If the two young girls whose visit Sir Within Wardle was expecting had been Princesses of a Royal House, he could scarcely have made more preparations for their reception. Who knows if he did not, indeed, feign to himself that his castle was on that morning to be honoured by the presence of those who move among lesser humanities, as suns do among inferior orbs? It would have certainly been one of those illusions natural to such a man; he loved that great world, and he loved all that revived it in his memory; and so when he gave orders that all the state furniture of the castle should be uncovered, the handsomest rooms thrown open, and the servants in their dress liveries, the probability is, that the fÊte he was giving was an offering secretly dedicated to himself.

In the old court-yard, beautiful plants, magnolias, camellias, and rare geraniums were arranged, regardless that the nipping cold of a sharp winter’s day was to consign so many of them to an early death; and over the fountain and the statues around it, beautiful orchids were draped—delicate tendrils torn from the genial air of the conservatory, to waste a few hours of beauty ere they drooped for ever.

Sir Within heard the remonstrances of his afflicted gardener with the bland dignity he would have listened to a diplomatic “reclamation;” and then instantly assured him that his representations should have due weight on the next similar occasion, but, for the present, his commands were absolute. The comments of a household disturbed on a pretext so humble may be easily imagined. The vested interests of major-domo, and butler, and housekeeper, are not institutions to be lightly dealt with, and many indeed were the unflattering commentaries bestowed on the intelligence and understanding of him who had turned the house out of the windows for a couple of “school-girls.” But guesses that actually rose to the impertinence of impeachment of his sanity were uttered, when the old Baronet came down stairs, wearing his ribbon and his star.

And it was thus attired that he received them as they drove into the court, and alighted at the foot of the grand staircase.

“You see, young ladies,” said he, with a courtly smile, “that I deem the honour of your visit no small distinction. That old river-god yonder and myself have put on our smartest coats; and it is only to be hoped neither of us will be the worse for our ‘Bath.’”

Ada smiled graciously and bowed her thanks; but Kate, with a sparkle in her eye, muttered, in his hearing too, “How neatly said!” a little compliment that fluttered the old man, bringing back days when a happy mot was a success only second to a victory.

“As you have never been here before, you must allow me to be your ‘Cicerone;’ and I’ll be a more merciful one than Mrs. Simcox, my housekeeper, who really would not spare you one of my ancestors since the Conquest. These grim people, then, at either side of us are Withins or Wardles; nine generations of excellent mortals are gazing on us; that dark one yonder, Sir Hugh, was standard-bearer to Henry the Second; and that fair-faced damsel yonder, was maid of honour to Queen Elizabeth, and betrothed to her cousin, Sir Walter Raleigh, whom she threw off in a fit of jealousy; the massive ring that she wears on her finger is described in the chronicle, as ‘an auncient seale of Sir Walter with his armes.”

“So that,” said Kate, “we may infer that at the time of the portrait she was yet betrothed.”

Sir Within was pleased at a remark that seemed to show interest in his description; and henceforth, unconsciously indeed, directed most of his attention to her.

“We had not many warriors amongst us,” continued he. “Most of my ancestors were statesmen or penmen. The thin, hard-visaged man yonder, however, was killed at Dettingen; that sweet-faced girl—she looks a mere girl—was his wife.”

“His wife! I thought she was his daughter,” said Ada, with some disappointment in her voice.

“Why not his wife?” interposed Kate; “he looks a very gallant gentleman.”

Sir Within smiled, and turned on her a look of most meaning admiration.

“I perceive,” said he, in a low tone, “that neither wrinkles nor a grey beard can hide chivalry from your eyes. He was, indeed, a gallant gentleman. Mademoiselle,” said he, turning to the governess, “you will, I hope, pardon all this display of family pretension, the more, since it is the last of the race inflicts it.”

A faint sigh—so faint, that if Kate, who uttered it, had not been beside him, he could not have heard it—fell on the old Baronet’s ear, and, in a flutter of strange emotion, he passed rapidly on, and gained the landing-place. From room to room they strolled leisurely on. Pictures, statues, antique cabinets, and rare china, arresting attention at every moment.

There were, indeed, objects to have attracted more critical observers; but in their eager delight at all they saw, their fresh enthusiasm, their frank outspoken enjoyment, Sir Within reaped a satisfaction far and away beyond all the most finished connoisseurship would have yielded him.

He showed them his armoury—mailed suits of every time and country, from the rudely-shaped corslets of Northern Europe, to the chased and inlaid workmanship of Milan and Seville; and with these were weapons of Eastern fashion, a scimitar whose scabbard was of gold, and a helmet of solid silver amongst them; and, last of all, he introduced them into a small low-ceilinged chamber, with a massive door of iron concealed behind one of oak. This he called his “Gem-room;” and here were gathered together a variety of beautiful things, ranging from ancient coins and medals to the most costly ornaments in jewellery: jewelled watches, bon-bon boxes of the time of Louis XIV., enamelled miniatures in frames of brilliants, and decorations of various foreign orders, which, though not at liberty to wear, he treasured as relics of infinite worth. Kate hung over these like one entranced. The costly splendour seemed so completely to have captivated her, that she heard scarcely a word around her, and appeared like one fascinated by an object too engrossing to admit a thought, save of itself.

“Shall I own that I like those grand landscapes we saw in the second drawing-room better than all these gorgeous things,” said Ada. “That beautiful Salvator Rosa, with the warm sunset on the sea-shore, and the fishermen drying their nets—may I go back and look at it?”

“By all means,” said Sir Within. “Remember, that all here is at your disposal. I want first of all to show Mademoiselle my library, and then, while I am giving some orders to my household, you shall be free of me—free to ramble about where you like. Will you come with us, Kate?” said he, as he prepared to leave the room.

“Not if I may remain here. I’d like to pass days in this little chamber.”

“Remain, then, of course; and now, Mademoiselle, if you will accompany me, I will show you my books.”

Scarcely had the door closed, and Kate found herself alone, than she opened one of the glass-cases in which some of the costliest trinkets lay. There was a splendid cameo brooch of Madame de Valois, with her crest in diamonds at top. This Kate gazed at long and thought-folly, and at last fastened on her breast, walking to the glass to see its effect. She half started as she looked; and, whether in astonishment at seeing herself the wearer of such magnificence, or that some other and far deeper sentiment worked within her, her eyes became intensely brilliant, and her cheek crimson. She harried back, and drew forth a massive necklace of emeralds and brilliants. It was labelled, “A present from the Emperor to Marie Antoinette on the birth of the Dauphin.” She clasped it round her throat, her fingers trembling with excitement, and her heart beating almost audibly. “Oh!” cried she, as she looked at herself again in the mirror; and how eloquent was the cry—the whole outburst of a nature carried away by intense delight and the sentiment of an all-engrossing self-admiration, for indeed she did look surpassingly lovely, the momentary excitement combining with the lustre of the jewels to light up her whole face into a radiant and splendid beauty.

She took out next a large fan actually weighted with precious stones, and opening this, she seated herself in front of the glass, to survey herself at her ease. Lying back languidly in the deep old chair, the hand which held the fan indolently drooped over the arm of the chair, while with the other she played with the massive drop of the emerald necklace, she looked exceedingly beautiful. Her own ecstasy had heightened her colour and given a brilliant depth to the expression of her eyes, while a faint, scarcely detectable quiver in her lip showed how intense was her enjoyment of the moment. Even as she gazed, a gentle dreamy sentiment stole over her, visions, Heaven knows of what future triumphs, of days when others should offer their homage to that loveliness, when sculptors would mould and poets sing that beauty; for in its power upon herself she knew that it was Beauty, and so as she looked her eyelids drooped, her breathing grew longer and longer, her cheek, save in one pink cloud, became pale, and she fell off asleep. Once or twice her lips murmured a word or two, but too faintly to be caught. She smiled, too, that sweet smile of happy sleep, when softly creeping thoughts steal over the mind, as the light air of evening steals across a lake.

For nearly an hour did she lie thus, when Sir Within came in search of her. His habitual light step and cautious gait never disturbed her, and there he stood gazing on her, amazed, almost enraptured. “Where was there a Titian or a Raphael like that!” was his first thought; for, with the instinct of his life, it was to Art he at once referred her. “Was there ever drawing or colour could compare to it!” Through the stained glass window one ray of golden glory pierced and fell upon her hair and brow, and he remembered how he had seen the same “effect” in a “Memling,” but still immeasurably inferior to this. What would he not have given that Danneker or Canova could have seen her thus and modelled her! Greek art itself had nothing finer in form, and as to her face, she was infinitely more beautiful than anything the antique presented. How was it that in all his hitherto admiration of her he had never before recognised such surpassing beauty? Was it that excitement disturbed the calm loveliness, and gave too much mobility to these traits? or was it that, in her versatile, capricious way, she had never given him time for admiration? As for the gems, he did not remark them for a long while, and when he did, it was to feel how much more she adorned them than they contributed to her loveliness.

“I must bring Ada here,” muttered he to himself. “How she will be charmed with the picture.” He turned to steal away, and then, with the thoughtful instinct of his order, he moved noiselessly across the room, and turned the looking-glass to the wall. It was a small trait, but in it there spoke the old diplomatist. On gaining the drawing-room he heard that the governess and Ada had gone out to see the conservatory, so Sir Within hurried back to the Gem-room, not fully determined whether to awaken Kate or suffer her to sleep on. Remembering suddenly that if discovered all jewelled and bedecked the young girl would feel overcome with a sense of shame, he resolved not to disturb her. Still he wished to take a last look, and stole noiselessly back to the chamber.

Her position had changed since he left the room, the fan had fallen from her hand to the floor, and by a slight, very slight, motion of the eyelids he could mark that her sleep was no longer untroubled. “Poor girl,” muttered he, “I must not leave her to dream of sorrow;” and laying his hand softly on the back of hers, he said, in a low whisper, “Kate, were you dreaming, my child?”

She raised her eyelids slowly, lazily, and looked calmly at him without a word.

“What was your dream, Kate?” said he, gently, as he bent over her.

“Was it a dream?” murmured she, softly. “I wish it had not been a dream.”

“And what was it, then?” said he, as taking a chair he sat down beside her—“tell me of it all.”

“I thought a great queen, who had no child of her own, had adopted me, and said I should be her daughter, and in proof of it she took a beautiful collar from her throat and fastened it on mine.”

“You see so much is true,” said he, pointing to the massive emerald drop that hung upon her neck.

Kate’s cheek flushed a deep crimson as her eyes glanced rapidly over the room, and her mind seemed in an instant to recover itself. “I hope you are not angry with me,” stammered she, in deep confusion. “I know I have been very foolish—will you forgive me?” As she came to the last words she dropped upon her knees, and, bending forward, hid her head between his hands.

“My sweet child, there is not anything to forgive. As to those trinkets, I never believed they were so handsome till I saw them on you.”

“It was wrong—very wrong; but I was alone, and I thought no one would ever see me. If I was sure you had forgiven me——”

“Be sure, my dear child,” said he, as he smoothed back her golden hair, caressing the beautiful head with his wasted fingers, “and now that I have assured you of this, tell me what it was you wished to speak of to me. You had a trouble, you said—what was it, Kate?”

“May I tell you of it?” asked she, lifting her eyes for the first time towards him, and gazing upwards through her tears.

“To be sure you may, child, and with the certainty that you speak to one who loves you.”

“But I do not know how I can tell it—that is, how you are to believe what I shall tell you, when I am not able to say why and how I know the truth of what I shall say.”

“More likely is it, child, I shall not ask that question, but take your word for it all.”

“Yes, that is true; it is what you would do. I ought to have seen that,” muttered she, half aloud. “Are we certain to be alone here? Can I tell you now?”

“Certainly. They are off to see the gardens. None will interrupt us: say on.”

“Mind,” said she, eagerly, “you are not to ask me anything.” “I agree. Go on.” “At the same time, you shall be free to find out from others whether I have misled you or not.” “Go on, my dear child, and do not torment yourself with needless cares. I want to hear what it is that grieves you, and if I can remove your sorrow.”

“You can at least counsel me—guide me.”

“It is my right and my duty to do so. I am one of your guardians, Kate,” said he, encouragingly.

“Do you remember the morning I came from Ireland, the morning of my arrival at the Cottage?” “Perfectly.”

“Do you remember my grandfather hesitating whether he would let me stay, till some promise was given him that I should not be sent away out of a whim, or a fancy, or at least some pledge as to what should be done with me?” “I remember it all.”

“Well, he was right to have foreseen it. The time has come. Mind your promise—do not question me—but I know that they mean to send me—— I cannot—I will not call it home,” cried she, fiercely. “Home means shelter—friends—safety. Which of these does it offer me?”

“Be calm, my dear child; be calm and tell me all that you know. What reason have they for this change?”

“Ada is to go to Italy, to see her grandmother, who is ill. I am no longer wanted, and to be sent away.” “This is very unlike them. It is incredible.” “I knew you’d say so,” said she, with a heightened colour, and a sparkling eye. “They of course could do no wrong, but perhaps I can convince you. You know Mr. M’Kinlay, he is now at the Cottage, he has come down about this. Oh!” burst she out with a wild cry, while the tears ran down her cheeks—“oh, how bold my sorrow makes me, that I can speak this way to you. But save me! oh save me from this degradation! It is not the poverty of that life I dread, so much as the taunts upon me for my failure; the daily scoffs I shall have to meet from those who hoped to build their fortunes on my success. Tell me, then, where I may go to earn my bread, so it be not there. I could be a servant. I have seen girls as young as me at service. I could take care of little children, and could teach them, too. Will you help me? Will you help me,” cried she, sobbing, “and see if I will not deserve it?”

“Be comforted, my poor child. I have told you already you have a right to my assistance, and you shall have it.”

She bent down and kissed his hand, and pressed her cheek upon it. “Tell me, Kate, do you desire to go abroad with Ada?” “Not now,” said she, in a faint voice. “I did, but I do so no longer.”

“And on no account to return to Ireland.” “On none,” said she, resolutely.

“Then I will think the matter over. I will send for Mr. M’Kinlay to-morrow, and doubtless he will make some communication to me.” “But do not forget, Sir, that you must not betray me.” “I will take care of that, Kate; but come, my dear child, bathe these eyes of yours, and come into the air. They will wonder, besides, if they do not see you. Let us go and find them. Your heart may be at rest, now. Is it not so?”

“I have your promise, Sir?”

“You have, child.”

“Oh! am I not happy again!” said she, throwing back her long hair upon her neck, and turning towards him her eyes beaming with gratitude, and bright with triumph. “I have spent two nights of misery, but they are well repaid by the joy I feel now.”

“There. You look like yourself already,” said he. “Come, and we’ll search for them.”

“What am I thinking of!” cried she, suddenly. “I was forgetting these;” and she unclasped the necklace, and took off the brooch, depositing them carefully in their places.

“You shall wear them again one of these days, Kate,” said he, with a look of pensive meaning.

“They only served me to build castles with,” said she, gaily, “and the words you have spoken will help me to raise much finer ones. I am ready now, Sir.”

“Of all the days of your life,” whispered Ada to Kate, as they drove home that evening, “was this the happiest?”

“It was,” said the other, thoughtfully.

“And mine, too. I had not one dark thought till I saw evening coming on, and felt how soon it was to end. But I have such happy news for you, dear Kate, only I am not at liberty to tell it—something that is going to happen—somewhere we are about to go.”

“Do not tell me more, or I shall become too curious to hear all.”

“But you would be so glad, so overjoyed to hear it.”

“One can always wait patiently for good tidings, the wise people say. Where did you get your violets in mid-winter?”

“Where you got your roses, Kate,” said the other, laughing. “I never saw such pink cheeks as you had when you came into the garden.”

“I had fallen asleep,” said Kate, blushing slightly. “Whenever I am very, very happy, I grow sleepy.”