Alister. "She shall marry Mr. Osborne, and she shall have no more to say to Captain Vilmar."

CHAPTER II.

WELL, only fancy, mother, Captain Vilmar never sent me the valentine, after all."

"You see you were too sanguine, dear," replied Mrs. MacAlister. "Gentlemen do not consider themselves bound to fulfil all the promises they make to young ladies."

Gracie thought she was very sorry that Captain Vilmar did not fulfil his promise; she would just like to have seen what kind of a valentine he would have written. She had thought very much of the grave earnest face that morning as her maid was weaving the bright hair into the wondrous network of plaits which adorned her pretty head.

Captain Vilmar had also thought of his plain grave face, and had wished that for Gracie's sake it was a handsome one; he knew it was not the face to take the fancy of a bright young girl. Yet no woman ever looked into Edgar Vilmar's face without trusting him; it was the face of a man who could not be otherwise than gentle and chivalrous towards women. He wished his valentine "God-speed" and a favorable answer, little dreaming that it was to be snugly hidden away in a secret drawer of Mrs. MacAlister's escritoire.

Yes, that was the fate of Captain Vilmar's valentine; and, having transacted that piece of business, Mrs. MacAlister descended to the breakfast-room, and, kissing Gracie, ate a heartier breakfast than she had eaten for some time past.

"Perhaps, on the whole, mother, it is as well that Captain Vilmar did not send me a valentine, because I could not send him one in return, as I promised," said Gracie, who could not help reverting to the subject now and then.

"He is to dine here to-day," continued her mother, "and your father and I particularly request that you will make yourself agreeable to him."

"So I will, mother," replied Gracie; "and, if Captain Vilmar sends me a valentine I'll exhibit it, and say from whom it is; for I saw Mr. Osborne looking quite spitefully at him the other night when we went off together."

"Gracie, you must not say anything about this Captain Vilmar," said her mother. "The truth is, Mr. Osborne has proposed for you, and your father and I give the marriage our fullest approval."

"I-marry-Mr. Osborne!" slowly ejaculated Gracie. "Why, mother, he is a dreadful old man! Surely you and papa do not wish me to marry him!"

"My dearest child," said Mrs. MacAlister, "you know we are only anxious to secure your happiness; and we feel sure that Mr. Osborne will make a most affectionate and excellent husband. I cannot understand your refusing him; half the girls in the county would be glad of such a chance."

"I am quite willing to give him to half the girls in the county," returned Gracie, petulantly.

"I hear your father coming down stairs," said Mrs. MacAlister; " pray do not annoy him by giving way to your temper in such a manner."

Mr. MacAlister entered and took his place at the breakfast-table in a preoccupied way. They were an uncomfortable trio-Gracie trembling and terrified, and longing, yet not daring, to steal away and ponder the news her mother had told her, Mrs. MacAlister anxious yet determined, and her husband care worn and depressed.

As the latter finished his breakfast he looked at Gracie, and said, with a ghastly

attempt at a smile, "So my little Gracie is going to be a lady, fit to hold up her head amongst the best in the county?"

Gracie did not answer, but the color mounted to her forehead, and she pressed her lips firmly together, as if to restrain herself from answering.

"Have you spoken to her upon the matter," he continued, addressing Mrs. MacAlister, "and told her of the honor Mr. Osborne has done her?"

"I do not consider it any honor!" exclaimed Gracie. "Surely, papa, you do not wish me to marry him?”

"My dear Gracie, you are young and inexperienced, or you would not speak so," said her father. "Mr. Osborne is a man of whom any girl might be proud-rich and well-born."

Gracie wondered if she was dreaming. Could it be possible that her parents wished her to marry that disagreeable old man? Surely it must be some horrible nightmare. Rising and standing beside her father's chair, she said, excitedly, "Papa, tell me all about it. I feel sure I do not rightly understand what you and mother mean."

An expression of pain shot over his careworn face, giving it a haggard look. Without looking at Gracie, he motioned her away with his hand, saying, “Go away, my child-I want to speak with your mother."

She mechanically obeyed. She was right when she said she did not quite understand what her father and mother had been speaking to her about-she was stunned! Marry that old man! She recollected how she had tried to avoid him at the ball, and how grateful she had felt to Captain Vilmar when the latter had taken her away. She wondered if Captain Vilmar had seen that she was trying to avoid Mr. Osborne; she wondered what he would say if he heard she was going to be married; she wondered why he had not sent the valentine, as he had promised. In fact, Grace kept wondering and wondering, until her thoughts went back again to the ball; and, as she recalled various looks and tones of Captain Vilmar's, she wondered very much what they had meant.

Presently her musings were interrupted by her mother's voice calling to her to come down. As she entered the breakfast-room, she gave an involuntary start of surprise at the appearance which her father pre

sented. He was seated in his usual place, his form bent, and his hands hanging listlessly on the arms of the chair. Raising his eyes, the expression in them of despairing entreaty went to Gracie's very soul. Desiring her to sit down, he drew a letter from his pocket, saying:

"Gracie, I've been a good father to you ?"

"Yes, papa," she said, in an amazed tone.

"And your mother and I have always tried to make our little Gracie happy?" Gracie assented. "Then, to please us, we hope our Gracie will accede to our wishes, and marry Mr. Osborne."

“Papa, papa," she cried, wildly, "do not ask me to do that! I'll do anything else to please you."

"You could not do anything else which would give us half so much pleasure," said her mother. "What are your objections ?"

"O, because he is so old, and I should be so unhappy," she replied. "I could never love him-O, I cannot marry him! Please, please, papa darling, do not ask me!"

"Gracie," said Mr. MacAlister, in an odd constrained voice, "would you like to see all of us leave our own dear home, and go forth into the world without money, and very likely without friends ?"

"No, papa. But why should we? Can Mr. Osborne send us away?"

"Far from that he can keep us in it. Gracie, I am a ruined man. You cannot understand all about it, but I want money very badly, and, unless you marry Mr. Osborne, I do not knew where to look for it."

"Cannot you get it at the bank, papa?" Mr. MacAlister made an impatient gesture, and, tapping the letter with his finger, said, "Will you marry Mr. Osborne or not? 1 must have your answer before I reply to this letter. Will you have your mother and me cast as beggars upon the streets ?" Gracie gave a faint little cry.

"Don't-don't, papa! Yes, I'll marry Mr. Osborne-tell him so. Perhaps-perhaps something will happen, so that he will not ask me."

"But he has asked you," said her father, "and he means what he says; so mind you be attentive to him when he comes here this evening."

Mrs. MacAlister herself superintended

Gracie's toilet, and very lovely she looked, notwithstanding the sad troubled look in the sweet violet eyes. She was dressed in pale blue, whilst costly pearls gleamed on her white neck and fair rounded arms. She passively received Mr. Osborne's attentions-she did not repel, neither did she encourage them. The enamoured swain was upwards of sixty, short, stout, floridcomplexioned, and with scanty gray hairs fringing a bald, round, bullet-shaped head. He was pompous and egotistical in his manner of speaking, and, it seemed to strike Gracie, decidedly patronizing toward her father and mother; but what most repelled her was the hard sensual look in his little cunning gray eyes. She felt her heart grow sick within her.

"So the Rangers are ordered off?" said Mr. MacAlister.

"I believe so. Our hospitable entertainers of the other evening will soon be dancing after the enemy instead of after the pretty girls," said Mr. Osborne, looking at Gracie with an idiotic leer intended to be killing.

Mrs. MacAlister sent up an inward prayer of thankfulness, while little Gracie felt a sharp pain pierce through her heart and move her in spite of the stagnant apathy which had been gradually settling down upon her. And so he was going? Perhaps she should never see him again!

A group of officers were lounging in one of the windows of the Miltown Hotel; the waiter was distributing the contents of the afternoon's post-bag, and soon the group dispersed, leaving Captain Vilmar and the old gray-headed regimental surgeon the sole occupants of the apartment.

"Are you sure there was no letter for me?" asked Captain Vilmar.

"No sir," was the reply. And as the waiter spoke a handsome carriage drove past.

"Is not that Mr. MacAlister's carriage?" inquired Surgeon Speculum.

"Yes sir," was the reply. The waiter was fond of a bit of gossip, so he continued, "That elderly gentleman sitting on the front seat is Mr. Marmaduke Osborne, and I have just heard that he is going to be married to Miss MacAlister."

Captain Vilmar went for a walk. He knew, or fancied he knew, now why he had not received the promised answer. But

when had the engagement taken place? Certainly since he had seen her last, when she had looked at him so trustingly as she laid her little hand in his broad palm. The very thought of her touch thrilled through him strangely; he was soon going away to certain danger and probable death, and he felt that he should like dearly to feel once more the gentle pressure of that tiny hand. But-but was she not the affianced bride of another man? When he recollected that, this brave honest gentleman almost felt ashamed of his own thoughts, and told himself that it was a just judgment upon him for falling in love with a little girl whom he had seen only two or three times.

CHAPTER III.

"MOTHER dear, I wish you would not ask me to go to tea to the Rectory tonight," said Gracie MacAlister, about a week after the events just recorded had taken place.

"Don't be absurd, Gracie!" returned her mother. "You know Mr. Osborne will be there; and what would people say if you were absent ?"

Gracie sighed wearily and acquiesced; she did not care much, as far as she was herself concerned, what people thought upon the subject-she only knew that she felt heartsore and terrified. Mr. Osborne's pleadings for an early day to be fixed for the wedding seemed to make the whole dreaded affair so horribly real, and the constant state of excitement in which her mother managed to keep her had so worked upon Gracie's mind, that she longed earnestly to be allowed to spend that one evening quietly by herself.

No one could say that the Rev. Mr. and Mrs. Dormer might be ashamed to meet their greatest enemy in the gate-for a family of seven blooming daughters had blessed their union. Therefore, taking that circumstance into consideration, it is not to be wondered at that Mrs. Dormer took quite a motherly interest in the officers of the Rangers-poor young fellows, living there in a hotel, deprived of the congenial atmosphere of home, etc., etc.-hence two or three of the defenders of their country might be seen hovering about the Rectory any time between luncheon and supper-time. And no wonder, either; for the rector's daughters were

nice, pleasant, good girls, who always dressed and looked very much alike-as far as personal attractions were concerned, the Misses Dormer were chiefly remarkable for a superabundance of adipose tissue and fair hair. Added to the foregoing inducements, the rector's wine was excellent, and Mrs. Dormer was a gem of a hostess, possessing the charm of making every one feel perfectly at home.

"We are so glad to hear of your engagement, Gracie, and we all wish you every happiness, dear," said Miss Dormer to Gracie in the hall.

"Mr. Osborne is here, Gracie, and all the gentlemen have been congratulating him, except that stuck-up Captain Vilmar," supplemented Mary Dormer, a bright-eyed girl of about Gracie's own age.

Our little heroine felt a vivid blush overspread her face, and her heart beat fast as she entered the drawing-room of the Rectory. Never had she looked more lovely, and, as Mr. Osborne ostentatiously placed her on the sofa beside himself, her eyes met those of Captain Vilmar, who was earnestly gazing at her with a tender pitying glance; she held out her hand to him, and, coming forward, he silently pressed it, and then returned to his station by the piano.

Mr. Osborne was, under any circumstances, an offieious lover, and laboring under the influence of the rector's famous wine, his face looked redder than usual, his round bald head glistened in the waxlight, and his voice sounded thick and husky. Gracie felt towards him an indescribable loathing. O, if he would only leave her! She thought it would not be so bad if he even kept at a distance. Captain Vilmar's was not the only pitying eye turned upon her that evening; and a proud and grateful little girl was Gracie when Miss Dormer asked her to come to the piano and give them some music.

Gracie played; and when somebody came to take her place at the instrument she managed to slip unnoticed into a corner, out of the ken of her mother and her betrothed. Two of the Misses Dormer were vigorously executing the overture to "Zampa," yet, to her ear, more distinctly than the music sounded Captain Vilmar's voice, saying:

"Will you pardon my seeming impertinence in sending you a valentine, Miss

MacAlister? I would not have presumed to do so had I known you were engaged."

Gracie looked at him in blank amazement. She was correct when she said that he looked like a man who meant what he said. The grave good eyes looked at her with the same tender pitying light in them, and Gracie felt that she trusted him with her whole soul.

"Did you really send me the valentine ?" she asked. "I never got it."

"I sent it," he replied. "I cannot account for your not having received it." "I never got it," she repeated. could have become of it?"

"What

"Never mind it-perhaps it is just as well," said he, quickly, the probable fate of the valentine flashing across his acute mind.

"But I will mind it. I was so sorry not to have received it," said Gracie, innocently. A keen pang of delight shot through Edgar Vilmar's heart at her words. Bending over her, he said in a low tone, "Were you engaged to Mr. Osborne on St. Valentine's morning?"

Gracie turned ashy pale as she answered in the negative.

There she sat, his little white lamb, his little love-the affianced bride of another man! There was no one near to listen to him, so he might have told her of his love, might have disturbed her mind, might have flirted with her; but, instead, the brave honest gentleman went over to where Mrs. MacAlister was sitting, and saying, "Miss MacAlister is not well; I think she wants you," at once left the Rectory.

The next morning, as the sun rose from behind the smooth green hills, Gracie lay tossing wearily on her couch, when the gay strains of a military band broke upon her ear. She then knew that the Rangers were leaving Miltown, and Gracie turned upon her pillow and wept.

CHAPTER IV.

GRACIE's wedding took place on Mayday -as lovely a day as could be desired. The sun shone as if there were no breaking hearts in the world; it radiated through

The sainted figures

On the casement painted,

and flooded the wide chancel of Miltown church, where were assembled the group

of gay guests who were to bear witness to the moral murder about to be committed.

A slight bustle amongst the guests; some one is entering the church. O, it's only the bridegroom! Few men look to advantage on their wedding-day; and Mr. Osborne, never very prepossessing in appearance, looked still less so on this particular occasion; for, feeling himself to be the cynosure of all eyes, he became proportionately redder and more nervous. At length the bride arrived, leaning on her father's arm. She advanced up the church, her sweet sad face as colorless as the pure white silk dress she wore. Soon all was over, and Marmaduke Osborne and Gracie MacAlister were pronounced man and wife.

Broad and rich lands lay around Netterton Hall, Gracie's new home. It was a stately building, replete with every luxury that wealth could procure. Yet, with all, it is almost superfluous to state, Gracie was not happy. Her mother's glowing anticipations did not seem likely to be quickly realized. Despite his "high breeding," Mr. Marmaduke Osborne was tainted with the vulgar vice of "stinginess;" and many a time Gracie felt the hot flush of shame rise to her forehead as she saw her husband-in a perfectly legal but despicably mean manner-mulct a poor servant of part of his or her hardly-earned wages-for hardly-earned they were sure to be at Netterton Hall. After a scene of the kind, which took place one day about a year after their marriage, she endeavored to remonstrate with her husband, when he turned angrily upon her.

"You do well to speak, madam," he retorted. "Recollect that you married me to save your family from beggary. Ask your father to pay me the money he got from me, and then I may perhaps afford to be generous. O, Marmaduke Osborne was not such a fool as he appeared, and as you will one day find to your cost!"

"How dare you speak to me in that manner?" she exclaimed. "Have I not been a good faithful wife to you?"

"Ha! I should like to find you anything else," he replied. "But I know you don't care for me, any more than you do for the chair on which you are sitting."

Gracie sank back, speechless with terror. "Come, come," continued her husband, "none of your airs or graces with me, madam. I know well that you don't care

for me, your lawful husband-I know that you never cared for me, and I am sure that you care for some other man; deny it if you can!''

"I do deny it?' she cried, indignantly; and, poor girl, she honestly believed what she said. "I have tried hard to feel towards you as a wife ought, but-but-"

66

But what, Mrs. Osborne? Pray go on -I am listening to you."

"For Heaven's sake, stop, Marmaduke! In what way have I failed in my duty towards you?" she cried.

"Listen to me, Mrs. Osborne. Have I not seen you sitting quietly, and a soft loving look come into those wonderful eyes of yours-a look which faded out of them quickly enough whenever I spoke to you? Have I net watched you at the piano as you sat playing low sweet music, and the color came and went in your face, and I knew by your eyes that your heart was not here? And have I not noticed your feverish anxiety to see the daily papers? Ah, you may start, but deny all this if you can! However, you shall bitterly regret the day you ever deceived me and became my wife."

"I bitterly regretted it long ago," she said; "your jealous surmises are only surmises, after all.”

"Then why did you marry me?"

"To save my father from ruin! There! I confess it now. But I never deceived you-I never professed to love you."

Her husband fastened his cold malignant gray eyes upon her with an expression which froze her very heart's blood, and said, sneeringly, "O, you did, did you? An affectionate father he has proved in return!"

"I do not wish to discuss that matter," she said, coldly, and rose to leave the

room.

"But I intend that you shall discuss it, and that fully, madam! Sit down," he said, pushing her roughly into a chair. "Do you know," he continued, "that this property is entailed, and that, should I die without leaving a son behind me, it passes to a very distant connection? Your affectionate father was so anxious to have you married to me that he took no trouble about marriage settlements, and the money that would otherwise have been settled upon you was made over to him to prop up his failing business, so that, should you be