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---...---ORIGINAL STORIES.I…

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ORIGINAL STORIES. I tNüW FIRST PUBLISHED.] THE DUCHESS. • y the Author of "PHYLLIS," MOLLY BAWM," "MU GBOFFEKT," LADT BBANKSMEBK," ke- rtits RIGHT or TRANSLATION IS REMATJCD-1 v CHAPTER I. Except wind stands as never it stood v Itit an ill wind tnrris none to good. L'T who is it. dad ?" asks she, leaning her elbows on the breakfast table, and fUlIng at hiu1 over the teapot. no is the writer of that voluminous letter? As a rule they don't take so much ink to ask for their just due9." Who should it be but your own first cousin, my dear, Denis Delaney, my only brother's only son, and the head of all the family." "Bless me! What titles to honour," says the girl with a soft,, low laugh. And what may our distinguished relative have to say fur himself m those four closely written pages ? Judging by jour face"—saucily—" nothing pleasant. I quite thought it was a bill." 'Tis worse f" says the Squire, solemnly. In his ttirm he "as towards her from his seat at the foot of the table, and as the latter is small, their faces nearly meet. "Hes coming here to stay some days," he whispers, with fine impressiveness. What! To stay some- Oh, nonsense Give me the letter," says Miss Delaney. rising with much characteristic force from her seat; but her father waves her back imploringly. Now can't you be patient, my dear! Can't you, now! You know if you flurry me, Duchess, I'll never be able to explain. Wait till I read it to you. Where is it now glancing again at the letters he holds, with its big crimson crest and its bold handsome handwriting. H'm hah! I To see you after all these years.' • Make acquaintance with you and my cousin.' Hah 1 'Am on my way here.' Norab," says the Squire, laying down the letter and regarding his daughter with a tragic air, that means that he'll be here in about two houral" "Two hours! Ob, dad, no says the Duchess, lifting her lovely face and gazing at her father with undisguised dismay. All the admirable spirit that had distinguished her a moment since is gone, 6nd abject fear has taken its place. 0 Welli my deal, that's just how I feel," says Mr. Oelaney, with open sympathy. I keep on saying .t, but hereJI'm convinced-bola coming all the same." with a rather depressed glance round the large, pogpfy fiiioiihtd, comfortless room. He says he's on his way, and I've no doubt he'll finish his journey. And why shouldn't be, too?" with quite a startling change of front, and a reproachful IKW" at Tiifa daughter. Who should be welcome here, rd like to know, if it wasn'tour own kith and kin? Tut J I'm astonished at you now, Duchess, to be so tahwpitable--and your own fiist cousin, too, my d..r." Is he very rich, dad?" asks the Duchess, in a rather forlorn tone, though she has shown no sur- prise at aU at the sharp alteration of his aenti- i»eo«». Perhaps she is used to it. M Gram" 114 with all the noble air 01 one determined to face the worst whatever the conse- quence. My poor brother, The Delaney ta. proud title, Norah, as good as any \;ke'a)—well, never mind, but my poor brother fine a man, my daor, as fvei step- pad im shoe leather, though, I laresay it isn't modest of me to say 80, consider- tng, ahem! we were considered much alike), bow ever asI was sayiog-" "I wonder you never told me this before Well, my dear, he died a great many years ago, more than j ou can remember, and 'tis hard to talk o the young of those who are past and gone; but before he died he married an English girl with a pot of money and jewels w. hout number." (' Iqals' l'm afraid the dear old Squire called those precious gems.) Poor Terence, your uncle, had a very handsome property of his own, and he hadn't been married to madam three years when she fell in for two- large fortunes,left her by some kinsfolk n her own country, over the water. And all this i* £ CQO>e already, or at least will come, to Denis." "It will be dreadful!" says the girl, looking ound the room in her mm her voice is low and melancholy. -Is he young ?" she asks presently. M About twenty.seven, I should say, though I'm not much of a guess. He was very young indeed when my poor brother died; quite a little chap in breeches. Though, indeed, for the matter of that," says the Squire, thoughtfully beat, aa it were. on wrestling with the truth and forcing to the front at in hazards, he was out of them when that un- happy event happened, as Terence died at mid- flight,so the child must have been in bed." 4Wbat is his, mother like ?" asks the Duchess, still melancholy. "Very handsome she was then. and very charm- ing. Bong tojw, you know, and all that; and a good soul, too." says the uire, relapsing into a .ess fashionable manner. For she nearly broke her heart when Terence died. She took the boy swal, %ben. Carried him off to England and had birn educated there, and in fact has kept bim there ever since, except on such occasion, as he has gone abroad." "Has he gone much?" asks Norah, timidly- already she is desperately afraid of this half English cousin. I believe so. I hear he has seen a great deal of the world in his time. The last we heard of him he was in Pekin. You rewember that now, don't you. Nb I don't. I don't believe I r-ver gave him a j thought," saya Norah, petulantly. « But I expect I'll have to give him several now," with a little pout. "pads" anxiously, how long do you think ^e will stay ? Let/a aee," says the squire. Once again he ad* justs his spectacles upon bis rather pronounced ..d takes up the bombshell that politeness cells a letter. Ah! here it is I hope to stay a day or two.' Now, Duchess, don't you be taken i. by that," says the Squire,looking at her know- •gly over the sheet he holds Ha'll stay a week tq a WOW! V "I shouldn't be surprised at anything he'd do," disgustedly. "It's as good to say a month when yeu're about it. But no! with a sudden pang of rqmembrance, I a day in our menage will, I dare- soy, more than suffice him." "Nonsense, now, Norah; your cousin isn't that ffrt, I should hope," says the Squire, But, indeed I agree with you, I'm afraid he'll find it—er—a oft rough." He'll hate it," says Norah. "I wouldn't care if I was sure of the dinner," O'SYs the Squire nervously. "But what the jeuce, Will we do if that butcher of ours doesn't give us t fit to eat ? His mutton, I allow you, is all "Itj wall, but hia beef," says the Squire, with pro- found dejection," his beef is the very-" "Quite so, I entirely agree with you," says Norah. with admirable promptitude. But never oMnd," conscious pride in her tone. "I have fowl in the yard as fat as fat can be. ood as to the beef, I think I'll go to Mickey myself "d tell him its a matter of life and death, and that bt must give it us good for once in his life." Do!" with enthusiastic belief in her plan. The-,a nothing like ajwoman's tongue for bring- ing a man-to reason, and as for yours I know by experience that you could-" Oh daddy, now! Come! Am I such a afrrew ?" --Coax the birds off the bushes, my dear, I was mingtosay. Ha! Ha! I had you there," laughs the Squire. Turncoat says she, shrugging her pretty thouideM at bim. M Well, don't get into auacbiaf whilst I'm away, for I'm to the village this 'I instant to secure a. lorn of mutton and warn him about the beeL" I say,Norah. I say, Duchess, darling, don't go off at a tangent like that," says the Squire, making an Ineffectual grab at her gown as she passes him on her way to the door. I've a great deal to say to you yet. This young man will be expecting things grander no doubt, than we can have them. We can't help that, of course; but I'd—I'd like him to see us as well as we can be, eh ?" He colours a little as he says this and glances depre- catingly at his daughter. Flowers, now," diffi- dently, "dowers on a dinner table give it quite a little air, ah ? And there's some of the old silver locked up, isn't there. it) the oak And if you have & white gown, sweetheart, just put it on for dinner, won't you, now ? I wouldn't have him think we didn't know about things, even tbuugh we can't btive them, ph ?" "Just so!" says Norah, taking tire at one from the brilliant sceae he has just conjured up. I'm quite clever at arranging flowers, and I'll give the old silver a rub myself this afternoon while you t&Jce him out for a walk. Mike it a long daddy. And—you think a loin of mutton best— don't you? A leg sits up so high, and there's so much of it, and, of course," with a sigh, dainty and—and do you think-but no," des- pondently, 1-1 don't think ? am much of a hand at soup," "You are, excellent, my dear, excellent," pro- tests her father (may Heaven forgive him). But I don't think we'll mmd the soup. Just a loin, and a pudding. That was glorious pudding you gave us last Sunday." Custard ? Very good. And 1 can make him a jam roll for the next day—and for the day after that Oh, but I hope go away the day after that, That is, of course," mindful of her hospitality, if he wants to. He's (hopefully) sure to want to." i trust," says the Squire, anxiously, that Bridget won't be drunk." "Certainly that habit of hers is a great draw- back. At all events if she does liavd one of her— attacks I hope it won't be a noisy one. Last time —you remember, dad ?—she was so abusive that Mary went into hysterics on the kitchen that Mary went into hysterics on the kitchen stairs, and said she couldn't attend table." Yes, yes. Mary's a very poor creature," saya the Squire, with the utmost gentleness. His, manner is abstracted; it is plain his fertile brain is running on some other matter far remote frou Mary. "Now where the dickens are they, I wonder ? he says at last. What, dear ? asks the Duchess, at once in terested. The waistcoat I can lay my hand on at once I because I were it tiia last time Lord Kilgarriff called, not being able just then to find my Sunday one, and I know the coat is hanging up behind my door; but where on earth are the trousers ? Is it your evening suit you are thinking of ? j Do you mean to say you are going to dress for dinner every day?" She is so overcome by the magnitude of this thought that she sinks into the nearest chair. Of course," says the Squire, with great dignity. D'ye think I'd let him believe we wern't up to so much? Tut, Norah. you haven't a spark of genius." "You'll be miserable," declares she, eying him with deep commiseration, they are so dreadfully tight." Pride feels no pain," courageously. And if I suffer it will be in a good cause. And mind you, Duchess, dinner not a minute before seven. "Seven! Why Bridget will be hopeless by tuat time, and Mary will think it is supper." It can't be helped," says the Squire, drawing himself up with quite a superb air. It is abso- lutely necessary tbat we should nold up our heads now, and let him see that we, too, are conversant with the niceties of fashionable life!" This last is too much for the Duchess. Crushed by it, she walks with a depressed air to the door and beats a hasty retreat. CHAPTER U* A proper mall as Due shall see in a summer's day." Her interview with the butcher must have been stormy and prolonged, because she is lata for the important arrival of the head of all the Delaneys. That young man, entirely ignorant of the sensa- tion his coming has provoked, drives up to the door about half-past eleven to be welcomed by the Squire solus. The Squirsl Who had been fussing and fuming all the morning, and leading the hysterical Mary a hornble life, insisting on the threadbare carpets being brushed over and over again, marching in upon them with muddy boots to enforce this com- mand, and deaf to Mary's whimper that much more brushing will leave nothing but the floor beneath. It ia indeed a reprieve to the long- suffering maid when wheels are heard crunching upon the gravel outside, and the Squire, forgetful now of all but the approaching guest, rushes forth to greet him. The guest seems very willing to be greeted. He springs off the outside car, and comes quickly up to this unknown uncle, a pleasant smile upon his face. As for the Squire, after the first glance all is forgotten—the meagreness of his household, the fear of discomfort for the stranger—there is only left the desire to make heartily at home this young man who is so like the dead brother, and who is so tall, so aristocratic in bearing, so well set up, and so-which always comes first to an Irish eye-handsome. My dear boy, I'm delighted to see you. Tis new life to me. Well, well, but you're like your poor father. My dear fellow, 'twas very good of you to think of coming to see an old man like me." His own handsome old head is well thrown up, and he smiles an almost tender welcome on his nephew, who, though a good six feet, is yet half an inch below him in height, Come in, come in," says he; and as for you, Larry Finn," addressing the driver of the outsider, who is well known to him, as, indeed, is every soul in the county, go round to the kitchen and wait for your dinner. My dear Denis," leading the way up the stone steps and into the large, bare, com- fortless apartment called by courtesy the drawing- room at Ballyhinch, what years have rolled by since last I saw you. A little fellow you were then, but not so unlike either. And how is madam ? How's your mother? Quite well, thank you. She sent the very kindest remembrances to you and my cousin and desired me say she hopes now we have agreed to stay in Ireland for some time that we shall no longer continue strangers to each other." "She was always charming," says the Squire, with a rather old-fashioned but very admirable air. "And you?" laying his hands upon the younger man's shoulders and surveying him with affectionate scrutiny. "How old are you now, eh? I should know, I suppose, but, faith, things slip me. Twenty-seven, eh ?" Not so bad a guess, and a flattering one into tbe bargain, as I happen to be twenty-eight. At that age one begins to wish a year off rather than a year on." "Tut! What's twenty-eight? When I was that age I called myself a boy—and the broth of a boy, too," says the Squire, with his jolly laugh than which there was nothing more musical in the next four parishes. But you must be thoroughly done, my dear boy, and hungry, too, of course. If "—looking rather helplessly round him—"If one only knew where the Duchess-er-Noddle- kins-that is—Norah, your cousin, I mean," floun- dering hopelessly over the many loving sobriquets belonging to his darling," was, we mtght-" "Nothing for me," says Denis, quickly. "Nothing at all, thauk you. I slept in Cork and I breakfasted there, about an hour ago, as it seems to me. It is really nothing of a journey here from there. I feel as fresh as a daisy and as fit as a fiddle. A walk to stretch my legs I should like after the train work, that is, if you are thinking of going out." Well, I generally do take a look round me about this hour to see that the men are keeping up to their work," says the Squire, hazily. Desperate lazy fellows most of them; and if you would really lite to join me-but positively you muat have something first; a brandy and soda, IlOW-" "No, thank you," says Denis, laughing and tucking his arm into his uncle's and leading him toward the open window, through which it is but a simple thing to drop on to the grass below. At this moment it is borue in upon him that it is a possible thing to feel very intimate with the Squire in the space of five minutes or so. Outside there is a blaze of yelRw gunshine, and the wild sweet singing of innumerable birds. A meadow with long grass, still standing—because of the heavy rains that had deluged the earth in the early summer—although it is now mid July, is j making gentle obeisance to the soft wind that rushes over it. I The abort grass on wbiph they are walking widens presently into a garden rather lower down, protected on one side by a high beech hedge. Not an everyday garden, trim and ribbon-bordered, but a gay, delicious mass of all flowers, old and new, jumbled up together in a delicate confusion —one harmonious whole—thus forming a very wilderness of sweets." "What an exquisite bit," says Denis, standing still and honestly admiring. "You have a gardener with a fine sense of taste." The Squire laughs aloud. "Say that to the Duchess," cries he, "and you'll make her your friend for life. Gardener there is none; all you see there is her own work. No hand but her sows or reaps in that little garden. I tell her the flowers inuikt know and love her, or they would not bloom so; that she must breathe some cunning spell upon them to make them flourish as they do." Wha.t! Does she do it all herself Every scrap," says th" Squire, with loving pride. A muscular young woman with a ven- geance," thinks Delaney, and pictures to himself with a shudder the tall largely-boned girl with (in all probability) fiery locks, with whom he will have to claim cousinship presently. With many fears, too, he calls to mind the errand on which he has been sent by his mother, to capture and bring back to her for a long visit this young Amazon. He thinks of his mother's patient despair over the entertainment of such a guest, and of Katharine's cultured stare and educated lifting of the brows. "Slie has talent," lie says, politely, stifling a sigh. Striking across the fields and getting beyond ihe tiees, a larger view is given to the eyes. The stretching plains, now ripening to their death; the yellowing corn, the waving bariey falling wave on wave; the cloud-flecked sky; and, beyond all, the silent, glittering ocean, on which the sun ¡ god's hottest rays are failing, all blend together to fnm a scene the beauty of which enters into the very eoul of the new comer. He is indeed somewhat lost in contemplation of it. when the wild barkings of a whole kennel, as t seems to him, breaks in upon his tranquil reverie. 3arkings they are of the most agonised descrip- non, suggestive of a desire for suicide on the parts of the performers. By Jove.! the dogs. I've forgotten them, and they've found out I've started," says the Squire, jonscience-stricken. Then a smile irradiates his jovial countenance. "Aren't they clever?" says ■ ie, with a sort of possessive admiration. "The I-nee wouldn't be up to them My dear boy, if > i u 1 on I'll go back, and Fil catch you up in no tiiiie. Dut, perhaps, thay'll be reasonable. Sli! Heie the bowlings brea4 forth again with enewed vigour, and the Squire, with a remorseful ace, gives in. "You see! I must go back for them—the ciea- ures!" he says, distractedly. And if you'll just walk straight on up that hill before you, you'll iind as fine a view as ever you saw in your life; and I'll be after you before you can say Jack Hobinson ?" Away he sails, coat tails flying behind him, as I light and active as any schoolboy, in spite of his 50 years; and Denis, with an amused smile, con- tinues his walk alone. He is half way up the hill pointed out to him, gazing idly from side to side at the clumps of _ro!den furze that deck the hill iu isolated patches wre and there, when something on the top of a LJih stone wall that stands on his left catches and keeps his eye. It is a little, slender brown hand! CHAPTER III. Is she not passing fair?" He has scarcely time to wonder at that before a ta.-e follows it Such a face! And then there is a swift pressure of the hands on tha stone wall, and with a movement full of youth and strength and grace a slight figure springs into the sunlight and runs eagerly up and down the top of the wall, as if in nervous haste, and anxious to find some easy spot from which to jump to Mother Earth beneath. A slender childish figure, gowned in a simple cotton frock that beyond all question has seen the washtub many a time and oft but yet a gown that is fresh and crisp, and cannot, in spite of the ecc ntiicities of tho village dressmaker, altogether hide the grace of the form it covers. Just as little can tha rough country-made shoes conceal the beauty of the small, high-arched, patrician foot it holds. To Delaney this latter knowledge comes farther on. Just now he is blind to all save her face. Were ever eyes so clear, so grey, so deep ? With what a delicate touch the purple shadows (those alluring supplements to all true Insh eyes) lie beneath them! How long the curling lashes grow! The rippling chesnut hair, showing beneath the huge poke-bonnet, hardly hides the wide, low, capable brow, or the pretty cheeks flushed like the wild rose. But above and beyond all, the exquisite sweetness of her mouth reigns queen; so riaate, tender, loving, all in one; so arch too, and so soft, and red as roses in fair June. All this picture is caught, as it were in a breath the breathingtime it has taken her to decide on where she shall jump. Now she bends forward at a rather impossible place, it seems to Denis, who has had very little to do with any except town-bred girls, and pauses as if about to spring. A sharp exclamation breaks from him. "Don't attempt it! It is far higher than it looks!" I She starts violently. His voice coming suddenly from nowhere, as it seems to her, has nearly the effect of making her lose her balance. Turning her head quickly in his direction she meets his eyes, and stares at him for a full minute as if fascinated. Who is he ? and what has brought him bear ? For the time she has forgotten the expected cousin, but even as she looks at him she remembers. Slowly, very slowly, a rich crimson blush rises and dyes her cheeks. Is this tall, handsome, kindly young lDim thIS cousin she lias so dreaded. Impulsively sue bends towards him, a smile quivering on her lovely lips. You are Denis," she says, in a voice very clear, very low, perhaps a little plaintive at all events whatever it is, it is a voice that suits her. A creditabl3 inspiration," laughing and looking up at her to where she stood on her superior ground. lie has lifted his hat, and it occurs to her even at this immature stage that he is, if possible, better to look at without, than with it. "Iknew it," says she, shyly if triumphantly. "I saw it at once. Yau-you are like dad-only so very different." This lucid description she delivers with a charm- ing smile. You didn't know me, though," she goes on, nodding her head reproachfully at him. I lun-" Her grace of Bally inch interposes he. You wronged me! Am I so lacking in intelligence that I could not see that at a gl;&ncee" But how—hoic ?" eagerly. "Of course, there are many reasons why I should guess at you suc- cessfully. The fact that you were expected that I there isn't a young man in the country except the doctor's apprentice and the organist; and your likeness lo dad. But how did you know me '{" Am I a mere mole, then, that I should be blind to tone natural dignity that distinguishes you? Are duchesses so numerous that one need-" jOh, nonsense interrupts she, with a little indignant side glance. "If you won't tell-tO Well. 1 expect 1 knew you becausevoubrst knew me," confesses he, smiling. "Ah! Was that it? I'm sorry now I spoke," I says she mischievously, her lovely eyes full of an ipnocent coquetry. u I could have led you such a dance!" She seems to pine over this lost oppor- tunity. "You couldn't have led it up there," says he, There ian't room." "That reminds me!" growing earnest again. Dad must be wondering where I am. There, stand out of my way until I jump." Pray don't try to take that wall," entreats he, anxiously. Let me help you. Come-" going nearer and resting one foot on a projecting stone that lifts him closer to her. "Trust yourself to me and I will take you down." "Amichinathatlnhouldbreak:" making him a little mom. if you aliruggin; her shoulders. Let me place my liands upon your arms, sc, and that will perhaps save me from a sudden and terrible death. Now, are you ready ?" The charming eyes are smiling with a mocking gaiety into his without the smallest touch of embarrassment, although the tw.) faces are very close together; and then there is the lightest pressure possible on his arms, and the next moment she is beside him on the soft turf. 11 No bones broken after all," she says, saucily glancing at him from under the big bonnet. Then all at once, as though suddenly recollecting some- thing, she grows grave and extends to him her hand. Welcome she says, sweetly and again very impressively, do you know that I am very, very glad you have come." "Thank you," pleasantly, though indeed he is a little surprised at har earnestness, That is the very kindest thing you could say to me. I have been so afraid I should bore you, or-" Oh, no!" D ) you mean," says he, stili puzzled by her manner, which has something behind it" that you yourself, are glad of my coming ?'' More than I can say," promptly, and with quite a serious smile at him. This exceeding frankness almost overpowers him. Does she mean it ? Is she really so enraptured as her words imply at having him there? This charming, pretty, fascinating child, who For dad's sake," says she, softly, knocking all his fine sentiment to pieces in an instant, "He has always been so longing to see again some of his own people, and you especially, the only son of his only brother." She is silent awhiie, and then looking at him intently, "What brought you ?" she asks, gently. A longing to see him, I suppose," returns lie, smiling. "I should have come before, but as you doubt), sa know, ever since my fathei's death my mother and I have lived in England; and of late years I have travelled a good deal. Three months ago, however, hearing that affairs in Ireland were going with a steady briskness to the bad, I threw up my intention of going to the East again and came over here instead." Troubles with your tenants?" Yes. Or rather with my agents. Same thing. Ever since that terrible tragedy—when poor Mere- dith was shot—the lastagent but two, you remem- ber-I have had no peace." "I remember, as though it were but yesterdav. It was an awful murder. He resisted so long-so bravely—and"—she turns white—" they battered in his Oh! ift was horrible! And for you," glancing at him, worse than for anyone." I shan't forget it to them, you may be sure,' says he, between his teeth. Well, the man after him-Strong-eitiier lost bis nelve or could not manage the people, and after a month or two re- signed the post. I didn't blame him, really. It must be nasty waiting to be murdered like that. The last man, Monroe, gave in, too; so as I saw no prospect of keeping an agent longer than six weeks at a stretch, I thought I'd take the post myself— with an assistant, of course—and came over and tiy what I could do." Kerry is such a shocking place," says the Duchess, with a sigh for that degenerate spot. If it could get a good ducking in the sea and have its inhabitants well washed off the face of it, I dare say it would do it good," replies he, lightly. "In the meantime, as I said before, I'll see what I can do with my particular bit of it. The mother was rather against giving up her town house and coming here in the height of the season, but I per- suaded her; got the castle put into liveable order, .and now that she has been here a month she seems to have quite taken to it. Of course the moment I found a few days I could call my own, both she and 1 thought of you and my uncle." It was kind of you," says she, softly. She has been regarding him ii3rvr>usly for the past five minutes, even whilst he has been speaking to her. Truly he is very far apart from all the other young men of her acquaintance. Even Kilgarriff, who is quite a travelled person for hisyeais, and should be well up in the little delicate touches that dis- tinguish the well-bred society man from the well- bred country gentleman, does not seem to her to come quite up to the mark of this new-found cousin. Something in his voice, in the unconscious charm of his manner, pleases while it disturbs her. There is an air about him as of one accustomed always to the soft places of the earth, and how will he take Ballyhinch and all its short-comings ? Serious reflection! Her mind ilies on to the dinner and back again to her just consummated visit to the butcher. There seems to her now something sinister in the fact that he had so persistently, so insidiously, put aside in the bland Irish way that belongs to him, her request to see the loin she had ordered before leaving. Good heavens can it be possible that that loin is still alive, that as yet its primal owner is free of knife or thrust? She grows cold with horror as this fear presents itself, and she sees laid out before her mind's eye the touh joint that, should her fears prove true, will adorn the dinner table to-night. Her cousin is still talking, and she is saying yes" and no" in a distracted fashion, her mind running always on the treacherous butcher, and the shame that his treachery will bring her, when something is said that requires a fuller answer. It is a mere nothing, but it serves. It rouses ner. You don't find it slow here, then ?" "Slow? Stupid you mean? Oli, no. There is always a great deal to be done and not so very much time in which to do it. There are the usual things to battle with every day, and ofteu a startling surprise just to wake us up a little. To- day," with a lovely, gracious glance at him, "the surprise has been a very happy one." He makes her no immediate, at least no spoken, answer, but his eyes say as much as need be said —perhaps indeed—more. Now that I see you," she says, falteringly as she thinks of the mutton, "I know you are not what I thought you would be you are another person altogether, as it were." Yet the moment your eyes fell on me you knew me." "Yes; that was flattering I admit," laughing. Oh, was it ? sayshe, laughing too. "Thank you t Then the ideal you had conjured up was of a being very superior to me! Am I to understand that ?" "I'm not going to explain or refute anything," declares she, with a charming touch of mutiny about the mouth. I think your instant recogni- tion by me should suffice you." "You gave a very sorry reason for that. It showed how you held me, something better than the organist, and a little dearer than the doctor's apprentice," 1 don't remember saying that you were dearer' than anything," replies she, calmly. There i suspicion of coming battle in her tone. It lenas un additional colour to her ciieek, an added lustre to her eyes. Providentially for Pelaney the house at this moment comes into view, and with it the Squire, breatnlesa, but beaming, a dozen dogs of every age and description cluster- ing at his heels. So you've met her!" he cries, cheerily, whilst yet a long way off. 11 That's all right, She, evi- dently indicating the Duchess, though his indica- tions are vagne, is worth a dozen of me. I hurried all I knew, but one of those fellows from the Kingston Farm—you know 'em, Norah—caught me, and his tongue, once he gets an opening, is as long as the lane that has no turning." To be continued. »

COULDN'T FIND His HOUSE.

-----SUPERIORITY OF MEMBERS.

[No title]

HERBERT OF GLASLYN.

CHAPTER Vil.

[No title]

THE FARMEit.

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