perience of law breaking was derived from occasional attendance at the magistrates' meetings, where poaching and affiliation cases were the only troubles to the bench. But that a woman could be found who not merely did not shrink from the man who had endeavoured to entrap her into an illegal alliance, but actually announced her intention of fulfilling the contract and defying the world, was entirely beyond Mr. Drage's comprehension.

And now you have heard all, and are in full possession of each circumstance of the case as it now stands, what do you recommend should be done?" asked Madge. "I confess," said the rector, with a very blank and perplexed look, "that I am quite unable to advise you. I have never come across so determined a character as Mr. Vane appears to be; and this woman seems, from what you say, to be a perfect match for him. It is, of course, most horrible to have to sit by and witness an open infraction of the law, but we have at least the satisfaction of knowing that we have done our best to prevent it, even though the warning was not attended to."

"As you say, we have done our best, and there it must end. I am heartily sick of the trouble and vexation it has caused me. If there had remained in me one lingering spark of affection for my husband, it would have been extinguished by this last and greatest insult. My pride tells me that I have already proceeded too far in this matter, and that when he hears what I have done, as he will hear, sooner or later, he will ascribe my actions to my continued attachment to him, and my unwillingness to see him taken by another woman.'

"Your pride may teach you that, but I have been reflecting as you spoke," said Mr. Drage, "and my conscience teaches me that we should not suffer this sin to be committed without one further attempt to prevent it. You have seen Mrs. Bendixen, and she has refused to listen to you. I will go to London and search for Mr. Vane; he is a man of the world, and will more readily comprehend the difficulties which beset him, and the danger in which they are liable to result."

"He is a desperate man," said Madge, "and one who would flinch from nothing where his interests were involved or his safety at stake. I should dread any meeting between you."

"I will not have you talk in that manner,” said Madge, laying her hand lightly on his arm, and looking up earnestly into his face. The Reverend Onesiphorus Drage had for some months past told himself that he had conquered his wild absorbing love for Mrs. Pickering, and that he only regarded her as a sister. There are so many of us who on certain subjects are frank and loyal to all others, and eminently deceitful to ourselves. When the rector left Mrs. Pickering's presence, he made his way to Sir Geoffry, whom he found still engaged in colloquy with the gardener. The old general was very pleased to see his clerical friend, shook him warmly by the hand, and promptly declined to enter into any of the church-congress questions or arguments which Mr. Drage had eagerly submitted to him, alleging that he had business of more pressing importance, on which the rector's advice was required.

Up and down the carriage sweep in front of the house walked the two gentlemen for more than an hour; the subject of their conversation being the same as that which had occupied the general and Mrs. Pickering on the previous evening. Even at greater length than he had spoken to his housekeeper, Sir Geoffry explained to his friend the story of his earlier life, the separation from his wife, the duel with Mr. Yeldham, the interview with Gerald when he bade the boy renounce his name and his position, and the recent interview when he ordered Riley to turn him from the door. If he had any doubt of the feelings with which this narrative would have been received, the behaviour of his companion would have soon settled his mind. Mr. Drage listened silently to all from the commencement of the story until the end. He never made the slightest verbal interruption; but as Sir Geoffry proceeded, the rector's head sunk upon his breast, and his hands, which had been clasped behind him, at last formed a refuge wherein his agitated face was hidden.

When the story came to an end, there was a long pause, broken by Sir Geoffry's saying:

"There is not much need to ask your opinion of my conduct in this matter, I see plainly that you are of the same mind as Mrs. Pickering, and consider that I have acted wrongly."

"I do," said Mr. Drage, raising his head, "most wrongly, and unlike a parent, unlike a Christian, unlike a gentleman!"

"Sir!" cried the old general, stopping short in his walk, and glaring fiercely at his friend.

I repeat what I said, Sir Geoffry Heriot, and defy you to disprove my words. Was it like a gentleman to watch and spy upon the actions of your wife and her partner in the ball-room; was it like a Christian to shoot down this man upon the mere supposition of his guilt ?"

"Shoot him down, sir?-he had his chance," cried the general.

"His chance!" echoed the rector, severely. "What chance had a dilettante poet, painter, musician, what not, a lounger in drawing-rooms and boudoirs, who probably never had a pistol in his hands in his life? What chance had he against you, a trained man of arms? Was it like a father for you to condemn this lad for keeping the oath which he had sworn to keep at his dying mother's bedside; to hunt him from your house when he came with his longsought proofs of that mother's innocence ?" "You are a hard hitter, sir," said Sir Geoffry, eyeing him sternly. "You don't spare your adversaries !"

"Not when I think that there is a chance of rousing in them a spirit of remorse, or prompting them to actions of atonement." "Pardon me one moment," said Sir Geoffry. "Before we talk of remorse and atonement, I should point out to you that I am not the only one to blame in this question. I am hot-tempered, I allow it. Nature and the life I have led settled that for me; but this boy is as hot tempered as I am, and has an insolent way with him, which is in the highest degree provoking. However, we have talked enough on my family matters for the present. Let us go in and see what Mrs. Pickering has provided for luncheon."

The rector knew his friend's peculiarities too well to attempt to renew the conversation at that time, and silently followed him into the house.

Before he went away the rector found an opportunity of telling Mrs. Pickering the subject of the conversation he had had with Sir Geoffry, and spoke earnestly about its unsatisfactory termination.

Mr. Drage imagined from Sir Geoffry's tone, and from the abrupt manner in which he had brought the discussion to a close, that he was still highly incensed against his son; but Madge was much more sanguine on being able to bring Gerald back to his proper place in his father's heart. She knew that, however harsh and curt the general's manner might be to Mr. Drage, or to any other of his friends, she had a mollifying power over him, which, duly exercised, never failed to soothe him

in his most irrational moments. She did not say this to the rector, with whom she simply condoled, but she felt tolerably certain that the day would not pass over without the subject being again broached to her by the general. She was wrong. In the afternoon she received a summons to the library, and found Sir Geoffry awaiting her.

"I will not trouble you to commence reading just now, Mrs. Pickering," said he, as he saw Madge opening the newspapers which had just arrived from London. "I want to talk to you upon a matter of some importance, not quite in your line perhaps, but one in which your strong common sense cannot fail to advise me well and usefully. You have heard me mention my friend Irving ?"

"Mr. Irving, of Coombe Park ?"

"The same; I have told you of my long friendship with him, and of his determination made long ago, and abided by ever since, to enter into no speculations which I do not approve of. Strange to think that a man of a City position and financial knowledge should choose to be governed in his investments by an old Indian officer, who knows little of money matters, and has never been on the Stock Exchange in his life! However, Irving is a Scotchman, and a great believer in luck; and as the first dabble on which I advised him turned out a lucky hit, he has relied upon me ever since, and has not done badly on the whole."

"Surely that is a mild way of putting it," said Madge. "I think I have heard you say that Mr. Irving is one of the richest men in England ?"

"So he is; and that is so well known that the mere advertisement of his name is a mine of wealth to any affair with which he may happen to be connected, such confidence does it inspire. Rich as he is, though, he still likes making the money, still takes a pleasure in adding to his heap, crescit amor nummi-what was it we used to say at school? Irving has been speculating very little lately; indeed, I began to fancy that he had given it up altogether. But of late I have had several letters from him, each increasing in warmth and keenness about a certain mining company called the Terra del Fuegos, in which he is half persuaded to embark."

"The Terra del Fuegos?" repeated Madge.

That is the name. Surely, Mrs. Pickering," said the old general, jocularly, "you are not a shareholder in that promising undertaking?"

"No," said she, "and yet the name

VOL. VII.

160

This poor lad was sitting in the kitchen of the castle of Camlough while Katherine Archbold lay dying up-stairs. The cook had placed meat and beer before him, but the fool had heard rumours of the trouble that was in the place, and he would not eat as usual. Not that he cared much for the young lady herself, for she had often tormented him; not that he cared much for Lady Archbold, who seldom bestowed notice on such as he; but his simple heart was sore for Sir John. Sir John always threw him a shilling when he passed him, and sent him to the cook to get his dinner; and he nodded to him and smiled at him, and Con the idiot knew a smile from a frown.

Two or three servants were talking of the deadliness of the child's disease, of the uselessness of doctors, of the grief of the father and mother, and of fifty things besides. All at once Con started from his seat, and sped to the kitchen door.

"Hallo, my boy!" cried the cook, "you stay here for the night!"

But Con only flung a grin of delight over his shoulder, and disappeared; not out of doors, but, to the dismay of all present, up-stairs, where he had no business to be.

Sir John, sitting by the side of his daughter, with his face buried in his hands, felt a touch upon his shoulder, and looked up with a great start. There were Con's white face and black eyes gleaming at him in the dull light of the sick-room.

"Master!" said the idiot, caressingly. Sir John was about to shake him off, but the great tenderness and sympathy in the lad's face caught his attention.

Master, take miss down mountain !" said the fool in an excited whisper; and he pointed with his finger to the open window, beyond which the day was already breaking, leaving the dark peaks of the hills all naked against the pale rifts between the clouds.

"Father Felix, master! Father Felix, master!"

Sir John started again, and a flush rose to his face. He guessed on the instant at the meaning of the fool. Every one in the country knew that the sick were brought to Father Felix. Many and many a time Sir John had laughed at the folly. Yester

day he would have laughed at it. But now, being in despair, he felt differently.

Ser

Within the next half-hour the whole castle was astir. All the people of the place knew that a strange thing was about to happen. Lady Archbold, docile for once, hurried on with quivering hands her most sumptuous riding-habit, and placed a hat with long feathers and jewelled buckle above her ghastly face. A litter was constructed and covered with a rich coverlet, and the insensible maiden was placed on it, supported by pillows and swathed in costly wrappings. A heap of June flowers lay on her feet. vants in splendid liveries mounted the finest horses in the stables, and carried baskets of fruit and flowers, and vessels of silver and gold, upon their saddles. The antique jewel-hilted sword, or skein, which was the most precious heir-loom of the family, and the ancient banner with their arms, were carried conspicuously in front of the procession. Six stout retainers carried the litter on their shoulders, and the woful parents rode a little in advance on either side. A crowd of servants, labourers, tradespeople, and tenants, who poured out at short notice from the settlement of Camlough in the lap of the Golden Mountain, made a motley rear-guard to the train. Down the rugged passage of the steep mountain came winding slowly this mournful and vainglorious procession, with the glory of the midsummer morning flashing on the rich draperies of the litter, the pale adorned figure of the prostrate child, and the awed, wondering faces around her. And far on before them fled the swiftfooted fool, the herald and vanguard of the train, with his arms extended as a signal of alarm, and all the fires of the sunrise burning in his eyes.

Early that morning little May had climbed the belfry to send the wishes of her heart to her sick dream-playmate. With two level hands above her eyebrows she had screamed aloud, so sharply that the crows started cawing out of the ivy.

"Aunt Martha," she cried, flying into the breakfast parlour, "there is a strange slow procession coming down the Golden Mountain."

"Guests returning," said Miss Martha, comfortably, speaking from behind the steam of her teapot.

"There are no visitors at Camlough this long, long time," said May, who was as pale as the white rose in the garden.

"That is true," said Miss Martha, doubtfully," but what are you afraid of ?"