able for nothing so much as simple common sense. The experience of a long life had done its utmost to make her the most matter-of-fact person in the world. And yet there was something within her that made it difficult that she should go to see Simon of Tobereevil. So difficult that Miss Martha would rather have marched into a battle-field in her neat bright goloshes and best black silk, and taken the few odd chances for her life. It was twenty years since she had seen Simon Finiston. And on the occasion of that last meeting she had broken off an engagement, which had then already lasted nearly a quarter of a lifetime. She had sought him then as she was going to seek him now, had spoken to him, and left him before his own door-step. She was not going to have the blood of the poor upon her head, and their hunger-cry in her ears all her life. If he would persist in walking evil ways, why, then, she must let him walk them alone. She had waited and hoped till suspense had gnawed the pith out of her heart. Now she was going away to mend her wounds, and to fit herself for a life of wholesome labour elsewhere. It was in this way that she had talked to him, and left him, and he had walked his evil ways quite alone ever since. It had pleased her later to come back in her independence and settle for old age within a mile of Tobereevil. But it did not please her to confront this old man who could remind her that certain five years of her life had been full of a light which had failed her, and that other ten years had been racked with the worst grief that can be suffered, the ill-doing and disgrace of one entirely beloved. To save herself from death she would not have entered in at that rusty gate and travelled up that dismal avenue. But she knew very well what she had meant when she had said, "I will try to be Elizabeth." The unkind March wind was making a jest of her all the time, plucking at her gown, and puffing in her face, and singing out a loud shrill song at her expense, that made the tender buds shiver on the trees. It was as hard upon her as would have been any other raw blustering thing that prided itself on youth, and had no pity upon the romance of a weather-beaten heart. Miss Martha often paused to consider her way, for the trees and the weeds seemed to have eaten up the landmarks which she had known. There were no longer any traces of the broad carriage drive. The branches of the trees hung across the path, and the rabbits scampered past her feet. Here and there a rusted gate barred her way, while a broken-down fence reluctantly allowed her to proceed. And as she made her way resolutely past all obstacles, there were other things be sides the cruel east wind that plucked at her sorely. She remembered how many and many a time she had been used to trip up and down that avenue. She saw the moss-covered trunk on which she had liked to stand to get a favourite view down an arch of the trees, thinking pleasantly all the time of what things she and Simon would do when they should become owners of Tobereevil. They would prune and weed, and till and plant, until the wilderness should be changed into a paradise. They would make the mountains glad, and restore the tarnished honour of the Finistons. Then the desolation of Tobereevil had possessed a weird charm for her, as the haunt of an evil genius which was to be banished one day by the force of her strong goodwill. Then the mansion itself, the mansion which was just now showing a cold grey shoulder between the trees, had been as the castle of an ogre, which was to be charmed into a home of all blessedness and happiness. These had been a young girl's joyful expectations. Yet now all that she looked upon was sunk a hundred times deeper in ruin than it had been in the hour of her hope. Miss Martha did not dwell upon these thoughts at all. She simply gathered up her wits and her skirts, and held both well in control, as she confronted the sour visage of the house. She remembered it well, she had known it morose, and threatening, and woebegone; but she saw now the marks of twenty years of extra desolation on its front. It had gained an air of surly recklessness, and much of its dignity was gone. There was a savage raggedness about its chimneys, and windowsills, and door-steps, tufted with tall wild grass, and fluttering with streamers of the most flaunting weeds. The greenness of the earth had not been content with eating up the approaches to the walls, but seemed resolved to make its way under the very roof itself. Miss Martha saw the one cow feeding on the lawn, and the few famished hens that were pecking about the door-step. The door was opened by a dreadful old woman, a mass of rags and patches, whose face was disfigured, apparently, by the grime and discontent of years. This was the wretched old woman who was held in aversion by the country because, for some reasons best known to herself, she had chosen to devote her services to the miser of Tobereevil; to live a life of starvation under an accursed roof. It was doubtless but seldom that she was required to answer a summons at that inhospitable door. She looked as scared at the wholesome apparition of Miss Mourne, as if she had been suddenly confronted with a whole gang of thieves. All across the vast and empty stone hall, and away in the chamber where he stood at the moment, Simon Finiston heard wrangling at his door. Old Tibbie's discordant voice echoed among the rafters like the sound of a loud quarrel. Miss Martha's tones did not travel so far, but every harsh note of Tibbie's had an echo of its own, and there might have been an angry crowd upon the door-step. The miser had been pacing up and down his room, being in a humour more than usually timorous. As he walked he twisted his hands together wildly, and at intervals struck his forehead in the agony of his mind. He was beginning to fear that his memory failed him. He was subject to momentary forgetfulness of the exact position of each tittle of his possessions. Sometimes, for an instant, he could not remember in which pocket he had placed the key of the drawer, in which he kept the key of the closet, in which was hid the key of the desk, where lay safely, under heaps of yellow papers, the key of the safe in which a large amount of money was stored. This noise in his hall alarmed him. There were loaded pistols upon a bench in a corner, and he placed his hand upon one in terror, and looked towards the door. The door opened and Miss Martha came in, having vanquished Tibbie, and sent her growling to her den. "You need not be alarmed, sir," said she, cheerfully, "I am come to rob you of nothing but a few moments of your time." Then these two, who had been lovers, looked upon one another. The old man was tall, withered, and blighted-looking, and so ill-clad, that the blast from the door seemed to pierce him where he stood. It was difficult to believe that he had once been handsome, yet the features were imposing, though hacked and notched by the wrinkles and hollows of the flesh. Once the countenance had been pleasant and bland, but there were snarling lines defacing it now that made one shrink from the creature, shadowy as he was. Time had been when the powdered curls had hung gracefully over the polished forehead, when the complexion had worn a manly hue above the dainty lace of his ruffles, and when his well-cut profile had looked all the more stately from the becomingness of the quaint and jaunty queue. Time had been when no finer foot and leg had stepped down the country-dance. Now the limbs hung lank and limp, the knees clinging together under the patched and threadbare garb. A violent fit of agitation seized him as Miss Martha spoke. Amazement, shame, and embarrassment struggled all together in his face. It was not the sight of Miss Martha that had moved him, but the sound of her voice. The twenty years had done their work upon her too, and out of the fogs of his puzzled brain he might hardly have recognised her. She had never been a beauty; only one of those maidens whose temper and wit idealise the homeliness of their features in the eyes of all those who come under their spell. A husband who had married Martha in her youth would have gone on thinking her a beauty till her death; but a lover who had not seen her since her youth would now wonder to find that she had altered into a plainfeatured woman. The memory would present her as a person of rare charms, rather than a creature of mere freshness and comeliness, shining with good sense and grace. But Simon knew her by her voice. It echoed yet her steady self-containment and simple goodwill, and now that the sparkle had left her eyes, it was the truest messenger of the spirit still within her. The narrow soul of the miser was stabbed on the instant by the idea that here was his former love come in person to reproach him, to try to assert something of her olden power, so as to wheedle him into lowering her heavy rent. He could not talk to her face to face, and he would not, and as she was there confronting him, and, being nearest the door, in a way held him prisoner, he instinctively put up a blind which might enable him to hold parley with her at ease. A look of cunning gleamed out of the confusion of his face, and he became tranquil. "Pray be seated, madam," he said, with an assumption of benevolence and stateliness. He drew his frail garment around him, and sat down on one of the few old carved oaken chairs that were in the room. To the cushions of these still clung a few fragments of the ruby-tinted velvet, which had made some attempt at covering them when Martha had seen them last. The chilly March sun- gleam flickered down not mind the people about here, but doesn't like strangers. Is afraid, I suppose, of meeting people who knew her in better days, and who would be ashamed of recognising her in her present position. Now I must once more look through the papers which Irving sent to me, and coach myself up in readiness to meet these gentlemen from the City." Punctual to its time, the train containing the two gentlemen arrived at the Springside station the following morning, and Mr. Delabole, hopping briskly out, called a fly, then turned back to assist his companion in extricating their luggage from the carriage. There were but few persons on the platform, for it was an early and unfashionable train; but amongst them was a tall, thin man, of stooping figure, dressed in a long clergyman's coat, who hovered round the two strangers, and seemed to take particular notice of them-such particular notice as to attract Mr. Vane's attention, and induce him to inquire jocularly of Mr. Delabole "Who was his friend ?" Whereupon Mr. Delabole stared with easy assurance at the tall gentleman, and told Mr. Vane “that their friend was probably a parson who had got wind of the rich marriage Mr. Vane was about to make, and had come there to draw him of a little money for the local charities." temper. The promptitude which his companion displayed in seizing upon every word uttered by their host as a personal matter was not without its effect upon Mr. Delabole. When Sir Geoffry pushed his chair back from the table and suggested that they should adjourn to the library, there to discuss the object of their visit, Mr. Delabole said: "If you have no objection, Sir Geoffry, I think that this question will be more likely to be brought to a speedy conclusion if it is left to you and me. My friend Mr. Vane is invaluable in all matters of detail, and when we come to them we can request him to favour us with his presence; for the old saying of two being better company than three holds good in business discussions as well as in social life, and if you have no objection, I think the basis of any arguments which are to be made between our friend Irving, represented by you, and the company represented by me, would better be settled by us alone." Sir Geoffry bowed stiffly enough. "Whatever Mr. Delabole thought he should be happy to agree to. From the position which Mr. Delabole held in the City, it was quite evident that in such a talk as they proposed to have, he, by himself, would be more than a match for an old retired Indian officer." Mr. Delabole smiled at this speech. "There was, he hoped, no question of brains or ingenuity in it. If the stability and excellence of the investment did not by themselves persuade Sir Geoffry to advise his friend to embark in it—and he hoped to embark in it a little himself-no blandishments of his should be brought forward to bring about that end. It was simply a question of confidence and figures, not of listening to compliments and blarney. He would willingly retire with the general into the library, while his good friend Mr. Vane would perhaps stroll about the grounds, taking care to be within call if his valuable services were required.” They drove straight to Wheatcroft, and on their arrival were received with much formality and politeness by Sir Geoffry, who told them that luncheon was awaiting them. During the discussion of this meal, at which the three gentlemen alone were present, the conversation was entirely of a social character; Springside, its natural beauties and its mineral waters; the style of persons frequenting it; the differences between a town and country life-were all lightly touched upon. The talk then drifted into a discussion on the speculative mania which had recently laid such hold upon English society, then filtering off into a narrow channel of admiration for Mr. Irving and his Midas-like power, worked His good friend, Mr. Vane, who during back into the broad stream of joint-stock luncheon had been paying particular atcompanies and rapid fortune-making, and tention to some old and remarkable Madeira finally settled down upon the Terra del [ which was on the table, did not seem at Fuegos mine. During this conversation, all to relish this plan. At first, he seemed Sir Geoffry had given utterance to various inclined to make some open remonstrance, caustic remarks, and what he imagined but a glance from underneath Mr. Delawere unpleasant truths, all of which, bole's bushy eyebrows dissuaded him though somewhat chafed at by Mr. Vane, therefrom, and he contented himself by were received by Mr. Delabole, who acted shrugging his shoulders and indulging in as spokesman for himself and his friend, other mild signs of dissent and objection. with the greatest suavity, and were replied Previously to retiring with Mr. Delabole, to with the utmost coolness and good Sir Geoffry, with punctilious courtesy, ac companied Mr. Vane to the hall-door; pointed out to him where were the pleasantest walks in the grounds, how best to reach the spots from whence the favourite views were to be obtained, and handed him the keys of the conservatory and the gates opening into the home park. Mr. Vane received all this politeness very coolly, inwardly determining to take the first opportunity of revenging himself on Mr. Delabole for the unceremonious treatment received at that gentleman's hands. Left to himself, Mr. Vane strolled idly about the grounds switching the heads off the flowers with his cane, and cursing Delabole's impudence for having relegated him to the duties of the second fiddle. "Make the best of your time, my good friend," said he, stretching himself upon a bench shaded by the overhanging branches | of a large tree, "make the best of your time, to swagger and give yourself airs, and show that you are the head of the concern; while I am, or am supposed to be, only one of its paid officers; for within a week, or ten days at the outside, I shall be my own master, and if you attempt anything of that kind with me then, I shall be in a position to tell you my opinion of you in the very plainest language. Don't think I have not noticed of late how very tightly you have drawn the rope which binds me to you! Telegraphed for when I am away, told to go here and there, to find out this and that, brought down here and shunted on one side, as though I were a mere clerk, whose business it is to make memoranda of what may pass between their excellencies! Oh, my good friend Delabole, you may take your oath I will not forget this. When once my marriage with Mrs. Bendixen is an accomplished fact, and I have the knowledge that I am beyond any harm which you could do me, then you shall taste the leek which you have compelled me so frequently of late to swallow. I will put my foot on your neck, as you have put yours on mine, I will- Hallo, who's this coming this way ? One of the gardeners, I suppose. No, by Jove! the parson who was at the station, and who seemed to take such interest in us and our movements. What can he want? He must be a friend of Sir Geoffry's, and makes his way through the grounds as a short cut from one part of his parish to the other. He will see I am a friend of the general's, and will want to enter into conversation. I hate parsons, and shan't take any notice of him." With this amiable resolve, Mr. Vane curled up his feet beneath him on the bench, pulled out a cigar, and was just about to light it, when, glancing up from under the brim of his hat, he saw the clergyman standing beside him. Philip Vane dropped the cigar, and sprang to his feet. "Who are you?" he cried, "and what are you doing here?" "There is no occasion for you to disturb yourself," said the new comer, quietly lifting his hat. "My name is Drage, and I am rector of one of the parishes in Springside. I am speaking to Mr. Philip Vane, I believe ?" "That's my name," said Vane, shortly, and resuming his seat, "though I cannot imagine how you knew it, unless you read it off my portmanteau, when you were dodging about the station this morning." "I knew it before I was dodging about the station, as you are politely pleased to say," said Mr. Drage; "I know a great deal more about you, as you will find out, before this interview is at an end!" "The deuce you do!" said Philip Vane, with a cynical smile; "I did not know my fame had extended to these parts. And what do you know about me, pray, Mr.I forget your name." My name, I repeat, is Drage!" "Drage-Drage," muttered Vane. "Any relation of Drage, of Abchurch-lane ?" "His son." "A most respectable man, holding_a leading position in the City. My dear Mr. Drage, I am delighted to make your acquaintance." And he held out his hand. "I do not think," said Mr. Drage, taking no notice of the movement; "I do not think that you will be quite so pleased to make my acquaintance when you have heard all I have to say!" Philip Vane looked hard at his companion, and noted with astonishment the hectic flush in his cheeks, the brightness of his eyes, the mobile working of his mouth. "You may say what you please," he said, shortly. "It is a matter of perfect indifference to me. If you were in the City, your father or your father's clerks could tell you what position I hold there. City men are careful of what they say of each other; but you are a parson, and are privileged, I suppose ?" "I am a parson. It was in that capacity I became acquainted with the circumstances, the knowledge of which has induced me to seek you out. You are about to be married, Mr. Vane ?" "The dullest of laymen could have told out of the uncurtained window above his head, and laughed over his chair, and lit up the variegations of his many-coloured robe. The room was sheathed in oak, yet the floor was rotted and broken in many places. The spiders had been at work to make draperies for the windows, and cobwebs were the only hangings on the walls. The ceiling had been painted, but the damp had superadded many pictures of its own, whose rude outlines obtruded themselves among flowers, and hid smiling, fading figures under their grievous blots. "I have expected this visit," said Mr. Finiston, with a courtly air, while yet Miss Martha was trying to right her thoughts, which had been somewhat thrown awry by the first glimpse of the picture now before her. "You are probably a messenger from my tenant at Monasterlea. A relation perhaps. I had the pleasure of knowing Miss Mourne many years ago, and I see some likeness. A very respectable tenant she is, but pays me such a dreadfully low rent -such a dreadfully low rent !" He shook his head from side to side with his eyes averted from his visitor, and rubbed his hands slowly, and rocked himself in his chair. Miss Martha drew her breath hard, and gazed at him fixedly. He would not meet her eyes. In a few moments her amazement abated, and her presence of mind returned. She believed that he had recognised her, but she could not be sure. At all events, either his cunning cowardice or his want of memory might make the task she had undertaken less difficult. 'I need not introduce myself," she said. "It is true I am but the messenger of another. I come from Monasterlea, but not upon the business of your tenant." "Eh?" asked he, sharply. "Not upon your-not upon her business? What then, madam, what then? Not, I hope, with a story from any of these smaller rascally tenants who want their land for nothing, and would drive a wretched landlord to the workhouse? If you come, madam, about them, I will wish you a good morning on the instant. A good morning, madam. I wish you a very good morning." He arose hastily and made a grotesque bow, a tremulous, mocking attempt at courtesy, and his face had begun to work with a passion which brought out all those snarling lines upon it. Stay, sir," said Miss Martha, and her quick steady tone affected him so that he dropped back nervelessly into his chair. "I am come, sir, altogether about affairs of your own," said Miss Martha; "to bring you news. Your brother's wife is dead, Mr. Finiston." He pricked up his ears and sat bolt upright. Well, madam, I should not be surprised. A spendthrift creature who could not thrive. She came here to see me with lace trimmings on her dress. But I told her my mind, and I pointed out the destitution that would fall upon her. I understand that her husband died of starvation, the consequence of his improvidence and her extravagance. They would have dragged me down to want with themselves, but I was much too wise for that. I was always a sparing man, madam, and it is thanks to my economy that I have still bread to eat, and have got a roof over my head." "I find you are misinformed," said Miss Martha. "Your brother died of fever, and he was a happy man, and a prudent one, while he lived. His wife was a very noble woman, who for years denied herself many comforts in the hope of being able to provide for her son. She has died without fulfilling this purpose, and all her slight means have disappeared with herself. I have come here expressly to tell you that her son is now alone and without means of living. And her son, sir, is Paul Finiston, your nephew and heir." The old man's face had grown darker and more frightened at every word she spoke. "Well, well, well," he said, hoarsely, clutching his chair with both hands and gazing now straight at Miss Martha, without thinking of who she was. "Heir, she said, heir. Ay! And pray, madam, who says there is anything to inherit? Barely enough property to keep a man alive, with the expenses of a servant, and a cat to keep down the rats. Would you rob an old man of his crust, madam? Would you take it out of his mouth to give it to a young beggar who can work, madam ?" "That is not what we propose, sir," said Miss Martha, unflinchingly. "We ask you to use a small part of your wealth only to help the poor boy to independence. Even a few hundred pounds |