commenced to flag again, it has only been since

Since when?

Since the arrival of Tommy Brown among them! As Colonel Mordaunt's thoughts, travelling backward and taking notes by the way, light on this fact, he rises from his seat, and walks aimlessly about the room.

"D-n that child!" he says, without the least reserve; "I wish to Heaven we had never seen or heard of him."

And then he goes out to his stables and kennel, and tries to forget all about it; but the idea haunts him, nevertheless, and often after that day Irene, glancing up suddenly, finds him studying her face, with an earnestness, not altogether born of affection, which puzzles while it wounds her.

Mrs. Mordaunt, in desiring her husband to inform Mrs. Quekett that peace between them can only be maintained at the cost of all communication, has entered into the worst pact with the housekeeper she could possibly have made. For Rebecca Quekett is a woman to be conciliated, not to be dared. She has her good points (no human creature is without) and her weak points; and were Irene politic enough to draw out the one or trade upon the other, she might turn what promises to be a formidable enemy into a harmless, if not a desirable friend. But she is too spirited and too frank to profess to be what she is not; and so, from the hour that Colonel Mordaunt timidly announces his wife's determination to his housekeeper, the future of the former is undermined. Mrs. Quekett does not lay any plans for attack. She gives vent to no feelings of animosity, nor does she, at least openly, break the truce; but she remembers and she waits, and Mrs. Quekett does not remember and wait for-nothing.

The months go by. Oliver Ralston has procured employment with another country practitioner, somewhere down in Devon, and is working steadily. Tommy has passed his third birthday, and under the tuition of his adopted mother, is becoming quite a civilized little being, who has learned the use of a pocket-handkerchief, and speaks English almost as well as she does. Colonel Mordaunt, as kind as ever to his wife, though perhaps a little more sober in displaying his affection for her-a fact which Irene never discovers-finds that the hunt

ing season is over, and wonders how he shall amuse himself for the next six months; Isabella is as quiet, and timid, and reserved, and melancholy as ever; and Mrs. Quekett still keeps the peace.

Not that she never meets her mistress face to face-that would be impossible in a place like Fen Court-but a quiet "goodmorning" or "good-night" in passing, a curtsey on her side, and an inclination of Irene's head upon the other-is all the communication that takes place between them; and, as far as my heroine can discover, Mrs. Quekett has never again dared to correct Tommy, although the child's aversion for her, and terror of going near any room which she occupies, seem as though she had taken some means of letting him understand what he has to expect if he ventures to presume on her forbearance. Yet though outwardly there is peace, Irene has many an inward heartache. The subsidence of her husband's first adoration (which would have been quickly noticed by a woman in love with him) gives her no uneasiness. On the contrary, had she observed and questioned her own heart on the subject, she would have confessed the change was a relief to her. But there is something between them, beyond that-an undefinable something, which can be felt, if not explained. It is the cold cloud of Reserve. There is that between the husband and wife which they dare not speak of, because they know they cannot agree upon the subject; and Reserve feeds upon itself, and grows by what it feeds on.

The heart has many little chambers, and it is difficult to keep one door closed and throw open all the others. And so, imperceptibly, they drift a little further and further apart from one another every day. Irene has no object in life apparently but the education of the child-Colonel Mordaunt none but the care of his kennel and his stables. Irene is kinder to the horses and dogs than he is to Tommy. She often accompanies him on his rounds to stroke, and fondle, and admire the noble animals, but he seldom or ever throws a kind word to the boy.

Indeed Tommy is almost as afraid of him as he is of Mrs. Quekett. Colonel Mordaunt, at all events, comes second in his list of "bogies;" and sometimes Irene feels so disheartened, she almost wishes

she had never seen the child. But the remembrance of her promise to his mother (whom she has grown to pity far more than herself) will soon recall her to a sense of pleasure in her duty. But she is no longer so happy as she was at first. The gloss has worn off the new life-change has ceased to be change-and sometimes an awful sense of regret smites her, and makes her hate herself for her ingratitude. But we cannot force ourselves to be happy; and the extreme dullness of Priestley does not contribute to make her shake off a feeling of which she is ashamed.

pose one of my last year's dresses will do for Glottonbury. But really, I feel as though I should be quite out of my element. Who will be there ?"

"Most of the county people, I conclude -the Grimstones and Batcherley's, and Sir John Cootes's party, and Lord Denham and the Mowbrays. Sir John and Mr. Batcherley are down upon the list of stewards, I see. I am gratified at their including my name. Then there will be a large party of Mr. Holmes's friends from town, and among them Lord Muiraven. Isn't that a member of the family your aunt,

One morning, as they are all seated at the breakfast-table, Colonel Mordaunt has a large and important-looking envelop put into his hand; and his correspondence in general being by no means important, its appearance attracts attention.

"An invitation, I should imagine," remarks Irene, as she looks up from buttering Tommy's fourth round of bread.

"Wait a moment, my dear, and we shall see. Yes, exactly so; and a very proper attention for them to pay him. I shall have the greatest pleasure in complying with their wishes."

66

What wishes, Philip? (No, Tommy, no jam this morning!)"

"That I shall be one of the stewards. It seems that our new member, Mr. Holmes, is about to visit Glottonbury, and the people are desirous to welcome him with a dinner and a ball in the town hall. And a very happy thought, too. The festivities will please all classes;-give employment to the poor, and amusement to the rich;and the ladies of Glottonbury that cannot appear at the dinner will grace the ball. An extremely happy thought. I wonder who originated it."

"A public dinner and ball, I suppose?" "Generally. so-but they will send us Of course, my dear, you will

tickets. go?"

"To the ball? O, indeed, I would rather not. I have not danced for ages."

"There is no need to dance, if you will only put in an appearance. As the wife of a man holding so important a position in the county as myself, and one of the stewards of the dinner, I think it becomes your duty to be present, if you can."

about?"

But to this question Colonel Mordaunt receives no answer. Presently he looks across the table to where his wife is tracing fancy patterns with a fork upon the cloth, and thinks that she looks very pale.

"Do the Cavendishes know Lord Muiraven ?"

"I believe Mary met him once at a ball." "Do you know him ?"

"No!"

"Then what the deuce was your aunt always making such a row about him for ?" "I don't know."

"Aren't you well?"

"Perfectly, thank you. When is this to take place?"

"Next Tuesday week. It is short notice; but Mr. Holmes's visit is unexpected. He seems to have made his way in the county wonderfully."

"Is he a young man ?"

"Thirty or thereabouts. I saw him at the election. He has a pleasant voice and manner, but is no beauty. He and Lord Muiraven and a Mr. Norton are to be the guests of Sir John Cootes."

"Are any other strangers coming with them ?"

"I don't know. My letter is from Huddleston. He doesn't mention it." "I wish you would find out." "Why?"

"Because it will make a great difference in the evening's enjoyment. One doesn't care to be dependent on the tradesmen of Glottonbury for partners."

"I thought you didn't mean to dance." "No more do I-at present. But there is no knowing what one might not be tempted to. Anyway, find out for me,

"What friends Mr. Holmes brings with him ?"

"Exactly so. Will you?"

"I cannot understand what interest the matter can possibly have for you, my dear."

"O, never mind it then. Have you quite finished, Tommy? Then come along and order the dinner with mamma." And, with the child in her hand, Irene leaves the room. Colonel Mordaunt looks after her suspiciously. "Who on earth can she be expecting to come down from London to this ball?" He is beginning to be suspicious about very little things now-a-days, and he alludes to the subject in an irritable sort of manner two or three times during the forenoon, until he puts Irene out.

"Look here, Philip. I would rather not go to this ball at all. I have no inclination for it, and the preparations will probably involve a great deal of trouble. Please let me stay at home."

"Indeed I cannot hear of it. You must go, and look your best. As my wife, it will be expected of you, Irene."

"To be jostled by a crowd of tradespeople!" she murinurs. "I hate a public ball at any time, but an election ball must be the worst of all."

"I don't see that. The rooms are large, and the arrangements will be conducted on the most liberal scale. All you will have to do will be to look pretty, and enjoy yourself; and the first is never difficult to you, my darling."

"Well, I suppose I shall have to go after that, Philip. Only I don't consent till I have seen a list of the expected guests from town."

"Why this anxiety about a pack of strangers?" exclaims Colonel Mordaunt, pettishly. But he procures the list, nevertheless. It contains but one name with which she is in the least familiar-that of Lord Muiraven.

"And these are really all ?" she says, as she peruses it.

"Really all! There are at least twenty. Are they sufficient to satisfy your ladyship?"

"Quite"" with a deep-drawn sigh. "I will not worry you any more about it, Philip. I will go to the ball."

On the evening in question, however, she is not looking her best; and, as Phoebe

arrays her in one of her dresses of the past season, she is amazed to find how much her mistress has fallen away about the neck and shoulders, and how broad a tucker she is obliged to insert in order to remedy the evil. But Irene appears blissfully indifferent as to what effect she may produce, and is only anxious to go to the ball and to come back again, and to have it all over. She is terribly nervous of encountering Lord Muiraven (although, from the descriptions of Mary Cavendish, she knows he cannot in any way resemble his younger brother), and yet she dares not forbid her husband to introduce him, for fear of provoking an inquiry on the reason of her request. She arrives at the Glottonbury town hall, in company with Isabella, at about ten o'clock; and Colonel Mordaunt, as one of the masters of the ceremonies, meets her at the entrance.

"Are you still determined not to dance ?" he says, as he leads her to a seat.

"You do look both pale and tired. Well, here is a comfortable sofa for you. Perhaps you will feel better by-and-by. I must go now and receive the rest of the company."

"Yes! pray don't mind me. I shall amuse myself sitting here and watching the dancers. O Philip," her eyes glistening with appreciative delight, "do look at that green headdress with the bird of paradise seated on a nest of roses!"

"You wicked child! you are always making fun of some one. How I wish I could stay with you! but I must go. I shall look you up again very soon."

For a

He disappears among the crowd as he speaks, and Irene is left by herself, Isabella (to whom anything like a passing jest on the costume of a fellow-Christian appears quite in the light of a sin) having walked off to the other side of the room. while she is sufficiently amused by watching the company, and inwardly smiling at their little eccentricities of dress or manner, their flirtations, and evident curiosity respecting herself. But this sort of entertainment soon palls, and then she begins to question why she cannot feel as happy as they appear to be; and her thoughts wander over her past life, and she sinks into a leverie, during which the lights and

THOSE Wonderful days of old romance, of chivalric knights, who went forth for the release and defence of "faire ladyes," clad in glittering armor, with nodding plume and gleaming lance, of which we have all read with thrilling pulse and bated breath, feeling our own blood warm and stir with emulative desire, are dead and buried under the weight of this practical age. The car of Progress has swept remorselessly over gallant knight and troubadour, crushing them beneath its advancing wheels, and leaving them to sleep forever in the heart of their own dead centuries. But though forms die and modes change, the spirit, escaping from its wornout frame, lives again in every age, an immortal entity. Chivalry is not dead, though the dust of centuries has long since swallowed plume, and belt, and lance. Every age has its test, and every age has its knights, though chivalry is too often reckoned a lost art-an echo merely from the tombs of the ages. Unlike the olden order, this is without organization, and often without recognition, till, in some supreme moment of pain or peril, it springs suddenly to life, facing danger with lifted lance and dauntless face. We call it bravery, heroism, self-sacrifice; but it is only the old spirit in modern garb. Perhaps what perplexes us most is its democracy. Our knighthood of to-day is as likely to blossom out in the life of some graceless fellow, like Hay's famous "engineer," as in that of some pure, cultured, saintly soul that shrinks from the contamination of his presence with ill-concealed disgust.

The simple story I propose to relate is a case in point. I do not claim that it is

anything remarkable; I am not sure, even, that it has any special "moral," unless it might possibly be that old, old one of the

vessel, knit like a sheet at the four corners, descending out of heaven, wherein were all manner of beasts of the earth, and creeping things, and fowls of the air." It is barely possible, old as it is, that we have not all learned the lesson taught to Peter in the vision on the housetop. But to the story.

Something like twenty years ago, in one of the pretty valley towns that cluster along the pleasant Connecticut, there stood, a little aside from the small straggling village, on a broad sunny plateau, a massive stone mansion, the grounds overrun with weeds and wild grasses, and the windows with rank untrained vines. The man who owned it had been in Europe three years, and might remain there as many more, for aught the neighbors knew. But, to their surprise, one morning they saw smoke issuing from the chimneys, and a little later, the owner, Mr. Grantley, came down and engaged a man to move his furniture to the nearest city the following day.

"The new owner will be here in the morning," he said; "so it would be well to load the goods to-day, perhaps."

"The new owner?" repeated the surprised teamster, his whole face and attitude a most unmistakable interrogation point.

"Yes, I have sold the 'Glebe' to Mr. William Montford, of New Haven. He is to take immediate possession, as I have said." Then, after a slight pause, he added, "I hope you will like him. I think you will; he is considered a very excellent man, I believe."

So William Montford took possession of the "Glebe," to the great improvement of that fine but neglected old place. Trees were set, lawns trimmed and rolled, choice plants and shrubs brightened the parterres, a silvery fountain threw its misty sheen over rare aquatic plants, and blossoming vines trailed from elegant-fashioned vases of loveliest design and substance. Mr. Montford was a man of taste, certainly, and year by year the Glebe grew in beauty, and its owner in wealth and favor. And so eighteen years went by, bringing us, at length, to the real opening of our story.

Mr. Montford had but one child, a fair sunny-faced girl of twenty, who, since her mother's death, some four or five years, had lived alone with her father and their two servants at the Glebe. Perhaps it was the quietness and retirement of her life that gave her that peculiar, shy, gentle diffidence; though I think, rather, that it was her natural diffidence and sensitiveness that led her to choose retirement.

Dora was so totally unlike her father that one could not help remarking it. Mr Montford was fully aware of his own worth and virtues, and was never guilty of undervaluing himself. He was a man of wealth and standing in the community, and he never forgot the fact for a moment. No one who came in contact with him ever forgot it, either; for some reason it was quite impossible, though perhaps they might not have been able to explain why exactly. He was also very virtuous and upright, and consequently, having no weaknesses himself, despised those who did have them. He had "no sympathy for evil-doers," he said, coldly, almost angrily. That weakness which pities the sinner, while it detests the sin, never beset him. Mr. Montford had also a very deep-seated dislike for "unfortunate" people. It had always troubled him to account for the need of the existence of such disagreeable anomalies. He had never been unfortunate, and no one else need be, unless they desired to be, he argued.

As there were weak people, and unfortunate people, and possibly now and then an "evil-doer," in Sanborn, Mr. Montford, despite his goodness and greatness, was not, perhaps, so universally popular as a man of his virtues ought to be. Nevertheless, he was held in a sort of awe and veneration, and looked up to with deference

on all occasions; unless he approved, nothing could be undertaken-with any thought of success, at least.

When Mr. Montford had been in Sanborn less than five years, one day, to his surprise and annoyance, a tall ill-dressed boy, of perhaps a dozen years, came to his door and announced himself as the only son of Philip Murdock, and announced, moreover, that Philip Murdock was dead, and had written a letter-here the boy produced the letter-the day before his death, and bade him (the boy) take it when all was over to his cousin William Montford.

Mr. Montford took the letter rather ungraciously, and bidding the boy follow him, went into the long sunny drawingroom, and, standing in the middle of the room, tore open the envelop, drew out the letter, and proceeded to read it with a dissatisfied face.

In the meantime, the boy had paused just inside the door, and stood looking furtively about him, shifting a dirty tattered cap from one hand to the other, and looking most unmistakably uncomfortable. Very evidently he was not accustomed to rooms like this, and was at a loss how to dispose of himself.

Presently Mr. Montford wheeled round, the open sheet still in his hand, and brought the full force of his stern gaze to bear upon the poor boy, who not only felt but looked decidedly out of place in that bright luxurious room.

"It is only the same old story-' unfortunate!" Mr. Montford said, contemptuously. "I dare say you inherit your father's peculiar gift; you look enough like it, Heaven knows!"

A faint red surged to the boy's temples, half hidden by the long unkempt hair.

"Do you know what is in this letter, boy?" he demanded, sharply.

"No; father said he would rather I wouldn't know," he replied, a sudden falter breaking up his voice.

"It's a pity your father hadn't been as considerate in some other things; it might have saved him from becoming a pauper!" was the sneering reply.

"My father was not a pauper!" the boy cried, indignantly, standing suddenly erect, and turning a fierce defiant face towards Mr. Montford.

"Indeed! How comes it, then, that he sends his boy to me with this pitiful drivel