TERRA INCOGNITA.

"There is one thing more I wish to say to you, dearest nurse," said Miss Vernon, as she was dressing to go to Mrs. Storey the morning after the conversation above recorded; all her trunks and packages were lying about the room in desolate disorder, and she was hurrying to join her cousin at luncheon.

"What is it, agra?"

"Why, that cheque Mr. Winter sent me—Roberts got me the money for it."

"Misther Roberts is a knowledgeable man."

"But, nurse, this portion of it is for you."

"Oh, blessed Vargin! look at this. Now, Miss Kate, do you think I'd be afther robbin ye iv twenty pounds—and I wid a pile iv notes in the savin's bank, if I could only get at them."

"That is it, exactly," interrupted Miss Vernon, hastily, "you must have money, and though you and I are on those terms, that we do not keep debtor and creditor accounts, you know very well, I consider it not only a pleasure, but a duty, to share with you whatever I possess, only in this case, I have kept the lion's share—no more, nurse—you must take it—I shall think you do not love me if you refuse."

There was something so urgent in Miss Vernon's tones, that nurse felt herself compelled to obey, malgrÉ lui.

"Sure I'll keep them fur ye."

"Do what you will, nurse; but, remember, though I can, and may have to bear much, I could not support the idea of your wanting any thing. One kiss before I go down. How I wish Georgy would let you come with me to Bayswater, and stay at home herself."

"She hasn't so much sinse—though I'm sorry for her, she's in grate throuble entirely about you going away—faith I begin to make it out."

Lady Desmond was, as Mrs. O'Toole said, in great trouble, restless, miserable, capricious; at one moment pressing Kate to change her plans, and accompany her to Ireland, at another, evidently ready to facilitate her departure, while she hurried her own preparations, yet showed a disposition to linger within the charmed precincts where echo sometimes conveyed a rumour of Lord Effingham's proceedings.

He was still at Cowes, and the Morning Post of that day gave an account of a dinner given by him on board his new yacht, "The Meteor," to all the celebrities of the R. Y. C.

"That does not look like disappointment," thought Lady Desmond, as she read, "time, and time only can satisfy me of the truth."

She was silent during the repast, of which Kate strove to partake, and rose at once, on Miss Vernon suggesting that she had promised to be with Mrs. Storey at two.

Nurse made her appearance as the cousins descended to the carriage.

"Once more good-bye, kindest and best," said Kate, embracing her, and trying to speak steadily. "Georgy," she continued, laying her hand impressively on Lady Desmond's arm, "I know you love nurse for her own sake. But, remember, I feel every kindness shown to her as intended for myself."

"You may trust nurse safely to me," replied her cousin; and they entered the carriage.

Kate leaned from it as long as nurse remained in sight, and often, in after days, declared that the long earnest gaze, with which she followed the retreating form so dear to her, impressed itself for ever on her heart, and that nurse's figure, in her black dress and white cap, as she stood shading her eyes with her hand, formed one of those indelible pictures ever vivid, let unnumbered years roll by, with which memory is at rare intervals stamped.

Lady Desmond preserved an almost unbroken silence until they neared their destination, and had reached the comparatively quiet region of the parks, then turning to Kate, said—

"I suppose Mrs. Storey will not expect me to go in. I am in no humour for her gossip."

"Of course you need not if you do not like it; but—"

"Oh, then I see I ought—yes, it will be more gracious. I would do anything to serve or please you, my Kate," and she looked at her mournfully and tenderly.

Miss Vernon's eyes filled with tears; yet they were not unhappy tears. She was thankful to bid her cousin adieu in this mood—for Kate set a great value on last impressions.

The sound of the carriage-wheels brought a rosy-cheeked, smiling parlor-maid to the hall-door, while a row of small heads appeared above the parlor blinds. Then ensued the lively bustle of lifting down trunks, and carrying in carpet-bags; and the rosy parlor-maid ran backwards and forwards, her little airy cap blown about by the light breeze, quite in a twitter at being assisted, with much gallantry, by so distinguished an individual as Lady Desmond's footman.

"I am sure this is so kind of you, Lady Desmond; I did not expect the pleasure of seeing of you. Miss Vernon, my dear, you are most heartily welcome; the children have been looking out for you all day—my little Willie has not forgotten you. You'll take some cake and wine—do?"

"Thank you, no," said Lady Desmond. "We have lunched; and I only gave myself a few moments, in which to say, how do you do, and good-bye. I start to-morrow for Ireland, and have much to accomplish before dinner-time."

"Well, but you will sit down, and let me thank you for leaving Miss Vernon with us awhile. My dear," to Kate, "you are not looking so well—paler and thinner than when I saw you last—I am sure the air at Hampton Court is beautiful and healthy. I never enjoyed anything so much as the day I spent with your ladyship. I see my Lord Effingham is in the Isle of Wight. I never met so nice a man as he is, and as simple as a common person. I thought," again turning to Kate, "you would not like to leave England somehow or other," and she laughed a significant laugh that raised the blood in quick nervous blushes to Kate's cheek; she glanced at Lady Desmond; but her brow was not more overcast than before, and the entrance of the children prevented any further remark.

The eldest boy—a fair-haired, bright-eyed child, just old enough to be shy—stood awhile, his finger in his mouth, half hiding behind his nurse-maid's apron, till Kate stretched out her arms. When, after a moment's hesitation, he bounded into them, and they were as great friends as ever.

"Now that I have installed Kate in the bosom of your family, Mrs. Storey, I must say good-bye," said Lady Desmond, rising.

Kate put down little Willie, and stood up with a beating heart.

"You will let me know immediately how you get over, and make nurse write—give her my fond love, Georgy."

"I will," said her cousin, who had taken a very gracious leave of Mrs. Storey. She paused a moment, and, then folding her arms round Kate, kissed her with all her old accustomed warmth, whispering—"Trust me still!" and rapidly descending the stairs, was out of sight before Kate could realise that she was really going.

Miss Vernon turned from the window with a choking sensation in her throat; the time was indeed come when she must struggle on alone.

"So you are very glad to see Miss Vernon again, Willie?" asked the proud mama, stroking his curls.

"Yes," lisped Willie, pressing his little round cheek against Kate's hand, and looking up in her face with such a bright loving glance, that she felt irresistibly cheered by it.

"Not more glad than I am to see Willie."

She sat down, and took him into her lap.

"We do not dine till six to-day," said Mrs. Storey; "you are accustomed to late hours, and my brother said he would join us—you are such a favorite with him."

"You must not change your hours for me," returned Kate, "I know you generally dine with the children, and I like dining early."

"You are very good and obliging, I am sure. You see, Mr. Storey is so late generally—but to-day he said he would make it a point to be home early; he is so pleased you are to be with us."

"I am very glad to hear it," said Kate, gratified at this cordiality.

"And I expect to hear lots of news," resumed Mrs. Storey, significantly.

"Indeed, I have none to tell," said Kate.

"Well, well, we shall see. And how do you think the children looking? Willie has had a sore throat—we were afraid it might end in scarletina, &c., &c."

And the good-natured gossip was merged in the anxious mother, who, encouraged by Kate's ready attention, poured forth a string of anecdotes, maternal and domestic, touching "baby's last tooth," and "Maria's shameful neglect of her plate and glass."

And Miss Vernon felt a sense of relief in hearing these natural, simple details, which she usually voted extremely tiresome; but now, after the agitations she had passed through, and the stormy passions she had witnessed, anything indicative of home, with its calm atmosphere of repose, and quiet duty, was refreshing to her.

So instinctively conscious of more than usual sympathy in her listener, Mrs. Storey chattered on uninterruptedly until it was almost time to dress for dinner.

Miss Vernon missed her affectionate motherly attendant as she arranged her unpretending toilette for dinner. Not that she was incapable of waiting on herself; but her dressing-room had always been the scene of those confidential conversations in which Mrs. O'Toole's soul delighted. She pictured to herself her loving and beloved nurse sitting alone in some room of the busy, crowded hotel, her arms folded in her apron, rocking herself to and fro, with no one near to whom she could speak in the genuine accents of real sorrow.

"My poor dear nurse, may God comfort you," murmured Kate; and then, feeling her fortitude melting away before the picture she had conjured up, she resolutely turned from it. "I have no right to damp the spirits of these friendly people with my melancholy looks."

So she braided her bright hair, and smiled at her pale cheeks, which had lost the few roses they began to gather at Hampton Court: and hearing some one trying to turn the handle of the door, opened it, and admitted little Willie, with whom she descended to the drawing-room.

"Well, indeed, my dear, you do not look so rosy or so bright as I would wish to see you," said Mrs. Storey, "not but that you look pretty always."

"Cela va sans dire," interrupted Kate, smiling.

"But," resumed Mrs. Storey, "what is the reason his lordship is gone to the Isle of Wight?"

"Will you believe me," replied Kate, gravely and impressively, "when I assure you that I am equally ignorant of, and unaccountable for, Lord Effingham's movements."

The gravity of her manner silenced her loquacious hostess, and immediately after Mr. Storey entered, accompanied by Langley. The former greeted Kate with boisterous cordiality, the latter with sincere though quiet pleasure. It was an additional trial to her, this meeting with Langley, whom she had not seen since her grandfather's death; and the contending memories which his presence recalled kept her silent, while he expressed, in his usual shy, embarrassed manner, his happiness in meeting her again. He was very taciturn at dinner, but this passed unnoticed, as the host and hostess were really a host in themselves, at least in the talking line.

"I have to thank you for sending me Mr. Winter's letters so promptly," said Kate, as they sat near each other at tea. "I am very anxious for another, but do not know where to write;—and, Mr. Langley, why did you never come to see me all the time I was at Hampton Court?"

Langley coloured.

"I do not know Lady Desmond," he said, "and you were all too fine and gay for an obscure artist."

"Gay," repeated Kate, looking at him reproachfully.

"Well, too fine; I should not have felt at home there."

"I should have been much pleased had you taken the trouble to pay me a visit, and Hampton Court would have delighted you; but, of course, you know it already."

"Yes, I——" began Langley, again reddening, then interrupting himself abruptly—"If I really thought you remembered, I was—that is, I did not think you would notice it."

"Ah! Mr. Langley," said Kate, with a pensive smile, "you feel guilty, or you would not hesitate so much."

"Had you there, Bill," cried Mr. Storey, with an agreeable wink; "the ladies are never merciful when they catch us tripping." But Langley deigned no reply.

"I do not think Winter is inclined to come back," said he to Kate; "he wrote me a few lines enclosing his last letter to you, in which he says he should like to remain where he is until he had drawn the whole country, natural and architectural, but that Mrs. Winter's absurd prejudices against grease and fleas would, he feared, cut short his enjoyment."

"My dear William," cried his sister, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, "what will Miss Vernon think of you mentioning such dreadful low vulgar words. I am sure I am thankful Lady Desmond's not here—what would she say?"

"I dare say her ladyship is aware that such an entomological variety exists," returned Langley, drily.

"Have you been very busy this summer," asked Kate, changing the subject in compassion to her hostess.

"Yes, no—that is, I have been busily idle."

"Sketching, and not finishing," suggested Miss Vernon. "That was what Mr. Winter used to call busy idleness."

"You and Miss Vernon must look at my studio some day," said Langley to his sister; "I have one or two pretty subjects in progress."

"I shall be delighted," cried Kate. "I am always happy in a studio, more so than even in a perfect gallery; besides, a studio always reminds me of Mr. Winter," she added with such enthusiasm that her listeners smiled.

"I suppose you used to visit the pictures at Hampton Court frequently?"

"Yes, yet not as often as I intended—something always happened to interfere with our visits—and I am so fond of Vandyke: his men and women are so noble-looking, one can hardly associate them with the wretched period in which they lived; but I suppose his paintings picture his own mind rather than the individuals he meant to depict."

"Well, I would rather pay for my own portrait than another person's," said Mr. Storey; "and I think Smith has hit off both myself and Mrs. S. right well."

"Your pictures are certainly very like," said Miss Vernon politely.

"But the most unmitigated daubs," remarked Langley.

"I never enjoyed any pictures so much as those at Hampton Court," remarked Mrs. Storey. "But then Lord Effingham told me about them so nicely; he knew them all."

"Lord Effingham—a distinguished cicerone, Charlotte," remarked her brother. "He was very well known in the London world some five or six years ago, though one never heard much good of him—has he not been abroad for a long time?"

This question was addressed to Miss Vernon, in total disregard of Mrs. Storey's energetic hems and warning frowns when he spoke disparagingly of the earl.

"He was for some time in Italy—my cousin knew him there," replied Kate.

"I'm sure he seemed the quietest and most obliging man I ever met," said Mrs. Storey eagerly; "and it is just envy because he is richer and grander than themselves, that makes people tell ill-natured stories of him."

"I do not fancy Lord Effingham is an amiable man," said Kate, quietly; "I do not think I ever saw him do the agreeable so readily as the day you were with us."

"Hum," said Langley, gravely. "Then it was you, Charlotte, that kept his lordship on his P's and Q's.

"Now, Miss Vernon, may we ask you for a little music?"

"Not this evening, dear Mrs. Storey," said Kate, deprecatingly, and shaking her head. "To-morrow as much as you like, but to-night I feel quite unmusical."

"Well, I dare say you feel low at parting with Lady Desmond," said Mrs. Storey.

"And nurse," added Kate.

So the evening wore away, and at last Kate was free to retire to the grateful solitude of her own room, to gather comfort and support from "communing with her own heart," and finally to rest.

The day at Mrs. Storey's was very tranquil and rather monotonous. The eight o'clock breakfast was quickly followed by the departure of Mr. Storey for the city, and the eldest girl to school. Kate volunteered the task of inspecting Masters Willie and Bobby at their studies, thereby affording another hour to their mamma for the dear delight of the kitchen and the store-room. Kate saw little of her hostess before the one o'clock dinner, until which time she pursued her practising or her reading, her work or her thoughts uninterruptedly.

Mr. Storey never returned to tea until seven o'clock, when he was usually ravenous and inaudible until after the consumption of divers viands. He often brought home some dapper city friend, with an evident wish to make his house agreeable to Miss Vernon, and under the usual impression entertained by men of his stamp, that beaux are a necessary of life to young ladies. This was the only real drawback in Kate's estimation to her sÉjour at "Raby Villas"—the euphonious appellation of Mr. Storey's abode.

Mrs. Storey too meditated a party—for, with all her good nature, Kate was a much more important personage in her estimation, fresh from the society of earls and countesses—the crÊme de la crÊme—than when she walked almost daily over to Brompton, with no attendant save a great dog, and received three and sixpence a lesson for music.

The letters for which Kate had looked so anxiously were as usual in cases of anticipation, disappointing and perplexing; they did not arrive till the day after that on which they might have reached; Lady Desmond's ran thus:—

At the bottom were some words across which a few had been hastily drawn once or twice. Kate easily perceived they were the commencement of a sentence, "your readiness to," but some interruption mental or physical had cut short the fair scribe, and she had changed her intentions.

To Kate's infinite surprise, for Mrs. O'Toole was in general a remarkably straightforward person, a second letter reached her by the midday mail, directed in a blotted irregular hand written apparently with a wooden skewer.

Miss Vernon sat for some time lost in perplexed thought, she was truly glad to get nurse's affectionate letter, yet wished she had not told her that Lord Effingham was in town.

"I must not betray nurse, and yet I should very much like to write openly to Georgy, her suspicions are once more all alive," and the indignant colour rose to Kate's cheek at the idea of such pertinacious injustice. "I must write as if regardless of any change in her tone since we last met, I wish dear nurse had not mentioned Lord Effingham, I wish I never had heard his name."

Rousing herself from these fruitless reflections she called Willie, and knowing of old what potent consolers fresh air and sunshine always proved, asked Mrs. Storey's leave to take him with her to Kensall-green Cemetery where her grandfather's remains had been interred. She had not yet visited his grave, and choose the child's companionship during that visit of tender duty, as more congenial than any other. Willie, dancing with joy at the delight in prospect of a walk with Miss Vernon, was soon equipped, and the two friends started lovingly hand in hand.

Their way lay through pleasant fields with a pretty back-ground of wooded country towards Harrow, all glowing in the rich light of an Autumn sun. Kate was quite inattentive to the pretty talk of her little squire. She was traversing these fields again with a far different companion, she was living over again many autumns all distinctly marked in her faithful memory; it had always been the gayest time at Dungar, it had been the brightest period of her sojourn at A——, dear A, which she found usurping the place Dungar had formerly held in her heart. And last autumn though clouded, was not all gloom; she had then that beloved grandfather, the nucleus round which, all her deepest affections, her noblest energies, her most unfaltering fortitude had ever rallied, rich in their undying truth. She recalled with the distinctness of unchanging affection, the incidents, trifling though they were, which marked the last days of his life; the gradual progress of a dejection she could not cheer; the quiet resignation of earthly hopes; the silent, the gentleness, the child-like simplicity of the noble spirit with which she had intimately communed during her whole life. Oh how vividly it all came back to her; the placid smile so sad in its sweetness; the thoughtfulness for others so marked in his last illness; and it was all over; never more on earth should she behold him.

Roused at length from her thoughts by the unwonted silence of poor little Willie who was discouraged by receiving no answer to his many questions, she pressed the hand she held kindly and asked—"does Willie know the way to my dear grandfather's grave?"

"Oh yes" cried the child eagerly, proud to be her guide, "Maria used often to take us there in the summer evenings, and mama sometimes, we used to see that the flowers were taken care of, it is such a pleasant walk."

"Do you remember grandpapa" oppressed with the silent anguish of her own heart.

"I think I do" returned Willie, "He had such beautiful white hair, and sugar plums always in his pocket."

Kate smiled, though her tears fell upon the little hand that lay in hers, as she recognised this picture.

"Why do you cry, dear Kate?" asked Willie who was a loving creature, "you are never naughty."

"I cry," returned Kate, "because I have not that dear grandpapa to walk with me or to love me any more." The child seemed baffled by misfortune so far beyond his comprehension, but soon renewed the conversation by one of those innocent questions of the state of the souls after death, which children propound almost as soon as they are capable of observing.

"There it is—there it is"—he at length cried bounding forward to the head of a grave, separated from the turf around, by a couple of iron bars supported by small pillars of the same metal; some heartsease and laurels adorned the little enclosure; and at the head a block of marble carved to represent a gothic niche, and surmounted by the armorial bearings of the deceased, bore the following inscription:—

SACRED
TO THE MEMORY OF
COLONEL D'ARCY VERNON,
OF DUNGAR,
JUST, GENEROUS, BRAVE, AND TRUE.
THIS STONE IS ERECTED BY A MOURNING RELATIVE,
ONE OF THE MANY WHO OWE HIM AN
UNREQUITABLE DEBT OF GRATITUDE.

This simple, noble epitaph touched and gratified Miss Vernon's inmost soul. Simply and fervently she raised her soul to Heaven in silent prayer; and, at last, soothed and calmed by the just tribute so gracefully paid to the departed, she called to Willie, who (soon wearied of her motionless attitude) had wandered away.

"I can never feel a shadow of anger against Georgy again for anything," she thought, as her eye took in all the advantages of the well-chosen site—it was in the highest part of the cemetery; far below, lay the mighty town, looming indistinct through the cloud and smoke that shrouded it, like life with its trials, mean and great all hidden, in their tendencies, by the mist of human vision—while around and beyond was the clear blue sky, the balmy air, and the song of the birds, like the region of pure joy, and undimmed faith, to which the wearied spirit had escaped.

"Please 'm, there's a gentleman waiting to see you in the drawing-room," said the spruce Maria, one evening about a week after, when Kate and Mrs. Storey returned from a round of visits, into which the former had been entrapped.

"Indeed," said Kate, then suddenly recollecting herself, "I dare say it is Colonel Dashwood."

"Well, my dear, I will go and take off my bonnet, and, by that time, you will have finished your secrets."

"I am sure Colonel Dashwood never had a secret in his life," said Kate, laughing.

She ran hastily up stairs, and found, as she had anticipated, that gallant officer engaged in contemplating sundry long ringletted ladies in a book of beauty, having reduced the geometrical arrangement of the round table albums and annuals to great confusion.

"I was just about to give you up in despair," cried Colonel Dashwood, advancing to meet her with great cordiality. "Any commands for Dublin? I start to-morrow."

"For Dublin!" said Kate. "You astonish me. How—what is it takes you away so suddenly?" And she looked earnestly at his countenance, which wore a bright, hopeful expression, far different from the last she had seen there.

"Hampton Court has been insupportable since your departure," said the Colonel, gaily, "so I have got three weeks' leave; and, after some uncertainty how to dispose of myself, decided on visiting my old haunts in Ireland."

"I am sorry you will just miss Georgina," observed Miss Vernon. "She has either left Dublin for Castle Desmond, or will to-morrow."

"Indeed," cried Colonel Dashwood, evidently pulled up by this piece of information. "I was speaking to Effingham, who put me down here, and he seemed to think she would remain there some short time."

"It was pure fancy on Lord Effingham's part," returned Kate, "he is quite ignorant of her movements."

"So it appears; yet they said at Hampton Court that this sudden move was merely a preparatory step to changing Lady Desmond into the Countess of Effingham."

"How absurd," cried Kate, coloring, "there never was the least probability of such a finale to their acquaintance."

"I discovered as much from Effingham's conversation this morning," said the Colonel, significantly, "though," he added, laughingly, "I confess, notwithstanding some experience on these points, my observation was quite at fault as to his object in—but," interrupting himself, "I am growing terribly indiscreet, Miss Vernon. Effingham was sorry some engagement, I do not know what, prevented him from calling upon you to-day—and I strongly advised him to defer that pleasure."

"I do not wish to see Lord Effingham," said Kate, gravely.

The Colonel raised his eye-brows, and smiled.

"Tell me, if I miss Lady Desmond in Dublin, how shall I get on her track? Is there any shooting or fishing in the neighbourhood—is Castle Desmond beyond the reach of Bianconi's cars?—for, if I remember rightly, they are the most extended ramifications of civilisation in your splendid country."

The entrance of Mrs. Storey cut short his enquiries.

"Colonel Dashwood, Mrs. Storey," said Kate, "you remember Colonel Dashwood perhaps."

"Oh, quite well," replied Mrs. Storey, with one or two little bobbing curtseys, as she took the chair handed her by that polite individual. "I am very sorry Mr. Storey is not at home, and we might, perhaps, induce the Colonel to stop dinner with us."

"A thousand thanks, my dear madam; but I must dine with the Guards to-day, and only ran down here to ask Miss Vernon's commands for Ireland."

"Oh, indeed! I did not know you were Irish."

"Nor am I; but I like good fishing, and plenty of fun, and both are to be had in Paddy's land."

"I fear you will not find much of the last now," said Kate.

"What a pity the Colonel is running away before the 30th," said Mrs. Storey. "We have a few friends and a little music, and, perhaps, you would have joined us," continued the hospitable little woman who thought how much Colonel's Dashwood's fine figure and air distinguÉ would astonish the Bayswater world.

"You had better stay," suggested Kate.

"Ah! unfortunately, it is not in my power."

"Were you at the Countess of B——'s grand ball on Friday night, Colonel Dashwood?" asked Mrs. Storey, anxious to get up a little fashionable talk, and to show her knowledge of the great world.

"Lady B——, no! did she give a ball? I remember her—she is an awful old woman. I never go to balls in London—they are such tame correct things—country quarters spoil one for your regular dazzling scenes."

Kate could not refrain from a smile at the amazement depicted on Mrs. Storey's countenance at this sally.

"Talking of balls," resumed Colonel Dashwood, "reminds me of an indefatigable dancer, at least, in former years: Fred Egerton; I had a letter the other day, from him; he does not seem to have got mine, when he wrote. The mail is extremely irregular, during all this skirmishing—he appears to be suffering from some neglected wound, and is fretting at his inactivity—he used to be the easiest going fellow on earth; but Sir John M—— was telling me the other day, that they hold him to be one of the smartest officers on our Indian establishment, at present—he is a capital fellow, at all events. By-the-bye, he asks where you and the—." Dashwood stopped short; "I mean my late friend, Colonel Vernon, are which shows he had not received any letters or papers for an immense time."

Kate silently reclined her head, and after exchanging a few more remarks with Mrs. Storey, Colonel Dashwood took his leave, promising, with great earnestness, that should anything occur to delay his departure, he would, without fail, make his appearance among the "expected few friends," on the 30th.

"Good-bye, Miss Vernon," said he, pressing her hand kindly; "thanks for your carte du pays; take care of yourself, for I cannot give a very flourishing account of you to Lady Desmond; there is more of the beautÉ fragile in your appearance, than I like to see. When do you join your cousin?"

"Oh do not talk of that, Colonel Dashwood," interrupted Mrs. Storey. "We cannot part with Miss Vernon for a long time to come."

Kate only smiled.

"I wish you all success in your fishing; only remember the grand characteristic of your craft is patience."

The Colonel bowed, and was gone.

"What a nice man he is to be sure," cried Mrs. Storey, as soon as they were tÊte-À-tÊte, "so full of life, but quite different from Lord Effingham. Those gentleman in the army have such a gay, off-hand manner."

"Yes, Colonel Dashwood is very much to be liked—I am very fond of him."

"Lord, my dear, that is a confession."

"Is it," said Kate, laughing.

"What would my lord say to that?" asked Mrs. Storey.

"Nothing, I should think."

"Two strings to one's bow, are sometimes as bad as none," remarked Mrs. Storey, oracularly.

"Between two stools, etc., is that your meaning?" asked Kate, carelessly. "I must take off my bonnet and shawl and finish the discussion at tea."

Miss Vernon was glad to have seen Colonel Dashwood, and heard from him, of Lord Effingham's presence in London; she could now, if necessary, mention it to Lady Desmond, without betraying nurse—but she trusted it would not be necessary, for his disinclination to accompany Colonel Dashwood in his visit, had led her to hope he had accepted her dismissal as final, and already begun to forget his engouement. She was glad too, that Colonel Dashwood was about to follow her cousin—such a mark of decided preference from a man, so deservedly esteemed as the Colonel, might, she thought, soothe her cousin's mortified spirit; and, perhaps, supply her with a real and substantial object of affection, as she woke from the vain dream, that had proved so bitterly deceitful. "I have heard dear grandpapa say, hearts were sometimes caught in the rebound."

And Fred Egerton—she had of late thought it strange that he had taken no notice whatever of her sad bereavement—she thought he would have written, at least, to Winter, for some particulars of the event; but, resolutely turning from these thoughts, she fixed her mind on the probable reasons, why she had not received a second letter from Lady Desmond; and finding her imagination less inclined to traverse the narrow breadth of the Irish channel, than to devour the wide space of the Overland route to India—she quitted the "phantom-peopled" solitude of her chamber, and joined the children in a game of "blind-man's buff." Mrs. Storey was grievously disappointed when, day after day rolled by, and Miss Vernon, not only never poured any tender revelation into her sympathising bosom, but never hinted that there was one to make. Mrs. Storey was accustomed to give advice in a number of difficult engagements, and a young lady, who was not provided with a lover, or on the look out for one, was a phenomenon uninteresting to her. Kate was so unmistakeably true, that she could not accuse her of the "depth," to which discreet, and sympathising matrons peculiarly object—so she had nothing for it, but to conclude Miss Vernon was too Blue to fall in love. This compulsory forbearance was, however, amply rewarded.

The day but one after Colonel Dashwood's visit, Kate received a letter from Lady Desmond—she wrote in rather better spirits, still dated from Dublin—she said she had postponed her departure another week, and that she feared very much the state of things about the Castle, was very deplorable, as the famine was most severe in that part of the world. The tone of the letter was more affectionate, yet there was something of constraint in it, that jarred upon Kate's feelings painfully; "But," she thought, "I will be patient—poor Georgy! she has suffered so much."

After their early dinner, Miss Vernon sat down to reply to her cousin's letter, and tell her of Colonel Dashwood's visit, intending to mention that Lord Effingham was in town Mrs. Storey was busy over a large work-basket filled with small garments, of various sizes; and both the children, Charlotte, and William, were playing about the room, often interrupting the progress of Kate's pen, while occasional communications from the scene of action up stairs, where the drawing-room was undergoing its weekly purification, disturbed the labours of Mrs. Storey's needle. They were all assembled in a small, plainly furnished parlour, used as a common sitting-room.

"Go and look out of the window, like good children, and let Miss Vernon write in peace," said mama, at last, and Kate continued to write for some moments uninterrupted.

"What a beautiful horse," cried Willie, after looking over the blinds for a while in silence.

"How he holds up his head," said his sister; "and the boy in the pretty little boots is look-at all the houses."

"They are coming here," shouted Willie, clapping his hands.

Mrs. Storey rose to look, and reached the window, just as the diminutive tiger knocked at the door.

"Law, my dear Miss Vernon, this is some friend of yours; what a stylish cab," exclaimed Mrs. Storey, now quite as much absorbed in contemplating the new arrival, as her children. "The boy has taken the reins, and—my gracious, if it is'nt Lord Effingham himself, and all the furniture out of the drawing-room; and my work basket! was there ever anything half so unlucky," and she rushed in helpless perplexity to hide, at least, the unsightly work-basket from view, when the door was thrown open, and the spruce maid, looking unusually dusty, hastily announced—

"A gentleman for Miss Vernon."

Kate, whose sense of the ridiculous, was too genuine to be extinguished, even by sincere vexation at so unwelcome a visit, rose to receive him with an irrepressible smile, at the contrast between Mrs. Storey's despairing fuss, and his calm, unconscious, high-bred entrÉ.

Lord Effingham evidently mistook the source of that smile, for he responded to it with a sudden clearing of his clouded brow, and brightening of the eye.

"I began to fear I should never see you again, Miss Vernon," was his opening address. "I drove Dashwood down here a couple of days ago; but, in compassion to his evident wish to get rid of me, with praiseworthy self-denial, I left him to his own devices; and to-day I find he went to the wrong house; and I have been some time looking for the right one—all's well that end's well, however;" and he bowed, a bow of recognition to Mrs. Storey.

Kate felt singularly puzzled how to treat him; it was impossible not to accept his easy polished manner, and matter-of-course address, in the same unembarrassed style; yet it provoked her to find him thus establishing himself on precisely his former footing, while she felt herself powerless to prevent it. She strove by monosyllabic answers, and the utmost coldness, to convey her distaste for his visits; but if repulsed by Miss Vernon, he was eminently successful in charming her hostess. He alluded once or twice to their pictorial expedition at Hampton Court, and asked if the famous painter, Langley, was not a relative of hers. Mrs. Storey eagerly explained the degree of consanguinity; and Kate heard, with no small astonishment, a visit to his studio, speedily arranged.

"What an amount of annoyance Lord Effingham must be enduring," she thought; for poor Mrs. Storey exactly represented a class of persons, held in devout horror by the fastidious Earl; it only required a few caresses to the children to complete Miss Vernon's amazement; but he did not get quite so far.

"You have not told me anything of Lady Desmond," said Lord Effingham, turning to her with consummate assurance. "She is in Dublin, is she not?"

Kate bowed.

"And Miss Vernon had a letter from her to-day," added Mrs. Storey, rather scandalised by Kate's coldness. "I believe she is quite well."

"So nurse says," replied Miss Vernon.

"That is one of the most remarkable women I have ever met," observed Lord Effingham, in precisely the same tone of dignified approbation he would have used towards a crowned head.

Mrs. Storey laughed, and said, "she was quite a character."

The conversation lagged after this; and the impatient Earl began to weary of the unwonted exercise of so much self-control; he was, however, determined to make Miss Vernon speak.

"You cannot imagine my astonishment, on my return from Cowes, to find you had flown," he said; "Lady Desmond's movements are as sudden and as well masked as Napoleon's."

"It can hardly be called a masked movement, considering it had been discussed a fortnight before en cour pleniere," returned Miss Vernon; "some intelligence, unexpectedly, received, induced my cousin to make the journey more suddenly than she had anticipated."

"I expected as much," said Lord Effingham, with quiet significance, the insolence of which, perceptible to her only, called the indignant blood into Kate's cheek. "But," he continued, looking steadily at her, "some fairy, or angel whispered to me that you would not accompany her, although I am not in the habit of receiving angelic communications."

"There are two descriptions of angels," said Kate, simply.

The remark was irresistible; but it was hardly uttered before she regretted it; for Lord Effingham smiled, gaily, as if gratified that she had deigned to retort. He was now satisfied he had accomplished as much as one visit would permit, and rising to depart, thanked Mrs. Storey for her permission to accompany them to Langley's studio, and made his adieux with the same ease that marked his entrÉ.

"Well, my dear," cried Mrs. Storey, triumphantly, "you will believe me again! I think there is no mistake about that. And how you could treat such an elegant man with the greatest coldness, I cannot understand. Had you any quarrel with him? for you were friendly enough at Hampton Court."

"I have no quarrel with Lord Effingham, Mrs. Storey," replied Kate, gravely; "but I dislike him extremely; and I must ask you, as a favour, that you will not encourage him to come here. It is very natural that you should think well of him. I know him better."

"Law! my dear girl," said Mrs. Storey, eagerly. "Don't be foolish! Earls are not to be found on every bush. And what is it to you if he has been a little wild; young men will be young men; and when he is married, he will turn over a new leaf. See, how independent and grand you would be as Countess of Effingham, going down to dinner before Lady Desmond herself."

"I know, my dear Mrs. Storey, how well-meant is your advice; and, believe me, I am grateful for the interest you take in my prospects; but do not refuse my request; help me to avoid Lord Effingham."

"But what shall we do about to-morrow?" said poor Mrs. Storey, ruefully. She could not relinquish an Earl without a pang.

"I am sure Mr. Langley will raise some obstacle. At all events, I will remain in my own room, and you can act as his cicerone. If this continues," added Kate, resolutely, "I will leave London. Indeed, I have wished to speak to you on this subject before."

"I am sure I shall never forgive Lord Effingham if he frightens you away, my dear," said Mrs. Storey, kindly; and then added, reflectively—"goodness me! how strange high-life is!"

This visit of Lord Effingham's was a great shock to Kate; how was she to clear herself in Lady Desmond's eyes from the suspicion that she had consented so readily to remain in London in order to see her accepted lover more frequently. Yes! the only remedy was to mature her crude plans for endeavouring to obtain employment of some kind out of London—to dependance she would never return.

Kate's anticipations as to Langley's raising obstacles to that visit proved correct; he made his appearance, according to his usual custom, at tea time.

"Lord Effingham was here this morning, William—he is very anxious to see your studio; and I promised to take him with me to-morrow."

"He does me infinite honour," said Langley. "But it happens I am going to Windsor to-morrow, and cannot leave my studio unlocked even to gratify his lordship."

Kate thought he said this with unusual acerbity.

"Well, that is unfortunate," cried Mrs. Storey.

"What a grandee you are growing all at once, Charlotte," said her husband, facetiously; "patronising Earls and Colonels—they will want you at Almacks next. Talking of finery," continued Mr. Storey, "I was introduced to Tom Jorrocks' wife to-day, and promised you would call upon her—they are in town, for a few weeks, at ——; here's his card, Cambridge Terrace."

And Mr. and Mrs. Storey immediately plunged into the history of Tom Jorrocks and his wife, and of how rich his mother was, and what a large fortune he was making, &c., &c. While Langley and Kate conversed quietly apart.

"Is Lord Effingham a great lover of painting?"

"I believe so; he certainly understands it."

"It is curious enough; I was walking this evening with Gailliard, (who, by the way, was making many enquiries for you,) when Lord Effingham drove past us in Regent Street. Gailliard seems to have known a good deal of him abroad; he gave a curious character of him." Langley thought for some moments, and then resumed—"You remember Gailliard?"

"Oh, quite well—I should like to see him again."

"He has just returned from France, with a perfect budget of anecdotes, touching the late Revolution; he is a strange fellow," concluded Langley, musingly.

"I always wonder that M. Gailliard is not a man of greater eminence than he is."

"Yes—he has all the ingredients to be a great writer, a good artist, a leading character, and yet he seems to have missed everything."

"Perhaps," said Kate, smiling, "he requires the predominance of some one of these qualities to decide his character, as the slightly superior strength of the right hand prevents the awkwardness of not knowing which to use."

"Very likely. Do you know, Miss Vernon, you think a good deal for a young lady!"

"I cannot accept so insulting a compliment," said Kate, laughing; and rising, at Mrs. Storey's request, she went to the piano. "I want your opinion of this air—it came back to me in a dream some nights ago. A poor silly boy at Dungar used to sing it so sweetly, and I have never heard it since. I rather think it is a very old air that escaped Moore and Sir John Stevenson—the Irish words I never knew; but these I found among poor Mr. Gilpin's papers—they seem to have been written not long before his sister's death."

And, after a few arpeggio chords, she sung as follows:—

"Well, Miss Vernon," remarked Mr. Storey, "that's quite too melancholy a song for me—the dismals never suit my book."

"My dear! it is beautiful, and made me cry, I could not help it!" exclaimed his wife.

"You say the words are original," observed Langley.

"Yes, I am almost sure they were written by Mr. Gilpin's sister, who died of consumption shortly before we went to A——."

"They suit the air remarkably—the song makes an impression I shall not easily forget nor your singing of it," added Langley, more to himself than to Kate.

"Now, Miss Vernon, may I ask for that march we liked so much, yesterday?" said Mrs. Storey, and soon afterwards they separated for the night.

The next morning was most perseveringly wet, and both Mrs. Storey and Kate agreed that the most determined picture-maniac would hardly venture out in such weather.

"But you will see, he will come for all that," concluded Mrs. Storey.

"Then you must receive him," said Kate, "I will not appear."

"Gracious goodness," cried her hostess. "What shall I say about you?"

"Do not trouble yourself to think—send for me, and the message I shall return will relieve you of all responsibility."

"But if he insists on seeing you?"

"He dare not!" said Kate, with a sudden lighting of the eye, and proud drawing up of the head that seemed to her good easy friend like the revelation of some unknown world. "Well my dear, whatever you like," she said, meekly.

Mrs. Storey's conjectures proved true, for, notwithstanding the weather, Lord Effingham arrived punctually at the time specified.

Kate felt her heart beat a little nervously, as she watched him walking across the garden, from the window of the nursery where she had ensconced herself.

In due course of time, Mrs. Storey's message reached her.

"Please'm, my missis says, would you be so good as to step down."

"My compliments, I am particularly engaged," said Miss Vernon, quietly.

And soon after, she heard the hall door open and shut, and the sound of retreating wheels informed her the enemy was in retreat. She found Mrs. Storey looking rather crest-fallen.

"Well, my dear, he is gone—in a very bad humour, I can tell you—he came in so politely, and asked if we still intended to go. So I told him about my brother being from home, he did not seem to mind it much; but said he hoped another time we should be more successful; then he asked for you, and if you were at home, so I sent for you, and I assure my dear, I was beginning to feel quite nervous, for though he smiled and talked, he was looking very black, as if he was vexed at not seeing you. When Maria brought back your message, he turned and looked out of the window for a minute, then he said, with a very different kind of smile from what I saw before—'I should be sorry to interfere with Miss Vernon's particular engagements, and as I am very likely interrupting your avocations, I shall bid you good morning.' I told him I had nothing in the world to do at that hour of the day—but he did not seem to hear me speak, and with a sort of proud bow, he walked off; and, my dear girl, I am sure you have mortally offended him; but, for all that, I think he might have listened when I spoke to him."

"Yes," said Kate, "he was very rude, and we must both be out if he comes again, though I do hope and believe that was a mere threat."

All remembrance of his Lordship's impertinence was quickly obliterated from Mrs. Storey's mind, by the rapidly increasing toils of preparation for "the thirtieth;" it was to be a quiet musical party—in consideration of Miss Vernon's mourning—but very recherchÉ. Mrs. Storey determined the supper should be what her husband termed a "chief endeavour," the facetious translation of "chef d'oeuvre."

Kate waited till that all-absorbing event was over, and Mrs. Storey's attention free, before she took her into her confidence, as regarded her future plans. She was now most anxious to do so. Employment, either as a resident governess, or a companion, was absolutely necessary. She could not remain much longer with Mrs. Storey, and to accept money or protection from Lady Desmond, while her suspicions remained as keenly alive as they then were, was impossible. Her cousin's letters, though expressing a formal wish that she was happy and comfortable, had not, as yet, hinted at the future. And, however firmly Kate might trust to the mercy and guidance of an over-ruling Providence, the uncertainty of her prospects kept her in cruel suspense. If she could but only hear from Winter, and learn where to direct to him, all would be well. Then she would turn to Winter's last letter, and dwell upon the reality of its tone; for, strange though it be, there is something so unerring in the instinct of truth, that mere written expressions, in all the barrenness of ink and paper, convey the real, or the unreal unmistakeably. Kate was always comforted by the perusal of the good little artist's characteristic epistles; they placed him before her, in all the uncompromising sincerity she had tried, and never found wanting.

The day but one after her party, Mrs. Storey disappointed Kate's intention of asking for a quiet confidential walk after dinner, by desiring the parlour maid at breakfast, to—

"Tell cook to have dinner at one precisely, I must go into town on particular business to-day."

Kate declined her invitation to accompany her, observing—

"I want a long talk with you, dear Mrs. Storey, the first time you are at leisure."

She received a ready assent to her proposition, from her curious hostess, who anticipated a clearing up of all the mysteries connected with Lord Effingham.

Kate had not long enjoyed the unwonted stillness of the house, after Mrs. Storey had departed for town, and the children for their afternoon walk, when her attention was aroused by the sound of voices in the hall, and the next moment Lord Effingham walked into the room. Miss Vernon started, and with difficulty suppressed the exclamation of surprise which sprang to her lips. She rose from her seat, and stood silent, while her unwelcome visitor, advancing towards her, said, with the species of enforced quiet, which always indicated that emotion of some kind was struggling in his breast—

"I do not apologise for this intrusion, Miss Vernon, for you will, I know, forgive it, when I tell you how unconquerable is my desire to speak with you, alone. I have watched your amiable and intelligent hostess set out for town, and so made sure of some uninterrupted conversation—you must not refuse to hear me."

"No, Lord Effingham," said Miss Vernon, recovering her self-possession, "I, too, am almost glad, since you will not accept the tacit expression of my wishes, to have a decisive interview, we cannot continue on our present footing."

"The extraordinary fact of your being domesticated with such people," exclaimed Lord Effingham, abruptly, "is sufficiently eloquent of the terms on which you and your cousin parted—and I must know something more decisive from your own lips, before I resign all hopes of you. Speak! Have you and your cousin separated in consequence of her insane pride—her absurd fancy about myself?"

"If I could convey the least idea to your mind," answered Kate, holding down her indignation, in order to speak with greater force, "of the repugnance with which I shrink from such expressions, you would not, I am sure, offend me by repeating them, Good Heavens," she continued, "what effect can you imagine must be produced upon one woman by such bold, such dishonorable assertions of another."

"Dishonorable!" cried the Earl, his sallow cheek flushing for an instant. "You use strong terms, Miss Vernon."

"Not more strong than just," returned Kate. "I call it dishonorable, if, rightly or not, you conceive you have won a place in a woman's heart, to glance at the secret, even to your most intimate associate, much more to make it the subject of scornful remark to that woman's—"

She stopped, fearful of betraying herself or her cousin. Lord Effingham supplied the word—

"Rival you would have said, and you are right. I can well imagine the scorn, the bitterness with which she reproached you for all the crimes of art and dissimulation, of which you are so incapable. I can fancy the passionate, unappeaseable suspicions which drove you—here," he added, after a moment's pause to glance, with unutterable contempt, round the homely room in which they sat.

Kate felt that she quailed before the true picture he had sketched.

"Your eyes are less faithful to your cousin's cause than your lips—they admit much," continued Lord Effingham.

"Then what I look I will speak," returned Kate, with sudden boldness. "Georgina, if she does care for you, is not a woman to give away her heart unasked. I have known and loved her all my life—that she is not indifferent to you, is, in my eyes, incontrovertible proof that you endeavoured to win her affections. It is no disgrace to a woman," continued Kate, with encreasing boldness, "to give the heart that seems so ardently sought. No; the truer the purer—the nobler it is—the more incapable it is of conceiving the gratuitous treason that betrays it. I do not see why I should attempt to conceal the fact that I fear my cousin once loved you—with you rests the reproach; but do you suppose that I am so unreal as to trust you—to believe that a passing admiration could so change your spirit, as to teach it sympathy with mine? that your treachery to one woman would be a guarantee of good faith to another? No, my Lord! I am made of different stuff. Do not, for a moment, imagine it is in your power to cause disunion between two such tried friends as my cousin and myself—we know each other's truth—we know it is worth too much to be lightly cast aside."

She paused; and Lord Effingham, whose varied colour had settled into deadly paleness, rose, and paced the room in silence, before replying—

"You are a stern judge, Miss Vernon," he said, at length, in the deep tone of concentrated anger. "I little thought the indulgence of a harmless whim would have been so severely visited upon me. Listen, fair and rigid exposer of my follies," he continued, sneeringly. "The secret of your just severity may be summed up thus—you do not love me; therefore, the conduct you so eloquently denounce, is unextenuated by the softening consideration that it was you—your own irresistible attractions—that made me a traitor. Your indifference, perhaps your pre-occupation, lends a magnifying power to your moral sense, and I am condemned; where—circumstances slightly changed—I might have been cherished. Enough; I am satisfied there is no chance of my winning your affections. I will not, therefore, degrade myself or weary you with vain efforts." He stopped opposite to her, silently for a minute, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on her face. "I wish to God I had known you long ago, Kate—that I had met you first. How is it, that with rank, and riches, and power here—" and he touched his forehead, "all rare gifts—I have so often missed the road to happiness."

Kate, moved by the tone of despondency with which this was asked, replied hesitatingly—

"Perhaps—because you never knew where to look for it."

"And will you not direct me?" said the Earl, with intense earnestness.

Kate shook her head in silent refusal.

He gazed at her still for an instant, and then, taking her hand, said—

"In all probability, we shall never meet again. You have acted in accordance with your character—I, with mine."

And, turning away, he left the house.

Kate remained lost in thought without moving from the position in which she had heard Lord Effingham's parting words; she could hardly believe that he was really gone—that he would return no more; but stranger still, was the impression of regret and compassion he had left upon her mind. Surely there were the scattered elements of much good in his character. What was it that had so fatally disunited them? The repellent power of selfishness. He had, as he said, goodly gifts, rank, and riches, and intellectual power; but the heart, wherein is the balance which harmonises the whole, was corrupt and false; but her sensation was that of relief. One difficulty was removed; her cousin could not long remain in ignorance of his final rejection—nay, in justice to herself, she determined to mention having seen the Earl for the last time.

"My way is becoming clear," was the most distinct idea, as she endeavoured to refix her thoughts upon her book. It was in vain she read and re-read each page, the words might be traced by the eye; but the mind was far too full to admit the sense; and in the struggle between reverie and attention, Mrs. Storey returned.

"I am sure I have a thousand apologies to make, my dear, leaving you all the afternoon by yourself."

"Indeed, Mrs. Storey, you need not apologise; besides I have not been alone. Lord Effingham has been here."

"Oh, indeed," cried Mrs. Storey, eagerly.

"Yes; and I do not think we shall be troubled with him any more."

"Well, my dear, you know best; but—" and Mrs. Storey shook her head.

In truth, the kind-hearted little woman was much attached to Kate, especially since she had been domesticated with her. She would gladly have witnessed her "entrÉe" at court in the character of the Countess of Effingham, and still more gladly shone in the reflected lustre of so brilliant a friend; but if Miss Vernon did not like him it was very unfortunate.

The next morning brought Kate a letter from Lady Desmond, and another from nurse. The former, after commenting on Colonel Dashwood's sudden appearance in Dublin, and expressing, more constrainedly and coldly than usual, her hopes that Kate was happy, &c., &c., went on to say, "I am annoyed by a strange whim of nurse's; she will no doubt tell you all about it; she is determined on leaving me 'to see her people;' and as the only solution for such an amount of family affection, I must conclude that she is unhappy or uncomfortable in my establishment—I wish she would condescend to mention in what particular; but this is too candid a line of conduct for persons of her class." Kate felt deeply the acerbity with which her cousin wrote, and turned anxiously to nurse's letter for an explanation of the affair.

"My own blessed darlin'," it began, "I've a power to tell you; but, first of all, avourneen, there's yer letter that warmed yer own ould nurse's heart—my hearty thanks for it, jewil. You see, there's three weeks of the four I promised to stay with my lady gone, and I'm wearyin' to see my sisther's daughter and her childre that's doin' well in Killeesh; and an unfortunate vagabone of a boy, my cousin, they tell me is gone to the bad—so I'm sure, Miss Kate, jewil, ye'll give me lave to step over, and if I get a thrifle of work, sure I'll be better plaised nor to be here doin' nothin', but in everybody's way, an' my lady different to what she used to be—not but that she's good; but, asthore, I don't know how she and you parted, an' I never feel asy like with her, so just tell me you'll let me off stoppin' here any longer."

Kate hardly felt surprise at this intelligence. She had instinctively expected that nurse would not remain long with Lady Desmond; yet this was an increase of anxiety. "I trust she will not give away all her money," thought Kate, as she sat down to reply to Lady Desmond's letter. She expressed her regret at nurse's determination, urging, however, in extenuation, that her desire to revisit the scenes of her youth, and the few relations she had left, was natural and pardonable. After touching on all the points in her cousin's letter, she found herself concluding her own before she had courage to mention Lord Effingham's name; she therefore added a short postscript—"I have seen Lord Effingham for the last time." She next wrote her assent to nurse's project, recommending her, however, merely to go on furlough, and not to break altogether with Lady Desmond. These letters despatched, she joined her hostess.

"You remember, I told you yesterday, I wanted a good long talk with you, Mrs. Storey."

"Yes, dear, and here I am ready for it."

"You are very kind to me, Mrs. Storey."

"La, my love, it's a pleasure to me."

"You know I am very poor," said Kate, not exactly sure how to get into her subject. "I told you at Hampton Court that terrible lawsuit was not concluded, and now it seems it has died a natural death; so I must try and do something for myself."

A thundering knock here startled and interrupted her.

"Goodness, gracious me," cried Mrs. Storey, "who can that be? A very smart brougham, my dear, and—let me see—yes—no—it is young Mrs. Tom Jorrocks. Well, she is very agreeable, but I wish she had not interrupted us. Delighted to see you, Mrs. Jorrocks—this is so kind and friendly," &c., &c.

By Mrs. Tom Jorrocks greetings were exchanged, and much was said of the delightful evening she had passed at Raby Villa, of Miss Vernon's charming music, and the beauty of the children; then the excitement of town was discussed, and young Mrs. Tom Jorrocks admitted that, notwithstanding its pleasures, she should be glad to be once more quietly settled at Leeds. "And besides all my own engagements," she continued, "I am busily employed looking out for a young lady to be a sort of companion to my mother-in-law, who is growing rather blind. She wants some one who will be a cheerful associate, and read aloud nicely, and be like a daughter to her; she lives with her daughter, Mrs. Wilson, but she is so much engaged with her house and servants and sons, Mrs. Jorrocks is often lonely."

"I think I know a lady who might suit you," said Kate, suddenly captivated with the imaginary picture of a gentle, lonely old lady who wanted a daughter's companionship.

"Indeed it would be a great comfort if I could acquit myself well in the search," said young Mrs. Jorrocks, with a laugh. "My mother-in-law is very wealthy, and would not object to a salary of thirty or forty pounds; she is rather particular, but very kind."

"If you will allow me to call upon you to-morrow, I will let you know more particulars."

"I cannot tell the obligation you would confer upon me should you enable me to get rid of the affair. Might I ask you to call upon me to-morrow at twelve? If not too early, I shall be enchanted to see you."

"At twelve, then, I will be with you," said Kate, with a smile.

"And now, Mrs. Storey, I must bid you good morning. My compliments to Mr. Storey. Good morning Miss Vernon."

"You were surprised. I dare say, at my sudden interest in Mrs. Jorrocks' researches," said Kate to Mrs. Storey, when they were once more alone.

"Yes—no—that is, do go on and tell me—surely it can't be yourself?"

"It is indeed for myself I wish to secure the engagement," returned Miss Vernon. "I must resume the thread of my discourse, which Mrs. Jorrocks' entrÉ interrupted. I am sure you are too thoroughly English not to sympathise in my wish to earn a livelihood, be it ever so humble, rather than live in dependence, even on a generous and affectionate relative like my cousin; I do not want a large salary, but a home is indispensable—at least," she added with a sigh, "a respectable protection—for a home can never be found among strangers—and this appears to promise fairly enough."

"Well, my dear, you really take away my breath! I thought you were never to leave Lady Desmond! She told me so herself. I really think you are very foolish. Who would be so fit a person for you to be companion to as your own cousin? What does she think? My goodness! Who would have thought it!"

"Lady Desmond will, no doubt, be very averse to my plan, but at present I see no other open to me. I particularly wish not to join her while she is in Ireland—elsewhere I may. Indeed, I should at once have offered myself to Mrs. Jorrocks, but that I thought it right to consult you first—you might not like me to do so."

"La, my dear, I only wish you to do what you think will be for the best; but, dear me, how astonished Mrs. Tom will be, to be sure! I always told her how fashionable and rich all your friends and relations were," said Mrs. Storey, in a slightly vexed tone.

"If it annoys you in the least, pray tell me, and I will not say anything more about it—I should be grieved to vex you," said Kate, with so much sweetness of tone and manner, that Mrs. Storey gave her a hearty kiss, and wished her all success.

"Indeed, dear, you have the right spirit; and, after all, I dare say you have your own reasons for leaving Lady Desmond!"

"She is always kind and good," said Kate.

Miss Vernon was truly glad to have this explanation so well over; and though anxious as to her future, most thankful for the opening which so unexpectedly offered.

"I can stay there, at all events, till the Winters' return. Oh, when will they write!"

The next morning, she started early on her visit to Mrs. Tom Jorrocks, and pondered, as she went, on the difference of her feelings now from those with which she used to seek employment; formerly, she was full of anxious, palpitating hope and fear. Hoping to have good news wherewith to return to grandpapa and nurse—fearing that she might not succeed; but both sensations invigorated and spurred her on. Now it was for herself alone, she was interested; and she walked calmly, undisturbed by either hope or fear; she was almost surprised at the fearless, careless indifference with which she viewed the future.

"Can it be that I am so much alone! Oh, if I could but live with nurse! I wonder will Mr. Winter renew his proposal to take her as housekeeper when he returns."

These thoughts brought her to Mrs. Jorrocks's door. She was most cordially received. The bride was alone; and the first surprise and exclamations over, matters were speedily arranged.

"I am really ashamed to offer you what my mother-in-law has limited me to," said young Mrs. Jorrocks, with some embarrassment.

"You need not mind that," returned Kate; "I want more a—" she could not desecrate the word "home," and substituted, "a respectable residence."

"Well then, I consider you engaged; and I am sure I shall win golden opinions for sending down such a companion as yourself," returned Mrs. Tom, who had become marvellously familiar and agreeable.

"I had nearly forgotten to ask you where Mrs. Jorrocks lives—a very necessary question."

"Oh, at Carrington—her son-in-law, Mr. Wilson, is a cotton broker there."

"Carrington," repeated Kate, colouring with surprise and emotion.

"Not a very nice place, I grant," said the bride. "But the Wilsons live in the New Park, quite away from the town. Have you ever been there?"

"Yes, once. We used to live at A——, which is only an hour's drive from Carrington."

"I know; we went over there to look at the Cathedral, when I was at Carrington. Then, Miss Vernon, you will be ready to go down next week? My mother-in-law is very anxious for some one who will read to her."

"Yes," said Kate, confused by the flood of memories which welled up from the depths of her heart, at the sound of these familiar names.

"Old Mrs. Jorrocks will write and say what day she expects you. I am sure, I am delighted to have concluded this business so satisfactorily."

"Then I will wish you good morning."

"Good morning, Miss Vernon, good morning!"

"Dear Mrs. Storey! it is all settled!" cried Kate, on finding that lady alone. "I am going to Carrington—where—where—"

A burst of irrepressible tears choked her voice.

"My dear girl! don't now—there's a love! here, smell to the salts," exclaimed Mrs. Storey, in great perplexity; she did not understand the grateful sympathy of silence on such occasions.

"I was so happy there—so unutterably light-hearted! the world was all joy to me—existence in itself a blessing! And to go back there now, when some strange spell seems to have doomed me to utter loneliness! Grandpapa gone, nurse gone, Georgy, Mr. Winter, his kind wife, all I was ever linked with in happy days, far away."

"My love, don't go there; stay a bit longer with us; you know, if the house was only a little larger, I would not let you go away for ever so long; but—"

"Dear friend," said Kate, recovering herself—"I was surprised into this outburst—do not mind it—I am quite resolved to go to Mrs. Jorrocks. Nay, when I have conquered my foolish weakness, I shall be pleased to be near my old haunts. I will go to my room and think—I am always better when I think by myself."

"Very well, dear, whatever you like."

Long and earnestly did Kate think, and her thoughts were prayers. She looked steadily at the past; and, from its trials and blessings, gathered strength for the future.

And fancy, which is ever so strangely at variance with the exterior atmosphere of prosperity or depression, held up a bright picture of Egerton, standing between her and all future loneliness, of his manly tenderness, and simple truth, till she almost fancied she heard his well known voice speaking to her, those lovely words of Longfellow's—

"I am wrong, I am too bold, to let such thoughts glance across my mind. I will not let them come again, how weak, how vain they are! but I can never think of dear grandpapa, without seeing Colonel Egerton, as it were, beside him, they are so closely linked in my heart."

And with sudden decision she rose, bathed her eyes, and joined Mrs. Storey on a journey to Bond Street.

As young Mrs. Jorrocks had prophesied, Kate received a speedy summons from La Belle MÈre. The letter was written in much the same style of caligraphy, in which a small "dress-maker" notes down her little account; the orthography was tolerably correct; but the composition was rather confused.

"Poor thing," said Miss Vernon, mentally; "she is probably too blind to write with ease—perhaps her maid acted as amanuensis. I hope she is a loveable person. What wonderful changes I have seen;" and turning to her desk, she wrote to Mrs. Jorrocks, promising to be with her on the specified Thursday.

"Dear nurse used to say Thursday was a lucky day," she said, as she closed the letter. After some consideration, she determined on informing nurse and her cousin that she was tired of London, and going to stay with some acquaintances she had made through Mrs. Storey. "There can be no use in unnecessarily fretting them," she thought. "I am determined not to go to Georgy till I can trace a very different tone in her letters; she cannot help her suspicions, I believe; but I need not make her more unhappy than she is. How I wish I could see some newspaper announcement of Lord Effingham's departure for the continent!"

But her wish was in vain, Lord Effingham continued to revolve between London and Cowes; and Lady Desmond's reply was strangely commingled with petulance and affection.