The woman whose story is written here, was in the fulness of her youth some fifty years ago.

She is dead now, and so are the two men who loved her best, who would each, according to his lights, have given his life for her happiness.

Her name is inscribed in the family Bible, that holds on its flyleaf the generation of Deanes, but there is a thick stroke through it, which almost obliterates the delicate characters, and there is no record either of her marriage or of her death.

She made a great mistake; she was one of the people who blunder on a large scale, who put all their eggs into one basket, and who are apt to break their hearts as well as their goods; but, in so far as her life did not end in pure tragedy, it seemed to me worth the telling.

One lifts one's cap to those who never go wrong, but Heaven knows it is easy enough to stumble, and there are two sides to every ditch; let us, at least, cry "Hurrah!" when any one scrambles out on the right bank.

Margaret was the third daughter of Charles Deane—(so much we find chronicled); she was five years younger than her sister Katherine, and seven years younger than Laura, and she must have been barely six when her father, then newly widowed, brought his children to London, and left them in charge of his sister.

The three little girls were heiresses, and plentifully provided for. The Deanes and Russelthorpes have always been rich; money seems to have clung to their fingers, though there was never a miser among them. The families had intermarried for two generations, before Mr. Deane's sister accepted Mr. Joseph Russelthorpe, and took possession of the house in Bryanston Square. The marriage was not blessed with children, and "Aunt Russelthorpe" had consequently plenty of spare energy to expend on the training of her nieces. She was still handsome, though past her youth, when little Margaret first made her acquaintance. A tall striking woman, with very erect carriage, a decided manner, and a hard voice. She was a brilliant talker, and her parties were the rage at one time, though she was a shade too fond of monopolising attention to be a perfect hostess.

She wore her hair in little ringlets on her high narrow forehead, according to, what was then, the fashion. Her hair and eyelashes were fair, her eyes wonderfully bright, though yellowish in colour, her complexion was exquisite, and her features were regular, save that her upper lip was rather too long.

Her small nieces thought her "ugly" when they first saw her, but children never took to Mrs. Russelthorpe, and motherliness was not among her charms.

Margaret clung fast to her father, and hid her face in his coat tails when he tried to introduce her to her new guardian; Laura and Kate held each other's hands tightly, and stared hard at their aunt, trying not to blink in the sudden blaze of light.

The grand drawing-room, with its chandeliers and tall mirrors and gilded chairs, rather overawed them. "Children were out of place there."

"Miss Cripps is waiting for the girls in the schoolroom; James can show them the way," said Mrs. Russelthorpe; and then her bright eyes fell on Margaret.

"You spoil your youngest, I am afraid," she remarked.

Margaret clung closer to her father.

"Oh, don't let me be taken away from you," she sobbed; and Mr. Deane lifted her on to his shoulder, where she stopped crying; and looked defiance at her aunt, with one chubby hand resting on his wavy bright brown hair.

"You must forgive our bad manners to-night. Meg is very fond of her old father, aren't you, lady-love?" he said; and he carried her down to the dining-room (though with an apologetic glance at his sister), and she sat on his knee while he ate his dinner, and sipped sherry from his glass, and listened wide-eyed to his talk.

Mrs. Russelthorpe shook her head, and bided her time. Charles was going away to-morrow, and Meg should be taught how to behave herself before he came back.

In the meantime the little lady had a short-lived triumph.

Her baby face was like her handsome father's, and the two made a pretty pair. She put up her soft red lips to kiss him once, and her aunt turned away sharply. It was ridiculous to be angry with a child, and she was irritable with herself as well as with Meg.

"Uncle Russelthorpe" sat at the bottom of the table, watching, rather than joining in, the conversation. He had a way of slipping lower and lower in his chair, a trick which rather fascinated Meg, who wondered whether he would slide below the tablecloth if they sat long enough.

He was an insignificant little man, dull-complexioned, with wiry iron-grey whiskers that seemed to twitch with nervousness, and sharp ferret-like eyes that surprised you at times by a sudden humorous twinkle. He had given up contending with his wife long ago, and consoled himself for his abdication by sly internal comments on her proceedings. His remarks stung her occasionally, and she never quite ruled him, though he was not man enough to rule her.

Mrs. Russelthorpe and her brother waxed hot over politics; and Meg, understanding about one remark in ten, was yet unwittingly charmed by the flow of her father's sentences and the tone of his musical voice.

The taste of sherry always brought back a remembrance of him, with his chin swathed in the stiff stock of those days, his face aglow with enthusiasm, his blue eyes kindling as he spoke.

He was a very gallant gentleman, to whom all women were good and pure and beautiful; it was no wonder they liked him.

Mr. Deane was the one Radical in a Tory family at a time when party spirit ran high, and his sister was genuinely shocked at the tendencies he displayed, and combated them with excellent force and some wit. Mrs. Russelthorpe enjoyed an argument, but her brother was too keenly interested to fence well.

"My dear Augusta, it's easy to sit at an over-heaped table, and preach about the insubordination of the starving," he cried. "We've done that long enough. No wonder Lazarus outside becomes impatient!"

"Is Lazarus just outside?" asked Meg, raising her head, which was nestled against his breast.

"Ay, God knows he is!" said her father. "And this bitter winter is nipping his toes and freezing his marrow, Meg, so that he threatens to come in, and take his share of the good things. You see, sis," he added apologetically, "there are two sides to every question."

Uncle Russelthorpe emitted a sudden unmusical chuckle.

"Very true, Charles," he said. "But you are not the man to see both."

Here Meg began to cry. "I'm frightened of Lazarus," she gasped. "I don't want him to come in!" and her father laughed at and comforted her, and finally bore her up to bed, being rather flattered at her devotion to him, as well as touched at parting with his motherless children, whose hearts he had quite won during the long coach journey to London.

He saw very little of his girls as a rule, he had so many other things to think of (he was a great patron of art and letters, a dabbler in politics, and the most popular man in the county), but when he was with them he was charming, and petted them far more than was the fashion in those days.

Meg's predilection for him became quite inconvenient when he tried to leave her; and she clung to him more desperately than ever, partly from terror at her new surroundings and at being left to sleep alone in a strange room.

"I'll show you something beautiful if you'll only stop crying," he said, as he put her down on the nursery-maid's lap and knelt in front of them, Meg still clutching at the lace frills of his cuff to prevent his departure.

"You'll never, never come back no more if I let you go," said the child between her sobs; but, like a true little daughter of Eve, she allowed herself to be overcome by curiosity and her hold loosened.

He drew out a small diamond-circled miniature that hung concealed round his neck.

"Who is it?" he asked in a whisper.

"Mother!" cried Meg; and he was delighted at the recognition.

"There! You shall keep it for me if you'll let me go," he said, and put it in her pink baby fingers, closing them gently over it.

Meg smiled at the shimmer of the stones. "I'll look in and see you asleep," he told her, and kissed her very tenderly as he left; but he did not look in again. Another scene was more than he could stand, and his sister advised him not to.

Meg fell asleep at last with the miniature in her hand, but woke in the middle of the night with a terrified consciousness that some one was bending over her, and feeling stealthily under her pillow.

"It's Lazarus! Father, father!" she screamed, but the figure fled incontinently—and in the morning Meg's diamonds were gone. She never spoke of her loss: like many a nervous child she could not bear to talk of nightly terrors; but for years she was haunted with the idea of that gaunt hungry figure "just outside," who might creep again into her room and stand by her with freezing hands and frost-bitten feet,—a sort of embodied and revengeful poverty.

Nursery days ended under the new rÉgime, and the pretty spoilt baby developed into a shy little schoolroom girl, who curtsied demurely, and spoke in a whisper when she appeared with her sisters in the drawing-room, for a terrible half-hour before dinner.

The girls had their meals in the schoolroom at the top of the house, with Miss Cripps, who, poor thing, had a dull enough time of it; and their world was quite distinct from their aunt's as a rule, though she occasionally invaded it, very much to their dismay.

Mrs. Russelthorpe had no intention of treating her nieces unfairly, and no money was spared over their education; if little love was lavished on them they certainly never expected, and probably never consciously missed it.

Laura and Kate held together with a close and exclusive alliance; and little Meg, who was rather "out of it" so far as her sisters were concerned, would nurse her doll in a corner, and wear the pink off its cheeks with her kisses.

Laura was a sturdy broad-shouldered girl, with a square jaw and clear blue eyes. She was abnormally solemn in the drawing-room, as indeed they all were, but possessed a fund of dry humour that would bubble up suddenly and quaintly even in schoolroom days, and a philosophical self-reliance that unfortunately had a tendency to degenerate into selfishness.

Kate was graceful and delicate. She had languid and rather plaintive manners, and gave promise of unusual beauty. She was lazy and apparently yielding, though, as a matter of fact, she possessed a gentle tenacity of purpose that seldom readily gave way to anything; but none of the Deanes were wanting in obstinacy.

One unhappy day Aunt Russelthorpe made a sudden descent on the schoolroom. She had a habit of bursting in at irregular intervals in order to see how things were going: for she never quite trusted any governess, and was genuinely determined to do her duty by the girls. Her advent was generally a prelude to storms.

"A good storm clears the air," she used to declare; and doubtless she went away the happier for having relieved her mind; as for the atmosphere she left behind, it is open to doubt whether that benefited.

This especial storm marked a crisis in Meg's life, warming her distrust of her aunt into an absolute dislike, that tended to make her childhood and girlhood both morbid and unhappy.

It was seven o'clock, and lessons were over—Miss Cripps was caught napping, and Laura and Kate were interrupted in the game they were playing together, when Mrs. Russelthorpe opened the door.

Miss Cripps had no savoir faire whatever, and they were all taken by surprise, and stared silently at the apparition in evening dress, suddenly appearing in that dull room.

"How sleepy you all are!" cried Mrs. Russelthorpe. "I never saw such quiet children! Do you never have any conversation? One would think I beat you. Where's Margaret? Oh, sitting in a corner as usual. You are getting much too old for dolls, Margaret. Miss Cripps shouldn't allow you to be such a baby—why, how old are you?"

Meg crimsoned up to the very roots of her hair, clasped her doll more tightly, her eyes growing round and dilated, and remained speechless.

"The child's a fool! How—old—are—you?" with exaggerated clearness, and a full stop between each word.

"Twelve," murmured Meg; and then began to cry from sheer nervousness. There are some natures whom tears aggravate beyond endurance; Aunt Russelthorpe lost patience and shook her niece, and the doll fell to the ground.

It was an old and worn and dirty doll, and Mrs. Russelthorpe hated anything old; it was awkward of Meg to drop it, and awkwardness set her nerves on edge. She caught the doll up by its leg, and with an exclamation of disgust threw it into the fire.

Meg screamed, and sprang forward to save it, with her face suddenly as white as her pinafore. Before any one could stop her, she had plunged her hand into the flames, and dragged out a melting mass.

Mrs. Russelthorpe, with praiseworthy presence of mind, caught up the rug and smothered her niece in it.

The blaze was out in a minute, but Meg's arm was badly burnt, and her doll was a blackened stump.

The child was beside herself with grief, and for the moment she no more felt physical pain than if she had been under chloroform. She turned to her aunt with her grey eyes blazing.

"Oh! how I hate you, Aunt Russelthorpe!" she cried. "I can't burn you—I wish—I wish I could; but I will hate you every moment of every day just as long as ever I live!"

It was after this episode that Meg took to slipping away in play-hours, and wandering off on her own devices. She felt secretly sore with Miss Cripps, and Laura and Kate, who had all looked on, and done nothing to avert the tragedy. She buried her doll in a corner of Bryanston Square, wrapped in a cambric handkerchief; but she could never laugh or play there afterwards.

She had suffered for that bit of wax as if it had been a sentient creature, that she had seen writhe in the flames. The object had been absurd enough, but the love that enveloped it had been living, and that died hard.

Meg shot up, mentally and physically about this time, and grew lanky and pale: she was beginning to leave childish ways behind her; but her childish grief had one odd result,—it led to a curious alliance between herself and her old uncle, who, of all people in the world, was supposed to most detest children.

The Russelthorpes seldom dined alone; but Mr. Russelthorpe, having established a reputation for eccentricity, left the entertaining to his wife, and would often shuffle off to his quiet study, even before dinner was fairly over.

One night he was earlier than usual.

His slippered feet made no noise as he crossed the hall, but he drew a breath of relief on entering his own den, and his breath was echoed by a startled gasp from the top of the library steps.

There sat a slim pale girl, with three volumes in her lap, and a fourth in her arms. She had taken sanctuary in his library (which even housemaids durst not invade) for three weeks, but she was discovered at last.

The two gazed at each other in silence. Uncle Russelthorpe's sharp eyes began to twinkle under their heavy brows, Meg's grew large with despair.

"Upon my word!" he said slowly. "And what are you here for?"

The dining-room door opened at this moment, and the sound of voices reached them, Aunt Russelthorpe's high above the rest.

"Oh, don't call her! Please, please," cried Meg, with desperate entreaty. "I didn't mean any harm, I didn't really—I always have gone before you came in—I won't ever stay so late again—I came to—to get away from them all."

"Hm—so did I," said Uncle Russelthorpe; and he shut the door, and drew the thick curtain before it.

"How long do you generally stop, ghost?"

"Till the clock strikes half-past seven," said Meg.

"Oh," said he, "you had better keep to your time. Ghosts are always regular in their visitations, but don't make any noise if you want to haunt me. I don't allow bodies in here, only spirits." He glanced at her again under his eyebrows.

"You've not flesh enough to speak of," he said. "Yes, I think you may stay."

So Meg stayed till the half-hour, when she took off her shoes in order to make no noise, stole from her high perch, and vanished on tip-toe.

She was pathetically grateful to him for the privilege; and their friendship prospered.

It was a characteristic of the old gentleman that he felt no responsibility for her. She devoured his books as she chose, and so long as she treated them carefully, he was only amused at her choice. He let her go her own way, as he let his wife; Meg worshipped him for his so-called kindness, and answered with eyes full of reverence when he addressed her; she thought his laziness patience, and his tolerance angelic.

All her life she saw heroes in ordinary men and women, and was disappointed if they failed to act up to her ideal of them. It was a propensity that cost her bitter tears—but, after all, the world might be the worse without the few fools who go on believing all things of those they love.

Sometimes Uncle Russelthorpe would take no notice of his "ghost"; and then, true to her part, she never spoke; sometimes, when the humour took him, he would draw her out and amuse himself with her quaint remarks. Occasionally her questions slightly discomposed him, "irresponsible" though he was.

"What does Socrates mean by this?" the clear, unabashed voice would ask; and Uncle Russelthorpe would interrupt the reading aloud that followed, with a hasty,—

"Oh, that is meant for old men like me, not for women or girls. You needn't think about it."

Fortunately, Meg had no morbid curiosity; and the ancient writers with whom her childish spirit communed left no stain on her innocence.

Sir Thomas Browne fascinated her; for the twelve-year-old girl, like the visionary doctor, had a strong leaning toward the supernatural.

Once Uncle Russelthorpe saw her shudder, as she bent over the big folio on her knee.

"What's the matter?" he inquired.

"Sir Thomas Browne says rather frightening things sometimes," said Meg, and proceeded to quote.

"But that those phantasms appear often, and do frequent cemeteries, charnel houses, and churches, it is because those are the dormitories, where the devil, like an insolent champion, beholds with pride the spoils and trophies of his victory in Adam."

"Do you think he really does do that, uncle?"

"Eh? Who? Does what?" said Uncle Russelthorpe, taking snuff.

"The—the devil," whispered Meg. "Does he truly walk about the cemeteries like an insolent champion?"

"We all make our own Devil, as we make our own God," said Mr. Russelthorpe. "You and your friend Sir Thomas make a very terrific one, with uncommonly long horns, because you are both cursed with imagination."

"I don't understand," said the child, after puzzling some time over this reply; and perhaps it was as well she didn't.

On the whole, the hours in the library were good for Meg. Mrs. Russelthorpe observed that she was getting less babyish, and put the change down to her own excellent treatment. She would probably have disapproved of the evening "hauntings" had she known of them; but Mr. Russelthorpe held his tongue on the subject, and they continued till Meg's lesson hours were lengthened with her petticoats, and she was well into her "teens". The cleverest of us are allowed less management than we sometimes fancy, wherein Providence shows some mercy.