Spring and Favonius were rapidly loosening the bonds of winter, when Randolph and his sister returned to their old quarters at Hampstead, with feelings very different from those which had attended their first arrival there. Six months had revolutionized their existence. And when in the tumult of emotion which followed the trial at Bodmin, the disinherited heir conceived the idea of seeking the roof which had sheltered his brief studentship, it was rather in that mockery with which despair often tries to delude itself, than with a serious purpose of fulfilling the design. He cast a sneering and scornful glance upon his sojourn in London, and thought of resuming it as a bitter jest. But come what might, he was resolved to quit Trevethlan, and that instantly. Where then could he go? Where find a home for Helen?—questions which Randolph answered by accepting in earnest the plan which he had conceived in irony. Let their old host and hostess enjoy a nine days' wonder.

So to Hampstead the orphans went, making a more leisurely journey than before, and arriving, free from fatigue, in the evening. They were received with warm cordiality.

"What!" said Peach to Randolph, when Helen had retired, "you slept last night at Basingstoke! Not disturbed, I hope, by any of the monk of Croyland's adversaries. Hear Foelix concerning the foes of monastic rest, as Camden reports his very middling hexameters—

Cornelius loved to hear himself talk, and this was a favourite quotation with him. Randolph assured him the inn at Basingstoke was quite free from the plagues of Croyland Abbey. And then, in a few brief sentences he acquainted Mr. Peach with his real quality. His landlord was amused with the romance.

"Why," said he, "you are like my Lord Burleigh, wooing his peasant-love under the guise of a painter."

A short time before, the remark would have occasioned a severe twinge, but now there was no room for any. Randolph was surrounded by a sea of troubles, and knew not in which direction to strike. And the full effect of the verdict was as yet unperceived by him. He had not observed that by dissolving all ties between himself and his father, it would deprive him not merely of his real estate, the castle and its precincts, but also of all the personal property which he possessed in the world. The next of kin would follow the heir-at-law. In this case they were combined in the same person. Would any mercy be shown? Would it be accepted if it were? The orphans were literally beggars. Nay, they were even in debt. For a rigorous account might be exacted of every farthing of property, which the late Mr. Trevethlan left behind him at his death. And thus opprobium, immediate and inevitable, was hanging over Randolph's head.

The lawyers, of course, were well aware of this. But Mr. Truby, about whom there was nothing of the pettifogger, was in no hurry to advise his client to rush to extremities. He remembered the judge's observation at the trial, that additional evidence would probably be forthcoming before very long, and was not anxious to bear on the defeated party, in a manner which might afterwards be termed oppressive. He always hated sharp practice. He felt bound to mention the state of the case to Mr. Pendarrel, and that gentleman of course communicated it to his wife. Esther started at the news, but perceiving that every day would only involve the orphans more deeply, she was contented to let her advantage rest for a while.

On the other hand, Mr. Winter did not feel it on any account necessary to point out his real position to Randolph. Being certain that injustice had been done, although at present unable to see his way to its reversal, he was loth to risk the disclosure to one of so passionate and obstinate a temper as his client. And in truth the latter's condition required no aggravation. Randolph was in the plight, most harassing to a hot and impatient mood, when there is nothing immediately to be done, and the spirit chafes and rages at its forced inertness.

He sought his friend and counsel, Rereworth, but without obtaining any consolatory information. Seymour was endeavouring to trace the witness whose testimony had overthrown his friend. But hitherto wholly without success. Everope had disappeared entirely from all his former haunts. His chambers were perpetually closed, and the old woman, who acted as his laundress, knew nothing at all concerning her master's movements. Yet this was the quest which Rereworth thought held out the best hope of success; for if the spendthrift's evidence were bought, there were many circumstances conceivable, under which he might be induced to confess.

Very few days had elapsed after the arrival of the orphans at Hampstead, when they were joined by Polydore Riches. He brought them all the details of the conflagration at Pendarrel. And with wrath and indignation Randolph learned that it was pretty generally regarded in the country as a reprisal for the verdict at Bodmin. Not such was the retaliation he desired. The chaplain also grieved his old pupils with an account of the numerous arrests which had been made among the dependents of the castle. It seemed as though their own ruin involved that of many besides.

There was another circumstance connected with this intelligence which was of deep interest to Randolph. The Pendarrels had returned to London. He again breathed the same air with Mildred. Now he had almost rejoiced in the idea that this would not be the case. He was glad that in the dreary interval devoted to the recovery of his rights, during which he had vowed to see her no more, distance would remove any temptation to break the resolution. But she was again within his reach. Any day, in walking through the streets of the metropolis, she might cross his path. He would be in continual expectation of such a meeting. An instant might overthrow all his determination. It was another element to mingle in the turbulence of his emotions.

And the chaplain bore a missive also, which was a source of considerable discussion; namely, Mrs. Winston's letter to Helen, containing the invitation to her house. Gertrude had written with great tact, and with a full consciousness of the delicacy which might revolt from accepting an obligation from the daughter of Esther Pendarrel. She went so far as to say that her offer would probably be disagreeable to her mother if it were known, but she hoped to prevent that, until some fortunate discovery had re-instated her cousins in their just rights. And she infused into her whole letter a warmth of kindness and sympathy which she trusted would not be without its effect. For in truth she wrote from her heart.

But the proposal led to great demur. Randolph abhorred the idea of accepting anything like favour from any of his enemy's house; and was not disposed to admit Mrs. Winston's view of her independence. Yet, being married, she might be considered as no longer involved in the quarrel. And Randolph was very anxious to find his sister a home. She was in his way. He felt it with no want of affection. But whenever in his reveries he looked forward to the career he should adopt, as soon as he had re-established the good fame of his family, his sister always recurred to his mind as an obstacle in his path. Sketching for himself an adventurous course in some far-distant land, he was always recalled from the vision by the thought of her he should in such case be compelled to leave unprotected, behind. A very short glimpse into the future would have spared him much fruitless speculation.

Helen, with that gentle longing for a reconciliation which she showed in the very opening of this narrative, read Mrs. Winston's letter with pleasure, and desired to accept the invitation. In answer to her brother's peevish dissatisfaction, she urged that her visit might be very short, but that it would be ungrateful, uncharitable, every way perverse, to reject what was offered with such true kindness. She should be entirely private,—should, of course, hold no intercourse with Mr. or Mrs. Pendarrel, and could see Randolph as often and as freely as he pleased.

The chaplain supported Helen's argument with all his power. And in the end the brother yielded, little thinking to what a train of circumstances the visit would give rise. And so Miss Trevethlan removed to Cavendish-square, where Gertrude's winning demeanour soon put her completely at her ease, and where she walked through those same rooms, in which she might remember that Randolph encountered Mrs. Pendarrel face to face, and made the avowal which cut short his career as a student of the law.

He himself escorted her, and quivered a little as he stood in the well-remembered drawing-room. But he only staid a few minutes before returning to Hampstead, through the long and squalid suburb which then lay at the foot of the hill. The stuccoed terraces of the Regent's-park were still in the brain or the portfolio of the architect. The realization of Darwin's prophecy,

although it had taken place on one element, seemed as far distant on shore as when the poet wrote. What wonders have been wrought in these thirty years of peace! And is it possible to think, that once more our progress may be arrested by war, and that the energies which have so long been devoted to the cause of civilization—that great cause of the whole human race, in which nations may fraternize without reciprocal encroachment, which is identical with the advance of true liberty, and of the only equality which mortals can attain, that of virtue—is it possible that these energies can once more be required for self-defence, that the death-drum may again summon us to repel a foreign foe, or that symbols and watchwords may divide ourselves, and our ancient flag find a rival standard unfurled by the sons of those who fought the battle of freedom? Rather let us hope that the convulsions around us may be found to have cleared the air, and brought the day more near,

The coming of Polydore Riches was an event of some interest to the worthy couple of the peachery. Clotilda, in common with most spinsters of her age, was much in the habit of criticising the mien and aspect of clergymen, and formed her own idea of the appearance of the chaplain from the respect and affection with which Helen always spoke of him. And it must be owned she was a little disappointed. She had expected rather a portly man, with white hair, and a commanding presence. She encountered a slight figure and a pale face, the habitual pensiveness of which was now deepened by anxiety, and which was shaded by locks wherein silver had as yet but little share. Miss Peach allowed that Polydore was "interesting," but she had expected something more.

But Randolph was quite right in predicting that the chaplain and Cornelius would agree together admirably. The two old bachelors speedily conceived a high mutual esteem. Their tastes were very similar. In each there was the same simplicity of character. Polydore was more refined and enthusiastic; Cornelius more humorous and practical. The worthy host soon prevailed on his new friend to join him in a pipe, a luxury in which the chaplain had scarcely indulged since he quitted the classic shades of Granta. And they exhaled the fragrant fumes, due to Peach's ancient friend Sir Walter, so long, that the old clerk fell into a rhapsody on the perfections of that creature of his dreams, Mabel; and actually extracted from Polydore a murmured panegyric on that treasure of his memory, Rose Griffith. And then might a spectator have been amused to observe how the names of Mabel and Rose alternated with the puffs of smoke, and were often sighed forth in concert, with a pathos that might have done honour to the unworthily-used Malvolio.