Minnie had been so severely lectured by all, about her too frequent visits to the cottage of Mary Burns, and other rambles in thoughtful loneliness, that she felt embarrassed how to act. We have seen Dora was not yet wholly in her confidence; there was as yet a barrier of three years' width between them, which she hesitated at overleaping at once—it was one separating girlhood from womanhood. She had no one to consult but herself, and in her great anxiety to know what had been decided upon for this poor girl, in whom she felt so much interest, as Mr. Skaife had informed her, that assuredly Tremenhere would decide immediately something about her, she resolved to rise with the early bird of morn, which rose to song and heaven beneath her windows, and seek Mary's cottage. Only the gardener was at work, as she brushed the dew off the smoothly turfed lawn, at six the morning, after Tremenhere's meeting with his cousin, and bidding the man a kind good-morning, she hastened through the shrubbery, then light as a fawn skimmed over the path-fields, and reached Mary's cottage. The shutters were closed, and all in stillness; but the hour was so early, that she hesitated about awakening the inmates. For some moments she stood irresolute, and walked round the spot. There is something in internal desolation, which always leaves an outward trace on the features, as on an abode. Something of this she felt; and at last gently rapped at the door—all was silent; then she repeated it—and each time with the like result. There was a latch, so she raised it, looked in, and then the cold truth became apparent; the place was tenantless!—all gone, and not a vestige left. Minnie stood in mute astonishment. How should she be enabled to discover the girl's fate?—from Mr. Skaife, perhaps; and then a chill came over her warm heart. Had this girl, whom she had so befriended, quitted without one word to express gratitude, or resolution of well-doing? and then, a something crossed her mind of regret. She should have liked to see Miles Tremenhere once more; he was so manly under his persecution by Marmaduke Burton. It is painful in our path through life to have that path crossed by a vision which flits away, only leaving a trace, and never again seen—such things often leave a memory for years. Minnie walked sadly home. It is something very undeceiving to the young heart—it's first lesson in worldly selfishness and ingratitude. She felt Mary must be an ungrateful girl so to depart; and, thinking all this, she walked up to her own room. No one had discovered her departure; and an hour afterwards she descended to the breakfast parlour, which looked over the beautiful lawn and flower-garden, and there she found all the family waiting, except Lady Ripley, who always breakfasted in her own room. The day passed in busy occupations to all, yet amidst all she felt a chill at heart—the chill of disappointed confidence. Many neighbouring families called to pay homage to Lady Ripley; and the report was brought by more than one, that Mr. Burton was seriously indisposed, and hints were thrown out of a hostile meeting having taken place between the cousins, as it was known that desperate character, (alas! for those no longer Fortune's favourites,) Miles Tremenhere, had been seen in the neighbourhood.

"It must have been late yesterday, then, if they met," said Juvenal, "for Burton was here in the afternoon."

"It is not known when it took place, but he has been confined to his bed all day, and his lawyer, Dalby, sent for. Though Mr. Burton denies it himself, there is every reason to suppose 'tis true," rejoined the visiter.

"Some means of ascertaining the fact should be resorted to, and such a character banished the neighbourhood," said Sylvia, acrimoniously; "it is a natural consequence of an ill-conducted mother, that the child should be infamous."

"Oh, aunt!" cried Minnie, "don't say such a wicked thing; for all say Mrs. Tremenhere was good, and mild!"

"Besides," said the peacemaker, Dorcas, "you should give her the benefit of the doubt; many believe her to have been married, though proof was wanting."

"Always my good, charitable aunt," whispered Minnie, taking her hand affectionately.

"Ah! Lady Dora," exclaimed the visiter, rising as the other entered, "I am charmed to see you here once more, and looking so lovely; and her ladyship, too," continued the old dame, as Lady Ripley sailed into the room after her daughter, "you are really as a sister, in appearance, to your beautiful child!"

This is one of the most pleasing compliments in the world to a mamma with a grown-up daughter,—it deadens the sound of Time's wheels, as he hurries his chariot onwards,—it is like laying down tan over that rugged road of matronism, which has an ugly stage beyond, beginning with "grand,"—Lady Ripley graciously received the compliment, and, smiling blandly, slid into a corner of the sofa whereon the visiter sat. "There always has been considered a great likeness existing between us," said the Countess; "we were painted in full length in one picture at Florence, and the likeness has been considered remarkable, by all visiting Loughton Castle, whither I sent it. By the way, Dora, what was the name of the artist, a very promising young man, whom I patronised at the request of Lord Randolph Gray, who had taken him by the hand? I always forget names."

"Mamma, you should remember that," answered Lady Dora, and a slight colour passed over her cheek; yet soon fled abashed before the stern, proud eye, it was only momentary; "for we had a neighbour here, near my aunt's, of the same name—Tremenhere."

"Tremenhere!" cried several simultaneously; but Minnie's struck most forcibly on Lady Dora's ear; she turned towards her, and, looking fixedly upon her, said, "Do you know Mr. Tremenhere, Minnie?"

"Only since yesterday," answered she; "but before then I had learned to pity him, but we cannot mean the same person: I do not think Mr. Tremenhere is an artist."

"How can you tell what he may, or may not be?" said Juvenal, crossly; "I'm sure, after his unnatural conduct towards his cousin, you should wonder at nothing."

"Of course," said Lady Dora, quite composedly, "they cannot be the same person; but I assure you, the Mr. Tremenhere we knew, was a distinguished young artist, much sought after, though only an artist. Of his family, we never inquired."

"This is, in my opinion," said Lady Ripley, "the great error of society abroad; and I fear it is creeping into English habits—the mixed nature of society. This Mr. Tremenhere was received unquestioned, nay, sought after every where, for his talents.

"It is only the good old English families which know how to keep up proper distinctions," chimed in Sylvia, to the accompaniment of an approving "Assuredly," from the visiter.

"I think real talent should always be upheld—'tis a noble gift, to which we owe homage," said the gentle Dorcas.

Minnie smiled "yes," but did not like to utter her opinion too decidedly before a stranger; besides, she was thinking.

"What are you thinking of, Minnie?" whispered her cousin.

"Of the narrow-mindedness of the world," she answered boldly. "I'd rather see a man ennoble his name by good deeds or talents, than bear a merely empty title—would you not, Dora?"

"I think position should be upheld and respected," rejoined the other, "or else we should become republican at once. I respect, revere genius; but even that has, in my opinion, no right to overstep certain barriers." Lady Dora Vaughan had been nurtured on family pride, which digests badly, and chokes up many good things with its prejudice.

Here the conversation took a different turn. Other persons called, and the Tremenheres—one, or different individuals—were no more alluded to. Even her cousin's presence, failed entirely to remove the weight from Minnie's heart, she was so saddened by disappointment, and none came to cheer or possibly explain—for Mr. Skaife even had not appeared. The shades of evening set in, and she and her cousin were strolling together in the various alleys and walks of the beautiful gardens round Gatestone, and in that same half hour Mrs. Gillett sat in her housekeeper's room, inhaling the odour of the garden into which it looked. She had been trimming a cap—something had come over her mind—a question of whether she should put a bow on the said cap, as Mademoiselle Julie, the countess's French maid, had suggested, or leave it alone. The war within herself, between the accustomed snowy lace and a pink ribbon, had ended in a prostration of the nervous system, and consequent sleep ensued. She was sitting opposite the window with the cap in one hand, the ribbon in the other, when Morpheus seized upon her, and she slept, and dreamed that she was a Maypole bedizened with many-coloured ribbons, and the village girls dancing round her. "What curious things one dreams!" to be sure, she exclaimed waking up at last; and putting both articles on the table beside her, and she rubbed her eyes, not yet half cleared from sleep. "How them peas do grow!" she continued, gazing dizzily out of the window in the evening duskiness and her own dreamy state. "Why, it seems only yesterday I was saying to John Gardener that they never would pod; and now they darkens up this window, there's no seeing out! Lauks-a-marcy!" she exclaimed, shrinking back in her chair in terror, as a cluster of them, sticks and all, appeared to her half-awakened sight to advance nearer, taking a human form as they did so. "Lauks-a-marcy! what's a going to happen to us?" Her fears were certainly not groundless, for the humanized peas drew close to the window, stooped, and stepped in. The window of this room was on a level with the walk outside; and through this, Minnie as a child, and even Dora, had been in the habit of entering as by a door, for a chair generally stood at it, which answered the purpose of a mere step to enter by.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Gillett," said Miles Tremenhere, as he did so with perfect composure. "You would not speak to me last time we met; so I have come to my old haunt, and as I was used to do when a boy, to have some conversation with you." By an involuntary movement, without uttering a word, she staggered to her feet, grasped her cap and ribbons in her hand, and was making towards the door, but Tremenhere intercepted her quietly before she was half-way there. "Stop," he said gently, smiling as he spoke, "I don't mean to harm, or alarm you; listen quietly to me, good Mrs. Gillett. Come, you cannot have quite forgotten the sweet youth who has so often sat in this room with you; and i'faith, too, I remember those hospitable cupboards" (and he glanced around) "wherein I discovered many a treasure hidden for 'good Madame Tremenhere's son,' as you were used to call me." A sigh half choked the lighter tone as he spoke. Gillett stood still, and looked at him. She was not a bad woman—far from it; but only a very politic one. She would gladly have pleased all parties; but the peculiarity of the case sometimes, as in Minnie's for instance—forbad it.

"Lock the door," she whispered, pointing behind him; "then speak low, and tell me what you want." Her commands were soon obeyed; and, like two conspirators, they sat down in a corner and began talking.

"You see, Master Miles," she whispered, "times is sadly changed, and I am obliged to be friends with my betters; and, then you know that I don't want to hurt your feelin's—but there have been queer tales about your——"

"Hush!" he said emphatically, grasping her hands, "not a word against her. Mrs. Gillett, you know what she was to all—you know that the day she died, this village had but one voice to bewail her—but one sentence to mourn her with. 'Heaven gave her for awhile to shew what angels may walk the earth'—this you know, Mrs. Gillett; and you know, too, that she has been cruelly maligned. No," he cried, rising energetically, forgetful of all necessity for secrecy, "as Heaven hears me, I do not care for the loss of all, save that, in losing that, a mother's sacred fame has been trampled upon."

"There," cried Mrs. Gillett, following and taking his hand, not without emotion; "sit down, I know it has been a sad cut-up for you; but times will change, maybe, and you be better off, and all forgot."

"Never!" he emphatically exclaimed. "A mothers wrongs should never be forgotten by a son until washed away."

"Talking of washing away," said his attentive listener; "there be a rumour to-day, that summut happened up at the house last night; you haven't done nothing of that sort to the squire, have you, Master Miles?"

"No," he replied, thoughtfully; "my great debt remains yet unpaid."

"Well, I'm sure it's a pity," she added, "that all parties can't agree; there be plenty for both on 'e up at the manor-house; and such friends as you were as boys!"

"Why didn't you speak to me yesterday, Mrs. Gillett?" he asked. "Were you afraid of Miss Dalzell, or Mr. Skaife? Both seem to my judgment good, excellent creatures, apart from the generality of the world, for they did not fear the contact with a fallen man; but I suppose I must not ask you——" He appeared to be seeking time or courage to speak his more earnest motive in seeking her.

"Well," said she at last, hesitatingly, "I must speak it out, though you bid me not; so don't go to be offended, for I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world; but them as does wrong, brings much on their children. You have been cruelly treated by your parents, to be left so long in——"

"Mrs. Gillett!" he cried, rising in agitation, "even from you, my old friend, I cannot hear this. Do not let others lead your kind heart to do wrong, even in thought; some day all shall know my mother as I do, or I will die in the struggle with her enemies."

"Oh! don't do nothing of that sort," cried she, mistaking his meaning; "getting killed a'n't the way to right her; and this I will say, that a better lady never lived—and in the hearts of the poor; the best home to have, after all. But it a'n't a thing I'm component to judge, Master Miles; for foreigners, they say, don't see them things as we do."

"Well," he replied, reseating himself, and passing his hand over his brow; "let's change the subject, it always pains me; but her day of retribution will come—my sainted mother!" and involuntarily he raised his hat, in reverential awe, as if an angel were looking down upon him.

"Don't be cast down, Master Miles," said the woman, "and don't talk on them miserable subjecs, all in the dark here, as one may say; it makes one oncomfortable and queer. Now, tell me, what do you want with me?"

"I want to see Miss Dalzell. Can you manage that for me?"

"Mussiful powers! no," she exclaimed, in surprise and horror.

"It must be accomplished somehow, Mrs. Gillett; see her I must."

"Well, if I didn't think so!" she said, thinking aloud of what she had previously hinted to Sylvia.

"Think what—what do you mean?"

"Oh nothink, nothink—there, do go; pray, do'e go!" she energetically cried, alarmed at the phantom her imagination had conjured up. "It won't do, depend upon it; they would stir up the whole earth to find and punish you, if you did it; for she's the darling of all, and they'd all ignite against you—lawyer, parson, squire, master, mississes, and all!"

"In the name of patience, my good Mrs. Gillett, what do you mean?" he asked laughing.

"Why, I saw it—I said it—I knew it—though I ain't a Dippibus, as master calls fortune-tellers; but don't go any farther—leave off where you are!" and she crunched up her cap in her energy.

"Are you mad?" he exclaimed, securing her reckless hands. "I tell you I must see Miss Dalzell, if only for a moment. I have a message for her."

Mrs. Gillett was rocking in her chair in agony; her position exceeded any thing embarrassing she had ever conceived. What could she do? Here she was locked in with a desperate man, who only said "must." How could she ever reconcile this difficulty to practicable action? how bind this wild horse to her daily care of every body's necessities? their calls upon her to bear their burthens—her carrier's cart of packages—she was in fearful perplexity.

"Is there any thing so dreadful in my demand?" he asked. "Let it be here, for five minutes. We met yesterday—you know we did, though you would not recognise me. She will not refuse, I know."

"Can't you say what you have to say through the passan, Master Miles," she uttered at last, struggling for a straw.

"No; I must see herself. Why do you fear me so much? Do you suppose I would insult, or injure one, whom report says so good and kind—a woman, too? Fie Mrs. Gillett—fie! to wrong me so much, the man you've known from boyhood."

"Oh! Master Miles, it ain't that—it ain't, indeed; but we oftentimes harms without meaning it," and she looked meaningly at him. He seemed to awaken as from a dream.

"You cannot suppose," he cried, "that I, a poor outcast now, come here to woo any woman; still less Miss Dalzell, whose whole family are my bitterest enemies. I tell you no, Mrs. Gillett; I have no such thought. From all I have heard—the little I saw of her yesterday, for the first time—I respect, admire, and reverence Miss Dalzell, but more I never shall now—I have another at heart." He alluded to his self-imposed task of duty and love, to re-establish his mother's fame.

"You a'n't deceiving me, Master Miles," she said looking up, mistaking his meaning.

"I solemnly assure you I am not."

"Oh, then, there can be no harm, that I see!" she cried confidently. Alas! poor Mrs. Gillett, she had but skin-deep knowledge of the human heart. Not seeing that what we should avoid, we fly to—what hate, generally love, if cast in our path—ties, vows, resolutions—all are things created, but to be immolated on love's altar.

"There she just is!" she exclaimed, looking from the window; "she's come round by the shrubbery into the fruit-garden, and Lady Dora's with her."

"Lady Dora!" he ejaculated, looking surprised, and going to the window.

"Come back, Master Miles, do, come back," she cried; "I wouldn't have Miss Minnie's cousin see you for the world, in here."

"Is that Miss Dalzell's cousin?" he again asked, gazing from his corner at the two wandering together at the end of a long walk. "Lady Dora Vaughan, Lady Ripley's daughter,—true," he added after a pause, talking aloud, "I have a faint memory of the name here; but boys do not recollect these things as in after years; the name seemed familiar to me in Italy."

"Lauks!" exclaimed Mrs. Gillett, "have you met Lady Dora before?"

"Yes," he answered hesitatingly; "but how is it, Mrs. Gillett, that I never met her or Miss Dalzell here before?" Alas! the man was in old familiar scenes, forgetting that eight long dreary years of exile had been his.

"Why, you see, Master Miles—and lauk, if I a'n't forgettin' too, calling you Master—well, never mind, it's more homely: Miss Minnie will be only seventeen come next month, and eight years have gone by since——"

"True, true!" he hastily answered, interrupting her, "and Miss Dalzell was then but a little child"—he sighed, that man of eight-and-twenty felt so old.

"And Miss Minnie was seldom at home then. She lived almost entirely with Lady Ripley, for her ladyship's child's sake; but you must have seen her, too, Master Miles."

"Yes," he said thoughtfully; "I now recall, at times, a pretty little fairy thing flitting about the grounds and gardens when I came home; for then my first visit was ever here, to see you Mrs. Gillett, and good, kind Miss Dorcas, and to teaze your master and Miss Sylvia with my wilful spirits."

"Lauk, yes!" said she sadly; and the memory of all brought the joyous boy in so much bitter comparison with the outcast, saddened man, that Mrs. Gillett, kind at heart, began to cry.

"Come, come!" he said kindly taking her hand; "don't be sorrowful. I thank you for those evidences that I am not forgotten by all."

"Oh, not by me, Master Miles; but I've a hard card to play here amongst 'em all, and that hardens the heart—for they all want the same thing. They all wish Miss Minnie to marry some one of their own choosing, and, as I say, she can't be a bigamy, and marry all, so there's no use wurrittin' her about it so."

"And does she not love any one?"

"Law bless you, no—not one more than t'other; my belief is, she likes her black mare 'Jet' better nor any of them."

Miles felt glad to hear this, for he had heard of none worthy of the fair girl who had been poor Mary's Christian support in her trouble. Even Skaife he did not deem fitting for that beautiful gem; she merited a more gorgeous setting than a homely curate's home could be. She was no longer as a stranger to his thought; he forgot the past eight bitter years of his life, and remembered himself a boy again, looking on a rosy, lovely child. Mrs. Gillett's doubts were all cleared away, and an open path before her. Age, and the prejudices of others, had made her regard Miles with fear, and almost aversion. Now the better influence of woman's nature prevailed, and she remembered him only as the comely youth she had once liked so much. Cranky people make others cross and disagreeable. She was accustomed to nothing but complaints from Juvenal and Sylvia, with a milder portion, in the way of advice required, by Dorcas; and thus she had had all the juices of her nature drying up beneath this fire of unhappy prognostications from all. With Miles she became almost young again, and fearlessly promised to procure him the desired interview, provided no one knew it, which he faithfully promised they should not, from him; and, while they were consulting how it should be accomplished, the girl herself advanced to the window with her cousin. Miles drew back in a corner, and his heart beat for more reasons than one.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Gillett," said Lady Dora, in an affable tone. "You really improve in good looks every time we meet." Poor Mrs. Gillett was red as a peony with agitation, and could only utter, "Your ladyship's very good to notice me!"

"Gillett, dear," cried Minnie, in her girlish, ringing tone, "we are coming in to have a chat with you; put a chair for us to step on!"

"Not for the world, miss," almost shrieked the alarmed woman. "Oh dear! no; maybe you'll hurt yourself."

"Good gracious—no, Gillett! you know I always come in this way," and she stooped as if to enter.

"No, miss—oh dear, no!" continued the other, dragging away the chair in her terror. "I never will consent; it mustn't be."

"Are you mad?" exclaimed the amazed girl. The woman caught Miles's face; he was smiling. Altogether her position was so critical, she became doubly confused, and said something incoherent about "Lady Dora's dignity."

"I see what it is," said that lady. "Mrs. Gillett has forgotten the girl she used to scold once; so, Minnie, we will sit outside here, and I will make her better acquaintance as a woman," and the cousins, suiting the action to the word, sat down each on a garden-chair, which they drew close to the window. This was a thousand times worse than any position she ever had been in; no blindness, no pattens, could save her here. She was not a free agent—What would they say? what do? and besides, the door was locked—should any one rap! It was the hour when the servants generally required her advice or presence to prepare for supper; her agony was intense. She durst not move lest Minnie should step in, using her own chair for that purpose. Every possible thought crossed her mind to terrify her—should Miles sneeze? and, in the midst of all this, Minnie began—

"Now," she said, "Gillett, I've come to scold you for your cruelty yesterday to poor Mr. Tremenhere."

Mrs. Gillett was seized with a violent fit of coughing; could any subject more terrible under circumstances have been selected? Miles was all attention.

"You've a bad cough," said Lady Dora, kindly, for her; but she wanted Minnie's homely warmth of speech.

"Th-an-k you-r la-dy-ship, I ha-ve," coughed the woman.

"You should be careful at your age," continued the other. "Colds are the forerunners of all disease, they say."

"So o-ur doc-tor tel-ls me," uttered the housekeeper, perplexed how to keep up the cough; "and he sa-ys I sh-ou-l-d avoid dr-aughts!"

"And here we are," cried the feeling Minnie, "keeping you in one." She rose hastily. Mrs. Gillett began in all gratitude, thanking her lucky star for taking them away, as she supposed that luminary so intended to do; when, lo! at that instant, a hand tried the lock, then rap—rap—rap, succeeded—then Sylvia's voice! The housekeeper was nearly frantic. She hurried half-way to the door, then returned. Miles stood perfectly still and composed.

"I'll go round by the garden, Minnie," said Lady Dora, rising. "Don't remain long with Mrs. Gillett," and she turned away with her slow, majestic walk. Minnie put her chair in at the window, stepping in like a cat upon it. Gillett indistinctly saw all this; she wrung her hands, hurried to the assailed door, opened it, slipping through a crevice she would have dreamed an impossible feat of performance an hour before, and speaking loudly as she did so.

"Oh! Miss Sylvia, I'm so flusterated I don't know what I'm a-doing of; there's a strange cat come into my room, and gone into a fit—don't go in!" she screamed, as the courageous Sylvia attempted to do so. "It will bite, maybe! I'll lock it in; the window is open—it will go as it comed, I daresay!" and, suiting the action to the word, she tremblingly turned the key, which she had taken outside with her. Presence of mind is woman's greatest gift.