Master Tommy here!" she exclaims again, as she leans over the banisters; and then a diversion is created and a movement made in her direction, and Phoebe, with the boy still whimpering in her arms, and Colonel Mordaunt bringing up the rear, appears upon the staircase.

"O, is he really hurt?" begins Irene, anxiously, as she perceives the guard of honor.

66

My darling, there is nothing the matter. Pray don't distress yourself," replies the colonel.

"Then why do you come up, too? And how did it happen? Did he fall down the kitchen stairs, Phoebe? You know I have strictly forbidden you to take him there."

"He didn't fall down the kitchen stairs, ma'am," replies Phoebe, with a very pursed-up mouth.

"How did you do it, darling?" demands Irene of the child, now safely in her arms. "Naughty ooman," lisps Tommy, half disposed to cry afresh at the mere recollection.

"My dear Irene, how absurd of you to question an infant of that age. As if he could possibly tell anything that is to be depended on."

"Why don't you tell me, then? How did it happen, Phoebe ?"

"Well, ma'am, I wasn't exactly present at the time, because I had gone to-"

"I consider I am a far better person to explain matters than your maid, Irene," interrupts the colonel, rather testily. "The fact is, the child was playing about where he has no business to be at all (but, really, you do indulge him to that extent that it becomes dangerous even to suggest matters might be amended)—”

"Please go on, and let me hear how the accident occurred."

"Well, he went into the dining-room when it was-was occupied-and-andwhen he was told to go, and would not obey (he is one of the most disobedient little animals I ever met), he was sent out. That's all."

"Sent out! Did you strike him, Philip?" "O no, ma'am, 'twasn't master!" interposes Phoebe, quickly.

"Who, then ?"

that would think so much of giving a tiresome child a tap on the head as you do. And I dare say she never thought twice of what she was doing."

"She!-she! Not Isabella, surely?"

"O Lor, no ma'am! Miss Mordaunt aint out of her room yet," cries Phoebe.

A thought strikes Irene. The mystery becomes clear.

"Has Quekett returned?" And the change in her voice as she puts the question is so patent to her hearers that Colonel Mordaunt becomes quite alarmed for what may follow.

"Yes, yes, dear, she has. Now you know all. But I am sure she didn't mean to offend you. Phoebe, you had better go, and take the child with you."

But Irene folds the boy closer in her

arms.

"I can do without you, Phoebe, but I shall keep Master Tommy." And the bedroom door recloses on the servant only.

"And so that woman has come back and dared to strike my child," says Irene, as soon as they find themselves alone.

"Pool, nonsense, my love! Your child! Do just think what you are saying. And, as for daring, I consider that a very strange term for you to use when speaking of any action from so old and valued a friend as Mrs. Quekett is to me, towards so very recent an acquisition as that nameless protege of yours." The colonel tries to speak with his usual ease and composure, but the attempt is a miserable failure.

"She has dared to strike my child!" repeats his wife, with a heaving breast.

"The boy refused to obey her, and she boxed his ears. It was a very natural thing to do."

"It may be very natural, but it shall not be repeated."

"Then you must teach the child to be more obedient."

"I shall teach him nothing for that woman's sake. When did she return?" "This morning, at about six. She prefers travelling by the night train."

"It appears to me that she prefers any mode of action by which she can best show off her insolence and the unusual position she has been permitted to attain here. She leaves us without a moment's warning in order to humor her own caprice, and she returns in the same manner, without the slightest consideration for our convenience.

"I am glad you see it in its proper light at last. Let me pass." And with the boy still in her arms, Irene marches statelily to the breakfast-room, whilst the colonel, glad at any cost to see the interview come to an end, follows, though with his spirits down at zero.

As they leave her, Rebecca Quekett turns round upon the landing to gaze at the retreating form of the mistress of Fen Court with a look of unmistakable hatred.

"Humph! To be treated as her own child, is he?" she says, maliciously aloud, so that the servants in attendance can overhear her; "and he a nurse-child of that creature Cray's, left unclaimed for any lady to adopt. That's a queer story, aint it ?" she continues, appealing to one of the men beside her; "and perhaps she aint so far wrong when she stands out for his being treated as her own. There's lots more things happen in this world than we've any notion of. Well, you'd better get up with the boxes now, James. They've kept us

on the landing long enough, Lord knows P

And so the worthy disappears into her own room, and is lost to the view, at all events, of Irene for the remainder of the day.

Colonel and Mrs. Mordaunt have a sharp little discussion on this subject during breakfast-time-quite the sharpest they have engaged in since their marriage; and though Irene will not yield one inch with regard to stooping to conciliate the housekeeper, she feels, at the termination of the meal, that she has been worsted in the fight. For the subject of her adoption of Tommy Brown has necessarily formed part of the argument, and her husband has gone so far as to observe that if a child who is no relation to either of them is to bring discord into the house, he had better go. And here Irene recognizes, for the first time, her impotence to keep him in opposition to her husband's wishes, and the knowledge silences her, even to making her reflect sadly whether she may not ultimately (unless her protege is to be cast on the world again) be compelled, for his sake, to submit to Mrs. Quekett's terms of peace; and the fear lowers Colonel Mordaunt in her eyes-with him lowers herself, and renders her morbidly depressed. She spends all the morning in the shrubbery, running about with Tommy, for she cannot stand Isabella's deprecating air and deep-drawn sighs; and here, after a while, Oliver Ralston comes to find her, with bad news written on his countenance.

"It's all knocked on the head, Irene. I can't close with Robertson."

"Why not? Has he changed his mind ?" "On the contrary, I had a letter from him this morning, begging for my final decision, as he is in need of immediate help; but my uncle has just had me into his study, and he says it's no go."

"Oliver, surely not on account of Quekett?"

"Most surely yes, Irene. I'm as certain that old fiend is at the bottom of it as I am that I'm alive. Not that Uncle Philip told me so. He hummed and hawed-you know his way when that woman's got him into a scrape-and said he had been thinking the matter over, and looking at it from all points of view, and it seemed to him now that it would be more prudent of me not to accept a trust I might not care to retain."

"But didn't you tell him you do care for it ?"

"Of course I did. I said everything I could think of, but without effect. The fact is, he doesn't wish me to stay here. I could take the appointment without consulting him further; but I owe everything to him, Irene, and-"

"O yes! Don't go against his wishes. But perhaps he may change his mind again. Shall I speak to him?"

"I wish you would."

He has grown very pale during the progression of this speech, and now that it is ended, he takes out his handkerchief and passes it across his brow.

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Spare you! Why don't you spare me from insult in the house where you have made me mistress ?"

"My darling, you don't understand. How I wish I could explain it to you! but I can't. But several members of my family (my father for instance) have been laid, at different periods of their lives, un

She finds her husband still in his study, apparently wrapt in thought, and dashes at the matter in hand in her own frank straightforward way.

"Philip, why have you altered your mind about Oliver going to Fenton ?"

"I have altered it, my dear, and that should be sufficient."

"Not at all, unless you have a good reason. It isn't fair."

"I would rather not discuss the matter with you, Irene. We have had bickering enough for to-day."

"Need we bicker because we talk? This subject does not touch my interests so nearly as the other; but I think you owe Oliver some explanation of the change."

"The explanation is very simple. Upon consideration, I don't think the plan a good one, or likely to prove for his happiness or mine."

acknowledge she is not always pleasant in her manners, and I regret to see she has not taken so kindly to you as I should have wished; but, notwithstanding, I could not feel myself justified in not doing all in my power to repay the debt I owe her."

"And which I should imagine she had cancelled a thousand times over by her insolence. But why should poor Oliver suffer for your father's liabilities ?"

Colonel Mordaunt is silent.

"Fenton is more than three miles from Fen Court. Surely his presence at that distance can have no influence on Mrs. Quekett's peace of mind."

"He would always be over here, my dear."

"And so, because she objects to it, your own nephew is to be banished from your house. O Philip! I could hardly have believed it of you."

"Pray, don't make me more unhappy

"Why should you think so?"

"Because I know it. O Philip, Philip!" And Irene, kneeling down by his armchair, puts her head upon her husband's knee and begins to cry.

His tender affection is aroused at once. "My darling, why is this? Have I really made you unhappy?"

"Yes, you have. To see you so completely under subjection to your own servant; to know that she can sway you when I fail; that her wishes can make you act contrary to your own good judgment, as you are acting now-you, whom I looked up to as so strong and brave, and worthy to command all who came within your range. It lowers you in my eyes; it makes you contemptible in the eyes of others, and I cannot bear it!"'

"For Heaven's sake, Irene, spare me!"

I don't feel it also ?"

"Is that possible ?"

"I am suffering at this moment, far more than you, my child, or than Oliver either, for that matter."

"Poor Philip! I am so sorry for you. But is it quite, quite necessary that Oliver should go?"

"It is quite, quite necessary.' If he did not go now, he would be compelled to do so in a few months, and perhaps under circumstances most unpleasant for us all. And yet I sometimes think, if I could trust you, Irene-"

"You may trust me, Philip, and to any extent."

"I believe it, my darling-but no, no, it cannot be! Don't ask me again. Only go to poor Oliver, and tell him that I will hold myself responsible for any expenses he may incur, in the way of premium or outfit, in

procuring another appointment, on the condition that it is not in this county-anywhere, in fact, but near here."

"And you wont trust me, then?" she says, with a reproachful air, as she prepares to leave him.

“I cannot—I dare not. Yes, dearest, I will." And with that he rises suddenly, and stands before her, and takes her two hands in his own. "Irene, when you gave your dear self to me at the altar, did you not promise to honor me?"

"And I have honored you, Philip."

"I believe it; and I trust you to honor me still, notwithstanding that I am unable to explain all that you wish to know."

"But secrets are so horrid between husbands and wives," she says, pouting, with true feminine curiosity; "and it is so hard to forgive what one understands nothing about."

"Have you never kept a secret from me, then, Irene ?"

He is alluding to the possible name of her former lover, and the circumstances of their intimacy, which have never been confided to him. But her thoughts fly immediately to her adopted child and the knowledge she possesses of his parentage; and under her husband's steady gaze she becomes crimson to the very parting of her hair.

"O, very well," she answers, with a light laugh; "don't let us say any more about it, since talking wont mend matters. Only I trust my confidence in your integrity, Philip, is not supposed to extend to holding out the right hand of fellowship to Mrs. Quekett."

But Colonel Mordaunt appears to have forgotten the root of the subject in question. He is still holding her hands, and looking fixedly at her downcast eyes and working features..

"My query seems to have affected you, Irene ?"

"It would affect any one, I should think, to be stared at as you are staring at me. But this is child's play, Philip. What is it you want me to do?"

"I suppose you are alluding to the child; she has not interfered in anything else." "I am. You gave me permission to adopt and bring him up. Will you make this fact clear to your housekeeper, and tell her, at the same time, that my forbearance depends entirely upon her own.”

"Then you sign a treaty of peace with her?"

"Under those conditions, and for your sake, yes. I feel myself degraded to enter upon any terms with a dependent; but, since it is for your comfort, I concede. Only it must be kept as religiously on her side as mine. And now I trust we have heard the last of so contemptible a business."

Colonel Mordaunt sighs and turns away. "You are not yet satisfied, Philip. What, in Heaven's name, would you have me do more?"

"Nothing, my dear, nothing. Indeed I do not see what else there is to be done. Only, pray remember what I said to you this morning, and do not irritate her more than you can help."

"I shall never speak to-or notice her!" replies Irene; and here, feeling that all that can be said has been said upon the subject, she leaves the study to communicate the upshot of the interview to Oliver.

Colonel Mordaunt, left to himself, looks more thoughtful than before. He has courted the information that his wife has not laid her whole heart bare to him, and yet now he feels miserable because she has put the sign-manual of silence on a fact which he knew to be such. Mrs. Quekett, Oliver Ralston, the child, everything which has worried him hitherto, passes from his mind to give place to the curiosity with which he longs to discover how much of her former life Irene has kept back from him. He remembers vividly all she said to him at Brussels, and in the little sittingroom at Norwood, on the subject of her disappointment; but he was so eager in the chase at that time-so anxious to secure her for himself at any cost-that he did not choose to believe what she asserted to be true that the best part of her life was over. Yet had not the sequel proved him to be in the right? For the six months she has been his her spirits have gone on gradually improving day by day. Indeed, a few weeks ago she was buoyant-radiantrunning over with fun; and, if they have