ARRANGEMENTS.

With every pulse tumultuously throbbing, Kate closed her door, and sat down to attempt the disentanglement of the wild agitation and confusion into which all her thoughts and anticipations had been thrown by this dreadful outburst from her cousin. Never since the day that Winter had first intimated to her his opinion of the state of their affairs, had she experienced the same sudden sense of insecurity and desolation. Then she had had a full and sufficient object, round which to rally her energies and her courage; then she had had clear-headed and warm-hearted friends to advise and to uphold her. Now the one only friend, who was all that was left to her of the past, seemed suddenly rent from her by the most cruel and injurious suspicions, and a great gulf fixed between them. For Lady Desmond's last words—"Guilty or innocent, we can never be the same to each other again"—rung in her ears like an ill omened prophecy. Yet her own immediate suffering was almost lost sight of in her deep compassion for, and sympathy with, her cousin.

She had anticipated a wild outbreak of indignant sorrow when Lady Desmond should first hear the terrible solution of his mysterious conduct, with which Lord Effingham had astonished the real object of his affections. But that she should be accused of deliberate treachery, of such complete and constant dissimulation, had never entered into her heart to conceive. A warm flush of indignant color rose to her brow as she thought of the injustice, and she murmured, almost aloud—

"She should have known me better. She who knew my childhood; how dare she think me so inferior to herself? She must, when she is calmer, acknowledge her error."

Then Kate recalled to her memory the whole scene, and wondered, in vain, how her cousin had been informed of Lord Effingham's presence, and the purpose of his strange visit. Continued thought suggested that she must have overheard what had taken place. Yet, if so, she must have heard Kate's utter rejection of him—this was a painful enigma. How—how was she to clear herself? She knew not from what source Lady Desmond's impression arose, and she was utterly ignorant in what way she should proceed to free her cousin's mind from the injurious doubts which had taken possession of it; for her indignation was soon merged in tender pity and compassion for her wretched relative.

"Unhappy Georgy," she exclaimed, "not content with the real injury and mortification you have sustained, you torture yourself doubly by believing me—me, to whom you acted more than a sister's—a mother's part—so false, so worthless; but how am I to justify myself? to convince you?"

Then rose up, in formidable array, the gossip of servants, and worse, dear friends, to be met and silenced, and the anxious desire to save her cousin's name from the flattering comments of the rather unmerciful, though well-bred coterie, amongst whom they were placed. Above all the predominant idea in poor Kate's mind was that her interval of repose was at an end—that the only home to which she had a shadow of claim was rent from her—that to remain the recipient of benefits from an estranged benefactress, was impossible—that she was indeed desolate. Mingling with all this, was the memory of her grandfather's implicit trust, his unwearied tenderness—that it had gone from her life for ever.

Yes, she must go—she must seek some other home—she must earn one. And nurse—her curiosity must be baffled. And time was stealing fast away while she thought so painfully and ineffectually; something must be done; and at once, she rose with a fervent ejaculation—"God guide me for the best," and sat down to write to Lady Desmond.

As she opened her desk, the recollection of the happy letter she had that morning despatched to Winter flashed across her mind.

"And when shall I hear from him again?" she thought—a glance at her watch. "Ah, post-hour is long past; and what else could I write without betraying Georgy? and she must be my first consideration. Would to Heaven Mr. Winter was in England; but it is in vain to wish."

And overpowered by her complete isolation, she threw herself on her knees beside her bed, and, hiding her face in the clothes, gave way to the thick coming sobs that shook her frame, and ceased only when they had exhausted the power to express such emotion.

At length she arose, calmed by this outburst, and restored to more faith than she had hitherto felt by the unspoken prayer, in which she had silently laid the grief she was incapable of uttering before the All-seeing and Mighty Spirit, who alone witnessed her sorrow, pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to condense her thoughts, she wrote:

She read this over, felt dissatisfied with it, yet despairing of writing anything that could please her more, hastily added—"I wait your reply," signed her name, and, unlocking her door, stole lightly to Lady Desmond's, she knocked, and, after a short delay, Lady Desmond asked, in a constrained voice—

"Is that Louise? I have a dreadful headache, and am lying down—I cannot be disturbed."

"It is not Louise—I have a note for you." Another pause, and the door was unlocked. Lady Desmond, still in her carriage dress, put out her hand, silently took the note, and closed the door.

Kate again returned to her own room and to her troubled thoughts, thankful for nurse's absence, unusual at that hour, and feeling somewhat relieved by having put things en train for an interview with her cousin; her natural fortitude, of which she possessed so much, began to rise out of the terrible wreck of pleasant things which had weighed it down, and to consider the future with greater clearness, when Louise entered about an hour after the delivery of the note to Lady Desmond, and close upon their usual dinner hour.

"Miladi's love, and she is not at all well; she wish to see Mademoiselle sur l'instant."

Kate would have faced the most deadly peril with far less tremor than her really much-loved cousin; she felt, however, that the message sounded friendly, little imagining that "Miladi's love" was an addition of Louise's, who never could conceive one to Miss Vernon unprefaced by some such sugary prefix. Kate found Lady Desmond lying on the sofa, looking deadly pale and exhausted; she held the note in her hand.

"You are right," she exclaimed abruptly, as Kate shut the door and stood before her; "we have much to arrange, for inaction is torture." Her voice sounded deep and broken, different from its usual harmonious refinement. She rose and paced the room. "Your note has raised a thousand recollections which range themselves on your side, Kate. I must, I dare not doubt you; there would be no confidence left to me on earth if I did!—let us mention it no more. No!" motioning Kate back, as she sprang to throw her arms round her at these words—"I am in no mood for tenderness. Whether intentionally or not you have inflicted terrible sufferings upon me. I repeat, I cannot doubt you—it would be too revolting—I could not endure such a double trial. I may be very wrong, but I cannot look upon you as I did, not yet at least; and your question, how I acquired the accursed knowledge, I will never answer, and you must never ask again: he need not have enhanced his love for you by his triumph over me!" She muttered these words between her teeth, glancing darkly at Kate. "I sent for you," she resumed hurriedly, "for your note reminded me of what was due to myself. We must subdue ourselves, and act our part for the audience of Hampton Court. I have thought of a plausible tale; attend to me; learn your part, and remember you owe me the reparation of performing it well. I am not well. God knows that is true! I have received news that compels me to leave for Ireland as soon as I can. We will endure each other for a week, Kate. I little thought I could ever speak so to you. My own dear Kate, come—yet, no, no! I cannot embrace you. Oh! I am most miserable, to be debarred in this wretchedness from the only sympathy that could have soothed me."

"But you have it," answered Kate, in accents of the softest, deepest tenderness.

"I will not have your pity," resuming her troubled walk. "I will not have that Devil sneer at my credulity. I will wait and see before I take you to my arms again. Yes, we must part for a time. I could not bear the alternate affection for, and doubt of you, which sweep across my mind. I will see if he cannot yet prevail on you to overcome that repugnance which—pah! repugnance to him! Well, Kate, do not mind me; I cannot speak coherently; remember we have a part to play for a while together, then separately; and where—where can you go? I am selfish—I hate myself; but for a short time we will separate; and Kate, you will not disdain—you will not forget it is my duty to provide for you. I promised your grandfather!—and, oh! heavens, how am I fulfilling the guardianship I undertook! But you will command all that your lightest fancy may prompt. I am rich, and after a while we will be together."

"Georgy," said Kate, with calmness inexpressibly sad, "I see you do not yet believe me, but in time you must; till then we need not embitter each other's lives. When you leave this for Ireland, I will go to Mrs. Storey; she has often invited me; from that I can write to you. The Winters will be home ere long, and when, in God's good time, you know that I never deceived or betrayed you, we will meet again. I have enough for every present want, and you must not think me so much beneath yourself that I would accept the charity of her who thinks me unworthy. There is only one favour I must ask—it is to help me in keeping nurse—my poor dear nurse—(the only one who still loves and trusts Kate Vernon)—in the dark as regards this unhappy breach; it would break her heart if she knew of it—"

"I will do as you desire; but, Kate, you must allow me——"

"Hush!" said Kate, with a slight but inexpressibly dignified gesture of rejection, that compelled Lady Desmond to silence. "I am most anxious about nurse; I cannot take her with me, and I feel her to be a friend too dear, too closely associated with all I love, to part from as I would a common servant;" and the swelling of Kate's heart at the idea of breaking this last link choked her utterance.

"She shall come with me—she shall stay with me," said Lady Desmond eagerly, "until you join me again; it is natural that you should accept Mrs. Storey's invitation, still more so that you should not crowd her establishment unnecessarily. Nurse will surely not object to a separation for a few weeks, she will not think it strange."

"Leave nurse to me," said Kate, anxious to relieve her cousin's mind of the slight uneasiness which inflected her voice; "she will be difficult to manage, but you may trust me with her."

"There is nothing to be managed," said Lady Desmond, with cold hauteur. "But we have agreed to endeavour to avoid any gossip that might arise from ——; though why should I fear any. You will write to Mrs. Storey, and see nurse, and to-morrow——." Lady Desmond paused, gazed stedfastly at vacancy, and then drawing a long breath, continued, in a tone of intense resolution, "To-morrow I shall receive those people as usual."

"Oh, impossible," cried Kate, in genuine anxiety that her cousin should not overtask her strength.

"Why impossible, Miss Vernon?" asked Lady Desmond, in a constrained voice. "Does your 'instinctive repugnance' to Lord Effingham permit so high an estimate of his fascinating powers, that you imagine self-esteem and self-respect rendered incapable of acting under his indifference; you little know me. I tell you, if he presents himself here to-morrow evening, neither of you shall see the slightest change in my manner—neither of you shall see a trace of the torture—"

"Georgy, dear Georgy," cried Kate, whose candid mind revolted from the strange constraint forced on it by her cousin, "be just to me, be merciful to yourself, I know it is agony to doubt me."

"God knows it is," she returned, "but at present I cannot trust you or any one, my soul is embittered; time only can show me the truth; and restore me to myself—to you. Kate, if you have deceived me; no! you could not! there is no falsehood in that face! Oh that I could read your heart; if you have deceived me, God forgive you, if not, bear with me, pardon me."

Her voice sank to the softest, tenderest accents, "Remember, I never had the holy love for father or mother to fill and soften my heart; to teach it true affection; to plant in it a pure unselfish principle, a sacrificing spirit whereby to test the seeming passion offered to me. You have known this, you have this invaluable touchstone, this unerring balance wherewith to weigh the false jewels which hollow-hearted men of the world offer, in exchange for real gems, fresh truth and warm devotion. Yes you may have weighed his and found them wanting; but you could never love him, as I do, as I did; we are alike, as substance and shadow, there is not a change of his countenance, an inflection of his voice that I cannot read; shame shame to speak so! and I have known so little happiness, I have sought my whole life for some unknown treasure to catch the first glimpse of it as it was lost to me for ever."

And at last the dark, burning eyes were suffused with the blessed refreshment of tears; but Lady Desmond's were always stormy tears; and Kate stole nearer to her in the tenderest most loving sympathy for that poor, proud, wounded heart—yet silently, for she feared the sound of her voice might recall her cousin's suspicions, and she would spurn her from her—kneeling at her feet and kissing the hand that hung down in inactivity bespeaking the language of despair.

At last Lady Desmond pressed the hand that held hers so lovingly, and drawing Kate slightly to her, muttered in tones more like her own than Kate had yet heard, "leave me now, while I feel I have wronged you, ask me no more at present," and grateful even for these words Kate slowly retired.

The next evening did indeed display the wonderful strength which pride can lend a mortified spirit, never had Lady Desmond played the part of a gracious graceful hostess to greater perfection; the only difference which Kate's watchful eye could detect, was a slight increase of animation in her manner, and of brilliancy in her conversation; just enough to lead careless observers to imagine that she enjoyed the prospect of her intended visit to Ireland, which with many politely expressed regrets she announced to her company.

The evening glided on with more than usual agreeability, to the guests at least; the only grave faces present were Miss Vernon's and Colonel Dashwood's, he seemed quite upset by the intelligence of their approaching departure, and joined but little in the noisy and probably sincere regrets of the rest. Burton was there, he had not been a frequent guest, having been generally quartered with another detachment. "I regret to find that you are going to leave this place, Miss Vernon, just as I am about to take up my abode in it," said Burton during the loudest notes of a bravura sung by Miss Meredyth, "I have heard so much, yet I seem doomed to see so little of you."

"I did not know I was so famous," replied Kate, absently.

"Nor am I the only one, 'left lamenting,' by this sudden flight; look at Dashwood! then we all fear that Miss Vernon will not return from Ireland," said Burton.

Kate, whose attention was fixed upon the opening door answered by a smile so palpably distrait, that Burton, fancying he guessed the secret of her watchfulness, smiled too as he thought of the sincere affection with which she had inspired his absent friend, and said to himself, "She would be a happier woman following Fred. on a baggage waggon, than riding over the world in that rouÉ Effingham's coronetted carriage. She does not think so at present however, ainsi va le monde."

Here the song ended, and Miss Vernon was called on to play; she thought sadly of her yesterday's practice and its unhappy termination, and it required no small effort of self command to take her place at the piano; she played mechanically, and without her usual soul-touching expression.

"Pray Lady Desmond," she heard Mrs. Meredyth ask, "can you give me any account of my nephew Effingham; will he be here this evening?"

"I really do not know," replied Lady Desmond in wonderfully natural, unconstrained tones, "Miss Vernon, I fancy, saw him last; did Lord Effingham say he would come here this evening, Kate?"

"He said nothing, that is, I do not remember," replied Kate, confused and astonished at the coolness of this appeal. Lady Desmond glanced at her one speaking look that roused her to instant self-possession, though it made her heart beat.

"I am told, Lord Effingham started this morning for the Isle of Wight," said Colonel Dashwood with a gravity unusual for him. "Hauton was over at Richmond and heard it there, something about his new yacht I believe, they said he will return next week."

"Figurez vous," cried the second Miss Meredyth whose style was foreign and fantastic, "my cousin's dismay when he returns and finds Lady Desmond flown."

"Perhaps it will be no great surprise to him," said Colonel Dashwood in a low voice to Kate.

"Yes, I am sure it will," she replied.

Lady Desmond invited the whole party, then assembled, to meet again, on the Wednesday evening following at her house; her last evening she said, as she intended starting on Thursday for London to Ireland.

"Kate," she observed carelessly to one or two of her latest guests "is not half so true an Irishwoman as I am; she will not, I believe, accompany me at once, but lingers for a few weeks with some friends in town."

Kate felt the tears rise to her eyes at hearing the separation so deplored, so dreaded by her, thus indifferently announced by her cousin, and she stood silent and dejected by the piano.

After they were left alone, Lady Desmond threw herself into an arm chair and covering her face with her hands groaned aloud, then looking up, after a moment's silence, she showed a countenance so changed, so haggard, now that the strong curb of her will over her secret emotions was relaxed, that Miss Vernon absolutely started with surprise.

"Have you written to Mrs. Storey?"

"Yes."

"Have you spoken to nurse?"

"No; I thought it best to defer that until I got an answer."

"As you choose."

She rose slowly, and walked to the door, then turning, said—

"I have accepted every invitation offered to me—we have not an evening disengaged; but if you feel bored by them, or wish, for any reason, to remain at home, do not think yourself obliged to accompany me." She bowed, then again pausing. "You look wearied, Kate, would you like nurse to sleep in your room?"

"No."

"Solitude is best for both, I believe."

And she left the room gloomily, darkly.

Kate felt relieved when she was gone, and retired quickly. To pray to God, to think long and painfully, to count the night-watches, and, at last, to sink into a sound, sweet sleep, and charming but indistinct dreams of her cousin clasping her to her heart, and entreating forgiveness for the wrong she had done her.

"Is it very late, nurse?" she asked, on opening her eyes the following morning, and seeing her faithful friend standing by the bed-side.

"No, agrah, not to say late; but me lady is aitin' her breakfast up in her own room, an' I wanted to rouse ye up to have a word wid ye, afore she was callin' fur ye. Will ye have a little taste iv toast an' a cup iv tay quite an' aisy up here?"

"Yes, thank you, nurse, I should like it very much. I will ring presently."

Mrs. O'Toole re-appeared with a most tempting round of buttered toast, a tiny tea-pot, and a capacious cup, and placed them before her nurseling.

"There, ait a bit, jewil; an' tell me what's the manin' iv this scrimmige iv movin' all iv a suddin'?"

"I thought you were aware that Lady Desmond intended going to Ireland when we left this?"

"To be sure, I did—but sure, isn't it mighty suddint? an' are we to be off body an' bones on Thursday next?"

"Yes, nurse, I believe so."

"An' now, Miss Kate, agrah, will ye tell me, is it a weddin' we're goin' to have, or what, fur I feel that somethin' quare's goin' on!"

"Oh, there is nothing the matter, nurse. I believe," she continued, after a short pause, during which she summoned all her resolution to speak easily and unconstrained, "that is, I think I must stay for a few weeks with Mrs. Storey."

"What, not go wid us at wanst to Ireland!" ejaculated Mrs. O'Toole, holding the tea-pot, from which she was in the act of replenishing her nurseling's cup, still suspended, in sheer amazement. "What's that for? sure, yer not goin' to send me off wid me lady! if yer not comin' wid us now, sure. I'll have to come for ye; ye can't travel be yerself; an' I'd betther stay wid ye."

"But Mrs. Storey has not room, I fear," said Kate, falteringly.

"I don't want to be behoulden to her fur her room; sure, I could get a place convanient for meself; there's lashins iv poor places good enough for the likes iv me about Bayswather to stop in; what would ye do widout me?"

"What indeed!" echoed Kate, throwing herself into nurse's arms; and worn out by the long constraint she had laboured under, she burst into an irrepressible flood of tears, while Mrs. O'Toole hushed and soothed her, as in her childish days.

"There now, hush, darlint; tell me what it vexes ye?"

"I am so afraid you will think me ungrateful and selfish, dear nurse," began Kate, in broken accents, interrupted by sobs. "You see I am particularly anxious to stay in London for a while; and if—if I was richer, and could pay for your lodgings, and all that, do you think I could ever part with you, even for a short season, dearest, kindest friend; but I am not; and I will not let you waste the little you have on my account. No, you will go with Lady Desmond to Ireland, as she wishes, till I join her."

Mrs. O'Toole seemed plunged in thought, and rolled her arms in her apron, a favourite attitude with her, indicative of deep reflection.

"But will ye come back?" she asked, at last, with a keen glance, "an' whin? there's somethin's throublin' ye, jewil, though ye'll not spake out, an' me heart's oneasy; sure, ye wouldn't let me go from ye, if ye wern't manin' to come back to me; sure, ye wouldn't thrate me that a way, me own child?"

"God knows," cried Kate, "it is hard enough to part with you, although I most firmly purpose to be with you ere long; but to say good bye in earnest would be death to me."

"An' why need ye stay wid thim Storeys that arn't yer aiquils at all? Ah! where's the use of sthrivin' to decave me. Have you an' me lady fell out, asthore?"

This question was put with a concentration of anxiety and curiosity which might have raised a smile to the lips of a casual observer, but which only served to fill up the measure of Kate's perplexities—her equally balanced cares—not to betray her cousin, and not to wound nurse, placing her in a double difficulty.

"No, no! quarrel with my dear, kind Georgy! Never, I trust; but, in short, dearest nurse," she continued, with great earnestness, "it would be a source of the greatest comfort to me, to know that you were safe and free from every want, in an establishment such as hers. I am powerless to afford any aid or protection to my oldest, truest friend," pursued Kate, large tears weighing down her eyelashes. "And after years of faithful, constant, self-devoted service, I must owe to another the shelter I cannot give you. Ah! it is a hard fate!"

She hid her face on nurse's shoulder.

"Och! don't be talking that away, jewil!" ejaculated Mrs. O'Toole. "Sure, haven't I a power iv money I got in yer sarvice that Misther Winter put into the bank fur me? I'll do what iver mee sweet child likes; but faith! I don't want shelther from any one. I'm not past mee work yet, And if ye will have me go from ye, I'll just stop wid me lady fur three weeks or a month; an' at the ind of that time, if yer not comin' to us, I'll come fur ye. Sure, yer in the right iv it not to let Lady Desmond get too accustomed to ye; faith, it's sick she'd be if an angel from Heaven afther a bit; it's well fur her the masther (the Lord rest his sowl,) wasn't that sort."

"Dear nurse," said Kate, raising her tearful face, and speaking in broken accents, "why will you distress me by assuming a severe tone towards my kind cousin; she is all that the most exacting could wish. Oh! I have many difficulties before me. How! how! can I part with you?"

"An' why do ye ask me to lave ye?"

"It must be so," she returned, with more decision than she had yet shown. "And, I will not deceive you, my own, dear nurse—it may be some months before we meet again."

"Och! where are ye goin' to stop bee yerself, Miss Kate? What mischief's brewin' at all? An' what would the masther say if he could look down on us to see me goin' off in pace and plinty, and you wandherin' through the world alone? Sure, I'd see his sperrit, it couldn't rest in Heaven itself, if you wasn't rightly attended to."

"God forbid he should feel distress about me," sighed Kate. "He is at last free from sin and sorrow—that is my great consolation! But my plans are very simple. After being with Mrs. Storey for a while, I shall probably go to some other friends, and move about; so you see you could not exactly come with me. Then, when Mr. and Mrs. Winter return, which, I trust, they will do before October, they know and value you, and will gladly let me have you; or, probably, before I go to stay with them, I may join my cousin; in either event, we shall be together; and so far as a weak mortal can purpose, I resolve to separate from you no more. Can you consent to this?"

Nurse, resting her elbows on her knees, and covering her face in her hands, rocked herself in silence for a few moments, then with a deep sigh, almost a groan, said—

"I see it's no use talkin', I must go from you—and I'll nivir hear the thruth if what's goin' on! Och, I little thought I'd iver be parted from mee own child—the core iv mee heart ye wor—ye nivir slept a night from ondher the same roof wid me but wan, and that was the time ye met the Captin, and I'll nivir believe but that'll turn out luck yet! so I'll do yer biddin', agra! and sure the masther 'ill see it's only yez own word would part us; an' look here, avourneen, I'll always keep the price if mee journey by me, and the wind iv a word will bring me to ye any day—remimber that!"

"I will remember, nurse. Ah! dearest, kindest, hold me to your heart—close—there is none other beats so truly for your Kate—none loves her so well, now grandpapa is gone."

"Faith, there is'nt wan thruer to ye on airth, than mine, as sure as yer lyin' on it. There was wan more loved ye well, besides the masther and me—if iver man loved mortial, the Captin loved the sight iv ye—an' well he might, many's the time I watched his face brighten up when he heard yer voice, an' wancest I seen him take the glove ye dropped an' kiss it, as I would the cross! and mark my words—ye'll see him yet—och, sure there's some brightness fur us ondher all this sorra! an' don't sob that away, jewil—if you don't come to me, faith I'll come to you."

This last week at Hampton Court was one of unmixed suffering to Kate. Lady Desmond was cruelly capricious in her tone and manner to her innocent cousin. At one moment Kate fancied she could perceive rapidly returning confidence and affection—the next, some stern look, or icy word, implied suspicion and dislike; nothing wounded Miss Vernon so much as the assumption of her old tenderness before any third party, and the instant return to coldness and estrangement, when that restraint was removed.

Sometimes Kate's gentle but high spirit was roused to indignation, which lent her a momentary strength; but this was soon dissolved by the compassion with which she viewed the intense and unremitting struggle, which thus clouded Lady Desmond's better judgment.

Miss Vernon was thoroughly convinced before the day of their departure arrived, that to live with Lady Desmond in her present mood, was indeed impossible; and that her only chance for preserving a hold on her cousin's heart, was absence. The approaching separation from nurse was ever present with her—from Lady Desmond, she felt, that for a while it would be a relief to part.

Meantime, Mrs. Storey wrote in most cordial terms, to express the pleasure she felt in expecting Miss Vernon as a guest; and all things progressed smoothly for the cousins' plans.

The last evening, Kate felt real alarm, at the strange brilliancy of her cousin's eyes, and the unwonted animation of her manner. She had passed the greater part of the day alone; and had once sent for Kate, who found her terribly agitated, and evidently endeavouring to make up her mind to something; after a few vague words, however, she begged Kate to leave her—that she would defer all further arrangements till they were in London; and as Miss Vernon was leaving the room, begged her to keep guard over herself, in case any unexpected arrival should startle her. "Do not betray me, Kate." Miss Vernon knew she alluded to Lord Effingham—but since the fatal day she had overheard his declaration, she had never breathed his name to her; but the evening wore on, and to Kate's infinite relief, he did not make his appearance.

Kate never quitted any place with so little regret, as Hampton Court; though, at first, she had liked it much—difficulties soon gathered round her—difficulties, such as she had never before encountered; but she was wofully depressed—Lady Desmond had put a finishing stroke to her low spirits, by enquiring if she would like to drive directly to Mrs. Storey's, or go with her to Mivart's in the first place. This readiness to get rid of her on the part of her natural protectress, threw a sad feeling of gloom and loneliness over poor Kate's heart, and it was some moments before she could reply. Her first impulse was to accede at once to the proposition, which would have relieved her cousin of her irksome presence; but an instant's thought, showed her two potent reasons for a different line of conduct—first, she must cling as long as she possibly could to nurse—secondly, she knew Mrs. Storey did not expect her till the next day, so having glanced at these motives, and swallowed a rising inclination to sob, she answered, with a certain degree of reproachful sadness—

"I do not think Mrs. Storey expects me till to-morrow; and if you can bear my presence a little longer, I should prefer waiting till then. Dear cousin, though you are weary of me, I think of our parting with grief, and regret."

"Oh, Kate, Kate," cried Lady Desmond, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes "would to God, I could blot out the last few months—I feel I am utterly neglecting my bounden duty in thus leaving you—but it is better for both of us, at least for awhile! Do you forgive me? you would if you knew the wretched sea of doubt and difficulty and suspicion in which my weary spirit is tossed! I should make you miserable if you stayed with me."

"I am most fully determined, even if you were not so inclined, to leave you; at present it is quite as much my choice, as yours—do not grieve about that—but—but, dear Georgy, do not seem so anxious to get rid of me!"

"What a selfish, worthless wretch I have become," said Lady Desmond, with sudden remorse, "I am not the same for an hour—at this moment I would fain keep you with me to the last! but Saturday, the day after to-morrow, I leave for Ireland; till then, you shall stay with me—you would like to stay with nurse, at all events—how could I forget, ah! Kate forgive me! you may, you ought; God knows how much misery you have caused me," she ended bitterly.

Kate sighed to see how implacable were the suspicions entertained by Lady Desmond; and the rest of the journey was performed in almost unbroken and melancholy silence.

Miss Vernon wrote a line, to announce her arrival in town, to Mrs. Storey; and then, leaving her cousin to receive the thousand and one visitors, who flocked to remonstrate with, and exclaim at her strange whim of performing a personal, and purgatorial progress to her estates in Ireland, she sought the society of poor nurse, who was plunged into the deepest affliction—

"I'll never forgive mee Lady Desmond, fur lettin' ye stay behind this away. There's no use in talkin' but I know there's been some ruction betune yez—any ways, I'll do yer biddin', an' stay out the four weeks wid her; but afther that, don't lay a vow upon me, avourneen! an' ye'll write me long letthers."

"Write! Ah, yes, it will be my only comfort until we meet—for we must—we shall meet soon again."

And Miss Vernon threw herself on nurse's bosom, overpowered by the feelings she had so long suppressed. Long and passionately did she weep—and nurse, nobly hushing her own grief, strove to cheer her child, whose unwonted emotion absolutely frightened the honest, warm-hearted woman. Gradually Kate listened to her words, rallied herself from the flood of bitterness which had swept over her spirit, and after some desultory and mournful conversation, obeyed nurse's kindly command.

"There's no use talking any more darlin, you must go to yer bed."

Kate, fatigued by the tears and sorrow of the day, was soon wrapped in sleep; and nurse bent over her long and tenderly as she lay, one long wavy tress escaping from the deep lace of her cap, her hands crossed upon her bosom, which heaved slightly with each regular softly drawn breath, the rosy lips apart, while

As nurse gazed at this picture of profound and innocent repose, lovely as sleeping youth must be, to every eye capable of acknowledging beauty, all her own grief at the separation of to-morrow pressed quick and stern upon her.

"Ah, who'll watch over ye, pulse iv me heart? Who'll ye go spake to when yer in throuble? Where will ye turn when yer sperrit scorns the ways iv them that's about ye. Ah, where indeed! Oh, Mary, sweet queen of heaven, look on ye. Sure ye niver had a purer heart than hers. Blessed Jasus shield ye. Ah, Captin, agra, it's here ye ought to be, with the warm heart an' the strong arm to hold her up through this weary world."

And sinking on her knees, nurse devoutly told her beads, often wiping away the fast-falling tears, yet, with the peculiarity of her race, fervently hoping through it all.