In the times before telegraphs,—and it is of such I am writing,—a hurried express was a far more stirring event than in these our days of incessant oracles. While, therefore, Barrington and his sister and Withering sat in deep consultation on Josephine's fate and future, a hasty summons arrived from Dublin, requiring the instantaneous departure of Stapylton, whose regiment was urgently needed in the north of England, at that time agitated by those disturbances called the Bread Riots. They were very formidable troubles, and when we look back upon them now, with the light which the great events of later years on the Continent afford us, seem more terrible still. It was the fashion, however, then, to treat them lightly, and talk of them contemptuously; and as Stapylton was eating a hasty luncheon before departure, he sneered at the rabble, and scoffed at the insolent pretension of their demands. Neither Barrington nor Withering sympathized with the spirit of the revolt, and yet each felt shocked at the tone of haughty contempt Stapylton assumed towards the people. “You'll see,” cried he, rising, “how a couple of brisk charges from our fellows will do more to bring these rascals to reason than all the fine pledges of your Parliament folk; and I promise you, for my own part, if I chance upon one of their leaders, I mean to lay my mark on him.”

“I fear, sir, it is your instinctive dislike to the plebeian that moves you here,” said Miss Dinah. “You will not entertain the question whether these people may not have some wrongs to complain of.”

“Perhaps so, madam,” said he; and his swarthy face grew darker as he spoke. “I suppose this is the case where the blood of a gentleman boils indignantly at the challenge of the canaille.”

“I will not have a French word applied to our own people, sir,” said she, angrily.

“Well said,” chimed in Withering. “It is wonderful how a phrase can seem to carry an argument along with it.”

And old Peter smiled, and nodded his concurrence with this speech.

“What a sad minority do I stand in!” said Stapylton, with an effort to smile very far from successful. “Will not Miss Josephine Barrington have generosity enough to aid the weaker side?”

“Not if it be the worst cause,” interposed Dinah. “My niece needs not to be told she must be just before she is generous.”

“Then it is to your own generosity I will appeal,” said Stapylton, turning to her; “and I will ask you to ascribe some, at least, of my bitterness to the sorrow I feel at being thus summoned away. Believe me it is no light matter to leave this place and its company.”

“But only for a season, and a very brief season too, I trust,” said Barrington. “You are going away in our debt, remember.”

“It is a loser's privilege, all the world over, to withdraw when he has lost enough,” said Stapylton, with a sad smile towards Miss Dinah; and though the speech was made in the hope it might elicit a contradiction, none came, and a very awkward silence ensued.

“You will reach Dublin to-night, I suppose?” said Withering, to relieve the painful pause in the conversation.

“It will be late,—after midnight, perhaps.”

“And embark the next morning?”

“Two of our squadrons have sailed already; the others will, of course, follow to-morrow.”

“And young Conyers,” broke in Miss Dinah,—“he will, I suppose, accompany this—what shall I call it?—this raid?”

“Yes, madam. Am I to convey to him your compliments upon the first opportunity to flesh his maiden sword?”

“You are to do nothing of the kind, sir; but tell him from me not to forget that the angry passions of a starving multitude are not to be confounded with the vindictive hate of our natural enemies.”

“Natural enemies, my dear Miss Barrington! I hope you cannot mean that there exists anything so monstrous in humanity as a natural enemy?”

“I do, sir; and I mean all those whose jealousy of us ripens into hatred, and who would spill their heart's blood to see us humbled. When there exists a people like this, and who at every fresh outbreak of a war with us have carried into the new contest all the bitter animosities of long past struggles as debts to be liquidated, I call these natural enemies; and, if you prefer a shorter word for it, I call them Frenchmen.”

“Dinah, Dinah!”

“Peter, Peter! don't interrupt me. Major Stapylton has thought to tax me with a blunder, but I accept it as a boast!”

“Madam, I am proud to be vanquished by you,” said Stapylton, bowing low.

“And I trust, sir,” said she, continuing her speech, and as if heedless of his interruption, “that no similarity of name will make you behave at Peterloo—if that be the name—as though you were at Waterloo.”

“Upon my life!” cried he, with a saucy laugh, “I don't know how I am to win your good opinion, except it be by tearing off my epaulettes, and putting myself at the head of the mob.”

“You know very little of my sister, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, “or you would scarcely have selected that mode of cultivating her favor.”

“There is a popular belief that ladies always side with the winning cause,” said Stapylton, affecting a light and easy manner; “so I must do my best to be successful. May I hope I carry your good wishes away with me?” said he, in a lower tone to Josephine.

“I hope that nobody will hurt you, and you hurt nobody,” said she, laughingly.

“And this, I take it, is about as much sympathy as ever attends a man on such a campaign. Mr. Barrington, will you grant me two minutes of conversation in your own room?” And, with a bow of acquiescence, Barrington led the way to his study.

“I ought to have anticipated your request, Major Stapyl-ton,” said Barrington, when they found themselves alone. “I owe you a reply to your letter, but the simple fact is, I do not know what answer to give it; for while most sensible of the honor you intend us, I feel still there is much to be explained on both sides. We know scarcely anything of each other, and though I am conscious of the generosity which prompts a man with your prospects and in your position to ally himself with persons in ours, yet I owe it to myself to say, it hangs upon a contingency to restore us to wealth and station. Even a portion of what I claim from the East India Company would make my granddaughter one of the richest heiresses in England.”

Stapylton gave a cold, a very cold smile, in reply to this speech. It might mean that he was incredulous or indifferent, or it might imply that the issue was one which need not have been introduced into the case at all. Whatever its signification, Barrington felt hurt by it, and hastily said,—

“Not that I have any need to trouble you with these details: it is rather my province to ask for information regarding your circumstances than to enter upon a discussion of ours.”

“I am quite ready to give you the very fullest and clearest,—I mean to yourself personally, or to your sister; for, except where the lawyer intervenes of necessity and de droit, I own that I resent his presence as an insult. I suppose few of us are devoid of certain family circumstances which it would be more agreeable to deal with in confidence; and though, perhaps, I am as fortunate as most men in this respect, there are one or two small matters on which I would ask your attention. These, however, are neither important nor pressing. My first care is to know,—and I hope I am not peremptory in asking it,—have I your consent to the proposition contained in my letter; am I at liberty to address Miss Barrington?”

Barrington flushed deeply and fidgeted; he arose and sat down again,—all his excitement only aggravated by the well-bred composure of the other, who seemed utterly unconscious of the uneasiness he was causing.

“Don't you think, Major, that this is a case for a little time to reflect,—that in a matter so momentous as this, a few days at least are requisite for consideration? We ought to ascertain something at least of my granddaughter's own sentiments,—I mean, of course, in a general way. It might be, too, that a day or two might give us some better insight into her future prospects.”

“Pardon my interrupting you; but, on the last point, I am perfectly indifferent. Miss Barrington with half a province for her dower, would be no more in my eyes than Miss Barrington as she sat at breakfast this morning. Nor is there anything of high-flown sentiment in this declaration, as my means are sufficiently ample for all that I want or care.”

“There, at least, is one difficulty disposed of. You are an eldest son?” said he; and he blushed at his own boldness in making the inquiry.

“I am an only son.”

“Easier again,” said Barrington, trying to laugh off the awkward moment. “No cutting down one's old timber to pay off the provisions for younger brothers.”

“In my case there is no need of this.”

“And your father. Is he still living, Major Stapylton?”

“My father has been dead some years.”

Barrington fidgeted again, fumbled with his watch-chain and his eye-glass, and would have given more than he could afford for any casualty that should cut short the interview. He wanted to say, “What is the amount of your fortune? What is it? Where is it? Are you Wiltshire or Staffordshire? Who are your uncles and aunts, and your good friends that you pray for, and where do you pray for them?” A thousand questions of this sort arose in his mind, one only more prying and impertinent than another. He knew he ought to ask them; he knew Dinah would have asked them. Ay, and would have the answers to them as plain and palpable as the replies to a life assurance circular; but he could n't do it. No; not if his life depended on it.

He had already gone further in his transgression of good manners than it ever occurred to him before to do, and he felt something between a holy inquisitor and a spy of the police.

Stapylton looked at his watch, and gave a slight start.

“Later than you thought, eh?” cried Peter, overjoyed at the diversion.

Stapylton smiled a cold assent, and put up his watch without a word. He saw all the confusion and embarrassment of the other, and made no effort to relieve him. At last, but not until after a considerable pause, he said,—“I believe, Mr. Barrington,—I hope, at least,—I have satisfactorily answered the questions which, with every right on your part, you have deemed proper to put to me. I cannot but feel how painful the task has been to you, and I regret it the more, since probably it has set a limit to inquiries which you are perfectly justified in making, but which closer relations between us may make a matter far less formidable one of these days.”

“Yes, yes,—just so; of course,” said Barrington, hurriedly assenting to he knew not what.

“And I trust I take my leave of you with the understanding that when we meet again, it shall be as in the commencement of these pleasanter relations. I own to you I am the more eager on this point, that I perceive your sister, Miss Barrington, scarcely regards me very favorably, and I stand the more in need of your alliance.”

“I don't think it possible, Major Stapylton,” said Barrington, boldly, “that my sister and I could have two opinions upon anything or anybody.”

“Then I only ask that she may partake of yours on this occasion,” said Stapylton, bowing. “But I must start; as it is, I shall be very late in Dublin. Will you present my most respectful adieux to the ladies, and say also a goodbye for me to Mr. Withering?”

“You'll come in for a moment to the drawing-room, won't you?” cried Barrington.

“I think not. I opine it would be better not. There would be a certain awkwardness about it,—that is, until you have informed Miss Dinah Barrington of the extent to which you have accorded me your confidence, and how completely I have opened every detail of my circumstances. I believe it would be in better taste not to present myself. Tell Withering that if he writes, Manchester will find me. I don't suspect he need give himself any more trouble about establishing the proofs of marriage. They will scarcely contest that point. The great question will and must be, to ascertain if the Company will cease to oppose the claim on being fully convinced that the letter to the Meer Busherat was a forgery, and that no menace ever came from Colonel Barrington's hand as to the consequences of opposing his rule. Get them to admit this,—let the issue rest upon this,—and it will narrow the whole suit within manageable limits.”

“Would you not say this much to him before you go? It would come with so much more force and clearness from yourself.”

“I have done so till I was wearied. Like a true lawyer, he insists upon proving each step as he goes, and will not condescend to a hypothetical conclusion, though I have told him over and over again we want a settlement, not a victory. Good-bye, good-bye! If I once launch out into the cause, I cannot tear myself away again.”

“Has your guest gone, Peter?” said Miss Dinah, as her brother re-entered the drawing-room.

“Yes; it was a hurried departure, and he had no great heart for it, either. By the way, Withering, while it is fresh in my head, let me tell you the message he has sent you.”

“Was there none for me, Peter?” said she, scofflngly.

“Ay, but there was, Dinah! He left with me I know not how many polite and charming things to say for him.”

“And am I alone forgotten in this wide dispensation of favors?” asked Josephine, smiling.

“Of course not, dear,” chimed in Miss Dinah. “Your grandpapa has been charged with them all. You could not expect a gentleman so naturally timid and bashful as our late guest to utter them by his own lips.”

“I see,” said Withering, laughing, “that you have not forgiven the haughty aristocrat for his insolent estimate of the people!”

“He an aristocrat! Such bitter words as his never fell from any man who had a grandfather!”

“Wrong for once, Dinah,” broke in Barrington. “I can answer for it that you are unjust to him.”

“We shall see,” said she. “Come, Josephine, I have a whole morning's work before me in the flower-garden, and I want your help. Don't forget, Peter, that Major M'Cormick's butler, or boatman, or bailiff, whichever he be, has been up here with a present of seakale this morning. Give him something as you pass the kitchen; and you, Mr. Withering, whose trade it is to read and unravel mysteries, explain if you can the meaning of this unwonted generosity.”

“I suppose we can all guess it,” said he, laughing. “It's a custom that begins in the East and goes round the whole world till it reaches the vast prairie in the Far West.”

“And what can that custom be, Aunt Dinah?” asked Josephine, innocently.

“It's an ancient rite Mr. Withering speaks, of, child, pertaining to the days when men offered sacrifices. Come along; I 'm going!”