THE LAST.

The Saturday after the event last recorded, Kate was bending sadly enough over her daily task, reading the Court Circular to Mrs. Jorrocks—her thoughts wandering to some letters from Lady Desmond, and from nurse, which she had not had the heart to answer.

"The Countess of P——, is entertaining a large party at P—— Castle—the Prince di ——, and Count Alphonso di ——, are among the distinguished visitors.

"The Earl of Effingham left Cowes, on Tuesday last, in his yacht, the 'Meteor,' for St. Petersburgh, where we understand it is his lordship's intention to winter."

"He be a shocking man," observed Mrs. Jorrocks, en parenthÉse, "such stories as Mr. Wilson have heard of him up in London. Go on please—I think you be half asleep this morning."

But Kate was now wide awake—so he was gone at last—Lady Desmond must hear it—all would be clear to her—she could no longer doubt! Miss Vernon took fresh courage, and began again:—

"A matrimonial alliance between the Marquis of ——, and the beautiful ——."

A loud ring.

"Whoever can ring so loud!—they'll bring down the bell! one would think they wished to—stay till I ask Eliza," exclaimed Mrs. Jorrocks.

In another moment, Eliza put in her head—

"Please, Miss Vernon, you're wanted."

Kate rose, and left the room, carelessly, thinking Mrs. Wilson required her presence; but the instant she passed the door, her eyes fell upon a stout, dumpy figure, which, hat in hand, stood on the door-mat—an unmistakeable figure, for a sight of which she had so pined. What she said, or did, she could not tell; some vague remembrance of throwing her arms round his neck, and sobbing there—she did preserve; but Winter has often said—that the way in which she clung to him, as if she could never grasp so blessed a reality close enough—her eager caresses—her broken exclamations of joy, affected him deeply, and revealed her past sufferings, more eloquently, than the most elaborate description.

"Well; but, figlia mia" said Winter, as she grew a little calmer, and they sat together in the fireless dining-room; "you look pale and thin," and he held her from him, and gazed at her till the moisture stood in his keen, black eyes. "My dear child, I am much to blame—I have neglected you; but I will atone for it—your last letter misled me completely; yet I ought to have returned home before."

"Oh! no, no! you are always good. Thank God—thank God, you are come at last."

"Yes! We arrived on Wednesday, and the next day I called on Langley; he gave me a sketch of your proceedings that thoroughly perplexed me. I had matters to arrange on Friday morning which could not be postponed, but my wife gave me no peace till I started by the mail train at nine o'clock last evening—so here I am!" Kate listened in rapt attention—was she really sitting once more beside the kind good artist? "My child, I fear you have suffered much, but we will try to cheer you up; if you prefer doing the thing independently, Mrs. Winter has grown a great lady, and requires a companion quite as much as Mrs. Rollocks, or Jollocks, or whatever her name is—and her husband too," continued Winter, more thickly than ever. "In a few weeks I shall have my house in A—— back on my hands—what say you, Kate, to making the old couple happy till you go to a home of your own? We may not be gay; but—"

"Oh! hush, hush! You do not know how overpoweringly delightful such a vision seems to me."

"Vision!—Corpo di Bacco, it shall be reality; and Mrs. O'Toole! my adopted daughter must have her own maid—che gloria—I have been expecting to see her broad, honest face every minute. My Kate—it must have gone hard with you to part with her."

But Kate could not speak—she could only clasp Winter's hand in both of hers, and murmur a broken thanksgiving, her eyes rivetted on her companion in speechless gratitude.

"But this is all waste of time," resumed Winter, "and you will have enough to do to be ready to return with me by the two o'clock train—Mrs. Winter expects us to tea this evening."

"This evening!—Oh! I can be ready in a moment," cried Kate rapturously. "But,"—her countenance fell—"I must not, I fear—I could not be rude to these people; they have been civil to me in their way."

"Poter del mondo! cospetta!" cried Winter thickly and stoutly; "I will lose sight of you no more, and I have no time to stay in this confounded cotton-spinning metropolis. Let me see these dragons of yours. I am he that will bell the cat."

So they went into the front parlour, Kate still clinging to his arm.

"My friend, Mr. Winter, Mrs. Jorrocks," said Kate.

"Please to sit down, sir," returned that lady.

"I am come to take Miss Vernon away with me," began Winter, in abrupt and decided tones.

"Oh! you be——But I think it is rather sudden. What am I to do—and where will you be if I say no?"

"My dear madam, I shall still be in Carrington. It is quite natural you should not like to part with Miss Vernon; in short, she expressed to me her reluctance to leave you, abruptly, and all that sort of thing; but I want her, and my wife wants her, and I am sure you will not stand in her way."

Here Mrs. Wilson entered in a new cap, and Winter was duly presented.

"This gentleman is for taking Miss Vernon away to-day. I declare he has quite took away my breath," said Mrs. Jorrocks.

"Never," returned her daughter. "Well, if that isn't the strangest thing."

"Oh! as Miss Vernon is in such a hurry I'll not stop her, only since she has broken her engagement she must take the consequences."

"That is not of the least importance," said Mr. Winter.

"It would distress me to seem rude where I have received courtesy," said Kate; "but surely you must sympathise in my anxiety to be once more domesticated with such kind and valued friends. Mr. Winter must return to town; I should much like to accompany him."

And thereupon Mesdames Jorrocks and Wilson burst forth into a vociferous and vituperative duet—

"There was gratitude for you! She had been treated more like a daughter than a dependent; and what was she but a companion after all. There was no end to the favours she had received, but it was the way with the Irish always. It would be a lesson to them how to treat the next companion they got! And now, when this gentleman, whom they had never heard of before, appears, as if from the clouds, Miss Vernon is ready to walk off with him. It was very odd his wife (if he had a wife) could not wait a day or two—people who had to earn their bread should be very careful—and what would Mr. Wilson say," &c., &c.

"Kate, my dear," said Winter, coolly, "go and put up your things—I see this is no place for you—I will wait here."

She left the room, much annoyed to be obliged to part with Mrs. Jorrocks on such terms, yet to stay behind Winter was an impossibility; so, resolutely determining, she hastily packed up her worldly effects, remembering, thankfully, the different mood in which she had last stowed them away.

Winter meantime exerted himself to converse with the amiable mother and daughter, and not without effect. He talked in his most eccentric and abrupt manner, and finally impressed them with the notion that he was a whimsical but wealthy millionaire, to whose fancies it was Kate's interest to accommodate herself. Matters, consequently, wore a less stormy aspect on Kate's return to the sitting-room; both ladies were cool, and Winter very lively.

"So you are off, Miss Vernon," said Mrs. Wilson; "I did not think we should part so sudden."

"I offer Miss Vernon the alternative to return with me, and be my daughter and heiress, or to remain here and be neither," broke in Winter conclusively.

"Well, I suppose you had better go—you acknowledge I owe you nothing," put in Mrs. Jorrocks.

"I do indeed! Will you give this note, with my kindest regards, to Mrs. Davis?" returned Kate.

"And," observed Winter, "permit your servant to call a cab."

A few more awkward moments, and the cab drove up.

"Well, good bye, Mrs. Jorrocks—you forgive my abrupt departure?"

"I suppose I must—good bye;" and again the rigid hand was held out stiff and cold.

"Good bye, Miss Vernon—I wish you 'appy," said Mrs. Wilson, and she was free!

It was a gloomy, drizzling November day, yet she thought there was something cheery in the sensation of safety from wet conveyed by the substantial look of the carriages drawn up beside the platform, where Winter's impatience hurried them nearly an hour too soon. He had tried to persuade Kate to eat something during this interval, and though excitement left her little appetite, she swallowed a sandwich and a glass of wine to please him.

At last, the arrival of luggage and passengers became more frequent and hurried—first and second bells were rung—places taken—doors banged—a jerk forward—another back—and they were off—not at full speed at once, but slowly through the tunnel—leaving Kate time to look at the spot where she felt so desolate, the day she arrived; and, contrasting her present feelings with that terrible period, she knew, for the first time, perhaps, how much she had suffered. It was better for her that the disappointment at Egerton's not recognising her had come before, not after Winter's return—it was something to keep the balance of her heart amid so much delight. The recollection of it had never left her mind for a single instant since the Sunday before, till Winter's presence had, for a moment, overpowered it with a flood of light. Already, however, it was beginning to return, yet less gloomily, less hopelessly, mingling with some more clearly acknowledged sense of duty to herself—that it was too bold, too unmaidenly to think so much of one who perhaps thought but little of her! Yes—she was strong enough to be proud again. Oh! the enjoyment of that journey! everything looked so pleasant—even the drenched country through which they flew—and the stiff, old-maidish-looking woman opposite, who read "vestiges of the Natural History of the Creation" the whole way—munching biscuits till the carriage was strewn with the vestiges of modern crumbs; and the two gentlemen, one from Hampshire, and the other from North of the Tweed, who discussed Free Trade so warmly with Mr. Winter—and dear Mr. Winter himself, his rosy, round, well-shaven face, with its twinkling eyes, sparkling over a dark brown Spanish cloak, of melo-dramatic dimensions, majestically folded round him, while his head was cosily tied up in a templar cap, with flaps over the ears! How radiant is each object viewed through the medium of a happy heart!

Then as evening closed in, and after rushing by many a quiet little station with its red flag, and signal-man's outstretched arms, how joyous was Winter's look, as he drew out his watch.

"Half-past four! we shall be at Euston Square not long after eight."

A few minutes pause at Wolverton, while the porters trampling heavily overhead put in the lighted lamps—and jerk, clash—they were off again. The Hampshire gentleman drew up a window that had been slightly open, and renewed his argument.

"And though the legislature leaves the farmer no protection, the legislators will not lower their rents a fraction. Why, down in my county, Lord Egerton, of Allerton, took off two and a half per cent last year; and to read the address, and hear the speeches he made about it, you would think he had made each tenant a present of his holding. Thanking Heaven for putting so christian an act into his heart, &c., &c.; and now they say he will never recover; and his brother will be putting the screw on again, I suppose."

"Is Lord Egerton ill then?" asked Winter, with some interest.

"He had a paralytic seizure about four or five months ago, and has been in a very bad state ever since; his brother, Colonel Egerton, was sent for to India; he was down at Allerton a short time since, not very well himself, I believe."

Kate's soul was in her ears during this communication; and while she chided herself for thinking of him, her thoughts dwelt on Egerton, till, at last, wearied by the excitement, she had gone through, her slight, graceful form lent more and more against the side of the carriage, and she slept. Winter carefully drew her cloak round her, and fastened it closer to her throat; and, as she opened her eyes, slightly roused by his movement, she silently thanked God that she was no more uncared for and alone.

"Tickets if you please," were the next sounds that met her ear—"Great time! only just eight," from Winter, as she looked up bewildered after the disturbed sleep in which she had indulged.

"Where are we?"

"Near home," said Winter, while his bead-like eyes twinkled with more than usual vivacity.

"Sure you have left no indispensable carpet-bag behind? got your parasol? all right—in with you—14, Orchard Street—drive fast."

And away through dull, dark streets, now whisk round a corner into a blaze of light and flaring gas jets over butchers' stalls—now winding through omnibusses—anon dashing past the brilliantly lit up entrÉ to some concert room—again into darkness undiminished save by the street lamps and hall lights—then a rumble over the side stones.

"Here we are," from Winter—as the door flew open before their charioteer could knock.

Mrs. Winter, standing under the lamp, in a cap that looked as if it had been made at A——, herself neat, as though she never had encountered a Spanish flea.

"Dearest Kate! I thought you would never come!"

A sobbing, joyous embrace, and she was swept up-stairs, where even the London lodging looked homelike under Mrs. Winter's benign influence. Then came the plentiful tea—hot cakes, and broiled ham and eggs, with mulled port for the lady, and brandy-and-water for the gentleman—and the delicious confusion of cross questions, and most irrelevant answers—and the mingling of tears and smiles!

"Now you must go to bed," said Winter; "see, it is long past one—and that poor child has been in constant agitation all day—she has not a vestige of color in her cheeks."

"Indeed, my dear, you look ill—yes—you must go to bed," observed his wife, with her usual kindly precision, which nothing but the actual excitement of the moment of meeting could break through, and which Kate recognized joyfully as an old friend.

"The sober certainty of waking bliss," may well be weighed against the agony of first waking after grief. And Kate lay for some time, the next morning, comparing this Sunday with the last; then her thoughts flew to nurse, and she sprang up to communicate to her the joyful news of her emancipation.

"Ah! I have heart to write now."

Winter and his wife soon asked for a fuller and more connected account than she had yet given them of her life since they had last met; and though it cost her many tears, the recital did her good. How clearly through it all could she trace the guiding of Almighty love, ever hovering near to interpose its aid when the bowed spirit failed beneath its burden. No, they were not bitter tears she shed that morning. And, sometimes, her eyes would sparkle brightly through them, as she recounted nurse's undeviating self-devotion and unfailing truth. She thought little of herself during the narration, nor dreamt it was the quiet, undaunted heroism her words involuntarily displayed—the heroism of exhaustless love, careless of its own wealth, that drew such quick sobs from Mrs. Winter, and made her good little husband wink his eyes, and blow his nose, so furtively, and so often.

Both the artist and his wife perceived there was some mystery attached to Kate's separation from Lady Desmond, into which they must not pry; and so, with praiseworthy self-denial, accepted, unquestioned, the account she chose to give of her wish to be independent, &c., &c., &c.

"I feel I neglected you, my dear Kate," said Winter, as she paused, wearied by her long recital, "but the perfect content of your last letter induced me, without any fixed plan, to ramble on and on, like some butterfly attracted from flower to flower, lost in a rich profusion of magnificent subjects. Madame bore it all wonderfully; I owe her much for her patience; and I intended every day, for the last six weeks, to write and tell you what time we had fixed on for our return, though I fancied, from what you last said, that you and Lady Desmond intended to leave England, and ramble God knows where; therefore, I always thought it better to wait; as you were in good hands, a few weeks, one way or the other, would make no difference—so I loitered on, scarcely hoping to find you in England on my return; at last we found ourselves at Gibralter, so late in the year, and so tired of knocking about, that we took the Peninsular and Oriental steamer, and, after a tedious passage, arrived here, as I told you, last Wednesday. In three weeks, I trust, the house in the Abbey-gardens will be free, and then, with God's blessing, we will keep Christmas thankfully in the old place—would you like this?"

"If you had read my most inmost wish for the coming season, which I so dreaded, it would be to spend it where I was so happy, and grandpapa so respected."

"But, my dear," said Mrs. Winter to her husband, "don't you think Kate ought to have advice? She changes color so, and her pulse is very irregular."

"My kind friend, no," said Kate, leaning her head on Mrs. Winter's shoulder, "you have brought me all I want—the sense of home. I will rest during the three weeks we are to be here—rest profoundly—and, at the end of that time, you shall have, please God, a rosy, cheerful—" she paused, and added, enquiringly, "daughter."

Winter took her hand, and pressed it gravely and affectionately, as if accepting her; his wife kissed her cheek, and there was a silence of deep feeling.

"Now I must write."

"Who to?" asked Winter.

"Georgy and nurse."

"Very well; tell the latter (may she not, Sue?) that the moment we are settled at A——, We will summon her to wait on our daughter."

"Yes—I shall be proud to have her about you, she is excellent," returned his wife.

And Kate wrote. Oh, how vain all language to depict the gratitude with which she wrote; yet she would fain have despatched an order for nurse's immediate return to her; but she was pleased, right well pleased, to have so near a prospect of re-union before her.

And peacefully did the days glide over, and pleasant too, though London wore its November gloom—without might be fog and damp, cold winds and muddy streets—within were bright fires and calm, full hearts. Kate, in spite of herself, felt, at times, restless to know more of Egerton, though she could not bring herself to speak of him; but then she had so much to hear from Winter; so many exquisite sketches to examine; so much to discuss, relative to a picture he intended exhibiting next Spring; new books, reviews, and music, amongst which to revel, so that her mind was well filled.

Langley and Mrs. Storey soon made their way to see her; the latter was, undoubtedly, of great use to Mrs. Winter, and an unimpeachable authority on all matters connected with shopping; they made endless excursions together, while Kate remained quietly at home, for a slight pain in the chest made Winter a little uneasy, and repose seemed now to her the greatest pleasure.

She had enjoyed nearly a week of this welcome rest, when the following letter from Lady Desmond was put into her hand—

Kate did not lose an hour in replying to this letter, she wrote with all the simple wisdom of a true, pure, loving heart. True, deep, unchanging sympathy, and judicious respect, breathed through every line, and at the conclusion she declared her readiness to join her cousin as soon as Christmas, (which she had faithfully promised to spend with the Winters) was over.

"Or you might visit A——," she continued, "you would, I know, like my kind friends so much—you would enjoy Mr. Winter's artistic enthusiasm, and his wife's excellent quaintness. We shall have many pleasant days together yet, dearest Georgy, and leaving our faulty past in the hands of a merciful judge—help each other to live a better and a higher life for future."

Miss Vernon was here interrupted by the servant of the house, who came to say Mr. Winter was in the drawing-room, with a gentleman, and wanted her.

"Very well, I will be down in a moment," replied Miss Vernon, "I suppose it is Mr. Langley," she thought, as she hastily finished her letter, sealed and directed it, before descending to the drawing-room; the door was slightly open, and she heard a very clear quiet voice, which seemed familiar to her, say—

"No, I should not have given it up," she stopped a moment, then, without giving herself time for further cowardice, entered the room, and met an earnest, enquiring glance from Egerton's dark brown eyes. Kate had a good deal of self-command, but it had been much tried of late; she felt her heart stand still for a second, and then throb violently; instinctively covering her eyes with one hand, she held out the other, silently, and it was quickly, warmly, yet gently, clasped in both of Egerton's.

"I fear we have startled you," said he, calmly, with a certain tone of deep feeling in his voice, which acted on Kate's nerves like a restorative.

"Yes," she replied, tremulously; but recovering herself, and withdrawing her hand—"I had no idea who the gentleman was, they told me had come in with Mr. Winter—I am very glad to see you." And she sat down feeling quite incapable of standing any longer. Egerton placed himself beside her, and Winter stood opposite, in a state of fume, against the stupidity of lodging-house servants.

"I told the thick-headed girl, as plainly as possible, Colonel Egerton, on purpose to prepare you. I knew the memories—humph pooh," and Winter stopped abruptly, for Egerton, whose eyes were fixed on Kate's face, raised his hand significantly as he observed her changing colour.

And this was their first meeting—not very demonstrative, yet Kate was satisfied. Winter rattled on, apparently well pleased, but Egerton and Kate were very silent, the latter particularly so.

"I was hurrying down Pall Mall, in hopes of catching Mrs. Winter before she started on any shopping expedition, when suddenly, an iron grasp on my shoulder arrested my progress. I just looked round, previous to calling the police, and saw Egerton's face considerably browner than when last I beheld it—he was not very connected at first."

"No," interrupted Egerton, "I was breathless—I had just issued from my club, when I caught a glimpse of your well-remembered figure—to give chase was my first impulse—better get into a scrape than miss the man I had been so long looking for, so here I am; and are you quite well, Miss Vernon? You look—"

"You must not tell me I am looking ill," said Kate, with something of her old archness, a soft smile playing round her lips, and dimpling her cheek, as a sudden gleam of sunshine calls forth a thousand diamond sparkles from the bosom of a sleeping lake.

"You do not look well," persisted Egerton, too earnest to be complimentary; and then, strange to say, there was an awkward pause—their hearts were too full to speak on any common-place topic, and they dared not touch upon anything deeper.

Winter did good service, however, and at last Kate ventured to ask—

"Have you been long in England, Captain—I mean Colonel Egerton."

He smiled, his own bright smile—lip and eyes in unhesitating harmony.

"Yes—call me Captain Egerton, it reminds me of old times and pleasant days. I arrived here nearly a month ago—I had been ordered home by the doctor, at the same time Mary, (my sister, Mrs. Wentworth), wrote requesting I would return, on account of Egerton's health; besides," he added, with another smile, "I was home-sick, and restless to learn more than letters could tell me. I was almost a fortnight at Allerton."

"So we heard on the rail-road," interrupted Winter; "I mean, that you had been at Allerton. And so your brother is very ill?"

Colonel Egerton shook his head.

"Very painfully affected; and, I fear, will never be much better. They want me to stay in England; but I can really be of no use to him; and as soon as I have refreshed myself, I mean to return to India, unless something very unforeseen occurs."

"Being his next heir," began Winter.

"Is no reason why I should waste my life, waiting to step into my brother's shoes. As soon as I could get away from Allerton, I started for A——, hoping to find you and Mrs. Winter there. I knew," turning to Kate, and insensibly softening his tones, "that the Priory existed no more—at least, for me—but I knew Winter would always be in communication with you. Imagine my dismay, to find a stranger in possession of the hospitable house where I had been so well cared for. Do you know I felt confoundedly cut up. I could learn nothing satisfactory there, so I came on to Carrington, and put up for a night with the —— Hussars—old friends of mine. It was curious, Miss Vernon, how vividly the place reminded me of that ball. I felt a sort of certainty that you were near, and that I should meet you somehow. By the way, I went to hear the famous Doctor M—— preach before starting for town."

"I know," said Kate, quietly—"you sat three rows before me."

Egerton almost started from his seat in profound amazement.

"How! what! do you mean to say you were in the church, and I did not see you?"

"How extraordinary you did not mention this to me," exclaimed Winter.

"I did not think—that is, I intended—and was always interrupted," faltered Kate.

"And why! why did you not speak to me?" cried Egerton, eagerly.

"I could not, indeed! though I wished it much," said Kate, with a simple earnestness, at which Egerton's dark, embrowned cheek flushed with sudden pleasure. He did not pursue the subject then; but said, abruptly—

"I have felt bewildered at finding myself so suddenly talking to my old friends, or I could not have been so long without enquiring for Mrs. O'Toole. May I not see my good nurse? You know she is mine, as well as yours, Miss Vernon."

"She is quite well; but alas! not with me; she joins us, however, when we return to A——. Oh! how glad she would be to see you again! she was so fond of you."

"Not with you!"

Colonel Egerton was beginning in tones of no small surprise, when the door opened, and Mesdames Storey and Winter entered.

The greeting between Mrs. Winter and Egerton was considerably more demonstrative than any that had yet occurred; the kind little woman was evidently touched by the genuine delight evinced by her quondam patient at seeing her; and Winter smiled to see Colonel Egerton's more deep happiness take this method of expression; Mrs. Storey simpered and curtsied and nodded to Kate, and was altogether, as she said, "quite taken with Colonel Egerton;" and sat on till her friends wished her far away. The conversation was, therefore, general; and Miss Vernon unusually silent.

Egerton felt he could make no enquiries then, so rose to leave, having paid an unconscionably long visit.

"I have a letter for nurse," said he to Kate, "which my ignorance of her whereabouts has prevented my forwarding; if you will allow me, I will bring it here to-morrow morning, and hear all about her, and everything. I have so many questions to ask; but I promised to see Sir J. M—— at the Horse Guards to-day, and must go. I presume you are visible early?"

"Can't you join us at dinner, a lodging-house scramble? but, I suppose, an old campaigner as you are, can rough it," said Winter, with eager hospitality, that startled his precise wife.

"With the greatest pleasure," cried Egerton, in his old, gay, frank manner. "I was just wishing you would ask me."

Winter and Kate smiled; and Mrs. Storey opened her eyes, astonished at so cool an admission.

"Au revoir, then," continued Colonel Egerton, taking his hat, and bowing. "I will bring you the letter, Miss Vernon."

"Is five o'clock too early?" shouted Winter, after him, as he ran down stairs.

"No, not the least."

"Sharp, five then."

"Humph, ha," said Winter, rubbing his hands together, as he returned to the room; "that's a fine fellow—no nonsense about him—though he nearly knocked me over this morning. I am glad his brother never married. Fred will make a first-rate member of the Upper House yet."

"But, my dear John, how you could be so thoughtless as to ask such a fine gentleman—accustomed to the style he is—to a scrambling dinner with us, in a couple of hours. I'm sure I do not know where to turn."

Mrs. Storey looked truly sympathising.

"Pooh, pooh, my dear, give him a chop and a jam tart; anything—he will be satisfied, I'll engage; surely you must remember how easily pleased he was at A——."

"Easily pleased, Mr. Winter! I am not so sure of that! a much more fastidious man might be pleased with the table we kept at A——."

Winter pulled a long face, expressive of contrition for his fault; and Kate interposed her soothing influence.

"Colonel Egerton was too glad to see you, and to come to you, to be difficile."

"Well, Mr. Winter, I must go home before it is quite dark," said Mrs. Storey.

"And I will escort you, my dear madam, to the omnibus—where can I catch Langley?" asked Winter.

"Oh, at his house; he goes out very little."

So Mrs. Storey and her cavalier departed, while Mrs. Winter disappeared to hold deep council with the landlady, and Kate was left alone to revel in her own thoughts; gaily they careered away over the far future, yet vaguely and indistinctly. Nurse and Georgy—the Winters and herself, and Egerton, were to be always happy together in some universal bond of fellowship; but she did not arrive at probabilities, they half startled her; she almost shrunk from the whisper of her heart—"He loves me, he always loved me." There was something too positive, too bold in such thoughts! And so a thousand, bright, kaleidoscope visions kept forming themselves round a delightful nucleus presented by the simple sentence—

"Colonel Egerton is to dine here to-day!"

Long, very long it was, since she had dared to indulge thus in reverie; and even while she raised her heart in unspoken gratitude to the Giver of good for her great deliverance, the thought rose to her lips—

"If dear grandpapa had but lived, to see a return of so much happiness! Ah, why was he taken in the midst of such heavy times?"

These reflections calmed the agitation which made each nerve tremulous, and she anticipated Egerton's return less anxiously.

"I long to talk to him of grandpapa; but I am afraid of crying so very much, it would distress him."

Here Mrs. Winter entered, quite restored to good humour, as Kate dimly perceived by the fire-light.

"The woman of the house was so obliging; and it was so fortunate, the gentleman in the front parlour had gone out of town for a few days, and they could dine there; and an excellent pastry-cook at the corner of the street would supply all deficiencies. And, my dear, it is almost five o'clock, if you are going to smooth your hair, and wash your hands before dinner."

If—of course she intended to do so.

It was many a long day since she looked in the glass and brushed her glossy hair so carefully. She was not satisfied—no, she looked so pale, so unlike her old bright self. She little thought how amply the brightness was compensated by the pensive sweetness that deepened and softened the gentle gravity of her face, and the species of languor that lent such tender grace to her slight form. Never had Egerton admired her so much—he had left a bright, saucy girl, and found a lovely woman.

Winter returned with Langley, whom he had caught, for dinner; and the little party had scarcely assembled, when Colonel Egerton was announced; they were sitting by the light of a bright fire, and Miss Vernon, leaning back quietly on the cushions of the sofa, was amused by the contrast between Egerton's fine figure and air noble, Winter's stumpy form, and Langley's awkward length; nor did Fred refrain from stealing glances at the graceful outline of Kate's black dress, which threw into strong relief the pure fairness of her throat and hands, a delicate colour tinged her cheek, and a certain holy look of happiness deepened the expression of her liquid eyes.

Egerton handed Mrs. Winter down to dinner, and Kate followed with Winter. The repast was unimpeachable; but no one took any notice of its arrangements. Much was said by the gentlemen; but the ladies were rather silent. Egerton was all polished cordiality. A look of frank joy, which he cared little to disguise, lighted up his bronzed countenance and dark brown eyes; there was a degree of decision and authority in his manner and opinions, that they perhaps wanted before, as if he had read, and thought, and acted much since last he had dined with them; and Kate observed that Winter insensibly treated him with greater respect and less startling abruptness. Langley was never much impressed with any man; and the trio discussed Spain and India most agreeably, Colonel Egerton described simply and forcibly his visit to the cave Temples of Elora; and this led to the Hindoo Trinity, and the strange, rude, imperfect shadowing of the Christian doctrines contained in it; and then they rambled on to the universal ideas prevalent in all Pagan lands, and the German theories on this subject, and on languages; of the traces of the moors in Spain, and the Alhambra, &c. And on all these topics Egerton led instead of listening, as in former times.

"If I could only persuade Mrs. Winter," said her husband, as she and Kate rose to leave the room, "to write and publish her experiences of Spain, the world would learn some startling facts. She used to endeavour to teach the girls to work, while I was sketching for my individual gratification. And as she picked up some colloquial Spanish, she heard strange revelations, beating Borrow's Bible in Spain all to nothing."

"My dear, how can you talk so! it was only the Muleteer's sister, poor girl! and she knew a little English, near Gibraltar, you know."

"With all the roughing she bore so well abroad," resumed Winter, "the moment she returned to England, heigh presto! the spell of nicety was on her. Man may be free the moment his foot touches British ground; but, Carambo! woman is trammelled forthwith by particularity and regularity, and no end of arities; she was afraid she should not be able to give you a sufficiently recherchÉ dinner, Colonel, on so short—"

"My dear John, how can you—"

"Mrs. Winter knew I could not forget all the dainties with which she used to tempt me, when I was such a troublesome invalid under her care, and wished to surprise me with them here," said Egerton, with a smile full of kindly recollection.

"Never mind, Sue," cried Winter, as she retired; "Spain is a country too full of splendid colouring to be clean; nor is it necessary there—Dormire coi cani per levarsi colle pulci."

"Well, my love, I think everything went on very smoothly," said Mrs. Winter, as she settled herself for her nap before the gentlemen made their appearance.

"Very well indeed," returned Kate, vaguely, her eyes gazing far away into dreamland.

The gentlemen soon followed them; and once more Kate handed a cup of tea to Egerton, their eyes met as he took it, and a tear started to Kate's, as the familiar action brought the memory of her grandfather vividly before her.

"I have so much to say to you—so much to enquire of you," said Egerton, in a low tone, placing himself beside her; "but I must see you alone; I dare not agitate you with reminiscences so sad before a stranger, or indeed any third person."

"Yes, I have much to tell you," returned Miss Vernon, tremulously.

"It is a great mystery to me, the absence of nurse; I do not half like it," resumed Egerton. "I have brought you the letter from her son."

"Thank you; I will forward it to-morrow. She will join me at A——. We return there in about a fortnight."

"It was a most extraordinary occurrence," said Egerton, slowly stirring his cup round and round, "that I should have been in the same church with you at Carrington, and not know it. Why did you not speak to me—call to me—shy a prayer-book at my head! anything, rather than let me miss the good of which I was in search?"

Kate smiled, and shook her head.

"What a stupid numskull I was not to translate the instinctive feeling of your presence correctly, instead of pooh-poohing it away, after our friend Winter's fashion; however, all's well now. Give my kindest remembrance to Mrs. O'Toole when you write."

"Certainly," said Kate, "I shall not fail."

"Your cousin, Lady Desmond, is in Ireland, so Burton told me; he is a capital fellow; but Dashwood was away, God knows where; and he was the only person it appears who had any trace of you. Do you know where he is?"

"No, he told me he was going to fish in Ireland when I saw him last."

"So Lord Effingham is off to St. Petersburgh, Miss Vernon," said Langley, at this juncture.

Kate felt that Fred's eye was on her, and coloured deeply, as she merely bowed in assent.

"Curious place to winter in," he continued.

Then Winter made some observations about the freezing of the Neva, and the Russian costume; and he and Langley talked on for a good while standing on the hearth-rug, and sipping their tea; but Egerton was silent, for some time; and Kate did not like to look at him; at last he asked—

"Do you ever sing now?"

"Oh yes," answered Mrs. Winter for her. "Sing that pretty new song you got yesterday, my love."

"No, no," cried Egerton, eagerly, "an old one for me—dare I ask for 'The Serenade,' if it would not distress you. I have so often longed to hear it again."

"I will try," said Kate; "but—"

She went to the piano, and struck the well-remembered arpeggio chords so long unheard; she strove to steady her voice, as it rose tremulous with its rich sweetness and deep expression; Egerton leant on the piano, wrapt in memory and contemplation. Kate proceeded very well to the end of the first verse; but there, at the sustained note to which her grandfather had so loved to listen, she faltered, paused, and covering her face with both her hands, for an instant, hastily left the room.

She was thoroughly overcome; and, exhausted by the excitement of the day, returned no more that evening.

Colonel Egerton came the next day, and the next, and the next. Mr. and Mrs. Winter, or Mrs. Storey, or some snuffy picture dealer was always there, and he was reduced, malgrÉ lui, to talk of generalities, this constraint gave something of coolness and gravity to his manner; he was often distrait; and Kate felt less calm.

Meanwhile Mrs. O'Toole's letters were filled with the rapturous expectation of a reunion with her Darlint, and could scarce be induced to wait until the time specified for her return by Winter.

Kate was re-reading one of her characteristic epistles one morning after Mr. and Mrs. Winter had departed on some common errand. She had a slight cold, and was ordered by her kind authoritative maestro to keep in doors; they had not been gone many minutes when Egerton came in, carrying a large bouquet of hot-house flowers.

"I have just met Winter, and his cara sposa; they told me you were on the sick list. How is that?"

"A cold—oh, nothing; but what beautiful flowers. I have suffered much from a dearth of flowers."

"I wrote to my sister, who is at present at Allerton, to send me a basket full, they have tolerable conservatories there."

"You are very kind; I will ring for a vase or bowl, or something to put them in. Mrs. Winter will be delighted with them."

"Yes, but they are for you."

The little bustle of arranging the graceful gift proceeded pleasantly. Egerton lounged on the sofa. Kate stood by the table, now consulting him as to their arrangement, and touching them with a tender, admiring care, that showed their appreciation of their rare beauty; gradually, as the task was accomplished, they glided into talk of former times; and Egerton spoke with such feeling of the sudden shock her grandfather's death had been to him, that Kate, unspeakably gratified by the reverent affection he expressed, was drawn on to give some account of his last moments, and how the old hound died when relieved from his watch. She spoke tremblingly, yet with wonderful composure; Egerton listened in motionless attention.

"I shall never, never forget the night he died," she continued, unconsciously playing with a leaf, and still standing by the table. Egerton had risen, and was leaning against the mantel-piece. "He had seemed better, that day, and happier, and I sat watching him by the fire-light as he lay, asleep, as I thought, in his chair, long after he was gone from me." She shuddered slightly. "I had been dreaming of better times for him, perhaps a return to the Priory; but it was soon broken, my dream! and then Georgy was away, and the Winters, and I was, so alone! I had none, no, not one near me, that I loved, except poor nurse."

She stopped to recover herself; Egerton, springing to her side, took her hand in both his,

"Kate! long-loved, dearest, you have indeed been sad and weary; give me the right to be beside you, come sorrow or joy; I cannot bear to think of your being grieved and alone, while I, who so pined for a glimpse of you, was far away. Let me hold you to my heart, and shelter you from the roughness of life, or share its burdens with you. My beautiful one! be my wife, and come what may, we will bear it with the strength of two hearts."

He drew her to him, close, close, and she leaned her hand upon his shoulder, murmuring,

"I always wished you to be there, he loved you so much."

Where was sorrow, or fear, or doubt? "Where the evil that could touch her now that she had reached the haven where she would be?" vanished before the genial sunshine of Egerton's love.

One long, fond, gentle kiss, before she extricated herself from his embrace, no longer her own, but pledged to be his while God granted them life, though she had scarce breathed an articulate syllable.

The daylight was beginning to fade before Winter and his wife returned, and still they talked of the past, and planned for the future, and opened their inmost souls to each other; and Kate, the first strange, bewildering, emotion of finding every shadow of reserve swept from between herself and Egerton was gradually growing calmer; his voice stilling her heart to the deep tranquillity of perfect contempt.

A glance on his entrance told Winter the state of affairs better, indeed, than Egerton's incoherent explanation.

We have reached the climax of our story, not much remains to be told, already its simple annals have spread themselves out too far; patience, but little remains.

To Mrs. O'Toole, Fermoy, Ireland.

"The day-dawn has indeed come at last, brightly and softly, dearest nurse, true friend! Soon, soon we shall meet, and you will have two nurselings. Oh, I am so strangely happy. The good God has sent us such joy; for you and I always were joyful or sad together. Ah, I can no longer speak of myself alone; I have another self, a better, nobler, stronger self. A true heart to lean upon. The wish you have never openly expressed will be accomplished, my own nurse. I have promised to be his wife. Colonel Egerton's, of whom grandpapa was so fond; he would be proud and glad if he knew it; and dare we say he does not? I yearn to hear your voice, and that you too should bask in the sunshine, after such a long sad winter; for he is so fond of you, and always calls you his nurse. But in a very few days you will be with me again. We go to A—— on the 30th; be there to meet us. Everything is as yet very unsettled; but I write to you first, before any one. I cannot tell you anything clearly now, only you are to be always with me, and I do not think we shall leave England.

"Dear nurse, how wildly I have written, my hand is so unsteady, and my heart beats; but, nurse, you must bend your knees before God, and pray to Him to be with us now in this great trial of prosperity, even as He stayed us in our time of adversity.

Ever your loving child,
Kate."