remaine I indelibly photographed on her memory ; , she could bring it as vividly before her xmads-eyo years afterwards, as it had appeared to her bodily one, ou that sad day. Tlie bright glare pfthe sunshine, the gentle Avaving

of the trees in the wind, the flutter of the birds’ s wings as they darted from shrub to shrub in v the garden—she remembered all. And out in the street were the gaping crowd t of sight-seers, and the inevitable bevy of t school children grouped on t ie side walk t and the policeman walking gravely up and i down with one white gloved hand behind ; him. Then her eye rested on the gun carriage waiting for its burden, and on the officers coming in and going out. And then she let it wander over the faces of the soldiers that were near enough for her to see without moving, and noted that some were grave and s me were gay. And she remembered those faces afterwards. Then Ellen came in and told her that they were to take the coffin out of the house, and urged her not to stay longer at the window; the kind-hearted girl was afraid the sight would bs too much for her. But she would not move, and she watched them place the coffin on the gun carriage with the hat and sword upon it ; and one quivering sigh was all that told she had the 'power of feeling left, till she saw that strange, mournful looking object, the riderless charger, saddled and bridled and bearing the boots reversed, led cl* se behind the coffin. Then Chrissy covered her face and groaned as it flashed across her mind that ihe la-*t time she had seen the noble hj >rss was the last time the Colonel had left the house alive, on the morning of the Queen’s birthday, when ho weno to the review. F.vr a few seconds only she kept her face covered, and then looking up once more she watched the procession filing past. There was genuine sorrow felt for the loss of their (Jolouel both by the officers and privates, and it was visible on the faces of most of them. Two middle aged men who had served under the Colonel in other parts of the world were weeping like children, and Chrissy felt her heart warm towards them ; bub even that touching sight did not bring the teat s to her eyes, and she stood there long after the last or the funeral irain had passed out of sight, listening to the muffled beat of the drums, and the sad, sad music of .the “Dead Ma ch,” to which the feet of the soldiers kept steady time. She remained there unmoved, listening ' j with a heavy, aching heart, till the strains died away in the distance. 1 | Then, indeed, she began to realise her 1 position. 'Jill then she had not been able 1o J do so. He was gone ! and she was utterly alone. And she began to feel in her misery and desolation that her burden was greater 1 than she could bear. Yet, during the > weary, wearing weeks that followed her j bereavement, stricken down with grief though 1 she was. that stuhborness, of which her late 1 husband had taken note on the occasion i of the ball, evinced itse f strongly in her deter--6 mined refusals to receive those who came to condole with her, or to permit either her 3 mother or sister to speak to her on the subi °f hsr grief. To Ellen, only, she I explained herself. She would say to her : 3 “ .Nothing you can say, nothing you can 3 do will lighten my trouble in the least ; it 3 has come upon me, and I must boar it as t best I can—only let me alone. Other people 3 bear things and get over them. I have t > 3 bear this, and I shall get over it in time, if • you will only let me be, and not speak to me “ about it; ;but if you will torture me with silly attempts at consolation, you will kill 7 me. Please leave me to myself.” There was, 3 of course, nothing to be done but to give way 3 to her: sympathy cannot be forced upon 3 people. Among the few friends whom Mrs I P nmore did admit was John Marsdea. He 7 had been her husband’s moat intimate and t> attached acquaintance and companion. For • that single reason, if for no other, Chrissy would still have kept up a kind of friendship • with him ; but, putting itaride, she would now > have chosen him as her friend, for she liked c him better the more she knew of him. 3 During her husband s lifetime she had liked 1 him with a careless sort of liking, consider • ing him an honest, kind-hearted, ordinary , kind of individual—not a brilliant specimen 1 bhe species homo by any means; very r plain, and somewhat insignificant, when compared with the Colonel; than whom, in B her opinion, no handsomer man had ever keen created; and of whose fine, well-knit 9 Js nre . anrl upright, soldierly carriage she r had been excessively proud : nay. she had r not even been above being proud of his well--1 defined, aristocratic featxires, his long, silky > whiskers, and heavy, bold moustache. B An< i • k ke had b«en rather inclined to hold r poor John up to ridicule, because he pos--1 sessed none of Those masculine prettinesses. bhe had an intense love of beauty, in what- . soever form it might be presented ; and, of t course, a corresponding dislike for ugliness. I think she must have shown her opinion of him at that time rather too plainly, or that John was keener at reading her thoughts 3 than she had any idea of ; for hejused to say afterwards that he had always known she looked upon him cs the ugliest man she was acquainted with. This she used to deny strenuously, and tay that she only thought ’ hj m very plain. .Not that he really was so very plain after all ; only no one would have called liim]handsnme, that wasevidently, In figure he was rather under-sized, but strongly made. His forehead was broad, anc l bis chin square, and somewhat heavy ; f be wag habitually pale, not to say sallow ; and he hj id a large month. His nose was"of no particular type, and not much to speak of ‘ anyway ; but his eyes were good, clear, r , honest, ahresvd-looking, brown eyes, that - cou bl look you straight in the face, and ’ si emed to see and comprehend all that was j to bo seen, and to serve their owner well. 0 But if his personal attractions were few, j. his mental ones were many f,:r those who t coul( l appreciate them. He was a really t clever man, but as he made no vaunt of his cleverness, there were many whenever credij ted him with one-half of thatwhichhe posses sed. He was a cleik in the Civil Service, and was in receipt of three hundred a-year, ;» . * bi a brings me back to the dismal, wet, u windy day on which ivlrs Fenmore was intro- , ducud to the reader. She had found old lime . to the full as good a physician as she had pre e dieted. Within twelve months she could look back very calmly upon that troublous 1 tin; she had passed through ; and ere two years of her widowhood wete completed, the t was oblig-d to confess to herself that she j was * head over ears in love with John i Marsden—even as he was with her ■ and she was out of temper with herself and everyi-. thing about her, because she could not see her way clearly to marrying him without a plunging both herself and him into the , slough of Poverty. I J obn Marsden had been in love with Mrs i Fenmore for—well, I don t exactly know t how long. He himself never could define t the tune when his admiration for his friend’s , wife merged itself into love for his friend’s - widow—he half fancied it must have been almost as soon as she was widowed Of course , Chrissy had not loved him so long • the r most exacting of lovers could not have ex- ; pected that, considering that she had loved • her lost husband. But then, according to ! received notions, we must not judge of the strength of love by the time occupied ■ in its growth. So her love might have been just as great for him, as his for her, for anytmng I know, only romancers will not allow that prudence and true love are compatiblo with one another; and as she was prudent well, perhaps, her love was not worth much. 1 leave that to the reader’s judgment. She had gone over the whole matter in her mind, and had come to the conclusion that such a marriage would not do. That conelusion had had a good deal to do with her accepting an invitation from the Fenmo-es, 1 though now the time was approaching that

she must leave for England, Tslie almost wished she had refused it

thnssy did not go to Mrs Trehern’s party that night;, she knew that if |she w.nt she would meet with John Marsden, so she stayed at home, feeling very discontented. inclined to think the world was out of joint, bhe was sitting in (an arm chair at the side of the tire, vainly endeavoring to feci interested in a highly sensational novel and wondering how soon she could safely go to bed without endangering her night’s rest by being too early, when there cime a ring at the front door bell; then someone was admitted, and there waa a great rubbing of feet on the mat, and evidently a coat hung on one of the pegs ; and then the maid announced “Mr Marsden, p’ease-m,’’ and ushered in the unexpected visitor, shutting the door behind him. Now, to tell the truth, John had for some time been trying to find an opportunity to declare his love, and as he had not the slightest idea that Chrissy was marceuvring to prevent him having one, he was a little astonished, and somewhat impatient at his non-success. But Mrs Pen more reckoned without her host if she thought he was going to give up because he met with difficulties. The. more obstacles he found in hia way the more eager he became to overcome them; so that on this particular evening, finding she wan not at the party, at which be confidently expected to meet her, andthathswaa bafflsd once more, he determined to defv fate, and m-ke an opportunity for himself. Excusing himself therefore, as best he could to his hostess, he set off home, changed his coat, put on a pair of stout boots, and sallied forth in the rain—a lover bent, on conquest. Thus one little Wit of straightforwardness upset all Chrissy’s flimsy castle of defence, and she found herself trapped—caught in a net of her own -weaving, and obliged to listen to what he might choose to say.

She started up as ho entered the room and unconsciously held out her hand to him ; thus far conventional habits alone carried her, but her first words were remarkable for their want of conventionality. “Whatever arc you doing here ? I thought you were to bo at Mrs Trehorn’s to-night.” “ Yes, yes, so I was. I was there stammered Jo’ r, n, rather taken aback by his reception, “ but 1 came away. In fact,” he continued, gathering courage as he went on, “ when I found you were not there I didn’t care to stay, ” “ Now,” he thought to himself as became to a sudden pause, “ the murder’s out, and she knows.” But if the murder was out she certainly did not seem to know it, so he had to go on again “ My sister tells me you are going away on a visit somewhere.” (“ Now £ wish someone would gag that Janet Marsden,” thought L hrissy. savagely.) “ Yes, she is right. I am going away,” she replied in a quiet voice, “ Well I have something I want to tell you—say to you before you go.” “Have you ?” said Chrissy, very much inclined to laugh. Something of her amusement was perceptible in her voice, and hearing it John grew very red,’ aud his next words were spoken in a nettled tone. “ If you are going to laugh at me, or don’t care to hear wbat 1 have to say, perhaps I had better go away.” Inwardly she said that it would be much better for thorn both if he did ; audibly she said, “ As I don’t know what you wish to ary, it is quite impossible for me to decide whether I shall care to hear it, or not ; but unless it is something very funny, I think I can promise I won’t laugh ” “Don’t you really know?” he said nervously. “ No, I don’t really.” “Oh, Mrs Penmore ! ” Suddenly he gave a great tug at one of his whiskers and then burst out with —“Chrissy, you’re thefirst woman levermade love to, and—and—and—it seems I have made a fine bungle of it now I have tried it.” “ Dear me,” cried Chrissv, iunoccntlv, were you making love to me ? ’ Then they both looked at each other, and it was impossible to help laughing, and John suddenly found himself very much at ease; then indee I love making did not seem to him such very hard work afeer all, and having once broken the ice h* was at u> loss forewords or sentiments either But please excuse my recapitulating all the t. nder speeches ; the/ are so much better imagined than written, and let me pick up the thread of my story when he comes to his first full stop. That did not occur till he fancied that she was not listening to him. Of course he had told her that he loved her, and of course he had asked her to be his wife. And now having so to speak run himself down, he bethought himself that he should like to have an answer. “Chrissy, you hear— you believe what I have said, do you not?” For the last few she had been sitting staring steadily at the tire, with her hand shading her eyes, so quiet and so—a- patently—engrossed with thought that, hut for the nervous twitching of her mouth showing she felt every word he uttered, lie might almost have been forgiven for thinking she was not heeding him. But at the questions. “You hear—you believe wbat I have said ?” she sprang from her chair and stood by his side on the jhearthrug as she answered—‘Yus John, l heard aud I do believe what you said. But 1 ought to have slopped you, for —for I cannot marry you.” “Cannot, Christina! Why? What is to hinder you ? ’ As yet, she had not made up her mind to give him lur reason, so she said nothing. And John caking her silence for encouragement went on. “Give me your reason for saying so, Chrissy, and I will do away with it—provided it is not want of love, and I don’t think it is that Perhaps I ought not to say so. Perhaps £ am rough and uncouth in my wooing ; but I am too much in earnest to stop to weigh my words. Of pietty speeches I know nothing, and they would not come well from trio if 1 did.” *e paused expecting she would answer mm then But she still stood with her hand on tk® muitlepiece aud her face sligbtiy turned away, and said nothing 11ns time John war hurt at her silence • he felt she was not treating him well, and she heard it in his voice as ho said, **/ ™ waiting, Chrissy. Nay, never mind my feelings, if you have no love for me, say so, and £ will never trouble you avain ■..pciak Cnristina. Good heavers! can’t \ on sec how you are torlming me.” And he caught her hand off the mantle piece, and forced her to turn towards him. “Now -hnstina, what is it? You don’t love me' is tnat it ? ’ ’ ~ wu °’ ?°’ IV? Do *' tßat,” she said at last. Why should I tell a falsehood about it ’- it s because ” “Never mmd anything else, Chrissynothing else on this earth shall keep us two’ asunder, cried John, interrupting her expiamion in the most unceremonious manner. J)on t say anything more. That’s all 1 wanted to know,” “But you must hear more, John. Let so i let me KO John » you have no fght to hold me. I have told you £ cannot marry you.” love’” Chriss - V ' After owning your ~ .Then I wish I had not,” she exclaimed, flushing scarlet, and bursting intottars, “ It was very unwomanly of me.” “Chrissy, Chrissy, 1 didn’t mean that, you know I did not. There was nothing unwomanly in it. How could there be ? How could there be, dear, I say >

‘'Bscause,” she sobbed out of the folds of 11 her handkerchief, “ t have rold you that £ i i don’t intend to be your wife.” j “ But you don’t really mean that, Christine.” “Yes, Ido.” “And for what reason? Now things have gone so far I must know why. You are surely not engaged to anyone else, are yon ?” “No, J am not,” she said, indignantly throwing up her head, and looking him full in the face. “ How date you say such a thing to me?’’ !She had got back to her chair by this time, and now she leaned back in it; and drew her hand sharply away when John put out his to take it, as ho said—- “ I beg your pardon, Chrissy, I am sorry I have vexed you—it seems as if everythin^ I say does that, though. Rut if you will only explain yourself—tell me why you won’', marry me.” “So I wid, John.” “ Well, what is the dreadful something that stands between "8 ?” “ Poverty !” echoed John, “ Whose ?” “Yours, a d mine,” she replied. “ ' nd is that really all ?” ho asked. “ All I and is it not enough? Would it. not be part and parcel of our lives ? wouldn’t it hamper and vex us at every r turn and twist? would it not. ruin onr tempers, and wc»r away our love? would it not make us envious of some, hard and uncharitable to others, cold and selfish to all ? Ay ! that it would, and worse. On < hj ilt the miseries and crimes in the world are caused by poverty, John.” “ Roallv, Chrissy, you astonish me.” “Do I?” she said with a short laugh, “Well—l often astonish myself, too,” “Still, I never knew that I was so very poor, ( hrissy.” “ lude. d : you have three hundred a-year, have you not?’ ..... “ Yrs.” ho said drily. “ And I hare—or rather, if I marry, shall have—nothing. Oswald had six hundred, and it. did not do, so inch >w.” “ You forget, Christine, that Oswald bad acquired free, extravagant, habits during his residence abroad, and that some of his debts that you paid out. of the insurance mou-sy were contracted by him long before you were mar.ied,” “ Ves, that may be, John; but I kmw also that wo were always hard pushed for money, aud yet we did not seem to live better than others around na ; and I know that if six hundred would do io little, three hundred would do less, and that it would bo nothing short of madness to many on ic. Cannot you see it would, John?” ' “ No, Chrissy, I do not see it.” 1 “ Indeed it would, John.” , “ Nonsense ; I shall begin to think that the pap.-rs are right in calling women mercenary and selfish, if this is the way you ■ ’ook oi marriage. If I am satisfied that I 1 can keep you, I don’t see what more you ’ want. Besides I am not so entirely dependant on my salary ” “John, you call me mercenary and selfish, 1 when i am only prudent. You forget that! [ have already had a hj sam that has taught | me there is more of selfishness in refusing to think of and consider the results ’ of doing what we should like, than there is of love—a great deal more. I know it is the 1 fashion of men (o say women are selfish if 1 they are found thinking of themselves at all; ( hut if you won’t think for us we must think ‘ for ourselves. John, what would have be- ; come of my baby if it ha I been living now ? k Would you think Oswald was glad it died when it did, and now I am obliged to confess ■ that I - m glad too, not for my sake—nob for i my sake, but for its own.” ; “ Wo, Chrissy. you would have every woman i begin her married life with the contempla- • k ua hand’s probable early death, “ No ; I don’t say so. But husbands do , die. Oswald might have lived till [ was r forty, and have left me like Mrs Winton with six children. And indeed, speaking . of her, the sight I saw at her house yesterday might well a t as a warning to me or i any, woman not to rush bindly in'.o matri- . mony. Two of her lodgers had left because i they could not bear the moans of poor little ’ Bobby, who is sick ; the servant w.aa sitting ■ on the kitchen floor stupid with drink ; the whole place was at sixes and sevens ; and r poor delicate Mrs Winton was sitting on the stairs crying, just heart-broken with her i troubles and trials. Aud I renumber ht r busL band torbidding her to make the acquaintance . of Mrs Clarke, because she kept a boardingr house. Yet he knew well, if ho ever thought about it at all, that nis wife would have to > come to that if he died. But I suppose he . did not care for that, so long as ho was not • here to see and be annoyed at it. That is r wbat I call selfishness, John. ’ I “Well, perhaps it is,” replied John, “so I’ll effect a heavy insurance on my life, and ! lay away something every year for you to ' live on when I’m dead. Will that do’” : “ No,” : “Why?” L “ Because I do not want to run the risk ! of Being left like Mrs Wiutwu ; neither do I want you to make a slave of yourself for me. And if you did all that, what would i you have to live on, in the meantime, vou ’ wise man ?” “Look here, you argumentative little ’ woman,” said John, sitting down on a hassock at her feet and resting his elbow on the ’ arm of her chair—almost in her lap—alto--1 gether assuming the attitude and manner of a thriving lover, in a way that so far ho had no warranty for—“l consider you’ve said quite enough about the miseries of poverty, • aud I agree with you that it is a very dis- ' agreeable thing. Now, about this income of mine; you are right eno igh— my salary being only tluee hundred'; but don n 1 you know that 1 am now a barrister ? 1 was called to the bar in the early part of last 1 month ; I hj ive not been idle all these years past, Chtis-sy ; I have studied hard, aud now 1 iutend to begin practising as soon as possible.” “tear John, I congratulate you with all my heart. I am so glad ; and t know you ! will succeed. Still, what you tell me is only an aduitional reason why we should not marry. To a man just beginning life in a new profession : a wife—and particularly such a one as I—would be a terrible drag I know myself better than you can do ; and £ know, to my sorrow, that I am no wife for a po jr man. 1 cannot screw and save; and 1 have not the abi.ily to make a sixpence do the work of a shilling, as some people seem to have. 1 could sit down and cry when 1 wanted to spend the shilling and have only got the sixpence—cry from mere self-nitv John ” ’ “ But supposing I did not want you to screw and save : supposing that 1 have already as much money laid away as would keep house a couple of years, even if 1 did not make a penny by my profession—what then ?” “ Why, it would not make the least bit r f difference as to whit I ought to do. Aud as my duty and my inclination would always be at variance, 1 should just wear myself to a shadow in my efforts to accommodate matters between the two. £ say, John, I wi hj yon would get up off that footstool and sit properly on a chair. You ought not to be there, you know.” “ Do you think not?” “ I am sure of it.” “Well, I owning, then, that in j my case inclination is stronger than duty, i ihall keep my seat, foj 1 am very coiufor.

I table. And considering the lecture you are 1 1 giving me, you might let me sit as best I , : like under it.” fndeed. John, 1 am not lecturing you; I ; only Wont you to see ih t 1 ni ant what I j said that wbat I said at first I say now : it would not do at all.” Supposing a rich man came and asked you to marry him, would you do it ?” J hat’s a question you have no right to ask, John ” “ I think I have.” “I ahull not answer it, at ail events.” John shrugged his shoulders imp.iiently. “ Heally, Cirri'-tino, you are treating me very badly. I believe 1 ought to be very Hilary with you ; I think any other man would.” Well, why aie you not? I have given i you plenty of cause, and, to tell the trriih, if you would go off in a huff you would save L me a lot of trouble.” “ How ?” he said, half inclined to take her at her word and go. 5 “ Why, it does not seem that you are quite convinced yet, that 1 mean all that I havo said.” “ Honestly, I am not.” “ You mum; be. John, did not Janet tell you where I was going ?” t '* v ’°-” j “I am going to England; to visit ’ Oswald’s relative*.” • “ Good heav-ns ! Chrissy, is that, true?” g starting from his half recumbent posture, and 1 oking anxiously up, £ “ Perfect’y true. I sail in three weeks’ time, in the Herefordshire ” ‘ “ -md why was I not told before?” * “I only made up my mind to go quite lately ; and—and I thought it better not to | • ell you,” she said nervously. Then inde dJJohu began to realise the fact that she had been in earnest in her refusal, fie had not believed —would not belie vs I efore, . that she intended to abide by wh it she said, ’ He had been content to sit there at her feet, and let her lee ure him, and contradict h<m at her will ; never for one moment doubting I that when he chose to take up the matter in ’ earnest—with his man’s superior ty ofarguir.ent, eloquence, and power of mind—ln> j s would easily bo able to bring her to his way of thinking And he still had faith in £ those his powers, and es iaye I to use them with effect. So he spoke, and she listened. Be spoke well, with all the e!o* queuce ho was uuaier of; clearly sensibly. >r and with reisou in everything he said, lie pu led all li r objections o little pieces and *>lew them away ; ho di>seeted all her argumeats and showt cl her that they had no lu<dbones, so oukl not s and ; ho latghwd to scorn the idea tbit there could be aught of sdfishness in any of them, if they considered only themselves and. married ; he armed that all her premises being wrong therefore the results were wrong. In fact, he proved iudisputab'y that all she ha I said and thought against this marriage was j wrong, and all that he had said and argued in favor of it was right, He took along time to prove all this, too—nearly an hour; y t at y the end of chat time he was slamming I hegar-b. n t gate behind him, having gained for himself by I his special pleading, nothing, beyond tbek iow* ledge that Chrissy could be—l don’t know whether he said “confoundedly stubborn,” as the Colonel had once said before him - but || I think it is very likely that he did. B it he had not abandoned hope, even then ; ~ hopeless as his case appeared. Ere he left _ there had been a farewell said that was to be for good and all. Ohrissy had said she w uld not have him come down to see her * off; and he. sore at his failure, had agreed * that it should b: so B it when it came to the actual saying “ good-by*-, ” he c-mld not 38 keep up even the semolance of coolness, and )r he afked—“Aiewe to part like strangers, Chrissy ?” “ No,” said she, almost vehemently, “we 1 are not. Eight or wio<g, proper or im■b proper, I don’t care” ; and she got up and . threw her arms round his neck, giving him 0 kisi for kiss, even as she wou d have done 18 had he been her husband in truth; instead of ,n the man to whom she had just refused the lg right to bear that title 80, all things cour’ sidored, I think he had some cause—though 3 . r P'-rhip* v.ry slight— to be hopeful, A- f r Mrs F> ntnure, she positively danced uustai's t > bed that night, and slept more 6 comfortably th iu she had done lor some l 8 time previously. 1 ? The three weeks passed without event, and I Chrissy sailed, according as she had said, in 16 t' e Herefordshire. John Marsden kept to ar bis agreement, and did not come to see her <ff unl 88 indeed, bo wa* i-1 entitled, with 1,0 the gentleman on the Queenscliff shore, wavmg a handkerchief to someone on board the Herefordshire as shi p-isied. At any rate, 10 Ohrissy waved bets in return. 1 ? *s° sh J was gone, a id for five months ? nothing was known of Iter ; at the end of 18 that time came letters—a large packet of them from her to her friends, but we hare 30 no’hirig'io do with any of them, except those id to her sister Kllen, which w 11 tell us all that to we r quire to kuow of the writer for the purpose of the continuance of this true story. k CHAPTER 11. The letter to her sister was as follows Id Fenmore Park, Gloucestershire, iu October Bth, 18 — My Dearest Ellen.—Here I am, and here I j e wish I was not. I don’t like the place at all; s _ and I detest my mother-in-law already, though I have only been here three weeks, and cannot 10 be supposed to kuow much about her. How- '>■ ever, 1 will tell you about her byo-and-bye. m I promised I would tell you all about my id voyage, but really there is very little to tell, id so I leave that till I see you again. ’ f, Oswald’s brother, William, met me s . when I landed, and brought me down to Fen* 10 more Park J he is a very plain-looking man. rather shy, and very stout; he is what I call *. farmilied-looking, and in my opinion wants polish ; be hj -s very little to say for himself, 18 and what little he does say might as well be 3t left unsaid. He lives at a place called Hatton'S bourne ; I expect his wife and his mother w could not agree, or else I don’t see why he 3 . should not have lived here, considering that he is the heir, and the house is large. He had to II buy Hatteubourne after his marriage too, so I j u think my surmue is about right. I was so delighted to receive your letter when I J arrived. It had been waiting here a month for 11 me; you must have written directly after I a sailed. You told me Janet Marsden was not y well, hut you did not tell me anything about : John ; how is he ? d Now about these dear relatives of mine ; Papa Fen more— * ‘ Squire as he is called here, 1 is a little, insignificant, withered-up mortal] 0 who does not dare to say his soul is his own if Q his wife (“Madame” they call her) is any--1 whore within hearing. I could get on very well with him if he was not so deaf: but how can y anyone talk confidentially to a deaf man, un- > less it’s through the medium of the dumb alphabet ?—and we do not, either of us, uuder--3 stand that; co wo content ourselves with nod--2 ding and smiling, and pointing when Madame i is not looking, and we get on very well in that 1 way. As for Mrs Fenmore. she’s the stiffest t prim-est, most evil-thinking old dame that ever wore stiff stays, and ruled her f with a rod of iron. Nobody must think for themselves unless she gives them leave ; nobody must contradict her; nobody must dare dispute her will in the smallest jot or tittle : right or wrong, everybody must give s way to her ; nobody must have tho L temerity to even hint that she can possibly be I wrong; and sho has such aggravating manners ► tY°, w , as nover ten miles away from Fenmore ■rark for over twenty years, Bye-the-bye I cannot make out why they call this place rark. There is not a vestige of a Park any where about it, that I can see ; if there ever was one it must have been along time ago, and i they must have sold it piecemeal, for there are 1 small (ifarms all round ■ their own land is

all under cultivation, too. And Nell, the carriage horse* have to draw the plough! Oh, would not she he wild if she thought I knew that. But about her : I said she has never beea away from this place for more than twenty years ; and yet she lays down the law about people and places that she has never either seen or heard of, almost, and of whom, and about whom she cannot possibly 'have any knowledge ; cannot have, because she never visits anybody, so never hears anything; she never reads any books but the Bible and Jeremy laylor ; and would as soon think of allowing a mad dog to be brought into the house as a newspaper—so how is she t« know anything. I should like to know? Several times when she has made some .ridiculous blunder, or some very wrong assertion about things I happen to know all about, I have attempted to set her right regarding them, and have told her she was mistaken in what she asserted. Well, she listened to me, or appeared to do so, and then, when I ceased speaking, she just picked up the thread of her discourse where she had dropped it, and utterly ignoring every word I had said, repeated her assertions, and went on just as if nothing had occurred to stop her. She is a perfect mule for obstinacy. If she takes an idea into her head, no matter how absurd it is, nothing will ever drive it out again ; and if she says a thing she will stick to it, no matter how clearly she may be proved to be wrong. She pretends to believe that no free person, with the exception of soldiers, and a few sailors, ever sot foot on Australian soil; I say pretends, because I don’t believe that oven she could really think such a thing. According to her, all the rest of the residents in that laud are convicts, or the descendants of convicts, And when I tell her of the immense number of emigrants continually leaving England, and other places, for Australia, and tell her about the Colonies, and how Victoria never was a convict settlement; and, in fact, how great and? grand we are in Australia, she affects to think that I am playing on her credulity, and treating her to a kind of Arabian Night’s tale. Once she even had the impertinence to hand me a tract, entitled ‘‘Liar, beware !” after I had been telling her something about Melbourne, and our doings there—just fancy that! I believe I am a goose to care anything about what she says or thinks, but really, when a person is always trying to give one the impression that she thinks you have either been a convict, or are the descendant of one, and that she can plainly perceive the taint of convict blood hi you, why, it’s enough to vex one, is it not ? She said yesterday that she had no doubt there would soon be a large population in Australia, owing to the Queen’s clemency in releasing so many criminals, and allowing them to settle in that country; the more so as it was impossible for them to leave it. I was so disgusted- I would rot even contradict her, Nell, It was a sad pity, she said, that the children must suffer for their parents’ wickedness, but it always had been so and always would be. The particular vice or vices of the parent would come out in the fourth, the seventh, and even t ie fourteenth generation, and perhaps the twenty-first, excepting prevented by the trace of Heaven. If that notion is true, Nell, what vicious, evil-minded old tartars, her grandmothers, four times, seven times, fourteen times, and twenty-one times, removed must have been ! eh ? But, dear me, I’ve used up all my foreign letter paper—and it’s no use my taking the tniok paper, it weighs so heavy. I could not write much more, at all events, for it is just dinner time, and she makes a fine fuss if everybody is not there to the minute. If I don’t speedily get out of this dreadful house, why, you may expect to hear of the demise of Your ever loving sister, Christine Fenmore. P.S.—On second thoughts, you need not tell me anything about John Marsden. If he is ill you may tell me. but if he is well you need not, for I don’t care to know. C. P, Fenmore Park, Gloucestershire, ~ , , November Bth, 18My darling: ell,—As far as I can remember I brought my last epistle to nn abrupt conclusion through haying used up all my paper, but I think 1 told you how my mother-in-law and I don’t Agree ; well, a week or two after I despatched my letter to you, we came to a great “split”—as Oswald would have called it. It appears “Madame” has laid down a rule that all letters and parcels addressed to anyone in the house, no matter whether to squire, servants, or visitors, shall be earned to her before being delivered to their (rightful owners. Up to that time I had not oared very much about it, as I had only received a few odd letters from mamma’s relations in Cumberland; but on the particular morning of which I write, the Australian mail had been delivered, and in coming down stairs I met Jane carrying up the letters on a salver to “Madam’s” room. Amongst them were one from you, one from mamma, and one or two from somebody else for me ; so of course I pounce.! upon them and walked off with them. I had just finished yours—you good little thing to write such a long one—when, in sailed “Madame.” i . Tl } ere are no letters for 'you this morning, Christine.” she said blandly.” “ Oh, yes, there are , ’ I said, “I’ve got them, thank you.’* And pray, where did you get them, and how. • I took them off the tray, to be sure.** ‘Then you have been guilty of a gross piece of impertinence, Christine, and I desire it does s not occur again,” said she. And she absolutely shook with rage; her very stick rattled on the i floor. Did I tell you before that she always uses an ebony stick to assist her old steps? ‘ The impertinence would be in anyone else presuming to touch my letters,” I said, “ Not in my taking them myself. ” “lam very sorry to say,” Christine, she went on icily, “ I am now confirmed in the opinion I formed of you at first: that you are an extremely ill-bred young person. But since you seem to be so ignorant of the usages of good society, I will even take the trouble to inform yen that it is customary for ladies and gentlemen to conform to and respect the rules of the houses at which they visit.” “Oh, indeed.” I said, “Well, I certainly do seem to have made a mistake in one respect, since I thought it incumbent in a lady to try and make her guests comfortable, and that doesn’t seem to be the fashion here. Of course it may be so still in good society, but not having seen any since I came to England, I can hardly judge,” It’s the greatest wonder the old woman didn’t lay her stick over my shoulders. I am sure she would like to have done so. She shook, and turned white, and grasped her stick, and then sat down and ate rif ~r c,lkfas or rather pretended to do so, for I believe she was nearly choking with rage the whole time. Next morning the letters were handed to her in a leather hag, as she sat at breakfast. This bag, which I believe to be nothing else than a horse’s superannuated old nose bag was fastened with a padlock, and she | unlocked it and handed round the letters from out of it, with a look of triumph at me, that I should like to have thrown my toast at her for. Ihis was the morning I was expecting the Argus papers you sent me. And wlien I didn t see anything of them I asked for them. la it possible that you know what you are asking me, Christine V” said Madame. “ Certainly it is, Mrs Fenmore,” I replied, “ I am asking you for my newspapers, the ‘Argus,’ an.l shall be obliged to you for giving them to me. Rest assured,” she answered, “That if any such wicked worldly publications have been delivered here that you will never have the chance of reading them. It is one of the rules of this house, that all newspapers coming here be put into the fire unopened. I cannot prevent people being so ill-conducted as to send them, but I can and will prevent the inmates of my house being demoralised br reading such masses of impurity and abominable . V* 81 V „ _ And you bare dared-yoa have oared. I cried, jumping up and positively SfroK r T’ “ to havo m y Papers burned. Dared, young woman is a veiy l™ ge ' vord fo , r y°u to presume to use to me. Fray, who should he able to frighten me out of Ti think Proper*” “ I’ll tell you this Mrs henmore,’’ I said, almost hissing it out! ,Wi°f Wald b, * d l^ een h , ere you wouldn’t hare “ n f V?r hfe ’ t H bura his Papers.” Then in a dignified tone, and with a smile of ineffable self-complacency, she replied: “My son Oswald was too well brought up, too well r T d | and bad too great a respect for his mother s supenor knovvJedge of the world, and ot whatit is becoming for you n £ persons to know thino&u ® in Question any thing that it might be my pleasure to do. He would have thanked we for removing tempt*.

tien from his path.” “Oh !” said I, and not to be outdone, I put on a bland expression of countenance, locked at her with eyes half closed, and in the smoothest, sweetest voice imaginable, thus delivered the last shaft in my quiver “ My dear Mamma-in-law, it is verv plain that you knew nothing at all about Oswald : he ■would not have done anything of the kind.” That shot sped home, at any rate : to be told by one almost a stranger to her that she knew nothing about her own son was more than she could_ bear. She looked so dreadful that I thought she was going into a fit; so T rang the bell furiously for Jane, and then got away up stairs as vast as I could go, and left them to it. Well, you’d have thought that wa« enough for one day ; would not you ? But we had to have more of it. When I got upstairs everything felt so chilly and cold that I thought I would go out for a walk ; so I bundled on my shawl and hat, and slipped out of the back door. I was away about two hours, and when I came hack I declare if that silly old thing had’nt sent all the servants out to look fop me. Whether she thought I had run away like the naughty children in storybooks, or that I had repented of my wickedness and was afraid to return, or bad committed suicide in a fit of remorse, or what, I don’t know ; but Dick, the stable-boy. was fishing for me with a clothesprop in the slimy duckpool behind the stable. First thing when I got in “ Madam ” was at me about going out without her knowledge; so I bundled up and told her that I would not stand her tyrannical old ways any longer, and that I should go off to Cumberland next day. She looked thunderstruck ; I verily believe the thought struck her that I was some sort of an unhallowed spirit to think of flitting from one end of England to the other with less than a day s notice. What she was going to snv will never be known to mortal, for just as she was going to speak, Jane opened the door to admit a visitor; and in came the prettiest, cheeriest, most fairylike looking old lady you ever saw—and this was Lady Morris, Oswald’s godmother, of whom he used to talk so much. “ Madam’s ” company manners canve out at once, and there was great ceremony of hand-shaking, inquiring after healths, and so-forth. Lady Morris told me she had been away on a visit to the North, or she would have come round to see me before. She said that she was going back in a week to a place of her own, somewhere northward—she did not tell me which county—and she wanted to take me with her. I told her that I was intending to start for Cumberland next day; but nothing would do but I must put off my visit there and go with her, and then she said that I could go on thither afterwards if I liked ; so I agreed, and I am to go to her to-morrow—for all this occurred a week ago, " Madam ” and I have been as stiff and cold as icicles to each other all the week. Oh, I am so glad I am going away from all this. I hope my next letter will he a more cheerful one. At all events I may safely predict that it wo’nt be filled with squabbles, ’as this one is. Now ta-ta, and take ever such a lot of love from Your ever affectionate sister, Christine Fenmore. Moorside Lodge, Yorkshire, December 10, 18—. My dear, dear Nelly,—How I do wish you were here with me. You would enjoy yourself so much. Surely the contrast between a dungeon and a palace could not be greater in its way than is the contrast between this place and Fenmore Park. There everything was cold, meagre, dark, and miserable ; while here everything is <varm, large, light, and cheerful; in fact it is the cheeriest, most comfortable place I ever was in. The house itself is a magnificent building; I havn’t the least idea how many rooms there are in it, hut it contains apartments of all imaginable sorts, sizes, and shapes.' The furnishing of the place is splendid, still it strikes me as being luxurious and delicious rather than grand; oh, so different from the old, stiff, worm-eaten arrangements down at Fenmore! jLady Morris must be a very wealthy little old body; she .keeps an immense staff of servants, and I think they must be well paid, for they are so remarkably civil and attentive, and seem to do their work so welL Then she keeps a lot of horses, and I am sure I don’t know how many carriages of different kinds. She quite laughs at me because I enjoy all these things so much, and she says that it is a mercy I live in Australia, where luxuries are not so plentiful as in England, for she thinks I should become a perfect sybarite if the means were at hand. But I don’t care whether it is a sybaritic taste or not, I do delight in things elegant and beautiful—things so pleasant to the eye and touch. When first I came here it was absolute bliss only just to lie in bed and make acquaintance with all the pretty things around me, from the pictures on the walls to the nic-nacs on the toilet-table, and the patterns on the carpet. And I do like to rub my cheeks against the soft pillow'with its fine smooth case, and I even enjoy pinching and patting the blue silk eider-down quilt; it is so nice to feel. And then to get up and run into your dressing-room, and meet with a lot more nice things; that’s good too, Nell! And it’s so nice to find a bright little fire for you to dress by, and to feel the room so nice and warm, and yet so fresh. You can enjoy looking out at the snow falling when you feel so warm, and comfortable, and happy, as I do under the circumstances. It has been snowing these last three mornings just when I have been getting up, and I have stood ever so long at the window watching it. It quite makes me laugh sometimes to watch the snow : it does come down in such a lazy, soft, tumbling kind of way, as if it was a matter of no moment whether it ever reached the ground or not. But if all this is nice and jolly, Nell, I’ll tell you something nicer still: To trot away downstairs, along the corridors and passages, all so fresh —yet no draughts, not the ghost of one—and into the breakfast-room, there to be greeted by a lot of such bright faces and merry voices ; and then to take your place at table, and find your letters by the side of your plate all ready for you—not to have them handed to you from out of a horse’s nose-bag and having read them, or stuffed them into your pocket, whichever you please, to join in the chatter, make arrangements for the day’s enjoyment, engage yourself for dinners in the evening, promise to join in a game at billiards with this one and to drive out with that one, and skate with another; that is the way to enjoy the breakfast-hour. By the way, I’ve learned to skate since I came here. There is a very large sheet of water down below the lawn, and I was told (I don’t know whether my informant was laughing at me or not) that the ice was three feet thick on it, I have never dared to a k again for fear it might be only three inches; and then I should be afraid to go on it, and so should lose the finest fun imaginable. Lady Morris’s maid has just come to tell me they want me to go skating now. I can’t resist the temptation, so will leave this to be finished when I come in again. ***** Well, I’ve had my skating, and something else too. I’ve had an offer of marriage, Nelly, from one of the nicest old men in England ; but I am wrong to say old, he is only fifty-one, and does not look more than forty-one. He has nine thousand a-yenr, and owns two or three beautiful little estates in the south of England (so Lady Morris told me the other day). He can afford to keep me just as I should like to be kept; to give me a house as well appointed as tl is, for which I have such an intense admiration ; horses and carriages even better than these here; servants as many as I like, and dress and jewellery I suppose I might have to any extent j and—well, add to all these things aprospect of being very happy with a good, kind, loving husband, and say, Neil—don’t you think T must needs have been out of my senses to have said no ? And I did say no. It’s all that John Marsden; if it hadn’t been for him 1 could have taken Mr Carrisbroke and been happy. Oh, dear me, here’s somebody knocking. . . I must stop again for a while, Nelly; Lady Morris is not well to-day, poor little body, and •she has kept to her own roem ; she wants me to go to her for half-an-hour or so, for a chat I suppose. ***** Back again once more. Lady Morris did not look at all well, 1 am sorry to say ; but I am glad to be able to say that she «cheered up and looked better before our chat was ended. Somehow or other I told her all -about Mr Carrisbroke, and then someway, I "don’t know how, she gost out of me all abort John Marsden, and bow it was I did not marry biin. At first she couldn’t understand, ft But guy dear,” eb said, “Oswald left you wwe

money; he had a small property that his grandmother left him ; then your pension; and Oswald insured his life.”

And then I had to tell her everything—all about thosf horrid Indian debts, and about that money that his brother William had borrowed from Oswald, and how I found that letter in Oswald’s desk, sayirfg that if he died the money was to be considered a gift to William, not a loan, and all the rest of it. And when I told her that I had only sixty pounds a year, she looked petrified. “ Sixty pounds, my dear ! sixty pounds!” she kept saying, “Why it’s penury, beggary, nothing else. And you tell me Oswald forgave William the debt-the money that he sold that property to lend him?” “Yes,” I said.

Well.” said she, “ it was kind of him-yes, it was very kind of him—to his brother. Now, my dear, you were writing letters ; I cannot *if e Fiiu. 0U * rOUl any longer. I am sorry that there was anything to prevent you marrying Mr Carrisbroke ; ho would have made you a good husband : and, my dear, I’m not at all astonished that you dared not marry that other young man. A burnt child dreads the fire. Sixty pounds . Ring the bell for me, please dear. Sixty pounds ! Dear, dear. Row run and finish your letter, my child ; they must be posted first thing to-morrow morning, you know; and so she hurried me out again. And now, Nelly, I have hardly time to dress for ilinner, so must bring this to a close. How am I ever going to talk naturally to Mr Carrisbroke ! I wish there was no such man as John Marsden, that I do. But there, it’s no use wishI think I had better come straight out to Australia and top my ridiculous doings by marrying him, since it seems I cannot marry anyone else because of him. Oh ! dear me I must stop. Good-bye, Nelly dear. * Your affectionate sister, Christine Fenmore. “Mamma, the mail’s telegraphed!” cried Ellen Averil, rushing excitedly into the breakfast room. Is it, my dear ?” said her mother, placidly. “Yes ; isn’t it strange there’s a Mrs Fenmore among the passengers ? 0, mamma, if it should be Chrissy ! ’ “ Nonsense, Elleu, Chrissy’s last letter to me said she was going to st-p three months longer with Lady Morris and then go mto Cumberland. Isn’t it strauge the girls will bring in t to eg -s the wrong way up, and I have told Mary about that several times.” “But, mamma, supposing it should be?" it. ear » impossible. It. is some other Mrs Fenmore. Do you think Christine is the on’y one of that name in the world ?” *‘ It alir ost docs seem so to me, mamma. I shall be quite in a flatter till the steamer comes in.” “ Silly child. Go and ask papa if he is not ready for breakfast; the rolls will be cold. And leave me the paper, Ellen ; I want to see the English news. ” Ellen ran off, but was brought to a sudden standstill by running against a gentleman just entering the room alone—said gentleman being John Marsden. He caught both her bands. “ Ellen, is it Christy ?" “ I think it is. Mamma says no,’’ replied Ellen. “ Come in.” And as Mr Averilljust then put in an appearance, she was saved the rest of her journey. “ Hollo ! Marsden !” ‘‘Yes, I am rather an early visitor,” said John, interpreting Mr Averil’s exclamation. * None the less welcome for that,” said his host, recovering himself. “Sitdown. You havn’t breakfasted ?” No, said John, taking the proffered seat, “I thought I would come straight off and see if this was Mrs Fenmore,” “Mrs Fenmore; what about Mrs Fenmore ?” Why, papa, there’s some lady of that name come oat by the mail steamer from England,” said Ellen ; “and both-” “What, is the mail in? Why didn’t you tell me that before Where’s the P a P er 5 it me ; what’s the news ? A hj, the Pope ! hum-m-m, Italian soldier, urn-utn-um. Panic-urn— commercial houses, umum. Alabama, hum, ha, just so What was that you were saying, Marsden ? ’ There s Mrs Fenmore come out, and I came to see if you had any idea of its being —er —being your daughter. ” “My daughter ! Christine ! Oh dear me no. Nothing of the kind. Certainly not.’ Quito impossible. Well, I’m off.” P 4 ? 3 ’*” sad Elleu, “it is just possible, you know. Wouldn’t it be as well for some one to go down and see when the steamer arrives ? ” Mr Averil turned round and eyed his daughter suspiciously as he stood with the door in his hand. “Has Christine been writing anything about returning that you have not told us, Ellen ? ” “ a° ! ph no ! papa,” she replied hastily ; only the name, you know: and it might be.” ° " Now listen to me, Ellen. Your sister Christine can be a precious fool when sbe likes (Chrissy was in deep disgrace with her father just then, through having refused the Carrisbroke offer); and if she has been fool enough to come scampering out here without sending us notice of the fact of her coming, she may just take the consequences. 1 shall neither go nor send to the steamer ; and if she comes in the middle of the night, she may just find her way out as best°6he cau. 1 here, now : don’t say another word to me about it. Mamma, where’s my dust coat? Confound those servants; here it is, middle of the back again 1 Why can’t women learn to hang coats up properly? That poke will never come out.” ■Now, perhaps this speech of Mr Averil’s concerning Chrissy sounded rather harsh; but, truth to tell, it was only a spurt of illtemper, because she bad refused her rich knew that there was no more chance of her being hft to find her way home alone than there was of his being Prime Minister of England. So it was but harmless bluster at the worst; but I suppose it relieved him. J°hu looked rather fierce at hearing the lady of his heart thus spoken of ; but as the speaker was the lacly’sfather, hecould not very well resent the words, so he gulped down a quantity of coffee and rcse to bid them good m irnng. “I shall go down,” he said to her as he shook hands. “What time do you think?" she whis pered. “ Sometime to-morrow night, or early next morning,” be replied aim. st as lowly. “Here,” she said, bringing something out of her pocket and crushing it ini o his hand with a sudden impulse, “ that’s Chris sy s last letter, only for mercy’s sake never tell her I gave it to you.” John looked somewhat perplexed, but closed his band tight on the precious epistle and departed, hllen ran upstairs half frightened at what she had done, yet not repentingit in the least.” “Now.” sbethought, “if that is Lhrissy, John is not the man I take him for if he hasn’t made her promise to lake him for better, for worse, and so forth. b( fore they get half-way hom-. And now, dear mo, what shall I do to pass away the time ? 1 don t feel as if 1 could settle down to any. thing I wish I could go to sleep and not wake up again till the time for her being here. I wo -der what John thinks of that letter. By-the-bye, sbe said in it that she wished there was no such person as John Marsden. I worder what he’ll sav to that. Ob, well, I dare say the rest wi 1 comfort him for it.” John Marsden really seemed very much ; interested in the letter, for he took it out < f I his breast pocket and read it many times ; j during the day j but had anyone observed » him very closely he would have eweo that

at last when he took it out he only read one ((articular portion of it. I suppose the reader will not be su priced to hear that portion was somewhere no .r the end of it.

And so Elleu wa ted impatiently at home, and John wared sometimes uatiently and sometimes impav.en'ly, in town. fo r the time to cme when they should know whether their hopes were to be rea'isid or nor. Meanwhile the steam" r come on. puffing and panting, with wings < u rp- ad, doing her ga 'dans best to outsail and ou-.-steam an tb ng that had ever been done in that line before; bub all her efforts only sufficed to bring her into the bay a few minutes l-efora midnight. Then ensued all the indescribable fuss, hubbub, and bustle, that seem indispensable to the debarkation of mail bag< and boxes in particular ; and then all the confusion and bustle peculiar to the landing of pas tenders and their luggage, crying children, fussing women, shouting men—everybody getting into everybodj' else’s way: chaos in a Babylonish crowd Amid all this confusion, John Marsden made his way, and addressing.the first unoccupied person he met, inquired if Mrs Fenmore was still on board.

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” said the gentleman. “ you’d better ask the stewardess. Stay—l’ll go down with \ou.” “Thank you,” replied John, “but before we go, tell me, is this Mis Fenmore a widow? We did not know she was coming,” he added, in answer to the amazed look of his companion. Ere his question could be answered a little slight figure, in deep mourning, approached them, and two little white hands were held out eagerly. “Oh! John, is that you? I knew your voice directly. I’m so glad.” “Chrissy !it is you then and—he had read the letter, please remember—he put his arms rouud her and kissed her then and there “Her brother, I suppose,” thought the gentleman, as he turned away and resumed his post by the gangway. “ 'ow, Chrissy,” said John, still holding fast his hands, “ are you ready to go on shore now ?’’ “ Yes, quite. Oh ! John, I am so glad yon came. I was beginning to think I should bo left all to my own devices, and I was getting quite frightened. How did you know I was here ?’’ “We saw your name in the paper. What luggage have you? Where is it? ’ “ Here it is. behind the companion door;” .and she led him to it. ‘ This isn’t all. You never came from England with a small box and a valise?” “ Yes ; I have no more. I met Mr Johnson in Loudon, and ho told me to put my things up in a case, and he could send them along with a lot of his own consignments to their firm here ; so I need not trouble about that.” ! h, wall! th-se things can go in the small boat [ came in.” So the luggage was carried over the side of the steamer, and Chrissy followed it and was soon packed comfortably in the stern of the boat, with John at her side. Then a few strokes of the oar, and vigorous pushes against the other boats that formed a little fl.itilla in the deep shadow of the mail boat, and they shot mto the bright moonl ght, and as the boat, man laid himself to his oars, and carried them forward with swift, long strokes, Christy poured out to John her questions thick and fast. “ Mow were they all? Ellen and papa, and mamma, and Janet? Low bad be Irmself been ? What did they think of my coming back so suddenly ?” This was one of the last questions, and it was asked just as they drew near the landing place. “ They didn’t know what to think.” “ Why didn’t papa come to meet mo ? Is ho waiting for me here ?” “ No, ’ said John, as the boat glided close to the s eps; be said it could not be you, Now, give me your band-steady now—put your foot there—now jump -that’s right. a Ci ' ,r waiting somewhere here. Y h er e is the fellow, 1 wonder? Oh! here he is, ns a man pressed forward amongst the anxious owners of vehicles with their reiterated “ tab, sir. Cab, sir. Want a cab. sir ?” ’ “All right, my man; there’s some luggage there, pop it in.” ' Now, Chrissy. what made you come out in such a hurry?” said John, when they were off. J Oh, I don’t know ; I couldn’t s*op away any longer. J ell me ; why didn’t Papa come to see if it was 1 ?’’ i ■ * !ie * rut h. you are rather in bis black books jut now.” “ What for ?” she said anxiously. “Did’nt you refute to marry a very rich man m England ?” “ Who’s been telling that ?” cried Chrissy, feeling her cheeks growing verv hot and red. X didn’t think that of Ellen ” ~ .*/• 4 on ’ fc think Ellen told your father ; I think it was your mother.” Ihen mamma shall never know anything about me again, I’m resolved. ** By-the bye the resolution was in fragments m the course of another couple of hours, “ VV 'h° you in mourning for, Chrissy?” “ For Lady Morris ; she died suddenly. It was just three days after the last mail left ; tnc maid came running into the room in the afternoon and t dd ns Lady Morris was dead • she died sitting in her chair, sewing. Oh John it w.;a so dreadfully sudden ” ’ *‘ tt wa*, indeed,” said John, gravely. “ It must have been a great shock to you dear ” J ’ Indeed it was She was so kind and good. everybody loved her. And, John” “Well.” “You know she was Oswald’s godmother,” 6 “ Was she ?” “And—and since Oswald was dead she put my name in the will—and she left me some money.” John was silent. This silence decided Mrs bonmore not to tell him everything just yet. The fact was, Lady Morris, admiring the spirit of her god-sou’s widow, who could live and be merry ou sixty pounds a year; who could refuse to burden a poor roan, and run the risk of burdening her friends with her family, and yet could refuse a rich man for the poor man s sake - admiring this spirit in Chrissy, had leit her money in the funds sufficient to ensure her an income of four hundred a year. • • So. ” she a ,id to herself when the lawyer had completed her iustruetions, and the will Lad been safely put away, “So there’s no longer any reason why the loving hearts should be kept apart, and I shall just tell Chrissy what I have done, and trot her off with a present to buy her trousseau as soon as we have got over c ur Christmas festivities.”

Lady Morris was a most methodical old lady, and left nothing to chance ; moreover she knew by what a frail thread she held her life she had suffered from heart disease for years—so she wrapt up her five hundred poum s, and addressing it to Chrissy, nave it into the hands of her lawyer, with instructions to deliver it to Mrs Fenmore if she M-iy Morns) died before Chrhsy left En<rland, these arrangements 'or the comfort and well-being of her protr'jee had barely been completed, when one ilay the maid ran in among the visitors with the dreadful news that her lady was dead. There had been no time to tell Chrissy of what had been done for her, so that the first intimation she received of it was when she hoard the will read. The lawyer had requested her presence during the reading,, and after that was over he formally banded over to her the packet

containing Lady Morris’s present. The e were just a few words inside the cover. + e. - mg why she received it that way, aid for what purpose the donor intended it, and that was all. 80 when John was silent Chrissy made up her mind not to tell him of the four hundred a-year just then. She had an uncomfortable idea that perhaps he might tease her, and at the same time ievenge himself for her former behavior to him, by making her wait {<)■■ a repe'iuon of the offer he ha I once made— the offer she would now so gladly accept—if she told him at once of all her good fortune. ihe lawyer handed me five hundred pounds on the day the will was read. I have a draft for four hundred and twenty in my purse with me. I shall be so glad when I get rid of it. I have |been in fea' and trembling all the way out in case somebody shou.d steal it from me—some horrid man or another.”

“'our father will look after that for you,” said John. “I suppose. Papa thought that I couldn’t come out because I have no money—eh » Very likely. ” John was thinking about that letter. “ Is he very cross with me, John ?” “I don’t know ; perhaps he’ll forgive you when he knows you have got five hundred pounds. Chrissy, why did yon never send me one message—not even a word—while you were away ?” “ 1 didn’t know you wanted any,” . Wanted any, child ! when I was hungering for a word or a sign from you like the veriest starved wretch. But you don’t mean that, or you wouldn t be out here.” “ How shouldn’t 1 ?’’ ‘‘ You would have married the rich Englishman. Now come, Chrissy, you know you can t marry anyone else because of me ” he continued, almost quoting from the letter in his pocket; “so” .. i Li. ho "? e, ’ od y [ ias been telling you about my lette s, she said, in great confusion, almost crying. “Ellen has.” “ Ellen has not told me anything. But is that not the truth, Chrissy ?” you (dm » the carman will hear ‘No, he won t, and it does not matter if be does. Come, answer that truthfully, and say yes; and then promise yourself tome, and we two can live happily ever after, as tbe storybooks say. ' Chrissy could not afford to coquette any bWd f° r fc i 9 fdar : hundred a-year might be blamed for it; so sue and “yes,” and just then the car stopped at her father’s gate, and John, »S he rifted her out, was the happiest man m Australia. w pS!, hall d ? or , tW , °P en almost before Chr.ssy was inside the gate, and Ellen came flying down the garden to meet her sister. •mnH h, - y °k darl - i " g ’!’. she cried . almost smothering her with kisses, “It is absolutejy your own very self. Oh. you duck, dear child I am so glad to see you! Now come m,” she said more soberly; and winding her arm round Cbrissy’s waist, she half danced haU ran her up the steps to the house. Papa and mamma are in bed ; they wouldn’t believe it was really you, but <?ijr 800Q rouse U P when they hear.” Have you nothing to say to your new them in" m ' laW ’ ElleU ? ” Baid John ' blowing “What, really?” “ Yes, really.” ‘‘? h ’ th , en > \ a,TI Pleased. Chrissy, you sSi ££:•-*- "t a t£ to “ Ued “ lo Christine, mamma ” x - u ' i » * «* upSo chrissy ran upstairs, and found her mother in her night dress on the landing. And then her father’s voice called to her in sleepy astonishment, so she had to rush in to see him as he lay in bed, and received a very ;"ir lcome ~ for all Ms And then she had to run down again and dismiss John Marsden, who had in the meantime returned the letter to Jillen. and told her not to let Chrissy find out he had had it till.after tbe wedding. And as she |V r ed with him at the door, she whispered that she had more t 0 tell him yet And he went away wondering. Then she spent two or three hours sitting on the side of her mother a bed telling all her English experiences to the father, mother, and sister; and then she and Ellen got to their own room, there hai * Breat eXchange of ®onrideuces

Of course John soon knew of Chrissy’s four hundred a-year, but I never heard that he at all objected to it, for all her fancies. The wedding took place shortly after she came buck, and. they seem to have lived very happily ever since. John is a thriving barnster, and Chrusy is a cheery, lovin<» wife and mother, thinking her own husband and three children tlm most perfect specimens of humanity extent. May her blessings inCrGUS6.