A TERRIBLE SECRET, BY MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of 'Guy Earlscourt's Wife.' 'A Wonderful Woman,' 'A Mad Marriage,' Etc. PART II.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 399, 4 September 1889, Page 4

A TERRIBLE SECRET, BY MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of 'Guy Earlscourt's Wife. ' 'A Wonderful Woman,' 'A Mad Marriage,' Etc. PART 11.

CHAPTER L— (Continued.) So absorbed was Edith Darrell in he* 6xvn gloomy thoughts, as she sat on the p'ide of the cliff, thab she never heard a footstep descending the rocky path behind her. Suddenly two gloved hands wer c clasped over her eyes, and a mellow, masculine voice sang a verae of an appropriate song : ' " Break, break, break. On thy cold grey atonts, oh tea! And I vrould that my tongue could titter The thoughts that arise in me.' •1 would thab my tongue could utter tha thoughts that ariso in me, concerning young ladies who sit perched on rocks in tho rain. Is it your favourite amusement, may I ask, Miss Darrell, to sit iere and be rained on? And are there no lunatic asylums in Sandypoint, that they allow such people as you to go at large ?' She sprang to her feet and confronted him, her breath caught, her eyes dilating. *Oh !' she cried, in a breathless sorb of way, ' it is Charley !' » She held oub both her hands, the whole expression of her face changing — her eyes like stars. 'Charley, Miss Darrell, and if it had been the Man in the Moon you could hardly $pok more thunderstruck. And now, if I may venture to propound so delicate a conundrum, how long ia it since you lost your senses ? Or had you ever any to lose, that you sib here in the present beastly state of the weather, to get comfortably drenched to the skin ?' He was holding both her hands, and looking at her as he spoke — a young man pf some five-and-twenty, with grey eyes and chestnut hair, well-looking and welldressedj and with that indescribablo air of ease and fashion which belongs to the 4 golden youth ' of New York. ' You don't say you're glad to see me, Dithy, and you do look uncommonly blank. Will you end my agonising suspense on this point, Miss Darrell, by saying it now, and giving me a sociable kiss ?' He made as though he would take it, but Edith drew back, laughing and blushing a little. ' You know what Gretchen says to Faust: " Love me as much as you like, bub no kissing, that is vulgar." I agree with Grotchien — it is vulgar. Oh, Mr Stuart, what a surprise this is ! I have just been reading a letter from your sister, and she doesn't gay a word of your coming.' * For the excellent reason thab she knew nothing about ib when that letter was written. Let me look at you, Edie. What have you been doing to yourself since I left, that you should fall away to a shadow in this manner? But perhaps your failing is the natural and inevitable result of my leaving?' 'No doubt. Life would naturally be insupportable without you. Whatever I may have lost, Mr Stuart, it is evident you have nob lost the most striking trait in your character — your self-conceit.' * No,' the young man answered, 'my virtues are as lastiDg as they are numerous. May I ask, how ife is that I have suddenly become "Mr Stuart," when ib has been " Charley " and " dear Cousin-Charley," for the past two years ?' Miss Darrell laughed a little and blushed a- little again, showing very white teeth and lovely colour. ' I have been reading Trixy's letter, and ib fills me with an awful respect for you and all the Stuarb family. How could I prajsume to address as plain Charley anyone so fortunate as the bosom friend of a baronet V «Ah 1' Mr Stuarb remarked placidly ; Trixy's been giving you a quarter quire srossed sheets of that, has she ? You really irade through that poor child's interminable ipistles, do you ? I hardly know which to idmire most, the genius thab can write twenty pages of — nothing — or the patience vhieh reads ib, word for werd. This one is Sir Victor from date to signature, I'll swear. Well, yes, Miss Darrell, I know the aaronet, and he's a very heavy swell and a alue diamond of the first water. Talk )f pedigree, there's a pedigree, if you ike. A Catheron, of Cafcheron, was hand md glove with Alfred the Great. He's a rery lucky young fellow, and why the gods mould have singled him out as bhe recipient af their favour, and left me in the cold, is a problem I can't solve. He's a baronet, he has more thousands a year and more counties than you, with your limited knowledge of arithmetic, could count. He has a fair complexion, a melancholy contrast on that point to you, my poor Edith ; he has incipient pale yellow whiskers, he has an English accent, and he goes through life mostly in a auio of Oxford mixture and a round felt hat. He's a V6ry fine fellow, and I approve of him. Need I «ay more V ' More vould be superfluous. If you approve of him, my lord, all is said in that. And Lady Helena V 1 Lady Helena is a ponderous and venerable matron, in black silks, Chantilly lace, and meiaboub feathers, who would weigh down sixteen of you and me, and who worships */he ground her nephew walks on. She is the daughter of a marquis and a tigress in her own right. Think of that, jr u p.oor, little half-civilised Yankee girl, anu.; folush to rememberi you never had an anc eetor. But why do I waste my breath and time in these details, when Trix has Narrated them already by the cubic foot ? ;(ViitS Barrell, you may be a mermaid or a Trodpie — thab sorb of young person does «isb, I believe, in a perpetual shower bath, ff b I regret to inform you I am mortal , Tery mortal — subject to melancholy ;*lds in the head, and depressing attacks of Influenza. Ab the present moment, my patent leather boots are leaking at every pore, the garments I wear beneath this grey overcoat are saturated, and little rills of rain water are trickling down the small of my back, You nursed me through one prolonged siege of fever and freezing— unless you are especially desirous of nursing me j^krough another, perhaps we had better get but of this. I merely throw out this suggestion — it's a matter of indifference to me.' Edith laughed and turned to go. 'As it is by no means a matter of indifference to me, I move an adjournment to the house. No, thank you, I don't want your arm. This isn't the fashionable side of Broadway, at four o'clock of a summer afternoon. "I talk of it as though I had bean there— l who never was farther than Boston in my life, and who, judging from present appearances, never will be.' ' Then,' said Mr Stuarb, * it's very rath and premature to judge by present appearMces, my eirand here being to— Miss Dar« rell, doesn't ib strike you to inquire ivhat my jrraittd hero n»y be V

• Shooting, 5 Miss Darrell said, promptly 'Shooting in March. Good Heavens, no!' •Fishing then.' Fishing is a delightful recreation in a rippling brook, on a hot August day, but in this month and in this weather } For- q Massachusetts young lady, Dithy,' I must say your guessing education has been shamefully neglected, No, I have come for something better than either fishing or ehoobing— l have come for you.* * Charley 1* 'Fve got her note somewhere,' said Charley, feeling in his pockets as they walked along, 'if it hasn't melted away in the rain. No, here it is. Did Trix, by any ; chance, allude to a projected tour of the governor's and the maternal's to Europe ?' • Yes.' Her eyes were fixed eagerly on his face, her lips apart, and breathless. • Oh Charley ! what do you mean ?' In the intensity of her emotions she forgets to be formal, and becomes natural and cousinly once more. 'Ah ! Xam Charley again. Here is the note. As it is your healthful and refreshing custom to read your letters in the rain, I need hardly urge you to open and peruse this one.' • Hardly ! She tore it open, and ran over it with kindling cheeks and fastthrobbing heart. 'My Dear Edith,— Mr Stuart and myself, Charles and Beatrix, propose visiting Europe in May. From niy son 1 learn thatyou are piofioient in the French and German laneriwiKcs 1 and would be invaluable to us on tho journey besides the pleasure your society will aflbid us all. If you think six hundred dollars per annum sufficient recompense for your services and all your expenses paid, we shall be plad to have you return (under proper female charge) with Charley. I trust this will prove acceptable to you, and that your papa will allow you to come. ■ The advantages of foreign travel will bo of 1 inestimable benefit to a young lady so thoroughly educated and talented as yourself. Beatrix bids me add she will never forgive you if you do not come. ' With kindest regards to I Mr. and Mrs. Darrell, T remain, my dear Edith, I ' Very sinccrly yours, * Charlotte Stuart.' She had come to a standstill in the middle of the muddy road, while in a rapture she devoured this. Now she looked up, her face transfigured — absolutely glorified. Go to Europe ! France, Italy, Germany Switzerland ! live in that radiant upper world of her dreams ! She turned bo Charley, and to the unutterable surprise of that young gentleman, flung her arms around him, and gave him a frantic hug. ' Charley ! Charley ! Oh Charley !' was all she could cry. Mr Stuart returned the impulsive embrace, with a promptitude that did him credit. 1 1 never knew a letter of my mother's to have ouch a pleasant effect before. Hovr delightful ib must be to be a postman. It is yes, then, Edith?' • Oh, Charley ! as if it could be anything else ! I owe this to you — I know I do. How shall I over thank you ?' 'By a repetition of your little performance. You won't ? Well, as your stepmother is looking at us out of the window, with a face of verjuice, perhaps ib is just as well. You're sure the dear old dad won't aay no V 1 Poor papa !' her radiant face clouded a little, ' he will miss me, but no — he couldn't refuse me anything if he tried — least of all this. Charley, Ido thank you — dear, best cousin that ever was — with all my heart !' She held out both hands, her heart full, and brimming over in her black eyes. For once in his life Charley Stuart forgot to be flippant and cynical. He held the hands gently, and he looked half-laughingly, halfcompassionately into the flushed, earnest face. • You poor child !' he said ; ' and you think the world outside this sea, and theie sandhills, ia all sunshine and cohur dc rose. Well, think so — it's a harmless delusion, and one that won't last. A.nd whateverbetides,' he said this earnestly, ' whatever this new life brings, you'll never blame me Edith, for having taken you away from the old one?' 'Never!' she answered. And she kept her word. In all the sadness — the shame, the pain of the affcertime, she would never have gone back if she could — she never blamed him. They walked on in silence. They were at the door of the ugly bleak house which Edith Darrell for eighteen years had called home, bat which she was never to call home more. You would hardly have known her — so bright, po beautiful, in a moment had hope made her — a smile on her lips, her eyes like dark diamonds. For Charley, he watched her, as he might some interesting natural curiosity. • When .im I to be ready V she asked him, softly, at the door. 1 The sooner the better,' he answered. Then she »poned it and went in.

CHAPTER 11. A NIGHT IS- THE SNOW. Oxe snowy February night, just two years before, Edith Darrell and Charle3 Stuar^ had met for the firat time — met in a very odd and romantic way. Before relating that peculiar first meeting, let mo premise that Edith Dan-ell's mother had been born a Miss Eleanor Stuart, the daughter of a rich New York merchant, who had fallen in love at an early period of her career with her father's handsome book-keeper, Frederic Darrell, had eloped with him, and been cast off by her whole family from thenceforth, for ever. Ten years' hard battling with poverty and ill-health had followed, and then one day she kissed her husband and litble daughter for the la&t time, and drifted wearily out of the strife. Of course Mr Darrell, a year or two after, married again for the Bake of having &omeone to look after his houee ana little Edith ag much as anything else. Mrs Darrell No. 2 was in every r*espect the exact contrast of Mrs Darrell No. 1. She was a brisk little woman, with snapping blaok eyes, a sharp nose, a complexion of saffron, and a tongue like a carving-knife. Frederic Darrell was by nature a feeble, helpless sort of man, but she galvanised even him into a spasmodic sort of life. He was master of three living languages and two dead ones. ' If you can't support your family by your hands, Mr Darrell,' snapped his wife, 'support them by your head. There are plenty young men in the world ready to learn French and German, Greek and Latin, if they can learn them at a reasonable rate. Advertise for these young men, and I'll board them when they come.' He obeyed, the idea proved a good one, the young men came, Mrs Darrell boarded and lodged them, Mr Darrell coached them in classics and languages. Edith shot up like a hop-vine. Five more little Darrella were added in the fulness of time, and the old problem, that not all the mathematics he knew could ever solve, how to make both ends meet, seemed as knotty as ever. For his daughter he felb it most of all. The five noisy boys who called Mrs Darrell 'ma,' he looked at through his spectacles in fear and trembling. His handsome daughter he loved with his whole heart. Her dead mother's relatives were among the plutocracy of New York, but even the memory of the dead Eleanor seemed to have faded utterly out of their minds. One raw February afternoon two years before this March morning, Edith Darrell eet out to walk from Millfield, a large manufacturing town, five miles from Sandypoinfc, home. She had been driven

I 1" 1 over in the morning by a neighbour, to buy a new dress; she hud dined at noon with an acquaintance, and as the Millfleld clocks struck live, set out to walk home. She was a capital walker ; she knew' the road well j she had the garnet merino clasped close in her arms, a talisman against cold and weariness, and thinking how well she would look in it next Thursday at the party, she tripped lightly along, A keen wind blew, a dark drifting sky hung low over the black frozen earth, and before Miss Darrell had finished the first mile of her pilgrimage, the great feathery snow flakes began whirling down. She looked up in dismay — snow! She had not/ counted on that, Her way lay over hills and down valleys, the path was excellent, hard and beaten, but if it snowed— aud night was coming on fast. "What should she do ? Prudence whispered f turn back ;' youth's impatience,and confidence in itself cried out, f era »n ;' Edjth went on. It was as lonely a five-mile walk as you would care to take in an August noontide. Think what it must have been this stormy February ovening. She was not entirely alone. ' Don Caesar,' the house dog, a big English mastiff, trotted by her side. At long intervals, down by-paths and across fields, there were some half dozen habitations between Millfield and Sandypoint — that was all. Faster, faster came the whito whirling flakes ; an out-and-out February snowstorm had set in. Again — should she turn back? She paused half a minute to debate the question. If she did there would be a sleepless night for her nervous father at home. And sho might be able to keep the path with the 4 Don's ' aid. Personal tear she felt none ; she was a thoroughly brave little woman, and there was a spice of adventure in braving the storm and going on. She shook back her clustering curls, tied her hood a little tighter, wrapped her cloak more closely around her, whistled cheerily to Don Cccsar, and went on. •In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as " Fail," she said gayly, patting the Don's shaggy head 'En avant, Don Cresar, mon bravt !' The Don undorstood French ; he licked his mistress's hand and trotted contentedly before. ' As if I could lose the path with the Don,' she thought ; ' what a goose I am. I shall make Mamma Darrell cub out ray garnet merino, and begin it before I go to bed tonight.' She walked bravely and brightly on, whistling and talking to Don Ca?sar at intervals. Anether mile was got over, and the night had shut down, white with whirling drifts. It was all she could do now to make her way against the storm, and it grew worse every instant. Three miles of the five lay yeb before her. Her heart began to fail her a little ; the path was lost in the snow, and oven the Don began to be at tault. The drifting wilderness nearly blinded her, the deep snow was unutterably fatiguing. There was but one thing in her favour*—t he night, for February, was mild. She was all in a glow of warmth, but what if she should get lost and flounder { about here until morning ? And what would papa think of her absence ? She stopped short again. If she could see a light she would make for it, she thought, and take refuge from the night and storm. But through the white whirl no light was to be seen. Right or wrong, j ■othing remained but to go on. Hark ! What was that ? Sho stopped once more — the Don pricked up his sagacious ears. A cry unmistakably— a cry of distress. Again it came, to the left, faint and far off. Yes — no doubt about it, a cry for help. She didnothesitatea moment. Strangers, who had tried this hillpath before now, had been found stark frozen next day. • Find him, Don — find him, good fellow !' she said and turned at once in the direction of the call. ' Coming !' she shouted, aloud. ' Where are you ? Call again. ' I Here,' came faintly over the snow. •Here, to the left.' She shouted back a cheery answer. Once more came a faint reply — then all was still. Suddenly the Don stopped. Impossible to tell where they were, but there, prostrate in a feathery drift, lay the dark figure of a man. The ghl bent down in the darkness, and touched the cold face with her hand. ' What is the matter ?' she asked. ' How doyou come to be lying here ?' There was just life enough left within him to enable him to answer faintly. • I was on my way to Sandypoint — the night and storm overtook me. I mi&sed the path and my footing ; I slipped, and have broken my leg, I'm afraid. I heard you whistling to your dog and tried to call. I didn't dream it was a woman, and I am sorry I have brought you out of your way. Still, as you are here, if you will tell them at the nearest house, and — ' hi? voice died entirely away, in the sleepy cadence of a freezing man. The nearest house — where icas the nearest house ? Why, this poor fellow would freeze to death in half an hour if left to himself. Impossible to leave him. What should she do ? She thought for a moment. Quick and bright of invention, she made up her mind what to do. She had in her pocket a little passbook and pencil. In the darkness she tore out a leaf —in the darkness she wrote, ' Follow Don. Come at once.' She pinned the note in her handkerchief — tied the handkerchief securely round the dofr's neck, put her xrms about him, and gave his black head a hug^ • Go home, Don, go home,' she said, • and fetch papa here.' The large, half-human eyes looked up at her. She pushed him away with both hands, and with a low growl of intelligence he set off. And in that sea of enow, lost in the night, Edith Daircll was alone with a freezing man. Jn her satchel, among her other purchases, Bhe had several cents' worth of matches for household consumption. With a girl's curiosity, even in that hour, to see what the main was like, she struck a match and looked at him. It flared through the white darkness a second or two, then went out. That second showed her a face as white as the snow itself, the eyes closed, the lips set in silent pain. She saw a shaggy great coat, and fur cap, and — a gentleman, even in that briefest of brief glances. ' You mustn't go to sleep,' she said, giving him a shake ; *do you hear me, sir ? You mustn't go to sleep- • Yes — mustn't I ?' very drowsily. 'You'll freeze to death if you do.' A second shake. 'Oh, do rouse up like a good fellow, and try to keep awake. I've sent my dog for help, and I mean to stay with you until ib comes. Does your leg pain you much? 1 ♦Not now. It did, but I — iecl sleepy, and—' I 1 tell you, you mustn't !' She shook him so indignantly this time that he did rouse up. 'Doyou wan bto freeze to death? I tell you, air, you must wake up a,nd talk to me.' • Talk to you ? I beg your pardon— it's awfully good of you to stay with me, but I can't allow it. You'll freeze yourself.' ♦No, I won't. I'm all right. It isn't freezing hard to-nighb, and if you hadn't broken your leg, you wouldn't freeze either. I wish I could do something for you. Let me rub your hands— ijbjmay help to keep

you awake And see, I'll wrap this roun your feet to keep them out of the enow.' And then— who says that heroic selfsaciiiico has gone out of fashion ?— she unfurled the garnet merino and twisted its glowing folds around the boots of the fallen man. •It's awfully good of yon, you know,' he could but juat repeat. *If lam saved I 3hall owe my life to you. I think by your voice you are a young lady. Tell me your name.' •Edith.' *« ... 1 A pretty name and a sweet voice. Suppose you rub my other hand ? How doliphtfully warm yours' are J I begin to feel better already, If we don't freeze to death, 1 shouldn't mush mind how long this sorb of thing goes on. If we do, they'll find us, like the babea in the wood, under the snowdrifts to-morrow.' Miss Darrell listened to all this, utt«r«d in the sleepiest, gentlest of tones, her brown eyes open wide. What manner of> young man was this who paid compliments while free/ins with a broken leg ? It was quite, a new experience to her and amused her. Ie was an adventure, and excited all the romance dormant in her nature. * You're a stranger hereabouts V she suggested. f Yes, a stranger, to my cost, and a very foolhardy one, or I should never have attempted to find Sandypoinb jin this confounded storm. Edith— you'll excuse my calling you so, my name js Charley— wouldn't it have been better if you had left me here and gone for someone ? I'm dreadfully *fraid you'll get your ieath.' His solicitude for her, in his own danger tad pain, quite touched Miss Edith. She bant over him with maternal tenderness. ' There is no fear for me. I feel perfectly warm as I told you, and can easily keep myself so. And if you think I could leave you, or anyone else with a broken leg, to die, you mistake me greatly, that is all. I will stay with you if it be till morning.' He gave one of her hands a feebly grateful squeeze. It was a last effoft. His numbed and broken limb gave a horrible twinge, there was a faint gasp, and then this young man fainted quietly away. She bent above him in despair. A great fear filled her — was he dead, this stranger in whom she was interested already ? She lifted his head on her lap, she chafed his face and hands in agony of pity and terror. ' Charley !' she called, with something like a sob. 'O, Charley, don't die ! Wake up— speak to me.' But cold and white as the snow itself, ' Charley ' lay dumb and unresponsive. And so an hour wore on. What an hour it was — more like an eternity. In all her after-life — its pride and its glory, its downfalland disgrace, that night remained vividly in her memory. She woke many and many a night, starting up in her warm bed, from some startling dream, that she was back, lost in the snow, with Charley lying lifeless in her lap. But help was at hand. It was close upon nine o'clock, when, through the deathly white silence, the sound of many voices came. When over the cold glitter ef the winter night, the red light of lanterns Bared, Don Crcsar camo plunging headlong through the drifts to his little mistress' 3ide, with loud and joyful barking, licking her face, her hands, her feet. They were saved. She sank back sick and dizzy in her father's clasp. For a moment the earth rocked, and the sky went lound — then she 6prang up, herself again. Her father was there, and the three young men, boarders. They lifted the rigid form of the stranger, and carried it between them somehow, to Mr Darrell's house. i His leet were slightly frost-bitten, his leg not broken after all, only sprained and swollen, and to Edith's relief he was pronounced in a fainting-fit, not dead. 1 Don't look so white and scared, child,' her step-mother said pettishly to her stepdaughter ; 'he won't die, and a prebty burthen he'll be on ray hands for the next three weeks. Go to bed — do — and don't let us have you laid up as well. One's enough at a time.' ' Yes, Dithy, darling, go,' said her father, kiseing her tenderly. ' You're a brave little woman, and you've saved his life. I have always been proud of you, but never so proud as to-night.' It certainly vjas a couple of weeks. It was five blessed weeks before 'Mr Charley, 1 as they learned to call him, could get about, oven on crutches. For fever and sometimes delirium sefc in and Charley raved and tossed, and shouted, and talked, and drove Mrs Frederic Darrell nearly frantic with his capers. The duty of nursing fell a good deal on Edith. She seemed to take to it quite naturally. In his ' worst spells ' the sound of her soft voice, the touch of her cool hand, could 3oothe him as nothing else could. Sometimes he sang, as boisterously as his enfeebled state would allow : 'We won't go borne Mil morning !' Sometimes he shouted for his mother ; very often for ' Trixy.' Who was Trixy, Edith wondered, with a sort of inward twinge, not to be accounted for : his sister or — He was very handsome in those days — his great grey eyes brilliant with fever, his cheeks flushed, his chestnut hair falling damp and heavy off his brow. What an adventure it was, altogether, Edith used to think, like something out of a book. Who was he, she wondered. A gentleman 'by courtesy and the grace of God,' no mistaking thai. His clothes, his linen, were all superfine* On one finger he wore a diamond that made all beholders wink, and in his shirt bosom still another. His wallet was stuffed with greenbacks ; his watch and chain, Mr Darrell affirmed, were worth a thousand dollars — a sprig of gentility, whoever he might be, this wounded hero. They found no papers, no letters, no card- case. His linen was marked 'C.S. twisted in a monogram. They must wait until he was able himaelf to tell them the rest. The soft sunshine of April was filling his room, and basking in its rays in the parlour or rocking-chair sat 'Mr Charley,' pale and wasted to a most interesting degree. He was sitting, looking at Miss Edith, digging industriously in her flowergarden, with one ot the boarders for undergardener, and listening to Mr Darrell, proposing he should tell them his name, in order that they might write to his friends. The young man turned his large languid eyes from the daughter without, to the father within. •My friends ?Oh ! to be sure. But ibn isn't necessary is it ? It's very thoughtful . af you, and all that, but my friends won't worry themselves into an early grave about cny absence and silence. They're used to ooth. Next week, or week after, I'll drop them a line myself. I know I must be an nwful nuisance to Mrs Darrell, bub if I might trespass on your great kindness and' remain here until — ' ' My dear young friend,' responded Mr Darrell, warmly, ♦ you shall most certainly remain here. For Mrs Darrell, you're no trouble to her— it's Dithy, blass her, who does all the nureing.' .The grey dreamy eyes turned from Mr Darrell again, to that busy figure in the garden. With her cheeks flushed, her brown eyes shining, her rosy lips, and laughing, as she wrangled with that particular boarder on the subject of floriculture, she looked a most dangerous nurse for any vounir man of three-and-twenty.

' I owe Miss Darrell and you all, mor than I can ever repay,' ho said, quietly ; ♦ that ia understood. * I have never tried to bhank her, or you either — words are so inadequate in these cases. Believe me, though, 1 am not ungrateful.' 4 Say no more,' Mr Darrell cut in hastily ; 1 only tell us how we are to address you while you remain, "Mr Charley" is an unsatisfactory sort of appellation. • My name is Stuart; but, as a favour, may I request you to" go on calling me Charley V • Stuart !' said the other, quickly ; • one of the Stuarts, "Dankers, of New York ?' 4 The same. My father is James Stuarfc ; you' know him probably V The face of Frederic Darrell darkened and grew almost stern. ' Your father was my wife's cousin — Edith* mothei\ Have you never heard him speak of Eleanor Stuart ?' • Who married Frederic Darrell ? Often. My dear Mr Darrell, is it possible that you — that I have the happiness of being related to you ?' «-' To my daughter, if you like — her second cousin — to me, no,' Mr Darrell said, halfemiling, half sad. ' Your father and his family long ago repudiated all .claims of mme — I am not going to force myself upon their notice now. Edie-Edie, my love, come in here, and listen to some strange news.' She threw down her spade, and came in laughing and glowing, her hair tumbled, her collar awry, her dress soiled, her hands not over clean, but looking, oh ! so indescribably fresh, and fair, and healthful, and handsome. 'What is it?' she asked. 'Has Mr Charley gone and sprained his other ankle ?' 'Not quite 89 bad as that.' And then her father narrated the discovery they | had mutually made. Miss Dithy opened i her bright brown eyes. 'Like a chapter out of a novel where ' everybody turn 3 out to be somebody else. "It is— it is— it is— my own, my long-lost eon I" And so we're second cousins, and you're Charley Stuarb ; and Trixy— now who's Trixy V 4 Trixy's my sister. How do you hapj»ea fco know anything about her V Edith made a very wry face. The nights I've spent— the days I'r« dragged through, the tortures I've undergone, listening to you shouting for " Trixy," would have driven any less well-balanced brain stark mad ! May I sit down ? Digging in the sunshine, and rowing with Johnny Ellis is awiully hot work. ' 1 Digging in the sunshine is detrimental to the complexion, and rowing with Johnny Ellis is injurious to the temper. I object to both.' 4 Oh, you do ?' said Miss Darrell, opening her eyes again ; 'It matters so much, too, whether you object or nob. Johnny Ellis is useful, and sometimes agreeable Charley Stuarb is neither one nor t'other. It 1 mayn't die and quarrel with him, is there anything your lordship would like me to do V ' You may sit on this footstool at my feet — woman's proper place — and read me to sleep. That book you wero reading aloud yesterday — what was it ? Oh, " Pendennis," was rather amusing — what I heard of ib.' • What you heard of it !' Miss Darrell retorts, indignantly. ' You do well to add that. The man who could go to sleep listening to Thackeray is a man worthy only of contempt and scorn ! There's Mr Ellis calling me — I must go.' Miss Darrell and Mr Stuart, in his present state of convalescence, rarely met except to quarrel. They spoke their minds to one another, with a refreshingfranknessremarkable to hear. ' You remind me of one I loved very dearly once, Dithy,' Charley said to her, sadly, one day, afber an unusually stormy wordy war — ' in fact, the only one 1 ever did love. You resemble her, too — the same sort of hair and complexion, and exactly the same sort of — ah — temper ! Her name was Fido — she was a black and tan terrier — very like you, my dear, very like. Ah ! these accidental resemblances are cruel things — they tear open half-healed wounds, and cause them to bleed afresh. Fido met with an untimely end — she was drowned one dark nighb in a cistern. I thought I had outlived that griet, but when 1 look at you—' A stinging box on the ear, given with right goodwill, cut short the mournful reminiscence, and brought tears to Mr Stuart's eyes, that were not tears of gri«f for Fido. ' Yon wretch !' cried Miss Darrell, with flashing eyes. ' I've a complexion of black and tan, have I, and a temper to match! The only thing / see to regret in your story is, that it wasn't Fidos master who fell into the cistern, instead of Fido. To think I should live to be called a black and tan !' They never met except to quarrel. Edith's inflammatory temper was up in arms perpetually. They kept the house in an uncommonly lively state. It seemed to agree with Charley. His twisted ankle grew strong rapidly, flesh and colour came back, the world was nob bo be robbed of one of its brightest ornaments just yet. He pub off writing to his friends from day to day, bo the great disapproval of Mr Darrell, who was rather behind the age in his notions of filial duty. 'It's of no use worrying,' Mr Stuart made answer, with the easy insouciance concerning all things earthly winch sab so naturally upon him ; ' bad shillings always come back I—let1 — let that truthful old adage console them. Why should I fidget myself about them ? Take my word they're not fidgeting themselves about me. Th« governor's absorbed in the rise and fall of stocks, the maternal is up to her eyes in the last parties of the season, and my sister is just out and absorbed body and soul in beaux and dresses. They never expect me until they see me.' About the- close of April Mr Stuart and Miss Darrell fought their last battle and parted. He went back to New York and to his own world, and life stagnant and flat flowed back on its old level for Edith Darrell. Stagnant and flat it had always been, but never half so dreary as now. Something had come into her life and gone out of it, something bright and new, and wonderfully pleasant. There was a great blank where Charley's handsome fBce had been, and all at once life seemed to lose ita relish for the girl of sixteen. A restlessness took possession of her. Sandypoint and all belonging to it grew distasteful. She wanted change, excitement — Charley Stuart, perhaps — something different certainly from what she was used to, or likely to get. Charley went home and told the 'governor,' and the 'maternal,' and ♦Trixy' of his adventure, and the girl who had saved his life. Miss Beatrix listened in a glow of admiration. 'Is she pretty, Charley ?' »he asked, of course, the firrit inevitable female question. ♦Pretty?' Charley responded, meditatively, as though the idea struck him for the first time. 'Well, ye-e-es. In a cream-coloured sorb of way, Edith isn't bad-looking. It would be very nice of you now, Trix, to write her a letter, I think, seeing she saved my life, and nursed me, and is your second cousin, and everything.'

Beatrix needed no urging. She was an impetuous, enthusiastic young woman of eighteen, fearfully and .wonderfully addicted to correspondence. She sat down and • wrote a long, gushing letter to her • creamcoloured ' couain. Mrs Stuarb dropped her a line ot thanks also, and Charley of course, wrote, and there her adventure eeemed to come to an end. Miss Stuart's letters were long and frequent. Mr Stuart's rambling epistle alternately made her laugh and lose her temper, a daily loss with poor, discontented Edith. With the fine discrimination most men possess, he sent her, on her seventeenth birthday, a set of turquoise and pearls, which made her sallow complexion hideous, or, at least, as hideous as anything can make a pretty girl. That summer he ran down to Sandypoint for a fortnight's fishing, and an oasis came suddenly in the desert of Edith's life. She and Charley might quarrel still, and I am bound to say they did, on every possible occasion and on every possible point, but they were never satisfied a moment apart. Thefortnight ended, the fish were caught, he went back, and the dull days and the long nights, the cooking, darning, mending began again, and went on until madness would have been a relief, lfe was the old story of the Sleeping Beauty waiting for the prince to come and wake her into life and love with his kiss. Only in this instance the prince had come and gone, and left Beauty, in the sulks, behind. She was eighteen years old and sick of tier life. And just when disgust and discontent were taking palpable form, and she was debating between a jump into Sandypoint Bay and running oft, came Gharley, with his mother's letter. From > that hour the story of Edith Dai-rall's life began.

CHAPTER 111. trixy's party. Two weeks sufficed for Miss Darrell's preparations. A quantity of new linen, three new dresses, one hat, one spring sacque — that was all. Mr Darrell had consented — what was there he could, have refused his darling ? He had consented, hiding the bitter pang it cost him, deep in his own quiet heart. It was the loss of her mother over again ; the tender passion and the present Mrs Darrell were two facts perfectly incompatible. Mrs Darrell aided briskly in the preparation — to tell the truth, she was not sorry to be rid of her step-daughter, between whom and herself perpetual war raged. Edith as a worker was a failure ; she went about the dingy house, in her dingy dresses, with tha air of an out-at-elbows duchess. She snubbed the boarders, she boxed the juvenile Darrell's ears, she ' sassed ' the mistress of the house. •It speaks volumes for our amiability, Dithy,' Charley remarked, ' the intense eagerness and delight, with which everybody in this establishment hails your departure. Four dirty little Darrells run about the passages with their war-whoop, "Dibhy's going — hooray! Now we'll have fun !' Your step-mother's sere and yellow visage beams with blis3 ; even the young gentlemen who are lodged and boarded, Greek-ed and Latin-ed here, wear faces of suppressed relief, that tells its own tale to the student of human nature. Your welfare must be unspeakably precious to them, Edie, when they bear their approachI ing bereavement so well. 1 He paused. The speech was a lengthy one, and lengthy speeches mostly exhausted Mr Stuart. He lay back, watching his fair relative as she eat sewing near, with lazy, half-closed eyes. Her work dropped in her lap, a faint flush rose up over her dusk face. • Charley,' she respondedgravely, ' 1 don't wonder you cay this— ib is true, and nobody feels it more than I. lam a disagreeable creature, a selfish nuisance, an idle, discontented kill-joy. I only wonder, you are not afraid to take me with you at all.' Mr Stuart sat up rather surprised. • My dearest coz, don't be so tremendously in earnest. If I had thought you were going to take it seriously — ' ' Let us be serious for onee — we have all our lives left for quarrelling,' said Miss Darrell, as though quarrelling were a pleasant recreation. ' I sit down and try bo think sometimes why I am so miserable —so wretched in my present life, why 1 hail the prospect of a new one with such delight. I see other girls — nicer, cleverer girls than I am every way, and their lives suffice for them — the daily, domestic routine that is most horrible drudgery to me, pleases and satisfies them. It must be that I have an incapacity for life ; I daresay when the novelty and gloss wear oft" I shall tire equally of the life 1 am going to. A new dress, a dance, a beau, and the hope of a prospective husband suffices for the girls I speak of. For me — none of your sarcastic smiles, sir — the thought of a future husband is — ' • Only vanity and vexation of spirit. But there is a future husband. You ara forced to admit that, Dithy. I wonder what he is to be like 1 A modern Sir Launcelot, with the beauty of all the gods, the courage of a Cccui' de Lion, the bow of a Chesterfield; and the purse of JTortunatus. That's the photo, isn't it ?' « No, sir — not a bit like it. The purse ot a Fortunatus if you like — I ask nothing more. The Sir Launcelots of life, if they exist at all, are mostly poor men, and I don't want anything to do with poor men. My marriage is to be a purely business transaction — I settled that long ago. He may have the form and face ot a Satyr ; he may have seventy years, so that he be worth a million or so, I will drop my best curtsey when he asks, and say," Yes, and thanky, sir." If the Apollo himself knelt before* me, with an empty purse, I should turn my back upon him in pity and disdain.' •Is that meant for me, Edie?' Mr Stuart inquired, rising on his elbow, and admiringly gazing at his own handsome face in the glass. ' Because if it is, don't excite yourself. Forewarned is foreai*med —I'm not going to ask you.' ' I never thought you were,' Edith said, laughing. ' I never aspired so high. As well love some bright particular star, etcetera, etcetera, as the only son of James Stuart, Esquire, lineal descendant of the Princes of Scotland, and banker of Wallstreet. No, Charley, I know what you will do. You'll drift through life for the next three or four years, as you have drifted up to the preeent, well-looking, well-dressod, well-mannered, and then some day your father will come to you and say gruffly, •' Charles !" (Edith grows dramatic as she narrates — ifc is a husky masculine voice that speaks :) " Here's Miss Petroleum's father, with a million and a half — only child — order a suit of new clothes and go and ask her to marry you !" And you will look at him with a helpless sigh, and go. Your father will select your wife, sir, and you'll take her, like a good boy, when you're told. I shouldn't wonder now, but that ib i« to select a wife for you, and a husband for Trixy, he is taking this projected trip to Europe.' 1 Shouldn't you ? Neither should I. Never wondex\ Against my principles,' Charley murmers. ' There are plenty of titled aristocracy abroad —so I am told— ready to silver-gild

their coronets by a union with plutocracy. Plenty Lady Janes and Lady Mai'js to sell themselves to the highest bidder.' 1 As Edith Darrell is ?' lAs Edith Darrell is. It's* all very fine talking of love and devotion, and the emptiness of life without. Believe me, if one has plenty of money one can dispense with love. I've read a good many novels, but they haven't turned my head on that subject. From all I've read, indeed, I should think it muse be a very uncomfortable sort ot intermittent fever, indeed. Don't love anybody except yourself, and it is out of the power of any human being to make you very wretched.' ' A sentiment whose truth is only equalled by its — selfishness.' • Yes, ib is selfish ; and it is your thoroughly selfish people, who get the best of everything in this world. lam selfish and worldly — ambitious and heartless, and all that ib abominable. I may as well own it. You'll find it out for yourself 300n.' 'A most unnece?sary acknowledgment, my dear child — it is patent to the dullest observer. Bub, now, Edith— look here — this is serious, mind !' He raises iiimself again on his elbow, and looks, with a curious smile into her darkly-earnesfc, cynical young face. ' Suppose lam madly in love with you — " madly in love" is the correct phrase, isn't it ? — suppose I am at your feet, going through all the phases of the potential mood, " commanding, exhorting, entreating " you to marry me — you wouldn't say no, would you, Edie ? You like me— don't deny ib. You know you do — like me well enough to marry me tomorrow. Would you refuse me in spite of my dependence on my father, and my empty purse ?' He took her hand, and held it tightly, despite her struggles. ' Would you, Edie ?' he cays, putting his arm around her waist. ' I'm not a sentimental fellow, but I believe in love. Come ! you wouldn't — you couldn't bid me go.' Her colour had risen — that lovely rosepink colour, that lit her brunette face into such beauty — but she resolutely freed herself, and met his half-tender, half-merry glance, full. I 1 would,' she said, 'if I— liked you so, that you filled my whole heart. Let me go, air, and no more of this nonsense. I know what I am talking about, and what comes of marrying for love. There was my own mother, she left a rich and luxurious home, wealthy suitors, all the comforts and elegances of life, without which life isn't worth living, and ran away with papa. Then followed long years of poverty, discomfort, illness and miserable grubbing. She never complained — perhaps she wasn't even very unhappy ; hers wasn't the &ort of love that flies out of the window when poverty comes in at the door — she just laded away and died. For myself I have been dissatisfied with my lot ever since I can remember— pining for the glory and grandeur of this wicked world. There is bub one way in which they can ever be mine— by marriage. If marriage will not bring them, then 1 will go to my grave | Edith Darrell.' ' Which I don't think you will,' Mr Stuart responded. 'Young ladies like you, whoset out on the search-matrimonial with lots of common-sense, worldliness, selfishness, and mercenary motives, generally reach the goal. lo's a fair enough exchange — so much youth and good looks for so many thousand dollars. I wish you all success, Miss Darrell, in your laudable undertaking. It is well we should understand each other, at once and for ever, or even I some day might be tempted to make a fool of myself. Your excellent couspels, my dearest cousin, will be invaluable to me, should my lagging footsteps falter by the way. Edith ! where have you learned to be so hard, so worldly, so — if you will pardon me — so unwomanly ?' 'Is ib unwomanly?' she repeated, dreamily. • Well, perhaps it is. lam honest at least — give me credit for that. My own hard life has taught me, books have taught me, looking at my mother and listening to my step-mother have taught me. I feel old at eighteen — old and tired. I am just one of those girls, I think, who turn out very good or very bad women, as fate deals with them. It's not too late yet to draw back, Charley. Your mother can easily get another young lady to do the French and German business. You can tell her I don't suit, and leave me at home.' *Not too late to draw back,' he said, with his indolent smile. 'Is there ever such a thing: as drawing back at all ? What is done is done. I couldn't go without you now, if I tried. 0, don't look alarmed, I don't mean anything. You amuse and interest me, that is all. You're something of a study — entirely different from the genus young lady I'm so accustomed to. Only — keep your frankness for Cousin Charley, he's harmless; don't display it to the rest of the world. It might spoil your chances. Even millionaires don't care to walk into he trap, unless the spring's are hidden in roses. Como, throw" down that endless sewing, and let's have a walk on the beach. Who knows when we may see the sun go down together again, over the classic waters of Sandypoint Bay ?' Edith laughed, but she rose to obey. 'And I thought you were not sentimental. One would think it the Bay of Naples. However, as we start to morrow, I don't mind going down and bidding the old rocks and sands good-bye.' She put on her hat, and the two wen 4 ! wandering away together, to watch the sun set over the sea. In the rosy light ot spring sunset, the fishing boats drifted on the shining waters, and the fisherman's chant came borne to their ears. 'It reminds me of that other April evening two years ago, Difchy, when we came down here to say good-bye. You cried then at 1 parting — do you remember ? But you were I only sixteen, poor child, and knew no better. You wouldn't cry now, would you, for any man in the universe V 1 Not for Charley Stuart certainly — he needn't think it. 1 •He doesn't think it, my pet ; he never looks for impossibilities. I wonder if that night in the snow were to come again if you'd risk your lifo now, as you did then ?' 4 Risk my life ! What bosh ! There was no risk ; and bad as I am, and heartless as I've grown, I don't think — I don't think I'd walk away, and leave any poor wretch to die. Yes, Charley, if the night in the snow came over again, I'd do as I did then.' 4 1 don't believe ib was kindness after all,' Charley responds. ' I bave a presentiment that a day will come, Dithy, when I'll hate you. I shouldn't have suffered much if you had let me freeze to death. And I've a strong prescience (is that the word?) that I'll fall in love with you some day, and be jilted, and undergo untold torture, and hate you with a perfect frenzy. It will be a very fatiguing experience, but I feel in my bones that it is to be. ' ' Indeed 1 A Saul among the prophets. I shall not be surprised, however ; it is my usual fate to be hated. And now, as we seem to have drifted into disagreeable and personal sort of talk, suppose we change the subject ? There is a dory yonder ; if your indolent sultanship can bear the labour of steering, I'll give you a last row across the bay.' They take the dory and glide away. Charley lies back, his hat pulled over his eyes, smoking a cigar and steering. She has the oars, the red sunlight is on her

face. Edith defies tan and sunburn. She looks at lazy Charley, and sings as she pulls, a saucy smile of defiance on her lips : ' It was on a Monday morning, Kight early in the year, That Charley came to our town, The young Chevalier, And Charley he's my darling, My darling, my darling ; And Charley he's my darling, The young Chevalier !' What Charloy answers is not on record. Perhaps the aged millionaire, who is to be the future happy possessor of Miss DarrelPs charms, would nob care to hear it. They drift on — they are together—they ask no more. The rosy after-glow of the sunset fades out, tho night comes white with stars, the faint spring wind sighs over tiie bay, and both are silent. ' And,' says Charley's inner consciousness, ' if this be nob falling in love, I wonder what is ? They linger yet longer. It is the last night, and romantic enough, for so worldly and cynical a pair ; they watch the faint little Aoril moon rise. Edith looks over her left shoulder at it, and says something under her breath. ' What invocation arc you murmuring there V Charley asks, half asleep. 1 1 was wishing. I always wish when I see the new moon.' 1 For a rich husband of course, Edie ! He sits up suddenly. ' There's the baronet ! Suppose you go for him.' '•' Go for him !' What a horribly vulgar way you haveot speaking. No. I'll leave him for Trixy. Have you had enough of star light- and moonlight, Mr Stuart, on Sandypoint Bay, because, I'm going to turn and row home. I've had no supper, and I shall eat you if we stay here fasting much longer.' , She rows back and arm in arm they ascend the rocky path, and linger one last moment at the garden gate. ' So ends the old life,' Edith says, softly. ♦Itis my last night at home. I ought to feel sad, I suppose, but I don't. I never felt so happy in my life. He is holding her hand. For two who are not lovers, and never mean to be, they understood each other wonderfully well. 'And remember your promise.' he answers. 'Let the life that is coming bring what it may, you are never to blame me.' Then Mrs Darrell's tall, spare figure appears in the moonlight, summoning them sharply to tea, and hands are unclasped, and in silence bhey follow her. The firsb train from Sandypoint to Boston bears away Edith Darrell and Charley Stuart. Not alone together, however—forbid it Mrs Grundy ! Mrs Rogers, the Sandypoint milliner, is going to New York for the summer fashions;, and the young lady travels under her protection. They reach Boston in time for the train that connects with the Fall River boats. It has been a day of brightest sunshine ; it is a lovely spring night. They dine on board. Mrs Rogers is sleepy and tired and goes to bed (she and Edith spare the same stateroom), with a last charge to Mr Stuart not to keep Miss Darrell too long on deck in the night air. They float grandly up the brighb river. Two wandering harpists and a violinist play very sweetly near them, and they walk up and down, talking and feeling uncommonly happy and free, until Charley's watch points to eleven, and the music comes to a stop. They say good-night. She goes to Mrs Rogers and the upper berth and Mr Stuart meditatively returns to his own. He is thinking, that all things considered, it is just as well that this particularly fascinating companionship ends in a manner to-morrow. To-morrow comes. It is Miss Beatrix Stuart's birthday. The great party is to be to-night. They shake hands and part with Mrs Rogers" on the pier. Charley hails a hack and assists his cousin in, and they are whirled ofl: to the palatial avenue up-town. The house is a stately brown-stone front, course, and on a sunny corner. Edith leans back, quite silent, her heart beating as she looks. The whirl, the crash, the rush of New York streets stun her, the stateliness of the Stuart mansion awes her. She is very pale, her lips are set together. She turns to Charley suddenly, and holds out her hands to him as a helpless child might. ' I feel lost already, and— and ever so little afraid. How big and grand it looks. Don't desert me, Charley. I feel as though I were astray in a strange land.' He squeezes the little hand, be whispers something reassuiing, and life and colour come back to her face. ' Make your mind easy, Dithy,' is what he says. ' Like Mrs Micawber, " I'll never desert you." 1 He rings the door-bell sharply, a smartlooking young woman admits them, and Edith goes with him into a splendid and spacious apartment, where three people sit at breakfast. Perhaps it is the garnish bunshine, sparkling on so much cut glass and silver, that dazzles Ediths eyes, but for a minute she can see nothing. Then the mist clears away, the trio have risen — a pompous - looking old gentleman in a shining bald head and expansive white vest, a pallid, feeble-looking elderly lady in a lace cap, and a tall, stylish girl, with Charley's eyes and hair, in violet ribbono and white cashmere. The bald gentleman shakes hands with her, and welcomes her in a husky baritone; the faded, elderly lady and stylish young lady kiss her, and say some very pleasant and gracious words. As in a dream Edith sees and hears all — as in a dream she is led off by Beatrix. ' I shall take you to your room myself. I only hope you may like ib. The furniture and arrangements are my taste, every bit. Oh you dear darling !' cries Miss Stuart, stopping in the passage to give Edith a hug, ' You don't know how frightened I've been that you wouldn't come. I'm in love with you already ! And what a heroine you are — a real Grace — what'a-her-name-saving Charley's life and all that. And best of all, you're in time for the ball— which is a rhyme, though I didn't mean it.' She laughs and suddenly gives Edith another hug. ' You pretty creature !' she says ; ' I'd no idea you were half so good looking. I asked Charley, bub you might as well ask a lamp-post as Charley. Here is your room — how do you like it?' She would have been difficult to please indeed if she had not liked it. To Edith's inexperienced eyes, it is a glowing nest of amber silk curtains yellowish Brussels carpet, tinted walls, pretty pictures, gilt frames, mirrors, ornaments, and dainty French bed. 'Do you like it ? Bub I see by your face you do. I'm so glad. This is my room adjoining, and here's your bath. IS'ow lay off your things and come down to breakfast.' Sbill in a dream Edith obeys. She descends to breakfast in her grey travelling suit, looking pale, and nob at all brilliant. Miss Stuart, who has had her doubts i that this country cousin may prove a rival, is reassured. She takes her breakfast, and then Beatrix conducts her over the, house — a wonder of splendour, of velvet carpets, magnificent upholstering, lace drapings, gilding and ormolu. But her face keeps its pale, grave look. Trixy wonders if she is not a stupid little body after all. Last of all they reach the sacred privacy of Trixy's own room, and there she displays her ball dress. She expiates on its make and its merits, in professional

language, and with a volubility that makes Edith's head swim. ' It is made with a court train, trimmed with a deep flounce, waved in tho lower edge, and this flounce is trimmed with four narrow flounces, edged with narrow point lace. The sides are en revers, with sashes tiedin butterfly bow in thecentreof theback below the pufling of the skirt near the waist. Tho front of the skirt is trimmed to correspond with the train, theshortapron, flounced and trimmed with point laco, gathered up at the sides, under the revers on the train. The waist is high in the shoulders, V shaped in front and back, with small flowing sleeves, finished with olaitings of white silkc tulle. And now,' cries Tnxy, breathless and triumphant, 'if that doesn't fetch the baronet, you may tell me what will ! The pearls are superb — here they are. Pearls are en regie for weddings only, but how was poor pa to know that ? Arn't they lovely ?' They lie in their cloudy lustre, necklet, earrings, bracelet. 'Lovely!' Edith repoats ; 'lovely-in-deed. Beatrix, what a fortunate girl you are. ' There is a touch of envy in her tone. Beatrix laughs, aiid gives her a third hug. ' Why ? Because I have pearls? Bless you i they're nothing. You'll have diamonds beyond counting yourself, one of those days. You'll marry rich, of course — brunettes are all ths style now, and you're sure to look lovely by gaslight. What are you going to wear to-night?' 'I'm like FloraMcFHmsoy,' Edith laughs; • I have nothing to wear. There is a white Swiss mu&lin in my trunk, but it will look wofully rustic and dowdy, I'm afraid, in your gorgeous drawing-rooms.' ' Nonsenbe. Plain Swiss is always in taste for girls of eighteen. I wore it greatly mv Srst season. Do you know I feel awfully old, Edith — twenty-one to-night ? I must do something toward settling before the year ends. Let us see the white Swiss. Now there is a lovely amber tissure I have — it isn't my colour. I never wore it but once, and it would suit you exactly. Lucy, my maid, is a perfect dress-maker, and could alter it to fit you easily before — Now, Edith ! you're not angry ?' For the colour has risen suddenly all over Edith's proud pale face. ' You have made a mistake, Miss Stuart, that is all — meant kindly, lam sure. If my white muslin is admissible, I will wear it : if not, I can keep to my room. But neither now, nor at any future time, can I accept — chai ity. ' Trixy gives a little shriek at the word, and inflicts a fourth hug on Edith. She is the soul of easy eoocl - nature her=elf, and ready to take anything and everything that is offered her, from a husband to a bouquet, 1 Bless the child !' she exclaims. ' Charity ! As if one ever thought of such a thing. It's just like me, however, to make a mess of it. I mean well, but somehow I always do make a mess of it. And my prophetic soul telta me, the case of Sir Victor Catheron will be no exception to the rest.' Ihe day wears on. Edith drives down town, shopping with Madame and Mademoiselle Stuart ; she returns, and dines in state with the family. The big, brown house is lit up from basement to attic, and presently they all adjourn to their rooms to dress. 1 Don't ask me to appear while you are receiving your guesbs,' Edith says. 'I'll step in unobserved, when everybody has come.' She declines all offers of assistance, and dresses herself. It is a simple toilet surely — the crisp white muslin, out of which the polished shoulders rise ; a little gold chain and cross, once her mother's ; earrings and bracelet of gold and coral, also once her mother's ; and her rich, abundant, blackishbrown hair, gathered back in a graceful way peculiar to herself. She looks -very pretty, and she knows it. Presently sails in Miss Stuart, resplendent in the pink silk and pearls, the ' court train ' trailing two or three yards behind her, her light hair 'done up' in a pyramid wonderful to behold, and loaded with camellias. 'How do I look, Dithy? This straw-berry-ice pink is awfully becoming to me, i&n't it? And you — why, you look lo\ely — lovely. I'd no idea you made up &o handsomely. Ah, we blondes have no chance by gaslight, against you brunette 1 -.' She sweeps downstairs in her lOoecoloured splendour, and Edith is alone. She sits by the open window, and looks out at the night life of the great city. Carriage after carriage roll up to the door, and somehow, in the midst of all this life and brightness, and bustle, a strange feeling ot loneline&s and isolation comes over her. It is the old chronic discontent cropping up again ! If it were only not improper for Charley to come up here and sil beside her, and smoke, in the sweet spring dusk, and be sarcastic as usual, what a comfort it would be just now ! Somehow — ' how it comes let doctors tell ' — that restless familiar of hers is laid when he is by her side — never lonely, never discontented then. As she thinks this, innocently enough, despite all her worldy wisdom, there is a tap at the door, and Lucy, the maid, comes smilingly in, holding an exquisice bouquet, all pink and white roses, in her hand. ' Mr Charles' compliments, please, miss, and he's waiting for you at the foot of the stairs when you're ready, miss, for the ballroom.' She starts and colours with pleasure. ' Thank you, Lucy,' she says, taking the bouquet. ' Tell Mr Stuart I will be down in a moment.' The girl leaves the room. With a smile on her face it is just as well 1 Mr Charles ' does not see, she btands looking at her roses ; then she buries her face, almost as bright, in their dewy sweetness. ' Dear, thoughtful Charley !' she whispers gratefully. ' What would ever have become of me but for him ?' She selects one or two bits of scarlet blossom and green spray, and artistically twists them in the rich waves of her hair. She takes one last glance at her own pretty image in the mirror, sees that fan, lacehandkerchief, and adornments generally, are in their places, and then trips away and goes down. In elegant costume, looking unutterably handsome and well-dressed, Mr Charles Stuart stands at the foot of the grand stairway, waiting. He looks at her as she stands in the full glare of the gasaliers. ' White muslin, gold and coral, pink roses, and no chignon. My dear Miss Darrell, taking you as a whole, I think I have seen worse-looking young women in my life.' He draws her hand through his arm, with this enthusiastic remark, and Edith finds herself in a blaze of light and a crowd of brilliantly dressed people. Three long drawing-rooms are thrown open en suite ; beyond is the ball-room, with its waxed floors and invisible musicians. Flowers, gaslight, jewels, handsome women, and gallant men are everywhere ; the band is crashing out a pulse-tingling waltz, and still Edith hears and sees, and moves in a dream. ' Come, 5 Charley says. His arm is around her waist, and they whirl away among the waltzers. Edith waltzes well, so does Charley. She feels as though she were floating on air, not on earth. Then it is over, and she is being introduced to people, to resplendent youn ladies and almost \

equally resplendent young gentlemen. Charley resigns her to one of these latter, and she glides through a mazurka. That ; too ends, and as it grows rather warm, her partner leads her away to a cool musicroom, whence procoed melodious sounds. It is Trixy at the piano, informing a solect audience in shrill soprano, and in the character of the ' Queen of the May,' that 4 She had been wild and wayward, but she was not wayward now.' Edith's partner 6nds her a seat and volunteers to go for an ice. As she sits fanning horsolf, she sees Charley approaching with a young man of about his own age, taller than hois— fairer, with a look altogether somehow of a diflerent nationality. He has large blue eyes, very fair hair, and the blondest of complexions. Instinctivoly she knows who it is. 4 Ah, Edith,' Charley says, 'hero you, aro. 1 have been searching for you. Miss Darrell, allow mo to present to you Sir Victor Catheron.' ( To hi Continued. )