out of the sick-room? How she flung herself down, and called herself wicked and undutiful, blaming herself, no doubt, for having been away; unless, poor lady, she had anything else to reproach herself with. Nurse was as close as the grave; but I know folks did talk—”

She hesitated; and I saw no occasion to rake up dead and gone scandal for Lelgarde's innocent ears; though I had long been thinking that if these were Atheling manners, one might as well be Smith. "And how soon did Miss Hilda's long illness set in ?" I asked.

Mrs. Bracebridge shook her head; and, for the first time, the tears came into her eyes.

“That Mr. Hamilton's death, ma'am he was killed somewhere in those snowmountains where the gentlefolks is always meeting with their deaths; and Miss Hilda, she read it on the newspaper, without a word to prepare her. There is no doubt she was much attached to him, poor young lady."

"I dare say her sister was sorry for them," said Lelgarde, her voice sinking as she uttered this improbable conjecture.

"Well, ma'am, my mistress thought a great deal of the honour of the family; perhaps it was a blessing looked at so; but naturally Miss Hilda could not be expected to see it. However, I should not talk, for whatever words they had 'twas never before their servants. Only once I did-I did chance to hear"-(Mrs. Bracebridge became rather confused)—"just an angry word or two. Miss Etheldreda was telling her how she ought to be ashamed to give way-how she ought rather to give thanks on her bended knees-that it might be this was an imposition of Providence."

"Interposition ?" I suggested.

"Just so, ma'am, to save her and the family from disgrace. 'Disgrace!' Miss Hilda did cry out then. I never heard her speak up so proud, though her voice was all of a shake; and then my mistress, she went on talking, but she would always hush her voice when she was in anger; and all I heard was something about seeing her sister dead at her feet-and then distinct came the words, killed him with my

;

own hands,' and then, oh! dear, what a cry Miss Hilda did give, and, poor young lady, she went off into one of those terrible hysteric fits which grew upon her more and more-not that my mistress would ever have done such a wicked thing."

"I should think not," I said, as a vivid picture of Miss Atheling ascending the gallows in a black satin gown rose before me, and made me laugh; but a woman who was in the habit of uttering such threats as those must have been a very unpleasant person to live with, and I no longer wondered at the constantly recurring "poor Miss Hilda."

"And her health got worse and worse, I suppose?" asked Lelgarde.

"Worse and worse; with those hysteric fits, if they was hysteric, and one thing and another, till she had no use of her limbs; though the doctors, and law! she had doctors enough to have killed a whole hospital full, would have it 'twere only nervous suppression !"

Depression, was not it ?"

"Very likely, ma'am, or it might have been both, and a hundred other things as well, I am sure. Nurse could have told you more than I, for she was always with her night and day; and so it went on for nigh fifteen years, and then poor nurse, who had been failing for some time with the heart complaint, she was taken for death, suddenly, in Miss Hilda's very room; and Miss Hilda, she never spoke afterwards, and was dead within the week."

"Thank you; it is a sad story, but I think I ought to know it," said Lelgarde, morally again, as she rose to dismiss the old woman. Mrs. Bracebridge had curtsied herself to the door, when my sister, who had stood fixedly gazing on the picture, turned suddenly towards her.

"You are sure Miss Hilda had quite lost the use of her limbs," she asked, abruptly. "Oh! entirely, ma'am, she never left her couch for many years."

Lelgarde looked at her dreamily, and passed her hand over her forehead, as if only half awake.

"Then she could not walk about the house? It was impossible, was it?" "I suppose so, ma'am," said the old woman, evidently surprised.

"Yes," returned Lelgarde, in the same lost, dreamy manner, "Yes, I suppose so; yes, of course it must have been out of the question."

ought not to be too hasty," she said to May. "We ought not to blame any one."

"I do not say a word against her," said May. And she doubled up her little fist under her apron with the mighty effort to control her tongue.

These remarks were interchanged in the hall, as Miss Martha, who had stepped out for the express purpose of thus relieving her feelings, met May bearing towards the parlour that antique silver teapot which was the pride of her aunt's heart, followed by Bridget swaying under a tray of good things which might have nourished a small family for a week. May, entering with her teapot, found Paul and Katherine sitting on either side of the hearth, as friendly as possible, and engaged in lively conversation. Katherine was laughing gaily, and Paul was looking very well pleased, seeing that he had succeeded so thoroughly in amusing a pretty and witty woman. The visitor was looking dazzling after her madcap ride-glowing and glittering with all that bewildering light and colour which made her beauty so fascinating. All traces of the half-weird, half-satirical vein of humour which she could show to May, had vanished. Her manner to Paul and Miss Martha was gentle, admiring, winning, and deferential, whilst her brilliant chatter brimmed with wit, and her readiness to be amused was surprising and delightful. May was scarcely suffered to add a mite to the conversation, for Katherine had a trick of stealing the words from her mouth before they were spoken, and of gracefully throwing ridicule over every remark which she permitted her to make. Yet this was done so cleverly, that nobody but May felt its meaning or its persistency. May bore it patiently and with good humour. Here, in Paul's presence, the superstitious sense of uneasiness could not touch her. She was thoroughly satisfied with Paul's love for herself, and did not fear for a moment that any man or woman could destroy or even weaken their mutual tenderness and trust. So she laughed with Katherine at every jest that was turned against herself, and submitted to play the simpleton with a very lovely grace. The little parlour rang with merriment that evening. Katherine mimicked everybody, visitors, servants, peasants, and aristocrats, giving vivid pictures of various phases of life. It was only when the play was played out, and her voice hushed for the night, that one might remember, in the quietness which succeeded, the vein of un

merciful harshness and contempt which had run through her representations of human nature.

The next morning Paul came to breakfast, and May, as was usual on such occasions, went tripping over the snow to meet him. Paul's high spirits still endured. He had not had a fit of gloom since he had become agent to the miser. Naturally the conversation turned upon Katherine. "She is a beautiful creature," said Paul. "She is very beautiful," said May. "And friendly," said Paul. "She remembers quite freshly every circumstance of my former acquaintance with her. There was so little of it one would think she might have forgotten. With all her flatterers and admirers, of whom we have heard so much, one would hardly expect that she could have a lively recollection of an insignificant fellow like me."

"Paul," said May, with a sudden and passionate impulse, "don't let her push me out of your heart. Little and poor as I am I can be more to you than she could be."

"My darling," said Paul, surprised. 'you might as well ask me with that wistful face not to give myself over to the Evil One. You will not let me stray away from you? This little hand, though small, will hold me.'

"I do not know that," said May. "If I saw you willing to go I don't think I could bring myself to hold you."

"You could," said Paul," and it woul be as much your duty as if you were already my wedded wife. No marriage vow can bind us to each other more solemnly than we are bound. But of one thing be certain; my heart has no room to spart for any woman besides yourself. Miss Archbold is beautiful and charming in a wonderful degree, but she is the last woman in the world whom I could associate with a thought of tenderness. You had much better be jealous of your good

Aunt Martha."

"I used to think that I could not be jealous," said May, "but now I fear that I could, if it were not that I so utterly hate and despise the feeling."

"Hate and despise it more," said Paul. "though that is scarcely worth your while, for I swear to you that provocation shall never come in your way. We want one another my love, and divided we could not thrive. I, at least, want you. Any thing that parted us would be the sure and complete ruin of Paul Finiston. indeed, would the curse have its will of me.

Then,

May was used to this kind of talk, and she had ceased to be frightened at it. She believed very earnestly in the mystery of the Finistons, and the idea was a rapture to her that she was thus strong in her weakness to be a safeguard to Paul. Yet on this special morning there was something that pressed on her with a vague fear of danger; and somehow, despise it as she would, the uneasiness was associated with Katherine. The thought of jealousy was indeed a folly to her, and it was not now jealousy that she felt. The fear was not of sorrow nor of disappointment for herself, but of harm for Paul, through whom alone she could be made to suffer. She had no separate interests, no selfish feelings to be hurt, no pride to be wounded, no vanity to be stung. She felt herself indeed a part of Paul. There was something in the idea of the possibility of their being separated, as put forth by him at this moment, whilst her own mind was troubled, that struck her with unusual sharpness; as if, indeed, there had been some invisible and unholy power, whose strength was pitted against them, and who would strive to tear them asunder. In the deathly quiet of the winter morning they stood still upon the road, and looked in each other's faces. The Woods of Tobereevil lay in gaunt masses before their eyes, frowning out of a ragged shroud of snow. In the snow-time the old legend always seemed more real than at any other moment, and there was always a ghastliness upon the country while the white sheeting covered the wicked trees and their roots. The "awful babe of death,' and his frozen mother, seemed to lie stark and stiff under every snow-wreath; and it was easy to imagine that the feeble shred of smoke from one chimney of the mansion ascended at that moment from the blighted hearth-place of the first Paul Finiston. May locked her hands together apon Paul's supporting arm, and her eyes flashed defiance at the ranks of the wicked woods.

"I tell you," she said, as the flame softened in her eyes, when they met Paul's gaze, "be they men, women, or demons, they shall tear me in little pieces before I loose my hold of you!"

After that the mood of both changed, and they returned to Monasterlea as merry

as two children. Katherine had not all the wit to herself at the breakfast-table, for May's tongue was so loosened by joy that it did clever work just as prettily as any innocent tongue that ever yet sent music out of a woman's smiling mouth.

After breakfast Bridget announced that a travelling-carriage was on its way down the road to Monasterlea. Aunt Martha vanished to put on her afternoon cap, Katherine was in her room, and May received Lady Archbold in the cottage parlour. "My daughter is here ?" she said eagerly, looking in May's face. "Yes," said May, "since yesterday in the evening."

Her child

Lady Archbold was relieved. at least was safe. But now that her fears were allayed, the uneasiness that she had suffered showed itself in irritation and anger.

"You should not have taken her in; you ought not to have kept her here," she said. Why did not your aunt send her home to me at once ?"

"We never thought of such a thing. We could not have done it. The night was wild; and think of the distance!"

Lady Archbold moaned a little, and wrung her hands slowly as she held down the storm of her indignation. She looked up with her feverish glance and saw a sympathy in May's eyes which invited her to speak.

"Katherine is not good to me," she said; "Katherine is not good to me. Now, promise me that you will never repeat this to any one in the world."

"I promise," said May; "but, Lady Archbold, don't be hard upon her. You have spoiled her a little, I dare say." And May took part with Katherine in pity to the poor mother who was blaming her.

'Ah, that is it, but she might at least remember that it was our love for her that did it. I would give the heart out of my bosom if only she would love me, and be a little tender with her mother. Look at me, young girl! I was as proud as the very eagles in the mountains, and yet love for her has brought me to this, that I am whimpering here to you like the beggar that comes to your gate. I reared her, and fashioned her to be a fit wife for a prince, but I would give her cheerfully to the poorest gentleman that ever yet loved her, and portion her with every penny and jewel I possess, if she would only show me one warm spot in her breast where I might live and find comfort for the remainder of my days.

But, oh me! how she wounds this poor aching heart!"

"She does not mean it," said May, still pleading for the mother's heart rather than for the daughter. "She will be sorry when you talk to her. She is wilful and impulsive, but she will be wiser by-and-bye. "Ah, you do not know her. By-andbye I shall grow as cold and indifferent as she is. I shall be harsh with her, for she will have turned all my love into bitterness. But she will soon be freed from me, for I shall die. In the mean time, I came bere to bring her back with me to Camlough."

"I am afraid she will not go," said May, knowing that Katherine had a great mind to stay at Monasterlea.

Ah, will not go!" panted Lady Archbold. "Perhaps, Miss Mourne, you sympathise with her in this. Perhaps you wish to keep her against my will. You will repent it if you do. Mind, I say to you, you shall repent it!"

"I do not sympathise with her," said May, "nor wish to keep her here. But if she insists on staying we cannot drive her away."

But you ought to drive her away," flashed forth Lady Archbold, whose passion rose against opposition. "You have a lover, I am told, and you had better look to it. You will not stand beside my Katherine. If you persist in keeping her by you, your lover will not be your lover many days. She will delight in taking him from you; in breaking both his heart and yours.'

May grew a little pale at the coarse way in which so sacred a subject was handled. "I don't think that will be in her power," she said.

"You think So, do you ? Well, I have warned you to keep watch over your property."

'Lady Archbold," said May, "you do not understand me. I shall neither watch nor fear."

"Lady Archbold is here, and wants to see you.

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'Lady Archbold already! Nonsense. Well, we must allow that the old lady has been pretty active. I shall go to her presently, when I have finished dressing my hair. I wonder what she has come for." "She hopes you will return with her," said May.

"Then her hopes are vain, my dear, for you are not going to get rid of me so quickly. Your good Aunt Martha has invited me to stay here as long as it suits my humour; and it very much suits my humour to take advantage of her kindness. So you may tell Lady Archbold, without waiting till I am ready, that she can trot the fat horses back to Camlough when she likes." And Katherine swept a glittering braid upward as she spoke, and added its weight to the golden coronet which she was building up on her head.

"I cannot take that message," said May. "I should go to her at once if I were you."

But you are not me," said Katherine, with complacency, and she surveyed May all over with a slight sweeping glance, and with a faint smile upon her lip, as if to say, "How audacious to suggest such a comparison !" "However, I will go to her now, and I will beg of you to have my trunks carried here in the mean time."

"I believe there are no trunks," said May; "I have not seen any."

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No trunks!" cried Katherine, and her brows lowered, and an expression of rude anger gloomed out and extinguished the beauty in her face. "I think Lady Archbold would not come here without the trunks."

But evidently she admitted the idea that the trunks had not been brought, for her face did not brighten as she took her way to the parlour.

The door was closed upon mother and daughter. By-and-bye sounds were heard from the room; echoes of voices speaking in high-pitched tones, vibrating with passion. Afterwards there was silence, and then low murmurs and sobbing. Aunt Martha came creeping softly into her niece's room.

"May, this is dreadful! That harsh, haughty woman will break the bright young creature's heart. Only to hear the poor child sobbing through the wall!"

'Are you sure it is she who is sobbing?" asked May.

'My dear, come into the store-room.