Towards the close of a day in the late autumn, when the declining sun was throwing a long column of golden light over the sea, a little group was gathered on the shore at Ostend, the last, it seemed, of all the summer visitors who had repaired there for the season. The group consisted of a young girl, whose attitude, as she lay reclined in a bath-chair, bespoke extreme debility, and an old man who stood at her side, directing her attention, as his gestures indicated, to different objects in the landscape.

Two servants in livery, and a somewhat demurely-dressed maid, stood at a little distance off, in deferential attendance on the others.

Greatly changed, indeed paler and thinner, with dark circles round the eyes, and a faint hectic spot on each cheek, Kate O’Hara looked even more beautiful than ever; the extreme delicacy of every lineament, the faultless regularity of outline, were as conspicuous now, as before was that brightness which she derived from expression. If her eyes had no longer their look of haughty and defiant meaning, they seemed to have acquired a greater depth of colour and an expression of intense softness, and her lips, so ready once to curl into mockery at a moment, now appeared as if they faintly stirred with a smile, as some fancy crossed her.

She was dressed in deep mourning, which heightened still more the statue-like character of her features. What a contrast to this placid loveliness was the careworn, feverish look of the old man at her side! Sir Within had aged by years within a few weeks, and in the anxious expression of his face, and his quick uneasy glances around him, might be read the fretful conflict of hope and fear within him.

While he continued to speak, and describe the features of the scene before them, though she smiled at times, or assented by a slight gesture of the head, her mind was wandering—far, far away—to other thoughts and other places, and her fingers played feverishly with a letter, which she opened and closed up again time after time.

“I am afraid, Ma Mie,” said he, with a tone of half reproach, “that your letter there has usurped all your interest, and my eloquence as Cicerone gone quite for nothing.”

“No, Gardy, I heard you with much pleasure. What did you say that rock was called?”

“That rock, Mademoiselle,” said he, dryly, “is a wreck, and I was vain enough to have believed that my narrative of the incident had moved you.”

“I am so weak, Gardy, so very weak,” said she, plaintively, as she laid her hand on the back of his, “that I follow anything with difficulty.”

“My sweet child, how cruel of me to forget it. Are we lingering too long on these sands?”

“Oh no; let us stay here some time longer. I want to see the sun go down, it is so long since I saw a sunset.”

He drew her shawl around her carefully, and sheltered her with his umbrella against the scarcely breathing wind.

“How kind you are, how good,” said she, softly; and then, with a playful lightness, added, “how courtier-like, too.”

“Why courtier-like, Ma Mie?” said he.

“Is it not like a courtier,” said she, “to treat a peasant-girl as if she were a princess? You would not even ask me when I saw my last sunset, lest I should have to tell you that it was as I stood barefooted on the beach, the tangled seaweed dripping over me.”

“How can you like to pain me by talking of these things?”

“But we must talk of them, Gardy. You know we think of them; and this letter—this letter,” said she, tapping it with her finger impatiently, “must be answered one day.”

“And there is but one answer to give, Kate,” said he, sharply. “I will not consent. He who now assumes the uncle——”

“He is my uncle, Sir,” said she, haughtily. “It is scarcely generous to deny me whatever good blood I can lay claim to.”

“My child, my dear child, if you but knew how I love whatever loves you, you would not have uttered this reproach.”

“My mother’s sister’s husband is surely my uncle,” said she, coldly, and not heeding his protestation. “I never heard that a mÉsalliance could cancel the ties of kindred.”

“None ever said so, Kate.”

“You said as much, Sir; you said, ‘assumes the uncle!’”

“I meant in a different sense, my dear child. I meant, that he wanted to impose an authority which mere relationship would not give him.”

“Read his letter again, Sir—pray read it.”

“No, my child; it has given me too much pain already.”

“I think you are not just to him, Gardy,” said she caressingly. “May I read it to you? Well, a part of it?”

“Once more, no, Kate. His argument is, that as he is now childless, he has the right to claim your love and affection, to replace what he has lost; that, as your nearest of kin, you cannot refuse him; and that, if you do—mark the insinuation—the reasons will be, perhaps, based on considerations apart from all affection.”

“I think he had the right to say that,” said she, firmly.

“There was one thing, however, he had no right to say,” said the old man, haughtily; “that to continue to reside under my roof was to challenge the opinion of a world never slow to be censorious.”

“And there, again, I think he was not wrong.”

“Then you love me no longer, Kate!” said he, with intense emotion.

“Not love you—not love you! Then, what do I love? Is it nothing to know that every happiness I have I owe to you—that all the enjoyment of a life more bright than a fairy tale, comes from you? That from your generous indulgence I have learned to think mere existence something like ecstasy, and awake each day as to a fÊte?”

“Say on, dearest, say on; your words thrill through me like a gentle music.”

“He does not offer me these; but he says, ‘Come to what you shall call your home, and never blush to say so.’”

“It is too insolent!”

“He says, ‘As my daughter by adoption, you shall bear my name.’ I am to be a Luttrell—Kate Luttrell of Arran!”

“And for this poor name you would barter all my love, all my affection, all my hope?”

“It is a great and noble name, Sir! There were Lords of Arran called Luttrell in the thirteenth century!”

“You have told me of them,” said he, peevishly.

“Too proud and too haughty to accept titles, Sir.”

“I have a name that the first in the land would not scorn,” said he, in a voice of blended pride and anger; “and my fortune is certainly the equal of a barren rock in the Atlantic.”

“You are not my uncle, Sir,” said she, softly.

“No, Kate; but——” He stopped, the colour fled from his cheek, and he seemed unable to continue. “Has any tender love for you equalled mine?”

“Stop there!” said she, fiercely; “my favour is not put up to auction, and to fall to the highest bidder. When you have said that my uncle is poor, you have said all that can be laid to his charge.” She closed her eyes, and, seeming to speak to herself, murmured: “The poorer, the more need has he of affection.”

“I see it all—all!” said he, bitterly. “You wish to leave me.”

She made no answer, but sat staring vacantly over the sea.

“Better to say so, my child—better to own that this life has ceased to give you pleasure. But if you told me, Kate, that you would like to travel, to see other countries, to mix with the world, and partake of the enjoyments——”

“How—as what?” said she, impatiently. “It was but a few months ago you received some strangers at your house, and have you forgotten how they treated me? And do you believe, Sir, that the world will have more reserve than the guests under your roof? Who is she? is not answered so easily as one may think. It would take blood to wash out the stain of ‘What is she?’”

The old man walked rapidly up and down; he wiped the drops that stood on his brow, and muttered uneasily to himself: “and why not? To whom have I to render an account? Who shall dare to question me? Am I to be turned from my path by a sneer and a sarcasm? Is the ribald gossiping of a club to be of more weight with me than my whole happiness?”

She watched the conflict, and saw every struggle that shook him; she could even mark the vacillating fortunes of the fight—when he conquered, and when he fell back, discomfited and beaten.

“Tell me, Kate,” said he, at last, as he approached her, “is there any condition you can propose by which I may secure myself against desertion?”

“There would be no desertion, Gardy. You could come and see me in my new home. I would do my utmost to hide its poverty. Who knows if my ingenious devices might not amuse you. My uncle, too, might permit me—no, perhaps not that——” said she, stopping, in some confusion.

“What is it he wouldn’t permit, Kate?”

“I don’t know; I was talking to myself, I believe, and I feel weary and feverish too. Gardy, let us not speak more of this now; it oppresses me. And see! there goes down the sun, and I have not enjoyed all its gorgeous colour over the waters.”

“I wish you would tell me what Mr. Luttrell might not permit.”

“He’d not permit me to stay out on the sea-shore till the evening dew had fallen,” said she, laughing. “Tell them to take me back.”

“Yes, darling, we have lingered here too long. It was my fault.”

And now the little procession moved slowly across the sands towards the town; passing through small mean-looking streets, they gained the place where their hotel stood. Groups of idlers were about—townsfolk and a few strangers—who made way for them to pass. Some respectfully enough—the show of rank suffices at times to exact this—others, more venturesome, stared at the beautiful girl, and then looked at the worn and feeble figure who walked beside her. That they were English was plain enough, and was taken as a reason to comment on them without reserve.

Sir Within turned looks of anger and defiance around him; he gave them to understand that he could overhear their insolence, and he sought with his eyes through the crowd to see one—even one—sufficiently like a gentleman, to hold him responsible for the impertinence.

“Neither wife nor daughter, I’ll wager a ‘cent-sous’ piece,” said one, as they passed under the arched doorway.

Sir Within stepped back, when Kate said, suddenly, “I mean to walk up-stairs, give me your arm, Sir;” and as they moved slowly on, she whispered, “How can it be helped, Gardy?” and then, with a laugh, added, “it is a maxim of your own, that it is the unmannerly people take care of the public morals.”

It was a subtle flattery to quote himself, which Sir Within thoroughly appreciated, and as he took leave of her at the door of her room he was almost calm again.