AN ADVENTURE AND A SURPRISE.

Autumn was now rapidly merging into winter, the unbroken routine of Kate's life only lent swifter wings to time, for events like marked distances serve often but to show our tardy progress. Sometimes Langley would look in for half an hour's chat, and Galliard still more rarely; but though formerly so fond of society, their visits seemed now more than the Colonel wished for, or was equal to; and although she never permitted the dreadful thought to dwell on her mind, yet the consciousness that he was unusually silent, and averse to move, that his cheek had lost its firm, round, ruddy look; and that he often sent his dinner away untouched, would seize her, with a sense of anguish. Nurse, with love's quick perception, always stoutly denied that any thing ailed him.

"It 'ill do nayther iv thim any good to be thinkin that a way," she would say to herself. "Miss Kate the crayther, has enough to put up with, an' as to me poor darlin' masther, it 'ud take a better cordial than iver kem out iv a 'poticary's shop to do him any good."

These apprehensions about her grandfather were weighing heavily on Kate's heart. One humid, gloomy afternoon she was returning home after giving some music lessons, escorted, as usual, by her faithful Cormac; as she hurriedly crossed the road, (for it was late), at Kensington Gore, to enter the gardens by the gate near the ancient and diminutive barrack, usually occupied by a small party of Light Dragoons, two gentlemen stopped opposite to it. One a large, heavy, man, mounted on a splendid, dark chesnut horse, whose broad chest and clean, strong muscular limbs showed him to be a weight carrier; the rider's back was to the gardens, and his eyes fell on Kate and her companion, as she came up; the other, about middle height, slight, distinguished looking, but simply dressed, stood on the footway leaning his right arm on the neck of his friend's horse, and occasionally waving his left hand as if to enforce his words; the peculiar turn of this last described individual's head, and the careless arrangement of his wavy hair reminded Kate of Egerton, or rather stamped him as belonging to Egerton's class; for one of the indications of gentlemanlike appearance is the turn of the head and the manner of wearing the hat.

"By George! what a splendid dog!" exclaimed the equestrian, interrupting his companion, who turning slowly round, caught a glimpse of Kate, as she passed; her color heightened by her rapid walk, and Cormac, as usual, keeping close to her side. A new keeper was standing at the gate, as she was about to enter, and said, civilly, though authoritatively—

"No dogs admitted, ma'am."

"But he always accompanies me," said Kate, "and never frightens any one, not even the birds, the last keeper never objected to his coming through."

"But my orders are strict; and he is such a large dog."

"Well, I really cannot go back again," continued Miss Vernon, smiling, and shaking her head. "I saw a lady go in just before me, with a dog."

"Yes, but she had a string to him."

"Oh, I can soon manage that," cried Kate, fastening one end of her handkerchief to Cormac's collar. "Now may I go through?"

The man smiled, and made way for her.

While stooping, to fasten the handkerchief, the gentleman we have above described, as leaning across the neck of his friend's horse, walked past, glancing at Kate, quickly and keenly; she did not observe him, but turning up the broad walk proceeded towards home, lost in a wandering maze of sweet and bitter thought. As she approached the water near the Palace, she paused a moment to notice a peripatetic duck of large dimensions, and brilliant plumage, for whom she generally carried a bit of bread or biscuit, and who made long marches in quest of dainties, that might possibly be missed by adhering closely to his more natural element. Cormac sat down gravely, while his mistress addressed a few words of apology to her feathered pensioner.

"No bread or biscuit to-day, poor duck, but I will not forget you to-morrow."

And she stood looking at the creature, as it waddled awkwardly round and round her, quite regardless of the dog. At that moment the gentleman before mentioned came up beside her, and slightly raising his hat, said, politely and easily—

"How is it that you are alone?"

Kate turned quickly, and met a piercing gaze from a pair of deep set, but stern looking black eyes. She was naturally courageous, and the idea of any one intentionally insulting her never occurred to her mind; the stranger's tone too, was perfectly well-bred, and his words, such as might be addressed to some familiar acquaintance; so, without hesitation, or the slightest apprehension or embarrassment, and meeting his bold glance steadily, she replied, calmly, with a slight inclination of the head—

"You mistake me, I do not know you," and moved on towards home. To her surprise, however, the stranger kept by her side, and after a moment's silence, apparently somewhat surprised at her composure, he resumed, softening still more a very musical and refined voice—

"You are both right and wrong; I do not mistake you for any other person, but I am unfortunately unacquainted with you, and unless I take a bold step, such as I have now done, may remain so; therefore, pray forgive me."

Kate walked on in silence, her heart throbbing with indignation; to be addressed by a stranger, and one too, apparently, of her own rank in life; one whom, under different circumstances, would, perhaps, have been presented by some smiling or dignified hostess. These thoughts flashed liked lightning through her brain, and left no room for fear, as she kept a resolute silence. After another short pause, the stranger again turning his cold, sallow, but intellectual countenance towards hers resumed—

"It is absurd your persevering in this unbroken silence; I generally carry out my resolves; and to exchange a few sentences with a person not formally introduced to you, cannot possibly be an injury; speak, I entreat you, give me but the slightest clue to your name and position, and I will speedily contrive the necessary introduction—will not that satisfy you?" he added, in a slightly sarcastic tone, and suddenly placing himself in her way: she stopped, and keeping still silent, for a moment more, to collect her thoughts, and get the fiery indignation that swelled her heart under controul.

"Sir," said she, deliberately, and with a determination of tone and manner that surprised him, "unless your appearance sadly belies you, you should be too much a gentleman not to feel by instinct that I am a lady; your excuses for your presumptuous insolence only adds to it, but," she continued, with a curl of the lip, and a flash of indignant contempt from her dark grey eyes, that deepened them to blue, "I laugh at your attempt to stop me! Here, Cormac," to the hound, who had already uttered one or two ominous growls, she untied the handkerchief; "watch him, good dog, and if he stirs—" she stopped, and looking once more full in the stranger's face, turned suddenly, so as to place the hound between them, and walked lightly away, yet not too fast. The stranger, thus left planted, bit his lip, then laughing slightly, attempted to pass the dog, who, in heraldic attitude 'couchant,' kept his fierce eyes fixed on his charge, at whose slightest movement he displayed his sharp, white fangs.

"Pshaw! what a mistake, to address such a girl, sans ceremonie; what an awkward predicament! It would be absurd to enter into a contest with such a brute, unarmed, for nothing," muttered Kate's admirer, who did not look like a man deficient in courage. "Here, good dog, I say," and he again attempted to pass, but Cormac sprang to his feet with a savage growl, and again the haughty looking 'elegant' was baffled.

Meantime Kate's slight figure disappeared in the distance, and, a moment after, Cormac pricking his ears at some sound, unheard by his opponent, with a final growl, darted at full speed down the walk by which his mistress had vanished. She was waiting a few paces beyond the gate, where she had, to the best of her ability, uttered the whistle, which had recalled her faithful guardian; and now hurrying her pace almost to a run, they speedily reached home, but not before the persevering stranger had caught sight of the flutter of her dress, as she turned the corner of Victoria Gardens.

"How late you are, my child! you seem flushed and breathless."

"Yes, dear grandpapa, I was detained at Mrs. Potter's, and of course that made me late with my other pupils; then I walked so fast; but I will run up stairs and take off my bonnet."

"Oh, nurse!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into Mrs. O'Toole's arms, "I have had such a fright—no, not a fright, but I am so indignant to think that he should dare to—"

"Och, what is it, good or bad? take breath, asthore!"

And Kate, with many charges not to tell her grandfather, recounted her adventure to nurse.

"Och, bad manners to him," exclaimed that sympathising confidante. "The rale divil he was to go spake that away to a lady like you; bad luck to his impidence; did he think ye'd thank him for wantin' to know ye? I wish I come across him, faith I'd make his hair stand on ind, the schamin' vagabone. But why are ye cryin', avick, about a thief iv a pickpocket? I'll go bail it's yer purse he wanted; sure a rale gintleman ud know betther!"

"I can't help it, nurse! they are the bitterest tears I ever shed, not on account of that wretched man, but to think that such a thing ever occurred, and may occur again."

"Sorra bit iv it, I'll go wid ye me own self ivery day to Potter's an' the other place, an' let me see if me gintleman dare say pays to ye! Whist! och, jewel, there's the masther callin—dhry yer eyes."

For several days the faithful Nelly escorted her young mistress in her walks, but the adventurous stranger never appeared; and, by degrees, Kate began to look upon her fright and indignation as an unpleasant but unreal phantom.

One evening Kate had yielded to the entreaties of Mrs. Storey and her juvenile olive branches, to join a birth-day merry-making, in honor of the son and heir having attained his eighth year; and for once she left her grandfather to read alone. Nurse, of course, guarded her during her short transit between their abode and that of her host's, and having carefully removed her nursling's shawl and bonnet, plodded slowly homeward, to make the 'masther's tay,' for the birth-day fÊte began at half-past six; thinking sadly enough of the past, and of her dear master's sinking strength and spirits, she turned into the little street or terrace in which they lived.

"Pray," said a very languid, gentlemanlike voice, close beside her. "Pray, do you not live at No. — down here?"

"May be I do, may be I don't," replied Mrs. O'Toole, eyeing the speaker sharply, and with, what she considered, consummate caution.

"Well," returned her interrogator, whom, it is needless to say, was the same individual whose insolence had so annoyed Kate, and whose really elegant appearance would have enlisted her in his favour, but for her prepossessions against him; "I presume you know your own residence; at all events I shall feel obliged to you if you will let me know the name of the young lady, whom you sometimes escort through Kensington Gardens? Of course, as the utterance of it will cause considerable wear and tear of your lungs, accept this remuneration."

"What is it ye want with her name?" asked Mrs. O'Toole.

"That cannot possibly concern you; tell it to me, and take this."

"Keep yer money," replied Mrs. O'Toole, with supreme disdain, "divil another word, good nor bad, will ye get from me, till ye tell me what ye want her name for."

"Ah," said the gentleman, musingly, "you seem so respectable a person, I have no objection to tell you, that having unfortunately offended the lady, by speaking to her in the Gardens, I am anxious this apology should reach her hand," and he showed a note he held, "will you be the bearer of it?" he continued, insinuatingly.

"I'll tell ye what it is," returned nurse, firing up in spite of her determination to be cool and cautious, "I'll bear nayther yer notes nor yer impidince; I'd like to see the man, woman, or child that daur be carryin' notes for ye to Miss— No matther," she continued, hastily checking herself, "it's not the likes iv ye, an oudacious chap, that daured to spake to yer betthers, widout, 'by yer lave or wid yer lave,' she'd so much as look at. Faith, if I see a sign iv ye about the place, to frighten me darlint, I'll just give ye up to the polis; I'll go bail it's the spoons ye'r more used to be lookin' afther than the ladies, though ye have a good coat on yer back, an' look as if it wasn't a stranger to ye."

"My good woman," said the object of this tirade, with a half-surprised, half-amused air, as Mrs O'Toole paused for breath, "You are the most impracticable person I ever met; I do not understand you."

"Well then, I'll spake plain enough for ye. If ye were a gintleman, ye'd niver have gone to spake to me darlin' young lady, in the way ye did, the other day—ye'd have known yer own sort, an' the differ betune a bit iv a dressmaker, and a raale lady; an' ye may look as fine, an' as proud as ye like, but I'll see ye yet, gettin' up stairs to the tune of Turn the Mill—so good-by te ye, an' ye may put yer note in the fire; but if I see ye about here, be this book," kissing her hand, "I'll give ye up to the polis, for a suspicious characther, that has his eye on the plate!" And off walked Mrs. O'Toole, glowing with triumph and honest indignation.

The stranger muttered something very like a curse; then, laughing slightly, he said, half aloud, as if in the habit of speaking his thoughts—

"The most extraordinary specimen of indignant virtue I ever encountered—why, she is as incorruptible as the hound, and just as fierce. So adieu, ma belle," tearing the note. "A Houri would not be worth the trouble such guardianship entails; besides the ridicule of appearing to the charges her eloquent duenna threatens." He thought a moment, turned, and walked slowly back to the main road, where a plainly appointed cab, with a horse of great beauty and value, and an irreproachable tiger awaited him.

Kate thought nurse's movements unusually rapid, as they returned from Mrs. Storey's, but that considerate personage said not a syllable of her interview with the unknown, until that most confidential moment, when the stiffness of drawing-room manner and costume is exchanged for a robe de chambre, and Kate's long rich, brown tresses were submitted to Mrs. O'Toole, and the brush.

"Sure, that dark browed divil was spyin' about whin I kem back fum Storey's."

"What that dreadful man? who spoke?"

"Yes, agra, an', Miss Kate, fur all I tould him, I thought him a pick-pocket—faith, I believe he's a gran' gintleman; I know be the look iv him; see now, if he is'nt a lord, I never seen one, an' they were as thick as parsley at Dungar. I was frightened to have the likes iv him ramblin' about here, so I jist spoke up bould, an' pretended to think he was a pick-pocket or the like, an' threatened him wid the polis, an' I think I settled him any how."

"I have no doubt you acted quite right, dearest nurse, and I should like to have heard you giving him 'his tag,' as you would term it; but surely he will never take the trouble to come here again. I thought it was only a passing impertinence—perhaps he was really sorry, and wished to apologise—let us give him 'the benefit of a doubt;'" and so they dismissed the subject, which slumbered for many months before—but we must not anticipate.

Not many days after this break in the routine of their lives, as Kate and the Colonel were one evening talking by the fire-light, of A——, and the Winters—the sound of approaching wheels, broke the stillness, which generally settled over Victoria-gardens, at the close of day. The sound drew nearer, and suddenly ceased at their house.

"Some mistake," said Miss Vernon, as both she and her grandfather paused in their conversation, to listen to that vague watchfulness, so often felt by those whose hearts are full of the future, because the present is sad; then the garden-gate creaked on its hinges, and heavy steps approached rapidly, the bell was rung loudly, and though she could not tell why, Kate's heart beat more quickly, as she listened for the next sounds, for each movement, is clearly audible through the slight walls of a modern built house in the outlets of London. The door was opened, and a husky whispering ensued, to which the servant's voice replied—"Yes, Mr. Vernon's at home;" and in another moment Mrs. O'Toole's hearty tones were heard in joyous welcome.

"Athen, is it yerself that's in it? Masha, but it's the masther, an' Miss Kate, will be proud to see ye. Walk in, ma'am—I'll settle the cabman." Then the parlour-door was thrown wide open, and in walked Mrs. Winter, in a large, plaid cloak—followed by a mass of coats and comforters, over which twinkled joyously, the artist's little bead-like eyes.

Then came the joyous confusion of question and answer, and wonder and welcome; and Kate felt a sudden accession of life and strength.

"But to what do we owe this happy surprise?" she reiterated, as she knelt at Mrs. Winter's feet, to change her boots, for a pair of warm slippers.

"Indeed, my dear, it is one of Winter's fits; he would not let me write, nor write himself—he said we might disappoint you, and ourselves."

"Yes," broke in Winter, disencumbering himself of his numerous wrappings, "I knew you—you would have been killing the fatted calf, and roasting turkeys, and all sorts of things; and we should have been late, and teased you with expectation, so I said, leave your pen alone, Sue, and here we are; stopped at the first house with "furnished apartments," on it, engaged them—then all right, ready for a dish of tea, and chat; and then turn in—close here—Albert-place. Why, Colonel, you do not look as if London agreed with you, but you bella miÂ, you look quite yourself."

"But what has induced you to visit the great Babylon?" said the Colonel, when the first hubbub of welcome was over, and they were assembled round the tea-table.

"We are going on the continent," said Mrs. Winter, with some importance.

"Is it possible?" cried Kate.

"You do not speak seriously?" said the Colonel.

"Why not? I've got a cold, and I've no idea of remaining to be cut off, like poor Gilpin, by the east winds," returned Winter.

"Is that your only reason?" asked Kate.

"Why not exactly; but A—— has become such a desert, now that you and Gilpin are gone; life is not worth having there."

"I do not like the idea of having the sea between us," said the Colonel.

"Nor I," added his grand-daughter,

"Nor I; but we will not be long away, and I intend to paint, while abroad, such a picture, as will make the Royal Academicians die of envy," said Winter.

"And," added Mrs. Winter, "we have let our house very advantageously to a cousin of Canon Jones's, who commands the new regiment."

"But you will not run away too soon?" asked Kate.

"No, we shall remain three or four weeks in London."

"I am rejoiced to hear it," said the Colonel.

"Oh, delightful," cried Kate.

"We will talk over our plans to-morrow," said Winter, to-night, let us hear of your own proceedings. How do you like my friend Langley?"

"Oh, I like him very much," returned Kate, "I am sure there is much good in him, though he won't show it, and seems so cold and cautious even with himself, that I dare not take it upon myself to say he will be glad to see even you."

"Well, I can tell you he writes enthusiastically of you," replied Winter.

"Non e possibile!"

And so the conversation flowed on in a thousand interrogative channels, all indicative of the same warm and friendly interest, which, still unabated, linked the quartette. Oh, how much more closely than the ties of blood.

Winter, in obedience to a warning glance from Kate, reserved his questionings, as to her success in teaching, for a tÊte-À-tÊte, and his good little wife followed his example on this, as on all other subjects. The poor organist's deathbed was re-described, and the "grand following," as Mrs. O'Toole would term it, that graced his funeral, discussed, and, in spite of the, to them, unaccustomed fatigue of a journey, the interchange of intelligence was prolonged to a late hour for travellers, and when they parted for the night, Kate felt her own hopeful joyous self again; to think that such true and tried friends were near, that she should meet them in the morning, and once more be able to pour out the fears and anxieties which no want of confidence in her grandfather, but a tenderness of affection too considerate to grieve him, kept pent up within her own bosom, till their weight oppressed her. Once more she would take counsel of that clear, strong, warm-heart, which no self-interest, no conventional falsity clouded or obscured. "And though their stay is but short," was her concluding thought, as sleep closed her snowy lids, with its downy weight, "thank God they are come, I will enjoy their presence, and not think of the sorrow of parting, until it comes."

But a young spirit must be somewhat initiated in grief, before it can attain this philosophy, if it ever can be attained, for however the heart may purpose to enjoy the present, and disregard the future, there is still something of omnipresence in its nature, that gives an actuality to anticipated joy or sorrow, it cannot wile away.

The period of the Winters' stay in London was one of great enjoyment to Kate, for though what is termed the dead season, there were quite enough of pictures to be seen and concerts to be heard to employ the mornings, and sometimes the evenings, most agreeably, and until their arrival, Kate had seen nothing of the Great Metropolis.

It seemed as if the advent of the warm-hearted, practical little artist had broken the sad depressing spell which had been gathering closer and closer round her spirit since she had left A——. Winter was a stout and active pedestrian, and leaning on his arm, Kate bade defiance to the most persevering and mysterious stranger that ever crossed heroine's path. The Colonel too was wonderfully revived by the presence of his kind and valued friends, and, strange to say, even Cormac, who when left at A—— was too savage to be approached by his temporary keeper, was most sociable and condescending with him in London.

One morning, Mr. Langley called, and after sitting in a sort of preoccupied silence for some time, with some hesitation and much awkwardness, suggested that he wished to invite his friend Winter and his wife to dinner, and as the Colonel and Miss Vernon were so fond of their society, perhaps they would consent to encounter the discomfort of a bachelor's mÉnage and meet them.

The Colonel and Kate assented most graciously, and the party, reinforced by Galliard and Mr. and Mrs. Story, met the next day at what Winter termed "grub hour."

Contrary to her expectations Kate spent a most agreeable day; Langley, like many shy persons, shone in his own house, Winter was most amusingly argumentative, Galliard witty, and the Colonel cheerful and urbane as usual; while Mrs. Storey's repeated apologies for the irregularities of a bachelor's mÉnage, and Mr. Winter's reiterated assurances that every thing was in admirable order, kept up an under current of polite common-place, that amused Kate exceedingly, by its contrast to the prevailing tone of the conversation.

"You have visited the British Museum?" enquired Galliard.

"Only, once," said Kate, "and that hurriedly, I long to go again."

"There is a great lot of trash there," observed Winter.

"What treason," returned Galliard, "it has all cost money, and John Bull is content."

"Of course," said Langley, "you will have your sneer at John Bull."

"Why not? I am, you know, half English."

"Come, Mr. Langley," said Kate, "the English you will admit, are not very sparing of their neighbours."

"They do not make much allowance for any peculiarities, except their own, certainly," remarked Colonel Vernon.

"You are in such a decided minority, you Celts, you had better hold your tongues," cried Winter.

"But what is it you call trash, at the British Museum?" asked Kate.

"Oh, the mummies, and the wigs, and all that; such an embarras of mummies can hardly be conceived!" said Winter.

"I wish we could bring the Gheber mode of disposing of the dead into fashion again; I shall certainly leave a clause in my will that my body shall be burned," observed Galliard.

"Law, Mr. Galliard, what an idea," said Mrs. Storey.

"Why not? my dear madam."

"I always liked Zoroaster and the fire worshippers," said Kate, "their system appears to me the least degrading of all ancient religions."

"Humph! Miss Vernon used to insist that the round towers of Ireland were built by the Western Ghebers," remarked Winter.

"It is quite possible!" responded Galliard.

"Any thing so far beyond our historical period may be possible," observed Langley.

"Ah," said Galliard, "you consider them anterior to the Celtic invasions, Miss Vernon?"

"The author, whose writings on the subject I have read, thought so," replied Kate.

"Galliard's strong point is Celtic antiquity," said their host.

"It is a subject full of profound and melancholy interest," he replied.

"Why melancholy?" asked Winter.

"Because," rejoined Galliard, "of the contrast between their past and present."

"The strongest proof they were an inferior race," said Langley, "otherwise they would not have given way so rapidly before the Saxons."

"A thoroughly English observation," cried Galliard. "You are poor and powerless, therefore you deserve to be so."

"That's not a fair commentary," said Langley.

"There are two causes, which, to a reflective mind, sufficiently explain, the deterioration of the Celtic race, morally and physically," observed Galliard, thoughtfully.

"And they are?" asked Kate.

"Their quick fancy, and unselfish nature."

"How do you make that out?" said Winter.

"First, the Saxon sees distinctly but one end or object, to the attainment of which his every faculty is devoted. The Celt's livelier imagination presents him with half a dozen, at all of which he grasps with equal eagerness, and thus his powers are divided and dispersed. Secondly, a Saxon's first thought is of himself, and in this he is consistent; while, owing to the peculiarity of fallen humanity, the Celt's self-forgetfulness is inconsistent; thus, place a Saxon where you will, he possesses in himself a nucleus round which all his energies, hopes, and projects centre; and having a centre, stands. While the Celt works one day for himself, the next for a friend, the next to spite an enemy, the next to do him a service, and so he is, finally, nowhere. Your Saxon will have no objection to do all this in a lump, if it does not interfere with his own interests," and Galliard leaned back and took snuff.

"So," said Colonel Vernon, "our greatest errors spring from our noblest qualities!"

"The noblest qualities of mankind! It is man's fate!" returned Galliard.

"You argue ingeniously; but—" said Langley.

"But truly," interrupted Galliard. "What was it chained the French nation to Napoleon? Imagination! What enabled Bruce to conquer Edward at Bannockburn? Imagination! What rivets the heart of the Irish peasant to the flattering demagogue, or arms his hand against his landlord? Imagination!"

"And the want of a Cogitative nose," put in Winter.

"There's an upset for you, mounseer," said Mr. Storey.

"Really," said Mrs. Storey, "I think, Mrs. Winter, we had better leave the gentlemen to fight it out."

They all rose.

"And," continued Galliard, as he opened the door, "though the want of imagination may render the Saxon successful, its presence always makes the Celt beloved."

"You are right," said Miss Vernon, as she passed him, with a bow.

But pleasant intervals soon come to an end, and the last week of Mr. and Mrs. Winter's intended stay approached. Before it arrived, however, Miss Herman paid Kate a visit, and introduced her to some additional pupils, with whom, however, she agreed not to begin her lessons until after her friends' departure.

"I cannot bear to think of losing you," said Kate, one cold, sharp evening, Winter had walked to meet her, on her way back from Brompton. "Do pray put off your departure till after Christmas, I have so dreaded Christmas, alone in London, and you have nothing to hurry you away."

"Hum, let me see; I have already delayed a fortnight longer than I intended, another week will not make much difference. Ha, you little witch, I cannot say you nay; but after that not an hour."

"Ten thousand, thousand thanks, dear, kind friend; you have made me so happy."

"Now we are tÊte-À-tÊte, tell me how affairs go on; any news of the lawsuit?"

"Why yes, grandpapa gets frequent letters from Mr. Moore, who, it seems, is always filing bills, and making motions, very slow ones, I fear, for they never seem to produce any result."

Winter groaned.

"And yourselves? how is—how is—you know I am a bear—how is the purse?"

Marvellously, considering how fast your hundred went; but nurse has got quite into the London ways, and quite saves us a fortune now; and my pupils, and the new ones! Oh, we shall do very well—if—if dear grandpapa only could look like his own old self."

"Well, I have thirty pounds of his I must not run away with. Have you Lady Desmond's cheque?"

"Yes, quite safe."

"Well, be sure you keep it; sickness may come, a thousand things. How is your lady cousin?"

"Quite well; always, in her letters, talking of coming home, and never coming."

"Just as I expected."

"And you are bent on wintering at Pau?"

"Yes, and in the spring we intend crossing the Pyrenees; I long to see more of Spain; but, Kate, if you want me really, if, in short, illness should—that is, should the time ever come, you might want a home, Sue and myself look upon you as a daughter, write to me, at once, wherever I may be."

"Good God! Mr. Winter, do you think grandpapa so ill? do you anticipate—"

"Dear child, no, a thousand times no; but at parting I should like you to feel that it is only distance that can separate us, and that at any, and every time, I shall feel as a father towards you, and a proud father!"

"My dear, dear friend! surely God has been very gracious to me; I will not try to thank you in words, they sound so cold!"

They walked on in silence, which Winter broke, by exclaiming abruptly.

"That letter of nurse's son was most characteristic! There is some good stuff in the writer."

Then, after another pause, as if he had expected some remark from Kate.

"It is odd Egerton should send it without a line; I cannot make it out; only that letters seldom miscarry, I should say he had written a despatch himself, independent of the other; but pooh, that is highly improbable. Has Mrs. O'Toole replied to her son's epistle?"

"Yes, that is I acted as her secretary, last week; when do you think the letter will reach Dennis?"

"Oh, heaven knows, they are up the country, and, I fancy, not very settled; perhaps in two or three months."

Kate sighed.

"Hey! Miss Vernon, what was that sigh for?"

"Oh, I was thinking of last Christmas, we were a very pleasant party, though poor Captain, I mean Major Egerton, was so terribly in the blues about leaving England; and now how different everything is! how silently and gradually a great gulf has been opened between the past and the present!"

"Well, well, it is melancholy enough, not to be either a pleasant or a profitable subject of cogitation. Forward, forward, as your favourite, Longfellow, says,

"A word in season, how good it is!" returned Miss Vernon, smiling pensively.

"Well, here we are, I wonder what Mrs. Winter will say to your powers of persuasion?"

"She will be delighted—she dreads the journey."

"Pooh, not she; as long as I am with her, she thinks all must go well."

"A pattern wife!" sighed Kate.

"Yes; no wife can be happy if she does not feel this. Ah, Kate, Kate, I wish you had a good husband!"

"Like yourself! eh, Mr. Winter! but alas!"

"Now, no quizzing, if you please! I'm glad we are at the end of our trajet, if you are going to laugh at me."

The gradually silent change in the Colonel's health and spirits, which had escaped the every-day watchfulness of even Kate's tender guardianship, struck Winter, whose perception was quickened by the, to him, unshaded transition from light to gloom, caused by the cessation of their daily intercourse, with grief and dismay; nor did he rest until he had persuaded his venerated friend to accompany him to an eminent physician, though the Colonel protested, he had not a single symptom of which he could reasonably complain. The doctor felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, and tried his lungs, asked a good many questions, seemingly irrelevant, as to his spirits, &c., wrote a short prescription, recommended horse exercise, took his fee, and bowed them out. Winter looked dissatisfied; and as he handed the Colonel into the cab, which was waiting for them, suddenly recollected he had forgotten his snuff-box, he returned to the room, but in vain, for the bland physician merely repeated—"Nothing physical, I assure you, sir—mental depression—imaginative disorder."

"Have you found your box?" asked the Colonel, with a significant smile, at least, to Winter's conscience it appeared so. The worthy artist reddened, and replied, gruffly, in the affirmative.

Kate never before felt so profoundly sad, as the day the Winters started for Dover. When she had parted from them at A——, there was the bustle and excitement of the journey, and the expected arrival at a new place, to divert her thoughts. Now she had full time to feel, how much alone she was, how much dependent on her own judgment, her own strength, her own efforts.

The travellers did not leave till after an early dinner, and the long, desolate evening, its usual occupations broken in upon and deranged, dragged its weary length slowly by, though the Colonel, by a brave effort, seemed more cheerful than usual, and talked of Paris, and the people he had known there, and of Bordeaux, and how the claret used to be smuggled into the west of Ireland, of Hoche, and of the French invasion. And Mrs. O'Toole brought in her work, and both endeavoured to keep up their darling's heart.

She could only remember that it was the anniversary of Egerton's departure for India, and that to-morrow she was to give an early lesson to her new pupils.

"Good night, dearest grandpapa, and do not forget to take your bottle, you coughed a great deal to-day."