I hope I have as much command of countenance as falls to the lot of any lady who don't paint; but when I returned from my walk in the Park the following morning I must have looked flushed or excited, or in some way different from usual. I met John at the corner of Lowndes Street, and he stopped short, and looked me piercingly in the face.

"Where have you been, Kate?" said he, without waiting to bid me "good-morning" or anything.

"A little stroll in the Park, John," was my reply.

"By yourself?" he asked, and his face looked pale and grave.

I cannot tell a story, so I hesitated and stammered,—

"No, not exactly—at least I met an acquaintance near the Serpentine."

"Have you any objection to telling me who it was?" said John, and his voice sounded very strange.

"Good gracious! what's the matter?" I asked, in my turn. "Has anything happened? Are you ill, John? you look quite upset."

"I insist upon knowing," answered he, without taking the slightest notice of my tender inquiries after his health.

"Did you or did you not meet Captain Lovel this morning in Hyde Park?"

"Yes, I certainly did meet him," I replied.

"Accidentally?" exclaimed my cousin.

"Why—no—not entirely," was my answer; "but the fact is——"

"Enough!" burst out John, breaking in upon my explanations with a rudeness I had never before seen him exhibit. "Kate, I have been deceived in you. I thought at least you were candid and straightforward: I find you faithless, ungrateful, ungenerous! But I will not reproach you," he added, checking himself by a strong effort: "it is only natural, I conclude, for a woman to be false. I thought you were different from the rest, and I was a fool for my pains. Kate, let us understand each other at once. I offered you last night all that man could give. I had a right to expect an answer then and there. I thought I had a favourable one, and I have spent twelve hours of happiness. I now see that I have deceived myself. Perhaps I value my own worth too highly; I own I feel sore and aggrieved, but you shall not be the sufferer. Kate, I am only 'Cousin John' once more. Give me a few days to get over a natural disappointment, and you and I will be friends and playfellows as we used to be. Shake hands, Kate: I spoke harshly, in a moment of anger; it is over now. God bless you, dear!"

And with these words John walked away, and left me standing on that eventful doorstep which seemed to witness all the changes and chances of my life. How stately was his walk as he strode down the street! I watched him all the way to the corner, but he never once looked back. John was grown much handsomer of late; he used to be too ruddy and prosperous-looking and boyish, but his countenance had altered considerably in the last two or three months—only, seeing him every day, I did not remark the change. Lady Scapegrace had found it out the first. I perfectly remember her saying to me, on the day of our Greenwich dinner,—

"My dear, your cousin has a great deal in him, if one did but know how to get it out. You have no idea what a good-looking man he would be, if you could only succeed in making him ill and unhappy."

Poor John! I am afraid I had made him unhappy, even now. It struck me he had a nobler bearing than Captain Lovell himself; although, of course, I could not think him so graceful, or so handsome, or half so charming as my dear Frank. I rushed into the house and locked myself in my boudoir, to think over and dwell upon the many events of that most eventful morning—my happy walk, my delightful companion, whose soft voice was still whispering in my ear, whose every look and gesture I could recall, even to the wind freshening his handsome brow and waving his clustering locks. How happy and contented I felt by his side! And yet, there was a something. I was not satisfied; I was not thoroughly at ease; my cousin's face would intrude itself upon my thoughts. I could not get out of my head the tone of manly kindness and regret in which he had last addressed me. I reflected on his sincerity, his generosity, his undeviating fidelity and good-humour, till my heart smote me to think of all he suffered for my sake; and I began to wonder whether I was worthy of being so much cared for, and whether I was justified in throwing all this faith and truth away.

Reader, have you ever lived for weeks and weeks in a place which bored you to death? Have you learned to loathe every tree and shrub and hedge-row in the dreary landscape? Have you shivered up and down the melancholy walks, and yawned through the dull, dark rooms, till you began to think the hour never would arrive that was to restore you once again to liberty and light? And then, when the hour has come at last, have you been able to take your departure without some half-reproachful feeling akin to melancholy—without some slight shade of regret to think that much as you have hated it, you look upon it all now for the last time? Perhaps the sun breaks out and shines upon the old place as you catch your last glimpse. Ah! it never used to shine like that when you could see it from those windows every day; you almost wish your departure had been put off till the morrow; you think if you were back again, the walks would not be so very melancholy, the rooms no longer so dull and gloomy. You sigh because you are leaving it, and wonder at yourself for doing so. It is the same thing with friends, and more especially with those who would fain assume a tenderer title: we never know their value but by their loss.

"If it wasn't for Frank," I began to think, "I really believe I might have been very happy with Cousin John. Of course, it's impossible now; and, as he says himself, he'll never be anything but a cousin to me. Poor John! he's a noble, true-hearted, unselfish, generous fellow."

But to return to my walk. When a lady and gentleman meet each other by appointment, either at the edge of the Serpentine or elsewhere, their conversation is not generally of a nature to be related in detail, nor is it to be presumed that their colloquy would prove as interesting to the general public as to themselves. What I learnt of Frank's private history, his views, feelings, and intentions, on that morning, I may as well give in my own words, suppressing divers interruptions, protestations, and interjections, which, much as they added to its zest, necessarily rather impeded the course of the narrative, and postponed its completion till long after I ought to have been back at luncheon.

Frank had been an only child, and spoiled as only children are in nine cases out of ten. His father was a peer's second son, and married a wealthy cotton-spinner's niece for the sake of her money, which money lasted him about as long as his own constitution. When he died, the widow was left with ten thousand pounds and the handsome, curly-pated, mischievous boy. She soon followed her husband. Poor thing, she was very fond of him, and he had neglected her shamefully. The boy went to his uncle—the peer, not to his uncle the mill-owner—to be brought up. Frank was consequently what the world calls a "well-bred one;" his name was in the Peerage, though he had a first cousin once removed who was but an industrious weaver. The peer, of course, sent him to Eton.

"Ten thousand pounds," said that judicious relative, "will buy him his commission. The lad's handsome and clever; he can play whist now better than my boy's private tutor. By the time his ten thousand's gone, we'll pick up an heiress for him. 'Gad! how like my poor brother he is about the eyes!"

So Frank was started in life with a commission in the Light Dragoons, an extremely good opinion of himself, and as much of his ten thousand pounds as he had not already anticipated during the one term he spent at Oxford before he was rusticated. By the way, so many of my partners, and other young gentlemen with whom I am acquainted, have gone through this process, that it was many years before I understood the meaning of the term. For long I understood rustication to be merely a playful form of expression for "taking a degree;" and I was the more confirmed in this impression from observing that those who had experienced this treatment were spoken of with high respect and approbation by their fellow-collegians.

What odd creatures young men are! I can understand their admiring prowess in field-sports and athletic pursuits, just as I could understand one's admiring a statesman, an author, an artist, or a successful man in any pursuit of life; but why they should think it creditable to get drunk, to run into debt, to set at defiance all the rules and regulations enacted for their own benefit, and to conduct themselves in unswerving opposition to the wishes of their nearest and dearest friends, and all to do themselves as much harm as possible, is more than I can comprehend. Girls are not wrong-headed like this. Where the son is the source of all the annoyance, and ill-humour, and retrenchment in a family, the daughter is generally the mainstay, and comfort, and sunshine of the whole house. When shall we poor women be done justice to? But to return to Frank. By his own account he was a gambler, of course. A man turned loose upon the world, with such an education as most English gentlemen deem befitting their sons, and without means to indulge the tastes that education has led him to acquire, is very likely to become so.

As a boy, the example of his elders teaches him to look upon frivolous distinction as a great end and aim of life, whilst that of his comrades leads him to neglect all study as dry, to despise all application as "slow." At home he hears some good-looking, grown-up cousin, or agreeable military uncle, admired and commented on for being "such a capital shot," "such a good cricket-player," "such an undeniable rider to hounds," what wonder the boy grows up thinking that these accomplishments alone are the very essentials of a gentleman? At school, if he makes an effort at distinction in school-hours, he is stigmatized by his comrades as a "sap," and derided for his pursuit of the very object it is natural to suppose he has been sent there to attain. What wonder he hugs idleness as his bosom-friend, and loses all his powers of application in their disuse.

Then come the realities of manhood, for which he is so ill prepared. In the absence of all useful knowledge and practical pursuits, amusement becomes the business of life. Human nature cannot be idle, and if not doing good, is pretty sure to be doing harm. Pleasure, excitement, and fashionable dissipation must be purchased, and paid for pretty dearly, in hard coin of the realm. The younger son, with his ten thousand pounds, must soar in the same flight, must "go as fast" as his elder brother with ten thousand a year. How is it to be done? Why, of course, he must make money, if he can, by betting and play. So it goes on smoothly enough for a time. The Arch-croupier below, they say, arranges these matters for beginners; but the luck turns at last. The capital is eaten into; the Jews are called in; and the young gentleman is ruined. Frank, I think, at this time was in a fair way of arriving pretty rapidly at the customary catastrophe. He had gone through the whole educational process I have described above, had been regularly and systematically "spoilt," was a habitual gambler, and a confirmed "dandy." The ladies all liked him much, and I confess I don't wonder at it. Always good-humoured, never sentimental (I hate a sentimental man), invariably well dressed, with a very good opinion of his own attractions, Frank could make himself agreeable in all societies. He had never been troubled with shyness as a boy, and in his manhood was as "cool a hand" as one would meet with often, even in London. Then he had plenty of courage, which made the men respect him; and, above all, was very good-looking—an advantage which, doubtless, has a certain weight even with our far-sighted and reflective sex.

I never quite made out the rights of his liaison, or whatever people call it, with Lady Scapegrace; nor do I think his own account entirely satisfactory. He assured me that he met her first of all at a masked ball in Paris, that she mistook him for some one else, and confided a great deal to his ears which she would not have entrusted to any one save the individual she supposed him to be; that when she discovered her mistake she was in despair, and that his discretion and respect for her feelings had made her his fast friend for life. I cannot tell how this may be, but that they were great friends I have had reason to know too well. He declared, however, that he looked upon her "quite as a sister." I do not think, though she is always very kind to me, that I should exactly like her for a sister-in-law. I certainly have known Lady Scapegrace do most extraordinary things—such things as no other woman would be permitted to do without drawing down the abuse of the world. If she had been fair, and rosy, and pleasing, people would have scouted her; but she was dark, and stern, and commanding. The world was afraid of her, and it is very true that "in the world one had better be feared than loved." Scandal did not dare say all it thought of Lady Scapegrace; and if she brought Frank Lovell home in her carriage, or went to the opera alone with Count Coquin, or was seen, day after day, perambulating Kensington Gardens arm in arm with young Greenfinch of the Life Guards, instead of shouting and hissing, and, so to speak, pelting her off the stage, the world lifted its fingers to its lips, shrugged up its worldly shoulders, and merely remarked,—

"Always was very odd, poor woman! Hers has been a curious history—little cracked, I think, now—but what a handsome creature she was years ago, when I left school, before you were born, my boy!"

Whatever may have been her carelessness of appearances and levity of manner, I think it was never for an instant supposed that she liked any human being half so much as she hated Sir Guy. Then, again, Sir Guy and Frank were fast friends, almost inseparable. They say Frank kept things right between the ill-assorted pair, and that his good offices had many a time interposed to prevent scenes of abuse and violence such as must have ended in a separation at least. I was not quite clear that Frank's regard for the coach-driving baronet was alone at the bottom of all this friendship. I cannot conceive two men much worse suited to each other; but Frank vowed, when I cross-questioned him on the subject, which I thought I had a right to do, that he was under the greatest possible obligations to Sir Guy, that the latter had even lent him money, and stood by him when such assistance was most valuable; and that he looked upon him as a brother, just as he looked upon her ladyship as a sister. It seems to have been quite a family party altogether. Frank warmed with the topic.

"You will hear me talked about with all sorts of people, Kate," said he, as we took about our twentieth turn, each of which I had protested should be the last; "but the world is so officious and mischief-making, you must never believe a word it says. They know I am ruined, and they choose to decide that I must be making up to some wealthy young lady. As if I was a man to marry for money; as if I cared for anything on earth but one person, and that for the sake of her own dear self alone! You ask me about Miss Molasses; you declare I am continually riding with her, and dancing with her, and what you ladies call 'paying her attention'—that yellow lackadaisical miss! Do you think I would marry her if she had half a million? Do you think I could stand those sentimental airs, that smattering of learning, and affectation of being poetical, and romantic, and blue—I, who have only lately learned what a woman should be, and what a treasure such a woman is? No, no; I have known the whole family from a child; I can't quite stand the lady part of it, but old Molasses is a right good fellow, and one must be civil to them all. No, no, Kate; with my many faults, I am a very different person from what you seem to think. I have my hopes and wishes, certainly, but——"

I can't possibly go on to relate the conclusion of Frank's rhapsody, but he took great pains to convince me that if there was ever a high-principled, pure-minded, much-injured individual, that exemplary character was the gentleman now walking by my side; and I was convinced, but at the same time not exactly satisfied. In thinking over the whole of our conversation, I could gather nothing very definite, nothing that led to any particular result, from it.

One thing was clear to my mind, and that was at all events a gratifying reflection. Frank did not seem to be aware that I had any worldly prospects whatever: it was evident that if he liked me he liked me entirely for myself. I confess I should not wish to be a great heiress; I should always be fancying that it was the "fine eyes of my casket," as the French say, which attracted my admirers, and I could not stand that. No, Frank was not mercenary, I was sure, and if even—why the competency I should be possessed of would be an agreeable surprise. If, indeed! Nothing was clear, nothing was settled. What a fool I was to dwell so upon an uncertainty, to anchor my hopes upon a dream! I was not at all comfortable that afternoon: the more I thought, the more I walked about my boudoir in a state of high fidget and restlessness. One thing, however, was consolatory—the frost was breaking. Already in London it was a decided thaw, and I went to pay Brilliant a visit in the stable.

Now I dare say I shall be considered very bold and unladylike, and unfeminine—that's the word—for owning that I do indeed enjoy paying my favourites a visit in their comfortable quarters. It's worth a good deal to see Brilliant's reception of me when I approach his stable. From the instant I enter his abode and he hears my voice, he begins to move restlessly to and fro, whisking his dear tail, cocking his ears, and pawing up his "litter," till indeed that word alone describes the state to which he reduces his bed; then when I go up to him he lays back his ears with sheer delight, and gives a jump, as if he was going to kick me, and whisks that thin tail about more than ever. I lay my cheek to his smooth soft skin, and he nestles his beautiful head in my arms, and pokes his pretty muzzle into my pockets, and seems to ask for bits of bread and sugar and other delicacies, all of which are conferred upon him forthwith. I am sure he has more sense than a dog, and a great deal more affection than most men. I don't care how slang and "bad style" people may think me, but I feel every one of those strong flat black legs, and look into his hoofs, hind-feet and all, and turn his rug up to see that he has been properly cleaned and treated as he deserves; for I love Brilliant, and Brilliant loves me. It has sometimes been my lot to have an aching heart, as I conclude it is the lot of all here below. Like the rest of my fellow-creatures, I have been stung by ingratitude, lacerated by indifference where I had a right to expect attachment; or, worst of all, forced to confess myself deceived where I had bestowed regard and esteem. When I feel sore and unhappy on any or all of these points, nothing consoles and softens me so much as the affection of a dumb animal, more particularly a horse. His honest grave face seems to sympathize in one's grief, without obtruding the impertinence of curiosity or the mockery of consolation. He gives freely the affection one has been disappointed in finding elsewhere, and seems to stand by one in his brute vigour and generous unreasoning nature like a true friend. I always feel inclined to pour my griefs into poor Brilliant's unintelligent ears, and many a tear have I shed nestling close to my favourite, with my arms round him like a child's round its nurse's neck. That very afternoon, when I had made sure there was no one else in the stable, I leaned my head against Brilliant's firm warm neck, and sobbed, like a fool as I was.