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ular," interposes Irene, standing beside him in the porch.

"Do you hear what I say to you?" he repeats to the servant, and not noticing her. "What are you standing dawdling there for?"

The groom touches his hat and drives away.

"What is the matter, Philip?"

"There is nothing the matter that I know of."

"Why did you send the pony-chaise for me, then? Why didn't you come and fetch me yourself? I would much rather have walked home through the fields with you." "We cannot both neglect our guests, Irene. If you desert them, it becomes my duty to try and supply your place."

"Why, Aunt Cavendish is not affronted, is she? She must know that it's only once in a way. Did you get my note, Philip ?"

"I received a dirty piece of paper with a notice that you would not be back to dinner."

"I thought it would be sufficient," says Irene, sighing softly; "and I really couldn't leave poor Myra, Philip. She is dying as fast as it is possible, and she had something very particular to tell me. You are not angry with me?"

"Angry? O dear, no! Why should I be angry? Only I think it would be advisable another time if these paupers' confidences were got over in the morning. And I certainly do not approve of your being at the beck and call of every sick person in the village, whether you are it to attend to them or no. You had a bad headache yourself when I left you this afternoon."

"O, my poor head! I had forgotten all about it. Yes, it was very painful at one time, but I suppose my excitement has driven the pain away. Philip, I have been listening to such a sad story. You know the child-the little boy that they said was at nurse with Mrs. Cray."

"I have heard you mention it. I really did not know if 'twas a boy or a girl, or if you knew yourself," he replies, indifferently.

"No, no, of course not," she says, coloring; "but you know what I mean. Well, what do you think? It's a secret, though, mind," lowering her voice; "he belongs to poor Myra, after all. Isn't it shocking ?"

"And what is the use of their telling you such tales as that?" replies Colonel Mor

daunt, angrily. "I wont have them defiling your ears with things that are not fit for you to hear. If it is the case, why can't they keep the disgrace to themselves? You can do no good by knowing the truth."

"O Philip, but you don't understand! It was the poor girl told me, and it was such a comfort to her-she has no one else to confide in. And besides, she is so unhappy, because Mrs. Cray beats her poor little boy, and she is afraid he will be illtreated when she is gone."

"And wants to extract a promise from you to go down there every morning and see that her precious offspring has slept and eaten well since the day before. No, thank you, Irene! I think we've had quite enough of this sort of thing for the present, and when the laundress's niece is dead, I hope that you will confine your charity more to home, and not carry it on ad infinitum to the third and fourth generation."

He makes one step downwards as though to leave her then, but she plucks him timidly by the sleeve and detains him.

"But Philip-I promised her!"
"Promised what?"

"That I would befriend her child when she is gone; that I would take him away from Mrs. Cray (she was so miserable about him, poor girl, she said she couldn't die in peace), and-and (I do so hope you wont be vexed) and bring him up under my own care."

"What!" cries Colonel Mordaunt, roughly, startled out of all politeness.

"I promised her I would adopt him; surely, it is nothing so very much out of the way."

"Adopt a beggar's brat out of the village -a child not born in wedlock-a boy, of all things in the world! Irene, you must be out of your senses!"

"But it is done every day."

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It may be done occasionally by people who have an interest in Ragged Schools, or the Emigration Society, or the Shoe Black Brigade, or who have arrived at the meridian of life without any nearer ties of their own; but for a young lady, just married, and with her hands full of occupation, both for the present and the future, it would be absurd-unheard of-impossible '

"But what occupation have 1 that need prevent my looking after a little child, Philip? If-lf—”

"If what?"

"I don't know why I should be so silly as not to like to mention it," she goes on, hurriedly, though with an effort; "but supposing I-I-had a child of my own; that would not interfere with my duties as mistress here, would it?"

"And would you like to have a child of your own, darling?" he answers, sweetly but irrelevantly, and relapsing into all his usual tenderness. Were Irene politic, she might win him over at this moment to grant her anything. A smile, an answering look, a pressure of the hand would do it, and bring him to her feet a slave! But, in one sense of the word, she is not politic; her nature is too open. She cannot bring her heart to stoop to a deception, however plausible, for her own advantage. And so she answers her husband's question frankly.

"No, not at all, Philip. I've told you that a dozen times already. But I want to take this poor little boy away from Mrs. Cray, and bring him up respectably in mind and body."

Colonel Mordaunt's momentary softness vanishes, and his " grumpiness" returns in full force.

"Then I object altogether. I'm not so fond of brats at any time as to care to have those of other people sprawling over my house-and a pauper's brat, of all things. You must dismiss the idea at once."

"But I have promised, Philip." "You promised more than you can perform."

"But I swore it. O Philip, you will not make me go back from an oath made to the dying! I shall hate myself forever if you do!"

"You had no right to take such an oath without consulting me."

"Perhaps not; I acknowledge it. But it is done, and I cannot recede from my given word."

"I refuse to endorse it. I will have no bastard brought up at my expense."

The coarseness of the retort angers her; she colors crimson, and recoils from him. "How cruel! how pitiless of you to use that term! You have no charity! Some day you may need it for yourself!"

At that he turns upon her, crimson, too, and panting.

"What makes you say so? What have you heard?"

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More than I ever thought to hear from your lips. O Philip, I did not think you could be so unkind to me!" And she turns from him weeping, and goes up to her own room, leaving him conscience-stricken in the porch. It is their first quarrel; the first time angry words have ever passed between them, and he is afraid to follow her, lest he should meet with a rebuff; so he remains there, moody and miserable, and before half an hour has elapsed, could bite out his tongue for every word it uttered.

The idea of the adopted child is as unpalatable to him as ever; it appears a most hare-brained and absurd idea to him. But he cannot bear to think that he should have been cross with Irene, or that she should have been betrayed into using hasty words to him.

O, that first quarrel! how infinitely wretched it makes humanity, and what a shock it is to hear hot and angry words pouring from the lips that have never opened yet for us except in blessing.

Better thus, though-better hot and angry words than cold and calm.

The direst death for love to die is when it is reasoned into silence by the voice of indifference and good sense.

Othello's passion was rough and deadly, but while it lasted it must have been very sweet pain. Was it not kinder to smother Desdemona whilst it was at white heat, than to let her live to see the iron cool?

But Colonel Mordaunt is in no mood for reasoning; he is simply miserable, and his mood ends-as all such moods do end for true lovers-by his creeping up to Irene's side in the twilight, and humbly begging her forgiveness, which she grants him readily-crying a little over her own shortcomings the while-and then they make it up, and kiss, as husband and wife should do, and come down stairs together, and are very cheerful for the rest of the evening, and never once mention the obnoxious subject that disturbed their peace.

The next morning is bright and beautiful; all nature appears jubilant, but between these two there is a slight reserve. All trace of discomfiture has passed-they are as loving and attentive to each other as before, but they are not quite so easy. With her first awakening, Irene's thoughts have flown to poor Myra. She wonders

how she has passed the night, and vividly remembers that she promised to visit her in the morning; but Colonel Mordaunt says nothing on the subject, and Irene dares not broach it. She is so afraid of disturbing his restored serenity, or of appearing ungrateful for the extra love he has bestowed on her in order to efface the remembrance of their misunderstanding.

Every one knows what it is to feel like this after a quarrel with one whom we love. The storm was so terrible, and the succeeding peace is so precious to us, we are not brave enough to risk a repetition of our trouble by alluding to the subject that provoked it. So Irene dresses in silence, thinking much of her interview with Myra of the day before, and wondering how it will all end, and longing that her husband would be the first to revert to it. But they meet at breakfast, and nothing has been said.

Miss Cavendish is particularly lively this morning. She knows there was a slight disagreement between her host and hostess last evening, and she is anxious to dispel the notion that any one observed it but themselves.

"What a beautiful day!" she says, as she enters the room; "bright, but not too warm. Ah, Colonel Mordaunt, who was it promised to take us all over to picnic at Walmsley Castle on the first opportunity?"

"One who is quite ready to redeem his promise, madam," replies the colonel, gallantly, “if his commander-in-chief will give him leave. But I am only under orders, you know-only under orders."

"Not very strict ones, I imagine. What do you say, Irene? Is this not just the day for Walmsley? And Mary and I must leave you the beginning of the week."

"O, do let us go, Irene !" interposes her cousin.

"It will be awful fun," says Oliver Ralston. "Just what we were wishing for, is it not, Miss Cavendish ?"

Irene thinks of Myra in a moment; it is on the tip of her tongue to remonstrate, and say she cannot go to-day of all days in the week; but she glances at her husband, and the expression of his face makes her hesitate.

"Philip, what would you wish me to do ?" she says, timidly.

"I want you to please yourself, my dear; but I see no reason why you should not go.

The weather is beautiful, the distanceis nothing-a matter of fourteen miles; just a pleasant drive. And I am sure it. will do you good, besides giving pleasure to our guests. If you ask my opinion, I say, let's go."

"That's right, uncle!" shouts Oliver; "she can have nothing to say after that. Now, Irene" (for it had been settled between these young people that, considering the equality of their ages, they should address each other by their Christian names),. "let's make an inroad on the larder (what a blessing it is old Quekett's not here to prevent us!), pack up the hamper, order round the carriage, put on our hats, and the thing is done."

"Shall we be long away ?" demands. Irene, anxiously, of her husband.

He observes her indifference to the proposed plan, guesses its cause, and frowns.

"That depends entirely on our own will. But if our friends" (with a slight stress on the word) "enjoy themselves at the Castle, I see no reason why we should not remain as long as it gives them pleasure."

"Dear Irene, pray don't go against your inclination," urges Mrs. Cavendish. Colonel Mordaunt answers for her-with a laugh.

"Don't indulge her, Mrs. Cavendish. She is only lazy. She will enjoy herself as much as any of us when she is once there. Come, my darling, see after the commissariat department at once, and I will order the carriage. The sooner we start the better. Oliver, will you ride, or take the box seat?" And so it is all settled without further intervention on her part.

She goes up stairs to prepare for the expedition, feeling very undecided and rather miserable. After all, does not her duty lie more towards the fulfilment of her husband's wishes than an engagement with one who has no real claims upon her. Only she is so sorry that she promised to visit Myra this morning. Perhaps she is expecting her even at this moment-straining her ears to catch the sound of her footstep-waiting in feverish anxiety to repose some further confidence in her. The thought is too painful. Could she not run down to the cottage before they go, if it was only for ten minutes? She hears her husband in his dressing-room.

"Philip," she says, hurriedly, "I prom

ised to see poor Myra again this morning. Is there no time before we start?"

"Time!" he echoes; "why, the carriage is coming round now, and the ladies have their things on. You've gone mad on the subject of that woman, Irene; but if it's absolutely important you should see her again to-day, you must go down in the evening. Come, my darling," he continues, changing his manner to a caressing coaxing tone, which it is most difficult to

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combat, Iwe had quite enough fuss over this subject yesterday; let us have a peaceful happy day all to ourselves, for once in a way; there's a dear girl." And, after that, there is nothing more for Irene to do but to walk down stairs disconsolately, and drive off with her guests to Walmsley Castle.

They are a merry party; for it is just one of those glorious days when to live is to enjoy, and she tries to be merry, too, for gloom and ill-humor have no part in her composition. But she cannot help her thoughts reverting, every now and then, to Myra, with a tinge of self-reproach for not having been braver. Yet her husband sits opposite to her, his eye glowing with pride as it rests upon her countenance, and a quiet pressure of the hand or foot telling her at intervals that, with whomsoever he may appear to be occupied, his thoughts are always hers, and she cannot decide whether she has done right or wrong. It is useless, however, to ponder the question now, when she is already miles away from Priestley, and so she tries to dismiss it from her mind, with a resolution to pay her promised visit the minute she returns. Walmsley Castle is a ruin, situated in a very picturesque part of the county; and, allowing for a long drive there and a fatiguing exploration, followed by a lengthy luncheon and a lazy discussion on the sward, it is not surprising that morning merged into noon, and noon into evening, before our party were aware of the fact, and that the first thing that calls Irene's attention to the hour is a cool breeze blowing across the hills, which makes her shiver.

"How cold it has turned," she says, suddenly, as she changes her position. “Why, Philip, what o'clock is it?"

"Just five, dear," he answers, quietly. "Five! Five o'clock! It never can be five "'

"Within a few minutes. I suppose we had better be thinking of going home, or we shall be late for dinner."

"I hardly think we shall have much appetite for dinner after this," says Mrs. Cavendish, laughing, as she regards the scanty remnants of their meal.

"Five! It cannot be so late as five," repeats Irene, in a voice of distress. "O Philip, do order the horses to be put to at once. Poor Myra!"

Her expression is so pleading that he rises to do her bidding without delay; but he cannot resist a grumble as he does it. But she does not heed him; she heeds nothing now but her own thoughts, which have flown back to her broken promise, with a dreadful fear that she may be too late to redeem it. She remembers everything that happened with sickening fidelity; how Myra longed to detain her, and only let her go upon her given word that she would return. What right had she to break it-for any one, even for Philip? What must the dying woman think of her?

She is so absorbed in this idea that she cannot speak to any one; her conduct seems quite changed from what it did in the morning. She is a pitiful coward in her own eyes now. And as she drives back to Priestley she sits alone, miserable and silent, longing to reach home, and fancying the road twice as long as when they last traversed it.

"Are you ill, my dear?" says Mrs. Cavendish. "Has the day fatigued you?"

"You had better not speak to Irene," replies Colonel Mordaunt, in her stead. "She is in one of her Lady Bountiful moods. You and I are not worth attending to in comparison."

She is too low-spirited even to be saucy in reply, and presently her husband's hand creeps into hers, and she knows that her reticence has pleased him, and gives it a good squeeze for reward.

But as the carriage drives up to the Court her quick eye catches sight of a dirty little figure crouched by the doorsteps, and all her vague forebodings return.

"O, there is Jenny!" she exclaims, excitedly. "I felt sure there was something wrong. Jenny, what is it?" as the carriage reaches the door. "Is Myra worse?"

"Please, mum," says Jenny, with a bob, "she's as bad as ever she can be, and mother says, please, mum, could you come

down and see her, for she's a-goin' fast, and she keeps on a-callin' for you. And mother says "

"O, I will go at once!" says Irene, leaping down from the carriage. "Philip, dearest, you wont be angry?" And with that, begins to run down the drive.

"Stop, Irene, stop!" cries her husband. But she does not heed or hear him, and, having handed the other ladies out, he drives after her, and catches her before she has reached the outside of the grounds.

"Stop, dearest! Get in. I will drive down with you," he exclaims, as he overtakes her.

"You, Philip"""

"Yes; why not? Am I to have no share in the troubles of this kind little heart ?"

"O Philip, thank you! You are too good to me! It is such a comfort to me!" And with that she seizes the great rough hand that has drawn her so tenderly to his side, and cries over it quietly. He smears her tears all over her face with his pockethandkerchief in well-meant attempts to wipe them away, after the manner of men, but not another word is exchanged between them till they reach the cottage.

There all is silent. The lower part of the house seems deserted. And Irene, leaving her husband pacing the garden in front, finds her way quietly up stairs.

Myra's room seems full. Mrs. Cray is there with her soapy satellites, and all her children, except Joel and Jenny, and at first Irene's entrance is unnoticed. But as the women nearest the door perceive her, they fall back.

"Ah, you've come too late, mum!" says Mrs. Cray, reproachfully. "I doubt if she'll reckonize you. She's a'most gone, poor creetur."

"I am so sorry," replies Irene, making her way up to the bed on which the sick girl lies motionless; "but I could not come before. Dear Myra, don't you know me ?" And she lays her warm lips upon the clammy forehead, The dying eyes quiveropen-recognize her; and a faint smile hovers over the lead-colored lips.

"We were-we were-" she gasps, and then stops, still gasping, and unable to proceed.

"Is it anything you want to tell me?" says Irene, gently, trying to help her.

"We were " commences Myra, again; but death will not let her finish.

"Tom

my" she ejaculates, with a world of meaning in her eyes, but with an cfort so painful to behold that Irene involuntarily closes her own; and when she opens them again Myra's are glazed, her lips are parted, and two quick sobbing breaths herald the exit of her soul.

"She's a going!" screams Mrs. Cray, rushing forward to assist in the Great Change.

"She is gone," says Irene, quietly, as, awestruck, she sinks down by the bedside and covers her face with her hands.

"Poor dear!" quoths Mrs. Cray, in order to better the occasion, "how bad she's bin a wantin' of you, mum, all to-day, to be sure; and how she's bin a asking every minute when I thought you'd be here. It seemed to me as though the poor creetur couldn't die till she'd seen you again. I've seen 'em lie like this, bless 'em, for days a fightin' for their breath, and not able to go, when there's bin a pigeon-feather in the ticking, but never from trying to see a face as that poor thing has longed to see yours. And I'm sure, if I've sent one message to the Court to-day, I've sent a dozen, and she a watchin' each time as though-"

"O, don't tell me! please don't tell me!" entreats Irene, as the whole mournful panorama passes before her mental vision, and overwhelms her with reproach, that ends in sobbing. Colonel Mordaunt hears the sound of her tears through the open casement, and comes to the bottom of the stairs.

"Irene-Irene!" he says, remonstrat

ingly.

“O, please to walk up, sir; it's all over," says Mrs. Cray, with her apron to her eyes; and, for the sake of his wife, the colonel does walk up. When he reaches the little room, he is distressed beyond measure at the sight before him; the poor dead wasted body stretched upon the bed, and his beautiful Irene crying beside it as though her heart would break.

"Come, my dearest," he says, soothingly, "you can do no more good here. Let me take you home."

But she turns from him; she will not answer him; she does not even seem to be aware that he is present.

"I hate myself! I hate myself!" she says, vehemently. "Why did I ever consent to go to that detestable picnic, when my place was here? I promised her, poor

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