Ann Nettleby, busy in the culinary department, never remembered seeing her restless sister so exceedingly restless as on this afternoon. When the clock struck six, and old Mr. Nettleby plodded home from his day's work, and the two young Mr. Nettleby's came whistling from town, and tea was ready, Ann came out to call her to partake. But Cherrie impatiently declined to partake; and still waited and watched, while the sunset was burning itself out of the purple sky, and the cinnamon roses drooped in the evening wind. The last amber and crimson flush was paling behind the blue western hills, when he, so long waited for, came up the dusty road, twirling a cane in his hand, and smoking a cigar. The unspeakable beauty and serenity of the summer twilight was no more to him than to her who watched at the vine-wreathed gate. A handsome man and a pretty girl—each was far more to the taste of the other than all the beauty of sky and earth.

Right opposite the cottage were the dark, silent cedar woods. The moment he came in sight, Cherrie opened the gate, motioning him to follow, struck into the narrow footpath, winding among the woods. Captain Cavendish followed, and found her sitting on a little knoll, under the tree.

"I have been watching for you this ever so long," she breathlessly began; "I thought you would never come! I have something to tell you, and I daren't tell you in the house, for father and the boys are there."

Captain Cavendish leaned against a tree, puffed his cigar, and looked lazily down at her.

"Well, petite, what is it?"

"Oh, it's something dreadfully important. It's about Miss Marsh."

The young captain threw away his cigar, and took a seat beside Cherrie, interested at once. He put his arm round her waist, too, but this is by-the-way.

"About Miss Marsh? Have you been listening?"

Cherrie gave him an account how she had gone for Mr. Darcy, and hidden afterward in Nathalie's room.

"My clever little darling! And what did you hear?"

"You never could guess! O my goodness," cried Cherrie, clasping her hands, "won't Miss Natty be in a passion, when she finds it out."

"Will she, though? Let us hear it, Cherrie."

"Well," said Cherrie, "you know Miss Natty was to be heiress of Redmon, and have all Lady Leroy's money when she dies?"

"Yes! well?"

"Well, she isn't to be any longer! Lady Leroy made a new will this afternoon, and Miss Natty is disinherited!"

Captain Cavendish started with something like an oath.

"Cherrie! are you sure of this?"

"Certain sure!" said Cherrie, with a look and tone there was no doubting. "I heard every word of it—her telling him so first, and him reading the will afterward and father and Midge signed it!"

"The—devil!" said Captain Cavendish between his teeth; "but what put such a freak in the old hag's head?"

"You!" said Cherrie.

"I!"

"Yes—just you! She told Mr. Darcy Natty was engaged to you, and would not give you up, all she could say; so she meant to disinherit her. She said Nathalie should never know, unless she married you before she was dead—if she didn't, she shouldn't find it out until she was in her grave, and then you would desert her when you found out she was poor, and Nathalie would be rewarded for her disobedience!"

Captain Cavendish's handsome face wore a scowl so black, and the oath he swore was so dreadful, that even Cherrie shrank away in something like terror.

"The old hag! I could throttle her if I had her here! Cherrie, who did she leave her money to?"

"To her brother—or, in case of his death, to his heirs; and five pounds to Natty to buy a mourning ring."

"Did you hear her brother's name?"

"Yes, but I forget! It was Harrington, or Harrison, or something like that. Mr. Darcy scolded like everything, and said it was unjust; but Lady Leroy didn't seem to mind him. Isn't it good I listened?"

"Cherrie! Cherrie! Cherrie!" called Ann Nettleby, "Where are you, Cherrie? There's somebody in the house wants you!"

"I must go!" said Cherrie, rising. "You stay here, so Ann won't see you. Will you be up to-morrow?"

"Yes," said Captain Cavendish; and Cherrie flitted away rapidly in the growing dusk. For once he was glad to be rid of Cherrie—glad to be calm and think, and the late-rising moon was high in the sky before he left the wood, and walked back to Speckport.

Cherrie's visitor turned out to be Charley Marsh, who received the reverse of a cordial welcome from his fickle-minded lady-love, who was more than a little provoked at his shortening her interview with one she liked better. She seated herself by the window, with her eyes fixed on the cedar wood, rapidly blackening now, waiting for her lover to emerge; but when his tall dark figure did at length stride out through the dark path, night had fairly fallen, and it was too late to see what expression his face wore.

Whatever the young Englishman's state of mind had been on leaving the wood that night, it was serene as mood could be when, next morning, Sunday, Miss Nettleby, en grande tenue, gold chain and all, made her appearance in Speckport, and met him as she turned out of Redmon road. Miss Nettleby was going to patronize the cathedral this morning, confirmation was to take place, with all the magnificent and poetical ceremonies of the Catholic Church, and Cherrie would not have missed it for the world. Neither would Captain Cavendish, who went partly from curiosity, partly to kill time, partly to show himself in full uniform, and partly to hear Nathalie Marsh play and sing. Out of the great organ she was drawing such inspiring strains as Captain Cavendish thought he had never heard before; rolling out in volumes of harmony over the ears of people below, and grand and grateful were the notes the instrument gave forth to her master-hand. In front of the altar all the youthful aspirants for confirmation were seated, the girls robed in snowy white, and wearing vails and wreaths on their bowed heads, like young brides. But now the bishop, in mitre and chasuble, with a throng of attendant priests, in splendid vestments, preceded by a score of acolytes in scarlet soutanes, and white lace surplices, bearing candles and crozier, are all on the altar, and the choir have burst forth as with one voice, into the plaintive cry "Kyrie Eleison," and pontifical high mass has begun. High over all that swelling choir, high, clear and sweet, one soprano voice arises, the voice of the golden-haired organist: "Gloria in Excelsis!" Something in the deep solemnity of the scene, in the inspiring music, in the white-robed and flower-crowned girls, in the silent devotion of the thousands around him, stirred a feeling in the soul of the man, that he had never felt since, in early boyhood, before he knew Eton or Voltaire, he had knelt at his mother's knee, and learned there his childish prayers. He forgot, for a brief while, his wickedness and his worldliness, forgot the black-eyed girl by his side, and the blue-eyed girl whose voice vibrated through those lofty aisles, and, with dreamy eyes, and a heart that went back to that old time, listened to the sermon of the aged and white-haired priest, grown gray in the service of that God whom he, a poor atom of the dust, dared deride. It was one of those moments in which the great Creator, in his infinite compassion for his lost sheep, goes in search of us to lead us back to the fold, in which our good angel flutters his white wings about us, and tries to lift us out of the slime in which we are wallowing. But the sermon was over, the benediction given, the last voluntary was playing, and the vast crowd were pouring out. Captain Cavendish took his hat and went out with the rest; and before he had fairly passed through the cathedral gates was his old, worldly, infidel self again, and was pouring congratulations and praise into the too-willing ears of Nathalie Marsh, on her admirable performances, while Charley went home with Cherrie.

All that day, and the next, and the next, Captain Cavendish never came near Redmon, or the pretty cottage where the roses and sweetbriers grew; but Mr. Johnston, a pleasant-spoken and dapper young cockney, without an h in his alphabet, and the captain's confidential valet, came back and forth with messages, and took all trouble and suspicion off his master. Neither had Miss Nettleby made her appearance in Speckport; she had spent the chief part of her time about the red-brick house, but had learned nothing further by all her eavesdropping. In a most restless and excited state of mind had the young lady been ever since Monday morning, in a sort of inward fever that grew worse and worse with every passing hour. She got up and sat down, and wandered in and out, and tried to read, and sew, and net, and play the accordion, and threw down each impatiently, after a few moments' trial. She sat down to her meals and got up without eating anything; her cheeks burned with a deep, steady fever-red, her eyes had the unnatural brightness of the same disease, and Ann stared at her, and opined she was losing her wits.

In rain and gloom the wedding-day dawned at last. Cherrie's fever was worse—she wandered from room to room of the cottage all day long, the fire in her eyes and the hectic on her cheek more brilliant than ever. The sky was like lead, the wind had a warning wail in its voice, and the rain fell sullenly and ceaselessly. But the rain could not keep the girl in-doors; she went out and wandered around in it all, returning dripping wet, three or four times, to change her drenched clothes. The girls had the cottage to themselves; old Nettleby was out in the shed, mending his gardening-tools, and the boys were in Speckport. The dull day was ending in a duller and rainier twilight, and Ann Nettleby was bustling about the tidy kitchen, getting tea, and wondering if Cherrie had gone to bed in her room up-stairs, she had been so quiet for the last half-hour. She did not go up to see; but set the tea to draw, laid the table, and lit the lamp. The wet twilight had now closed in, in a black and dismal night, when Ann heard a carriage stop at the gate, and, a moment after, a loud knock at the front door. Before she could open it, some person without did so, and Ann saw Mr. Val Blake, wrapped in a mackintosh, and waiting at the gate a cab, with a lighted lamp.

"How are you, Ann?" inquired Mr. Blake. "Is Cherrie in?"

"Yes, here I am!" a voice called out, and Cherrie herself came running down stairs, her heart beating so fast and thick she could hardly speak.

"I thought you would like a drive this evening, Cherrie," said Val; "it's wet, but you won't mind it in the cab, and I'll fetch you back before ten. Run and wrap up and come along."

It was not the first time Ann Nettleby had heard such impromptu invitations given and accepted, and it was none of her business to interfere. Cherrie was off like a flash, and down again directly, in out-door dress, her vail down, to hide her flushed and excited face.

Ann Nettleby, standing in the cottage-door, watched the cab drive away through the rainy night, and then, closing the door, went back to the kitchen, to give her father his tea. She took her own with him, setting the teapot back on the stove, to keep hot for her brothers. Old Nettleby fell asleep immediately after tea, with his pipe in his mouth, and Ann went back to her netting, wondering once more what Cherrie was about, and wishing she could have such fine times as her elder sister. Could she only have seen in some magic mirror what was at that moment going on in a humble little Wesleyan chapel in a retired street of the town! The building dimly lighted by one flickering candle; a minister, or what looked like one, in white neckcloth and clerical suit of black; the tall and distinguished man, wearing a shrouding cloak, and the little girl, who trembled and quivered so fearfully, standing before him, while he pronounced them man and wife; and that other tall young man, with his hands in his coat-pockets, listening and looking on! Could Ann Nettleby only have seen it all, and known that her pretty sister was that very night a bride!

Val Blake was certainly the soul of punctuality. As the clock on the kitchen-mantel was striking ten, the cab stopped once more at the cottage-door, and she heard his unceremonious voice bidding Cherrie good-night. Ann opened the door, and Cherrie, her vail still down, brushed past her without saying a word, and flitted up the staircase to her own room.

It was half an hour later when Ann Nettleby's two brothers came, dripping like water-dogs, home from town; and Ann having admitted them, went yawningly up-stairs to bed.

"I say, father," said Rob Nettleby, pulling off his wet jacket, "was there company up at Redmon to-day?"

"No," replied the old man. "Why?"

"Oh, because we met a carriage tearing by just now, as if Old Nick was driving. I wonder what it was about?"