ENGLEFIELD GRANGE

CHAPTER I.

BY THE SEA.

The afternoon sun of early summer shone brightly on the arm of the sea which joins the Solent at West Cowes, in the Isle of Wight. A few boats were moored alongside the landing-place, but as the season had not yet commenced, the boatmen were standing about idle, scarcely hoping for a fare.

Presently three ladies and a little boy were observed descending the steps, and one of the men, with whom the ladies seemed acquainted, hastily advanced, and touching his cap, exclaimed—

"Want a boat, ma'am, to-day? splendid tide!"

The lady was about to reply, when her youngest daughter, a beautiful girl of about eighteen, touched her on the arm, and exclaimed—

"Oh, mamma, look at the waves; is not the sea very rough to-day?"

"Lor', no, Miss," replied the man, "that's only a little ripple, caused by the fresh breeze; the boat 'ill sail beautiful if you're going up the Solent, for she'll have wind and tide in her favour."

Maria St. Clair looked above and around her as the man spoke, and truly the sea presented a charming aspect of crested, tiny waves, rippling in the breeze, and sparkling beneath the sun, shining in a sky of brilliant blue.

Her fears almost gave way at the sight, yet her sister's remark, although it shamed her into silence, did not complete the cure.

"Why, Maria, how can you be so foolish? If you had sailed to India and back, as I have done, you would laugh at your fears of a sea like this."

"You shall not venture, my dear," said her mother, who wore a widow's costume, "unless you feel quite willing to do so."

"Oh, thank you, mamma, but I would rather go with you. I want to conquer this nervousness on the water; why, even on a steamer I always feel afraid."

While they talked the men were launching a prettily-rigged pleasure boat, the colours of green and gold with which it was painted gleaming in pleasant contrast with the rippling water; and over the seats in the stern an awning was stretched to protect the ladies from the sun's rays.

Mrs. St. Clair and her elder daughter, Mrs. Herbert, with her little boy of four, were, however, safely seated in the boat before Maria could make up her mind to follow them.

At a part of West Cowes near this landing-place stood a row of private houses, the back windows overlooking the sea, and the gardens reaching down to it protected by a sea wall. As in Devonshire, the foliage of this beautiful island in some part stretches down to the water's edge, and gardens near the sea are often well filled with roses and other summer flowers in profusion.

In one of these gardens, and very near the boundary wall against which the high tide dashed pleasantly, stood a gentleman earnestly watching the embarkation of the party in the pleasure-boat.

His dress was more like that of the yeoman of those days than the seaside costume of a gentleman. The thick shoes and drab gaiters, part of the customary garb of a farmer, were, however, concealed by the garden wall, and when for a moment he took off the white, low-crowned beaver hat, and rubbed his fingers through his hair, the face and head were those of a handsome man of the intellectual type. Regular features, clear olive skin, dark sparkling eyes, hair, eyebrows, and whiskers of almost raven blackness, and a certain air of refinement, were certainly not quite in character with his homely attire.

"Where have I seen that face?" he said to himself, as Maria St. Clair paused irresolutely with one foot on the prow of the boat. "It is very beautiful."

And the gentleman's reflections were not far wrong. Plainly, but tastefully dressed, the lithe figure slightly bent forward in a shrinking, yet graceful attitude, and the outstretched tiny foot were attractive enough to excite notice. But the face truly deserved the epithet bestowed upon it by the lounger in the garden. Fair at this moment, even to paleness, the delicately-chiselled features, the half-opened lips, expressive of fear, and exposing the pearly teeth, and the long fair ringlets that fell on her shoulders made up a picture which when once seen was not easily forgotten. Such a face is often supposed to belong to a woman devoid of character or insipid, but from this appearance it was saved by marked eyebrows darker than the hair and violet eyes shaded by long dark lashes.

While thus Edward Armstrong stood making a photograph of the young girl on his memory, he recalled the fact that he had seen her at church on the previous Sunday as one of the pupils of a ladies' school, and had been attracted to notice her by her retiring timid manner, which to him formed her greatest charm.

He remained to watch till he saw her safely seated in the boat with the other ladies, and then, as the rowers turned in the direction of the Solent, he found himself observed by the ladies. At once, but not abruptly, he left his post of observation, saying to himself, "I'll find out the name of that fair lassie from my landlady; she has lived here many years and knows everybody." At the garden door he met the very person of whom he thought, and she at once opened the subject without requiring him to "beat about the bush" for that purpose.

"You've been watching the ladies embark, sir," she said; "it's a lovely day for a row or even a sail, if they like. Mrs. St. Clair and her daughter, Mrs. Herbert, often hires that boat for themselves, but it's the first time I've ever seen Miss Maria on the sea, except in a steamboat; she's very much afraid of the water."

"Is Mrs. St. Clair a visitor?" he asked.

"Well, sir, in one way she is, for she's visiting her daughter, Mrs. Herbert, who resides here with her little boy. Her husband, Captain Herbert, is in India, and she came over about twelve months ago, on account of her health.

"Mrs. St. Clair has a house near London, and she's a real lady, sir," continued the old woman, glad to have for once an interested listener. "She's one of the Elliots; they're a Warwickshire family, and she married the Honourable Mr. St. Clair, a grandson of Lord Selmore's. He wasn't very well off, sir—you know those younger sons seldom are—and when he died, about five years ago, he left his widow a very small income, and nothing for his three daughters."

"And is Mrs. Herbert the eldest?" he asked.

"No, sir; Miss St. Clair, when she was only twenty, married a rich admiral fifty years of age, and now she's Lady Elston. But for my part I can't understand how a woman can marry a man so much older than herself, just for money and a title. Miss Helen, that's Mrs. Herbert, made the best match. Captain Herbert's not much older than she is, and he's got private property besides his pay. She was very high-spirited and independent, and would go and be a governess, and I think Miss Maria, that's the youngest, wants to do the same now she's left school, but her mamma wont hear of it because she's so timid; all the young ladies are very clever and accomplished. But I beg your pardon, sir, I'm keeping you standing to listen to my gossip, and I daresay you want your tea."

"Yes, if you please, Mrs. Lake, as soon as you like," and Edward Armstrong turned into his parlour, forming a resolution in his mind that by some means or other he would prevent the possibility of Maria St. Clair ever becoming a governess.

It had cost the timid girl a strong effort to enter the boat; she tottered, and would have fallen more from fear than from the rocking of the boat, had not the man held her firmly, and even when first seated, she held on with both hands while the rowers brought the boat round, and could not feel secure till they were rowing gently with the tide.

After awhile her sister remarked, "This is pleasant now, is it not, Minnie?"

"Oh, yes, delightful," she replied, "and I'm so glad you and mamma persuaded me to come, for I'm tired of being laughed at, and called a coward; why, even little Charlie does not seem afraid!"

"Not he, are you, my pet?" continued his mother, addressing her boy.

"No, mamma, not a bit; I like it better than riding in a coach or a train."

For some distance they continued their course towards Ryde, till Mrs. St. Clair, looking at her watch, and finding they had been out more than an hour, expressed a wish to return. She had noticed also that the breeze stiffened as the sun approached the west, and although no thought of danger entered her mind, she was unwilling to wait for a rough sea to alarm her timid daughter. The tide had turned, and therefore the return would, she knew, be as free from difficulty on that score as on the way out, but the wind would be against them, and create, of course, an uneasy motion of the boat.

It was as she expected. The removal of the awning became necessary, and the rocking of the little craft during this performance so alarmed poor Maria that she became completely unnerved, nor could all the efforts of her friends and the boatmen reassure her. However, at times they were sheltered, and although Maria felt a motion which thrilled through the boat as it battled with the waves roughened by the wind, she was becoming more at ease, and by the time they passed Osborne House, not then a royal residence, and came in sight of the houses of West Cowes, she was positively beginning to enjoy her trip, and could talk pleasantly to her mother and sister.

Meanwhile Edward Armstrong sat at his solitary tea-table wrapped up in his own thoughts. Mrs. Lake came in to fetch the tea-things, but he did not speak. She roused him, however, by one remark—

"The ladies have got a beautiful evening for their trip, sir," she said; "they generally stay out two hours, but they started later than usual this evening—I suppose because the days are getting longer, and they're not back yet."

"It is a beautiful evening," replied the young man, rising and going to the open window; "I may as well have a stroll by the sea as sit here."

"So I thought, sir," was the reply, "and that's why I mentioned it."

Edward Armstrong smiled as he left the room, unprepared for the events of an evening which for his whole life would never be obliterated from his memory.

When he reached the village street, and turned down by the landing-place to the beach, the change from the costume of the afternoon to a suit of black, and a black hat with a crape band, made his appearance entirely that of a gentleman; there was nothing of the farmer's slouch in the tall, well-built, erect figure, and manly carriage.

He wandered on the beach for some time, enjoying the sweet freshness of the sea-breeze and watching the rippling waves, over which the approach of sunset threw a glow of crimson and gold; now and then, however, casting glances in the direction of Ryde, with a hope of once more beholding the face that had so completely enthralled him. The church clock struck seven, and presently, as he stood at a point a little beyond the battery from which royal salutes are now fired, he saw the Southampton steamer coming round a point of land at a little distance. He, with others, walked quietly on towards the landing-place, actuated by the curiosity as to new arrivals which generally besets occasional residents at the seaside.

But his attention was quickly withdrawn from the steamer. In the direction of Ryde he could see the green and gold of the pleasure-boat as it approached, struggling against the wind, which made her progress difficult and uneasy.

The rowers were evidently making for the point from which the boat had started, not very far from the spot where the steamer now lay, blowing off her steam, yet easily reached without danger of being run down, even if she moved before they could do so.

But the steamer had already created a difficulty, for when the boat entered the point where the waters unite, she encountered also the swell made by the paddle-wheels. Steadily the men plied their oars, while the boat, dancing and rolling on the surge, caused by the united effects of the wind, the steamer, and the double currents, attracted the attention of others besides Edward Armstrong. He could distinguish the ladies clearly as the men neared the shore. He saw the pale face and the violet eyes of Maria St. Clair fixed upon the steamer with painful intenseness; he saw the little gloved hands clasped on her lap, as if by that violent pressure she could prevent the steamer from moving. The men were bending all their strength to the oars, as with rapid strokes they made for the landing-place. Nearer and nearer came the boat till within fifty yards of the shore. The spectators scarcely breathed as it passed under the stern of the steamer, no one on deck seeming to notice it. Would they reach the shore before it moved?

"Is there any danger?" was eagerly asked.

"No; boats like that would ride the wave safely—besides, the men are becoming used to steamers now, and sailors can always avoid danger."

Alas! not always. At this critical moment the steamer moved from the pier, its paddle-wheels backing slowly to make the turn towards Ryde more easily; from beneath them the foaming water rolled in eddying, agitating circles, swelling the already disturbed waves. Upon one of these the boat was lifted, and then to the terrified occupants appeared to be sinking headlong into the trough of the sea.

Edward Armstrong stretched out his arms as if to avert the impending danger. He had seen the young girl rise from her seat, and as she tottered from the consequences of this almost always fatal act, she caught at her little nephew's arm, and the next moment they were both struggling together in the surging water.

There were screams on the shore—running to and fro—a cry for ropes—the stoppage of the steamer, from which a boat was quickly lowered; but unexpected help was nearer at hand.

A gentleman on the beach was seen to throw off his coat and hat, and plunge into the boiling waves. In a few moments he returned with the little boy in his arms, for whom many hands were eagerly held out. He paused not a moment, but struck out again towards the spot at which he had seen the young girl fall overboard.

The rowers had hastened on to the shore, in order to land the alarmed mother and sister in safety, they then quickly proceeded to the spot where the boat from the steamer had already arrived with ropes.

Amongst the anxious spectators on shore stood Mrs. Lake, who, the instant she saw Mrs. St. Clair and her daughter, rushed towards them, exclaiming, "Oh pray, ladies, do not stay here, the gentleman is sure to save Miss Maria, he's my lodger, and——"

At this moment Mrs. Herbert started forward, she had seen her boy carried from the water and ran to meet him.

"Take the little boy to my house, Mrs. Herbert, pray do," cried the excited landlady; "it's close by, and he'll want attention directly."

Too bewildered to refuse, and anxious also to remove her mother from the scene of excitement, for Mrs. St. Clair seemed ready to faint as she stood, Mrs. Herbert took her arm, and together they followed the man who carried little Charlie.

"You know where it is, Tom," said Mrs. Lake to the man; "take the ladies, I'll be there directly; I must stay and see if Mr. Armstrong saves that dear young lady," she added to herself, as she turned back to the shore.

Meanwhile the men had cheered the stranger as he plunged a second time into the waves, but he remained more than once so long under water when diving, that fears were entertained for his own fate. There was a pause. At last, amid the shouts of the spectators, he rose to the surface, but so faint and exhausted that he had only sufficient strength to give up the apparently lifeless body of Maria St. Clair to the men in one of the boats. He would himself have sunk after doing so, had he not been quickly seized by ready hands and dragged into the boat.

A few moments brought them to shore, amid the cheers of the spectators, who were, however, hushed to silence when Maria St. Clair and her deliverer, both to all appearance dead, were lifted out of the boat.

"Oh dear! oh, sir! Mr. Armstrong, and Miss Maria too!—oh, that I should live to see this day!"

"Hush! that outcry will do no good," and the voice of the doctor stayed the useless complaints of Mrs. Lake. "Is there any house near to which this lady can be taken?"

"Oh yes, sir," she replied, "mine is close by; Mrs. Herbert's there now with the little boy, and the gentleman's own apartments are at my house."

But Edward Armstrong had by this time so far recovered, that with assistance he was able to leave the boat and follow on foot the bearers of that lifeless form to his own apartments, with trembling steps and a sinking at his heart.

He was met at the door by Mrs. St. Clair and Mrs. Herbert. The former in dismay at her daughter's appearance, could not utter a word, but Mrs. Herbert, as he entered, held out her hand, and clasping that of her child's deliverer, she exclaimed, "God bless you, sir, I can never repay you for what you have done." He had no heart to reply, but he pressed the hand he held, and turned towards his own bedroom with the painful thought that all his efforts, even at the risk of his own life, had been unsuccessful in the case of Maria St. Clair.

CHAPTER II.

WHO SAVED HER?

The question which heads this chapter was asked by many on that memorable evening, long after it became known that the remedies and prompt measures adopted by the doctors had been successful in restoring Maria St. Clair to consciousness after hours of anxious suspense.

The same question will occur to the reader, to whom, perhaps, the answer may prove a disappointment.

In a street near the most fashionable part of the West End of London, stood a large and well-built house, the lower part of which bore the appearance of a place of business, half-shop, half-office. Above it, in large letters, appeared the words, "Edward Armstrong, Corn Factor."

The handsome, intellectual-looking man who had so courageously distinguished himself on the beach at West Cowes, could boast of no higher position than that of a London tradesman, nor of any ancestors more honourable than England's yeomen. For nearly two hundred years the Armstrongs had been known as farmers in the neighbourhood of Basingstoke. Only one direct branch of the family now remained, an aged farmer still occupying Meadow Farm, and Edward Armstrong, his only child.

The boy early gave evidence that he possessed tastes very different to those required in agricultural pursuits. On this account his mother, who, like many mothers, wished her son to be more educated than his parents, strongly encouraged the proposal that he should be sent to boarding-school. That her boy should become what the country folks call a "fine scholar," was her greatest ambition.

Whether he obtained that title or not, it is certain that at school he quickly developed intellectual tastes, and acquired a certain degree of refinement, which made him quite unfit for association, except in the corn market, with farmers who talked of their "'ay and their whoats, and whate." For a few years, however, he remained at home, and acquired sufficient knowledge of these said "whoats and whate" to be very useful to him in his present position. After awhile, his father consented to his going to London and establishing a business.

Notwithstanding Edward Armstrong's taste for reading and other literary pursuits, he was still a thorough man of business, and had succeeded so well in his London undertaking, that at the age of thirty-three he found himself master of a splendid business, a well-furnished house, known and respected on the Corn Exchange, and still unmarried.

Yet with all his literary and scientific knowledge—which was not a little—with all his industry, energy, and business habits, he had strong prejudices consequent upon early education; peculiar notions on various subjects, and a will, as well as opinions, that would brook no contradiction.

Much of all this might have been softened down and removed by an early and suitable marriage.

But one of Edward Armstrong's peculiarities was shown in his determination, when he did marry, to have a real lady for his wife—in those days not a very easy matter for a man in trade.

His appearance in the Isle of Wight was caused by having had to attend the funeral of his mother, and he had been spending a fortnight at his old home, and making arrangements for a cousin and his wife to manage the farm, under his father's guidance, when business matters brought him from Meadow Farm to the Isle of Wight. He had been detained at Cowes for nearly a week when the alarming events described in the last chapter made a hero of him, almost against his will.

On reaching his bedroom on that eventful evening, he found doctors and nurses ready to prescribe and attend to him. He was quickly stripped of his wet clothes, hurried to bed, and made to take proper remedies in spite of a great deal of self-willed opposition. Mrs. Lake had secured the attendance of her own doctor, who divided his time between her best room, occupied by Maria St. Clair, and that of her deliverer. Mrs. St. Clair's medical attendant was also present during that terrible time, in which the gentle spirit of her daughter, Maria, fluttered on the confines of eternity.

Edward Armstrong, however, could not compose himself to sleep; indeed he openly refused to take a draught which the doctor had sent to enable him to do so. Mrs. Lake, therefore, ventured to send for Dr. Freeman, hoping that he might be better able to influence the refractory patient.

"Doctor," said Edward, as the former entered the room, fully intending to exert his professional authority, "I cannot and will not sleep till I hear more favourable accounts of Miss St. Clair. Tell me at once if there is any hope."

"Hey-day, my friend, your energy gives me strong hopes for your own complete recovery at all events, but you know well that we are not the arbiters of life and death; we can only use all the means and trust to a Higher Power for the result."

"But is there any hope?" persisted Edward.

"Certainly, I cannot deny there is hope," he replied. "Dr. Anson also is very sanguine respecting the result of our efforts; but, my friend, if you will not take the sleeping draught, I must insist on your keeping yourself warm and quiet, or the consequences of your sea-bath will be more serious than you anticipate; and now I must return to Miss St. Clair, who at the present moment requires all the attention we can give her."

"Send me word directly a change for the better takes place," said the patient anxiously, as Dr. Freeman turned to go.

"I will come myself," he replied, "on condition that you keep quiet and try to sleep."

"Well," thought the doctor, as with cautious steps he proceeded to the young lady's room, "the man has not been in this place much more than a week, his landlady tells me, or I should suppose he was Miss St. Clair's lover by the way he goes on."

Could he have been aware of Edward Armstrong's thoughts, as he lay with closed eyes, but mentally awake, he would more readily have understood the cause of his restless and wakeful anxiety.

He had tried to save the life of a girl to whom he had been strangely attracted, and after all, though he might mourn over the untimely death which could blight such a lovely flower, still he had not even a right to sympathise with her relatives, to whom he was a stranger. They might certainly appreciate his sympathy, and be grateful for his efforts to save her, but they could not know anything of the hopes which he had within the last few days encouraged and fostered.

And what were these hopes? he asked himself. Were they not founded on impossibilities? Even if Miss Maria St. Clair recovered, and owed her life to his energy, could he still hope to win her? Would the Honourable Mrs. St. Clair consider a London tradesman, who owned a shop, a suitable husband for the descendant of an Earl? for such her youngest daughter truly was. Would saving her life create a debt of gratitude sufficiently strong to break down the barriers of social prejudices and social distinctions? Would the fact of his being able to support a wife in comfort and luxury tempt the mother to give him her portionless daughter? He found himself unable to answer these mental queries, and as he turned from side to side in restless anxiety, poor Mrs. Lake longed for good news from the best bedroom, as much for the sake of her lodger as for the friends of the young lady themselves.

When Dr. Freeman entered the bedroom from which he had been called to Edward Armstrong, he saw at a glance that his colleague, Dr. Anson, was more hopeful than ever. Every remedy used in cases of drowning had been tried, but Dr. Anson evidently considered that the continued state of unconsciousness, in which Maria St. Clair lay, was attributable to another cause. To conquer the effects of this cause was now his aim; yet half an hour passed before his efforts were rewarded with even a shadow of success. Maria St. Clair lay still and nerveless on the bed. From her pale face the golden curls had been pushed back, and lay scattered in disordered profusion on the pillow.

Although the summer twilight still lingered, the gas had been lighted to assist the medical men in their efforts to restore life. Dr. Anson stood with his fingers on the delicate wrist, and as his colleague entered he made a sign for him to draw near the bed.

On the opposite side near the head sat Mrs. St. Clair, holding the hand of her daughter, Helen, in a convulsive grasp. The crisis had come, and the mother and daughter were awaiting with painful intentness the result of the doctor's efforts. Minutes passed, but they did not relax these efforts. Presently Dr. Anson looked up suddenly; his sensitive fingers had detected a slight vibration at the wrist. For a few moments there was a pause, a breathless stillness had seemed to foreshadow the approach of death. It was but the intensity of suspense—every eye rested on the fair, pale face. Was it fancy? Did the eyelids really quiver, and the lips tremble? Yes; for as the eyes languidly opened, the lips parted and a breath like a sigh gave evidence of returning life. Mrs. St. Clair rose hastily and clung to her married daughter, while the doctor quickly administered a stimulant which, to his great joy, the patient was able to swallow. Gradually the feeble breath became more regular, the eyes more intelligent, and a faint colour overspread the cheek. Again the doctor offered the stimulant, and this time it was taken more easily, and the patient made an effort to speak.

"Mamma, are you here?" were the faint, feeble words.

"Yes, darling," said Mrs. St. Clair, coming round to the other side of the bed with Mrs. Herbert, "and Helen is here too."

"Where is little Charlie?"

"Safe in bed and asleep," was the reply.

"Mamma, who saved us?" she asked, after a pause.

"You and Charlie owe your lives, under God, to a stranger who is lodging here with Mrs. Lake," replied her mother.

"Mamma, let me thank him. Where is he?"

"In bed, and I hope asleep," exclaimed Dr. Freeman; "and, my dear young lady, we must get you to sleep quickly, too, or there is no answering for the consequences. You shall see our friend to-morrow and thank him yourself."

Maria St. Clair closed her eyes in token of obedience; readily she took what the medical men prescribed, and after awhile, with many cautions to the anxious mother, the gentlemen took their leave. On the way downstairs Dr. Freeman remarked, "That poor girl was not long enough in the water to so completely deprive her of consciousness. I believe she fainted from terror when she found herself falling."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Dr. Anson. "I know that Maria has always had a natural dread of the water, and it was injudicious to persuade her to enter a boat under any but absolute necessity. Had she not recovered, her death would have been mainly attributable to the shock received by the nervous system. Are you going to remain here longer?" he asked, as Dr. Freeman stopped and held out his hand.

"Only to see my other patient."

"Is he all right?" was the next question.

"I hope he will be after the draught I am going to give him," replied Dr. Freeman; "he has had a narrow escape with life, but it is a mercy he was there at all. No one could have acted more promptly and courageously than he did."

"I shall look in again on my patient this evening," said Dr. Anson as they shook hands. "If no feverish symptoms supervene we shall soon have the young lady quite well."

"There is more danger of fever in this case," thought the doctor, as he stood by Edward Armstrong's bed with his fingers on his pulse a few minutes later, describing what had occurred, and telling him of Miss St. Clair's hopeful condition.

The effect, however, of this information, and the remedy which he did not now refuse, were so beneficial that in less than half an hour after the doctor left him to the care of Mrs. Lake, he was sleeping calmly.

Yet potent as the medicine might be, it was not powerful enough to keep Edward Armstrong asleep all night. More than once he awoke, and finding Mrs. Lake watching in his room on the last occasion, he anxiously inquired for Miss St. Clair.

"Sleeping sweetly, sir, thank God," was the reply. "I've just been into the room, and glad enough I am that the ladies are able to take some rest. I only came in here to see if you were all right; and now I'm going to take my place in Miss St. Clair's room, while they go and lie down. Oh, sir, they're both so thankful to you for what you did last night. But I'm not going to have you waking up and losing your rest; whatever am I about, chattering like this?" And she cautiously drew the curtains closer to shut out the early summer daylight.

But Edward was too much under the effects of his draught to keep awake long. He had understood sufficiently from Mrs. Lake's speech that Miss St. Clair was in no danger, and even before she had ceased talking he fell asleep.

The morning sun, however, roused him, as he supposed, at his usual hour, and he rose quite refreshed, and feeling very little the worse for his exploits of the preceding evening.

Dressing quickly, he descended to his sitting-room and found to his surprise that the clock had struck nine.

On the mantelpiece lay his watch, which had stopped as he plunged into the water, and the hands pointed to half-past seven. Taking it up to set it to the right time, he walked to the window and looked out across the garden to the spot which had so nearly proved fatal to himself as well as to another, and shuddered as he thought of what might have been if his efforts had proved unsuccessful.

While thus reflecting, Mrs. Lake entered with his breakfast.

"Good morning, sir," she said, as he turned to greet her; "I'm that glad to see you downstairs again, and all right, I hardly know what to say. But do you really feel quite well, sir?" she added hastily, "for you're looking pale."

"I'm all right," he replied, smiling, "or at least I shall be after breakfast, I hope, for that physic stuff has made my head ache."

"I daresay it has, sir; them sleeping draughts always do, but you'll be quite well after a cup of coffee."

Edward Armstrong seated himself, nothing loth, while his landlady continued to remain in the room by waiting upon him or dusting here and there, or rearranging different articles on the table, in hopes of being questioned. Her hopes were soon realised, for her lodger asked, "How is the young lady this morning, Mrs. Lake?"

"Oh! doing nicely, sir, and so is Master Charlie; he slept in my room last night, and he's been awake I can't tell how long, asking heaps of questions about the kind gentleman that took him and dear aunty out of the water—and the ladies, sir, they've been asking for you, and they do say Miss Maria is quite herself again this morning, and that she's going to get up presently."

Mrs. Lake was interrupted by a tap at the door, and without waiting for a reply, it was opened, and Dr. Anson, the medical attendant of Mrs. St. Clair, entered the room.

"Yes, it is my friend Edward Armstrong," he exclaimed, as the gentleman he addressed rose with surprise to receive his visitor. "I only learnt the name of our hero from Dr. Freeman this morning; I had no idea that the gentleman whose intrepidity and courage is the talk of the place was the son of my good friend, Farmer Armstrong."

Edward smiled as he shook hands with the friend whom he had known from a boy, but there was a languor in his movements, and a pallor on the cheeks, very unusual in the active man of business, which the doctor's quick eye soon detected.

"Are you feeling any ill effects from your exertions last evening?" he asked.

"No," was the reply; "unless a feeling of laziness and disinclination to move may be ranked among ill effects."

"Well, not exactly," said Dr. Anson, "although what you complain of is no doubt caused by exhaustion and excitement. At all events, you must extend your holiday and rest here for a day or two longer; such a sea-bath as yours produces effects which are not so easily got over."

At this moment the door was pushed open slightly, and through the opening appeared a rosy face, brown curls, and a pair of dark eyes which looked with curiosity at the two gentlemen.

"Ah, Charlie," said the doctor, "is that you? Come in and say how d'ye do to the gentleman that fished you out of the water yesterday."

Little Charlie Herbert boldly advanced, and standing before Mr. Armstrong held out his chubby hand and said, "Thank 'oo for saving me from being drowned."

Edward lifted the boy on his knee and kissed him, while the doctor asked—

"Who sent you here, Charlie?"

"Mrs. Lake," he replied, "and I've said what she told me to say to the gentleman."

The doctor smiled as he rose, and shaking hands with his friend he said—

"I must leave you now to pay my visit upstairs. Edward, keep the boy here for awhile; you cannot have better company."

CHAPTER III.

A SOCIAL DILEMMA.

While Edward Armstrong was becoming better acquainted with the little nephew of Maria St. Clair, Dr. Anson was attempting the cure of a disease far more difficult to subdue than any in the whole catalogue of the various "ills which flesh is heir to"—a mental disease called pride.

He found his patient in a fair way for complete recovery. Her restless anxiety to thank the strange gentleman who had saved her, had made her mother give way to her wish to be dressed, and she now sat in an easy-chair, looking pale certainly, but apparently suffering only from exhaustion.

"Up and dressed? upon my word!" said Dr. Anson. "I was not prepared for such a speedy recovery as this."

"I feel almost as well as ever, doctor," she said, "only a little weak and tired; but I cannot rest till mamma and all of us have thanked the gentleman who saved me and little Charlie. Mrs. Lake says he is quite well this morning, and talks of going back to London to-morrow, so if we are to see him and thank him personally, it must be to-day."

"All right, my dear," said the doctor; "there will be no difficulty in asking my friend Mr. Edward Armstrong to visit you."

"Your friend, Dr. Anson?" exclaimed Mrs. St. Clair, in surprise; "have you known him long?"

"Almost from his boyhood, and a more intelligent, well-informed man I have seldom met with. I was not, however, aware till now that he possessed courage and daring in addition to his other good qualities."

"But who is he?" was the next question.

"The son, indeed the only child, of Farmer Armstrong, who owns Meadow Farm, about two miles from Basingstoke. The farm has belonged to Armstrong's ancestors for nearly two hundred years. The old gentleman has recently lost his wife, and the son came from London a few weeks ago to be present at his mother's funeral."

"Young Mr. Armstrong resides in London, then, I suppose?" remarked Mrs. Herbert.

"Yes; his tastes for intellectual pursuits and his education made him dislike farming, and at last his father, with great reluctance, allowed him to commence business in London as a corn-dealer."

Mrs. St. Clair had listened to this plain straightforward description of her daughter's and grandson's deliverer and his antecedents with very conflicting sensations. She had hoped to be able personally to show her deep sense of gratitude to this gentleman, who had risked his own life for her child; but now, how could she do so? She had been brought up to consider persons in trade far inferior to herself, and the doctor's account seemed to place this stranger at such an immeasurable distance, and yet how could she relieve herself from such a debt of gratitude?

During the pause that ensued, Dr. Anson examined and questioned his patient, and having received satisfactory answers, was about to take his leave, when Mrs. St. Clair's voice arrested his movements.

"Dr. Anson, we can never really repay this person the debt of gratitude we owe him, but as he is in trade, do you think he would accept a sum of money; something handsome, I mean! I am sure my son-in-law, Sir James Elston, would readily advance it in such a case."

"Mamma!"

"Madam!"

The words burst forth almost simultaneously from Mrs. Herbert and the doctor. The former gave up her right to speak to the doctor, who exclaimed—

"My friend Mr. Edward Armstrong is not only a man of large property, but of refined and intellectual tastes, and can boast of an education far beyond the generality of farmers' sons. I could not——"

"Oh, pray pardon me!" interrupted Mrs. St. Clair, greatly surprised at the doctor's vehemence, "but when you spoke of your friend as a man of business, I supposed him to be what a tradesman generally is."

"Mrs. St. Clair," said the doctor, "England is becoming proud of her commerce, and the young people of the present age may live to see the time when, like the ancients of old, 'her princes will be merchants,' as well as men of intellect, refinement, and education. At all events, my dear madam, give your daughters an opportunity to thank this gentleman for risking his life on their behalf; personally, I am quite sure, he will expect this, and consider it cancels all obligations. If you see him you can judge for yourselves. Good morning, ladies. Don't excite yourself, my dear," he continued, more gently, as he shook hands with his patient; "your constitution has received a shock, and you must be careful."

"I will, doctor, I promise you," she said, "but I may go into the drawing-room with mamma and Helen to receive the visitor?"

"Of course—of course," he replied, "but remember, you are not to talk too much."

For some minutes after Dr. Anson left the room silence reigned supreme: Mrs. St. Clair could not at once recover from the surprise at being thus set down by her own medical man; indeed, she looked so disconcerted that Helen could not resist the merry laugh that broke the silence.

"Mamma, don't look so uncomfortable," she said; "of course you could not be expected to know what would be the best means of showing our gratitude to this stranger, for indeed we ought to be grateful——"

"I know it, my dear," said Mrs. St. Clair, whose pride had received a severe blow; "and now what are we to do?"

"We have simply to adjourn to the drawing-room, ring the bell, and send down our cards, with our compliments, and a request that Mr. Armstrong will favour us with a visit."

This advice was at once acted upon, and in a few minutes Maria found herself comfortably seated in an arm-chair in Mrs. Lake's pretty drawing-room, while her mother and sister awaited the appearance of their visitor in formal state on the sofa. Even to Maria, Edward Armstrong was an entire stranger, for although she had modestly shrunk from his earnest gaze at church on the previous Sunday, and had seen his face twice on the day of the accident, it was still unknown to her.

They had not waited long when footsteps on the stairs announced his approach; not alone, however, for as Mrs. Lake opened the door Edward Armstrong entered, leading by the hand little Charlie Herbert.

"Your little son has paid me a visit this morning, Mrs. Herbert," he said, as he bowed to the ladies who rose to welcome him, "and I have brought him upstairs with me to place him safely in your care."

Mrs. Herbert gave him a grateful look as she placed a chair for their guest. Then seating herself, she said—

"I hope Charlie has not been troublesome?"

"Not in the least," he replied; "indeed, his childish prattle has done me good."

Mrs. St. Clair's surprise at the appearance of her visitor, who wore his mourning suit, increased for a time the confusion of ideas produced by the doctor's farewell speech. She was, however, a true English gentlewoman, and before Edward could take the chair placed for him she advanced, and holding out her hand, said with a warmth of manner not to be mistaken for mere politeness—

"Mr. Armstrong, I have taken the liberty of asking you to visit us, because I wish to join with my daughters in expressing my gratitude for your kind and prompt energy yesterday, which saved the lives of my daughter and little grandson. It is not possible to say all we feel on the subject. I only hope you will believe in our sincere and grateful appreciation."

"Madam," replied Edward, to whom all this was really painful, "I am only too happy to remember that I was on the spot, and able to be of service to you."

"A service we can never repay," said Mrs. Herbert; "but for your exertions I should have lost my darling boy."

"And I," exclaimed a gentle voice, "should have lost my life, Mr. Armstrong, but for you; my best thanks are but a poor return to offer you."

"Ladies," said Edward Armstrong, "you do me too much honour. I am only too thankful to have been made the instrument, in God's hands, to save you from great sorrow, and the consciousness of this is all the reward I ask. But allow me, Miss St. Clair," he said, hurriedly changing the subject, "I hope you do not feel any serious effects from the great danger to which you were exposed yesterday?"

"Oh, no," she replied; "except a slight feeling of exhaustion, I am otherwise as well as usual."

The blush that tinted the pale cheek of Maria St. Clair, who, while she spoke, was conscious of the earnest eyes so closely watching her, added additional beauty to the fair face which Edward Armstrong so greatly admired. With ready tact he turned to Mrs. St. Clair, and introduced another subject of conversation.

So pleasantly did an hour pass as they talked, that when the visitor rose to go, the elder ladies each expressed a wish that he should visit them at their own residences. But he unhesitatingly stated his anxiety to return to business, promising, however, to call upon Mrs. St. Clair at Richmond; and naming his own address in Dover Street, Piccadilly.

Edward Armstrong's peculiar notions and obstinate prejudices, which we shall hear more of by-and-by, were kept under violent restraint while in the company of these ladies. Hitherto he had encouraged himself in a kind of contempt for all social distinctions, but now that he had made acquaintance with a family whose position, socially speaking, was above his own, he crushed down the feeling, and when writing his address for Mrs. St. Clair, he omitted the words "corn-dealer."

Perhaps his radical notions would not have been restrained by any motive less powerful than a growing attachment for the daughter of a lady who could rank with England's aristocracy. And with the lady herself there is little doubt that Edward Armstrong's apparent refinement in manner and dress would have failed to make such an impression had not his handsome face, manly carriage, and reputation for wealth been thrown into the scale of opinion.

CHAPTER IV.

DIFFICULTIES TO BE OVERCOME.

Edward Armstrong had parted from the family of Mrs. St. Clair without even the slightest hint of those intentions which a more intimate association had strengthened. But the three days during which he stayed at West Cowes were not lost time. He had seen Maria St. Clair daily, and made himself so truly agreeable a companion and escort, that the ladies willingly accepted his invitation to accompany him for a drive more than once in an open carriage which he hired for the occasion.

They bade him farewell at last with regret, and influenced by her daughters, Mrs. St. Clair expressed a hope that they should see him at Richmond after their return home, which she expected would be in about a fortnight.

Edward Armstrong returned to London with his mind fully made up. He possessed a determined will, and in spite of the misgivings which had tormented him after the exciting evening at Cowes, he had too much self-esteem to dread failure.

The girl he loved might be the daughter of the Honourable Mrs. St. Clair, and the great-granddaughter of an earl, and he knew that, in his eyes at least, she was beautiful, but she was penniless; and the gratitude she felt towards him for having saved her life was fast growing into love. Added to this he had the money she lacked, and the power to surround her with all the pleasant comforts and luxuries which money can procure. He determined, however, notwithstanding this confidence in himself, to wait until he had visited Mrs. St. Clair at her own home, and become more acquainted with the real position of the family to whom he wished to ally himself.

Mr. Edward Armstrong's house in Dover Street, Piccadilly, had been originally the London residence of a nobleman's family who during the early part of the present century had made that part of London, then called May Fair, their head-quarters.

He had let the upper part of his house at a good rental, keeping only for himself a bachelor's parlour behind the office, and a bedroom.

On the first evening after his return from the Isle of Wight, these said bachelor apartments wore a very meagre and desolate aspect.

Hitherto business and money-making had so absorbed his thoughts that the rooms he occupied had scarcely any interest in his eyes. So long as his housekeeper prepared his meals regularly, and kept his apartments clean and comfortable, he was satisfied.

Now, however, he looked with a critical eye upon his domestic arrangements, and on this evening of his arrival, while leaning back after supper in his easy-chair, some such thoughts as these passed through his mind—

"I could not expect any wife to be satisfied with such a dingy little place as this for a sitting-room, and to think of bringing that fairy girl, Maria St. Clair, to such a home is absurd. If I mean to win her I must get rid of these people upstairs, and furnish my house in a fit style to receive her. However, I must not give them notice to leave till I am sure of success. Sure of success! what am I thinking about? 'Faint heart ne'er won fair lady!' and Edward Armstrong is not the man to fail when he once makes up his mind."

Three weeks passed away, and on a warm, sultry morning in July, Maria St. Clair stood at the window of a pretty drawing-room at Richmond, looking out over the beautiful park upon a scene that has not its rival in any suburb at the same distance from London. The noble trees that are scattered over the greensward from the brow of Richmond Hill to the silvery stream of the Thames, which flows at its foot, were luxurious in summer foliage. Chestnut and oak, elm and birch, reared their noble forms at varied distances, casting their broad shadows on the undulating velvet turf, while the gentle deer browsed in safety beneath the sheltering branches.

Mrs. St. Clair sat at work near the open window, now and then glancing at the fair face of her young daughter, which wore a thoughtful, pensive look, in spite of its radiant loveliness.

Maria had quite recovered the effects of her dangerous sea-bath, and the word radiant is not too exaggerated a term to apply to the appearance of the young girl as she stands gracefully, yet carelessly, leaning against the window-frame.

"Have you quite finished practising, Maria?" said her mother, at last.

"No, mamma; but I could not resist another look at the dear old park. After all, I don't think there is a prettier place than Richmond Hill, even in the Isle of Wight; and although I have lived here ever since my childhood, I declare it seems more beautiful to me every year."

"That is because you are older, and more able to appreciate beautiful scenery."

"I suppose that is the reason," replied Maria—and yet while she spoke arose a consciousness that this new appreciation of Nature at Richmond owed its origin to a romantic and vivid description of the feelings the scene had excited in the heart of one who now monopolised all her thoughts. "He promised to come and see us," she said to herself, "and we have been home a week and yet he has not made his appearance. Perhaps he wont come, after all;" and then, feeling that she must throw off the sad thoughts which were attracting her mother's notice, she suddenly rushed to the piano, and struck the first chords of a piece with variations on the air of "The Lass of Richmond Hill."

But the composer's efforts were destined to come to a sudden end. The young housemaid opened the drawing-room door, and as she ushered a gentleman into the room, startled the ladies by exclaiming—

"Mr. Edward Armstrong, ma'am," at the same time placing that gentleman's card in the hands of her mistress.

Maria rose from the piano in hasty confusion. Much as she had thought upon the gentleman, whom she called her deliverer, his appearance at this moment was so totally unexpected that she was relieved to see him advance first to her mother, who sat at a distance from the piano. She had scarcely time to recover her self possession, however, before her mother's words in reply to Mr. Armstrong's inquiries for her daughter caused him to turn and approach her.

As Maria St. Clair came forward to meet this man, to whom she owed, as she thought, such a debt of gratitude, Edward Armstrong, in spite of his own good opinion of himself, was conscious of a feeling of inferiority.

The young girl before him in the simple white morning dress, had a manner and bearing which seemed to place him at an immeasurable distance.

True, there was a modest timidity and a blushing confusion, which added a charm to the beautiful face, as she held out her hand and answered his inquiries for her health with lady-like ease. Yet Edward Armstrong was some minutes before he could feel himself quite at home in the company of these ladies.

We are all liable to be influenced by externals, and therefore when Edward Armstrong met Mrs. St. Clair and her daughter at their own residence, the impression produced on his mind differed greatly from what he had felt in the Isle of Wight.

There he had been introduced to them in the sombre and old-fashioned drawing-room of a lodging-house, but here everything spoke of refinement and elegance. There was nothing pretensive or ostentatious about the house or the noble entrance, even the drawing-room in which they sat had a low ceiling, and the furniture was neither luxurious nor new. But it bore the impress of refined taste, and like all articles bought for their intrinsic value rather than for show, bid fair to last for many years longer in good condition.

Yet not even the antique cabinets, the curiously-wrought worktables, and other valuable ornaments would have been sufficient to produce in Edward Armstrong the impression referred to. It was the toute ensemble,—the old-fashioned red brick house, the broad oaken stairs, with the centre covered with Brussels carpet; the long, low drawing-room, its windows opening to the ground on a balcony; the delicate chintz covering to chairs and couches; the flowers, the music, the lace curtains, and the presence of two gentle, lady-like women, one in her widow's dress contrasting to her daughter's simple white, all intermixed with the perfume of flowers, and finished by the glorious prospect stretched out before the windows, made up a picture which Edward Armstrong never forgot.

"You must stay to luncheon, Mr. Armstrong," remarked Mrs. St. Clair, after they had talked for more than half an hour over the still absorbing topic of the boat accident at West Cowes.

"I fear I shall not be able to remain," he replied, "as I have business in Richmond which will detain me for some time to-day; but if it would be agreeable, Mrs. St. Clair, I will spend an afternoon with you next week on any day you may find it convenient."

Mr. Armstrong's scruples about staying to lunch were, however, quickly overcome by the promise that he should leave as soon as he pleased afterwards; and the visitor departed that afternoon, more than ever fascinated by Maria St. Clair, and fully determined to obtain her as his wife. "Where there's a will there's a way," is an old adage which few were more likely to carry out than Edward Armstrong.

From this visit an intimacy arose between Edward Armstrong and Maria St. Clair, which her mother found herself unable to prevent. She saw in her daughter a growing preference for the man who had saved her life. She perceived on his part plain indications, that the greatest reward he could ask as a return for his courage and bravery, would be the hand of Maria St. Clair; and yet she could do nothing to avert such a result without ingratitude to the wooer, and perhaps pain to her daughter.

"I suppose I ought to consult my sister Louisa," she said to herself, "and Sir James, or wait till Herbert comes home from India. Helen is too grateful about little Charlie to make any objection, I am quite sure, but perhaps the colonel may disapprove;"—and then, as Mrs. St. Clair recalled the character of her soldier son-in-law, and reflected on what his gratitude would be towards the man who had saved his only son from drowning, she felt how impossible it was for her to interfere.

She could not forbid him the house, and all she could do was to wait for him to explain his intentions, and then if Maria's affections were really won, she must place the matter before Sir James and take his advice.

Mrs. St. Clair had not long to wait.

One afternoon, towards the end of October, Edward Armstrong had accompanied the ladies in a walk through the park, then glorious in its colouring of red and golden brown, with which autumn had tinted the noble trees.

They were joined by a middle-aged gentleman of martial appearance, whom Mrs. St. Clair greeted with pleased surprise.

"Why, Colonel Elliot, is it possible," she exclaimed, as she shook hands, "when did you arrive?"

"The day before yesterday," he replied. "My wife sent me over to-day to pay my respects, and as soon as I found you were here, I followed you."

"And we are very glad to see you," replied Mrs St. Clair. Then turning to her daughter, she said, "You remember little Maria, colonel? I suppose you find her grown?"

"Grown indeed! what a change six years have made," he replied, glancing at her companion.

"Mr. Armstrong—Colonel Elliot"—and Mrs. St. Clair observing the glance, introduced the gentleman, adding, "We owe the life of Maria and her little nephew, Charles, to this gentleman's bravery when they were in danger of drowning."

"I have heard the whole account from my wife," said the colonel, quickly; and as Edward Armstrong raised his hat on the introduction, he held out his hand, and added, "Mr. Armstrong, I am indeed happy to make your acquaintance."

"You must accompany us home to dinner," said Mrs. St. Clair, after a few minutes of explanations respecting his arrival in England, and then they turned towards home, the colonel walking by Mrs. St. Clair, and the young people falling behind. The evening passed pleasantly, for Edward Armstrong was always seen to greater advantage in the company of men, with whom he could converse on almost any subject.

He had the tact to conceal a certain want of that something which marks the man accustomed from childhood to refined society, and in this he was assisted by a vast amount of self-sufficiency. Be this as it may, when Colonel Elliot rose to go early, on account of his distance from home, he cordially expressed his regret at leaving such a pleasant companion.

Mrs. St. Clair had remarked during dinner the deepened colour on the cheeks and the bright look in the eyes of her daughter, but she was scarcely prepared for Edward Armstrong's words when after tea in the drawing-room Maria rose and left her mother alone with him.

"Mrs. St. Clair," he said—and for once the voice of the self-possessed Edward Armstrong trembled—"I could not venture to ask you such a favour as I am about to crave, but for your kindness during the last few months. You once requested me to tell you in what way you could show your gratitude to me for what was after all a mere act of common humanity." He paused, but Mrs. St. Clair did not speak, so he went on—"There is no recompense on earth that could be to me a fraction of the value of the gift which you can bestow in giving me your daughter. Even in my efforts to save her life I was actuated by a growing love for her, which has increased since you so kindly allowed us to become better acquainted."

He paused again, for his words had been hurried, and were at last almost breathless. Too well he knew the social barrier existing between a farmer's son and the great-granddaughter of an earl, and while he spoke that barrier had arisen grimly before the mental vision of Mrs. St. Clair. How could it be overcome? At last she broke the silence, which was becoming oppressive—

"Mr. Armstrong, I feel honoured by your preference for my daughter. I can never be sufficiently grateful for the courage which saved her life. I believe you have won her love, and on my own part I would readily give her to you without a moment's hesitation, but I must consider my family, my sons-in-law, and my husband's relatives. What will they say if I allow her to marry a——"

"Do not hesitate, Mrs. St. Clair," exclaimed Edward, whose pride had been roused by her words; "I know I am asking Miss Maria St. Clair to marry a tradesman, but I can offer her a home with more of the comforts, luxuries, and refinements than are often found among many persons who are far above me in rank."

His vehemence troubled Mrs. St. Clair; but after a few minutes' reflection she said, "Mr. Armstrong, I am quite aware that in a money point of view your proposal for my daughter is worthy of consideration, but I cannot give my consent till I have consulted my relatives. Give me a few days to lay the matter before them, and to ascertain the sentiments of Maria, that is all I ask."

"Madam," said Edward Armstrong, rising, "if your dear daughter's wishes are duly considered in this matter, I have no fear as to the result. I will wait a week for your decision."

Mrs. St. Clair could scarcely restrain a smile at the self-appreciation displayed in this speech, but she shook hands pleasantly and promised that in less than a week he should hear from her. The result, however, of Mrs. St. Clair's application to her relatives was in every case but one favourable to Edward Armstrong. Her daughter Helen was ready to ignore everything about him, but that he was respectably connected, able to give Maria a superior home, and in himself handsome, well educated, well informed, and without doubt brave and courageous, for had he not saved her sister and her little son from death?

Colonel Elliot stood out strongly in favour of the man who had made himself so agreeable on that evening at Richmond; indeed all Mrs. St. Clair's relatives who had heard the romantic story so well known in the Isle of Wight were on the side of Edward Armstrong—more especially when his increasing wealth was confirmed by men of business to whom he had referred Mrs. St. Clair.

Only from an old maiden aunt was the information received that "she must not be expected to associate with people who kept a shop." Mrs. St. Clair had very little trouble in discovering her daughter's real sentiments respecting Edward Armstrong, and Sir James Elston's opinions settled the matter. After hearing all the particulars respecting the man who had asked his wife's mother for her portionless daughter, the bluff old Admiral had remarked, "Ah, well, if Mrs. St. Clair marries her daughter to a respectable tradesman who can support her in comfort, instead of looking out for a sprig of nobility without a shilling in his pocket, she will be a very wise woman."

Some little of Edward Armstrong's character showed itself before the wedding. Mrs. St. Clair wished her daughter to be married from Sir James Elston's house in Portland Place, and at a fashionable London church—but the bridegroom elect preferred the quiet of her own house, and the seclusion of Richmond.

Finding she could not succeed in having her own way with a gentleman possessing such a determined will, Mrs. St. Clair appealed to her daughter. But Maria, naturally gentle and yielding, was too anxious to agree with the wishes of her future husband to become an ally with her mother against him. So the gentleman had his way, and in the prettily situated old church, Maria St. Clair plighted her troth to the man who had been the means of saving her life.

In the heart of this young girl there was no doubt too much of the worship of the instrument and too little recognition of the Hand to whose merciful Providence she owed her life. She had yet to learn that in times of sadness, trial, and death, "vain is the help of man" without the aid He alone can give. We shall find also as the story proceeds that Edward Armstrong was not so willing to give up his prejudices for the sake of his own daughter, as he had been to oblige Mrs. St. Clair to give up hers when he wished to obtain Maria St. Clair as his wife.

CHAPTER V.

AT THE REVIEW.

"Miss Mary, dear, wake up," said a pleasant middle-aged woman, as she gently shook the sleeper to whom she spoke; "it wants twenty minutes to eight, and Rowland will be here with the ponies presently."

A pair of large blue eyes opened languidly and stared at the speaker. "What's the matter, nurse?"

"Aren't you going to ride this morning, Miss Mary? you'll have to be quick if——"

But Mary's senses were roused now, and the young girl of thirteen sprung out of bed, interrupting her nurse's speech.

"I'll be ready, nurse, don't fear," she cried, as she began to dress with her usual quickness. "What did you say was the time?"

"Twenty minutes to eight," was the reply, "so you've twenty-five minutes. Rowland is allowed to wait five minutes, I know."

"Ah, yes," cried Mary, "but I wont keep him waiting at all, nurse," she added, "you need not stay. I laid out my habit and all I wanted in readiness last night."

"To be sure, Miss Mary, you can be quick, I know, and no mistake; so I'll get out of your way if you don't want me."

True to her word, the little lady appeared at the door in a few minutes after the groom arrived, and she was very soon cantering round the Regent's Park in the full enjoyment of this healthful exercise. Drawing rein as usual before crossing the New Road on her return towards home, she walked her pony through the Crescent, intending to enjoy a good canter up the broad thoroughfare of Portland Place.

Scarcely had she reached the turning leading through private streets to Piccadilly, when the sound of horse's hoofs coming rapidly behind her caused her to turn her head, and the next moment pull up suddenly as a large black horse trotted quickly to her side.

"Why, Mary," exclaimed the owner of the horse, "I had no idea you were such a capital rider. I saw a little lady cantering in front of me, but I should not have known who it was had not Rowland touched his hat as I passed; and what a clever little pony," he added, as he stooped low to pat the smooth black head and long flowing mane. "How long have you had him?"

"Six months, uncle," she replied. "Papa bought him of Sir Henry Turner; his boys all learnt to ride on Boosey, but they have grown too old and too tall for such a small pony, so now he is mine."

"What is the pony's name, Mary? It sounds peculiar."

"Oh, Boosey, uncle," she replied, laughing. "Sir Henry's boys named him after Alexander's horse Bucephalus; the groom shortened it to Boosey, and we still keep up the name."

"So he is a classical pony, eh?" said Colonel Herbert; "I suppose the name was too much of a jaw-breaker for the stablemen. Boosey, however, is rather a degradation for the bearer of such a title."

"He's a military pony, too," laughed Mary, "for he can stand fire, uncle. One morning the soldiers were at drill and firing in the Park as I rode past, and Boosey walked by as quietly as possible. I did feel half afraid till I remembered that Sir Henry was a field-officer and his sons were often with him at reviews, one of them always riding the pony."

"Well, then, my dear, if Boosey is so well trained, would you like to go with me to-day? There is to be a review at Hyde Park, and you can be with me near the flagstaff—opposite the firing, you know. Are you sure you have no fear?"

"Not a bit, uncle, and indeed I should like it so much if papa will allow me to go."

"Suppose we ride home and ask him."

The horses had been walking while they talked, and the colonel putting his horse into a trot as he spoke, Boosey started off at full speed, cantering as fast as his little legs would carry him to keep pace with the colonel's tall black horse.

They reached Dover Street in a very short time, and Mr. Armstrong, seeing them approach, came out to welcome the colonel. The request for Mary was soon made, yet she almost feared that the answer would be unfavourable when her father said,—"Mary had not breakfasted yet, colonel; and you know I object to my daughter being seen on horseback in the neighbourhood of my business after nine o'clock."

"Then let her ride home now to our house and breakfast with us," said the colonel, quickly.

To this there appeared no objection, and Mr. Armstrong readily gave his consent, but Mary had not forgotten her mother's fears.

"Oh, father," she exclaimed, "do you think mamma will mind my going? you know how anxious she always is even when I ride quietly before breakfast."

Mr. Armstrong was about to say that his wife was not likely to oppose his wishes, when the colonel exclaimed,—"I will go up and quiet her fears about Mary's safety."

He was not absent many minutes, but as he remounted his horse Mary knew he had succeeded, for on looking up she saw her mother at the window nodding and smiling at her as she rode off with her uncle.

Rowland, who remained behind, stood for a few moments watching his young mistress as she and her uncle rode towards Piccadilly. Then as he turned to take his horse to the stables he said to himself,—"Master wont get his way with that young lady, I can see, with all his queer rules about what she is to do."

Mary breakfasted with her aunt and uncle in Park Lane, and in less than an hour after started to be present at the review. She certainly felt a little nervous at first when she found herself among a group of officers and ladies on horseback, or in carriages near the flagstaff, especially when the soldiers were preparing for the first volley.

But Boosey stood firm, and that gave her courage to sit and calmly watch the varied performances of the men so easily seen from such an advantageous point of view.

Many questions were asked the colonel respecting the little equestrian, who looked very attractive in her riding attire. The long curls falling to the waist over the dark blue riding-habit would have been called golden in these days; and a black beaver hat, with a drooping feather and a broad brim, did not quite conceal the fair complexion and delicate features of the really pretty child. When asked, "Who is your little friend?" the colonel would merely reply, "My niece." No mention was made of her name, or of the fact of her being a tradesman's daughter, for in those days of exclusiveness it would have created a feeling of surprise.

More than fourteen years have passed since Edward Armstrong became the husband of the young girl who owed her life to his energy and courage.

A marriage under such circumstances was not unlikely to be accompanied with real affection on both sides, although a union of those who occupy different positions socially is seldom truly happy.

Notwithstanding the love that made Edward Armstrong gentle and indulgent to his wife, there yet existed certain phases in his character which jarred upon her love of refinement, and caused her great annoyance. His eccentricities, his prejudices, and, at times when angry, a certain coarseness of manner, were actual pain to his sensitive wife. But she possessed a natural sweetness of temper that could "turn away wrath" by a "soft answer" or silence. She had quickly discovered that his will was law, and brooked no contradiction; and her love of peace as well as her wifely love very soon taught her to give way to her husband in every point.

Besides, she had all the comforts and luxuries of a refined home, equal in many respects to the homes of her sisters, although considered so inferior in position; a loving and indulgent husband, and four children, of whom Mary was the eldest and only girl.

Her relatives had not cast her off because of her marriage; the occasion of their first meeting, when Edward Armstrong had been the means of saving their sister's life, rendered such an idea impossible. Added to this, Maria's husband was unmistakably a man of intellectual tastes as well as education, notwithstanding his eccentricities and peculiar notions. Association with his wife, and mixing in the society he sometimes met with at the houses of her sisters, had already increased his refinement of manner, although nothing could as yet entirely overcome the effects of narrow minded prejudices.

The custom now so prevalent which enables a man of business to take a house for his wife and children at a distance from London, was at the time of which we write a novelty. Railways and omnibuses, by which London is now filled in the morning and deserted in the evening, were in a state of progression. Yet Mr. Armstrong could not be persuaded to take a house out of town; it was a new-fangled notion, he would say, and quite out of place in a man of business. Mrs. Armstrong's family, therefore, could only get over the fact of her living above a shop with her children by ascribing it to her husband's eccentricities.

"My brother-in-law keeps horses, and he could easily ride or drive into town every day if he chose, but we cannot persuade him to do so," said Mrs. Herbert to a visitor on one occasion; "but I hope he will give way at last, especially when his daughter is old enough to be introduced into society."

But if all these little matters troubled Mrs. Armstrong's family, her husband felt himself also aggrieved on one point in which she was the unfortunate cause.

He had quickly discovered after his marriage that his loving and accomplished wife was totally ignorant of domestic duties or of the management of a household.

She soon also became conscious of her deficiencies, and tried to acquire the necessary knowledge by every effort in her power, but in vain; and her husband, accustomed to the perfect order and regularity of his mother's house, never appeared satisfied.

This circumstance produced after a time, as their family increased, new plans on the part of Mr. Armstrong. He engaged a suitable housekeeper, to regulate the domestic arrangements of his home, and placed the education of Mary in the hands of her mother, knowing well that no one could be found more fit for that office.

Gladly Mrs. Armstrong gave up the duties she felt so irksome, and divided her time between the nursery and the schoolroom. In this way, notwithstanding the fact that her drawing-room and dining-room were on the floor above her husband's business, and in spite also of various annoyances which his eccentric doings in the household often caused, the years passed away in comfort and happiness, bringing the time in which this chapter commences.

Mr. Armstrong's next proposition, however, was by no means so satisfactory to his wife.

About six months before the meeting of Mary with her uncle Herbert during her morning ride, Mr. Armstrong made his appearance in the schoolroom, and finding his wife alone, he said apparently with an effort,—"Maria, my dear, I want to make some little change in Mary's educational duties; I suppose you have no objection?"

"In what way?" she asked, with a dread in her heart of what her eccentric husband might be about to propose.

"Why, my dear," he replied, seating himself, "you know your own deficiencies in domestic knowledge, but I am determined my daughter shall never fail in that important part of a woman's education; you may make her as accomplished as you please, I will take care that she is made domestic."

Mrs. Armstrong had been trained in those days when to stoop to domestic duties, or to understand how to make a pie or pudding, was considered a degradation to an accomplished young lady; and to her ultra refinement there was something repulsive in the idea of her daughter learning the duties of a cook or a housemaid. But when her husband expressed himself in such a firm decided manner, she knew it was useless to offer any opposition, so she merely said faintly,—"What do you wish Mary to do?"

"Send for her, my dear," he replied, "there will be no objections on her part, I am quite sure."

In a few minutes Mary made her appearance, and listened to her father's proposition, the subject of which will appear in the next chapter.

CHAPTER VI.

BUCEPHALUS.

"Mamma, oh, do come to the window, there is such a dear little pony standing at the door, and father is talking to the groom."

Mrs. Armstrong advanced to the drawing-room window at her daughter's request, and joined with her in admiration of the shiny black coat, and long mane and tail of Bucephalus, whose purchase had on that morning been completed.

Some idea of the truth occurred to both mother and daughter when Rowland appeared and led the pony away. In a very few minutes Mr. Armstrong himself entered the room, startling Mary by the question,—"Well, my daughter, how do like your new pony?"

"Mine, father?" (one of Mr. Armstrong's peculiar fancies made him object to be called "papa," considering it another form of "aping the gentry"). How the blue eyes glittered and the face lighted up with pleasure and astonishment as Mary spoke.

"Yes, my dear, it is yours on the conditions I spoke of yesterday," replied her father, seating himself and drawing his daughter to his side; "will you be able to fulfil them?"

"I will try, father," she replied, glancing at her mother.

"Your mother will not object, I know," he said, noticing the glance; "but now listen, and I will tell you more clearly what I expect you to do, and your reward will be riding lessons for three months at the Riding School, Albany Street, and the attendance of Rowland while you canter round the Parks, any morning you like, before breakfast—hear me out, Mary," he continued, interrupting her expressions of delight—"Rowland will have orders from me to be here at seven in summer, and eight in winter, and if you are not ready for your ride within five minutes of the time, he is to take the ponies back to the stable, and you will lose your ride."

"Oh, I don't think that will ever happen, dear father," she replied. "I am so delighted I hardly know how to thank you enough."

"I don't want thanks, my child, if my gift make you an early riser, which I am very anxious you should be; and you will not forget that I wish you to spend two hours every morning in learning domestic duties."

"Mary has done this already, Edward," Mrs. Armstrong ventured to remark.

"I know it, my dear," he replied, "but not to the extent I wish. Although she may never be in a position to require such knowledge, excepting as the mistress of a house, yet those women make the best mistresses who know the time, the labour, and the skill required in every form of domestic work."

"I think you degrade your daughter by this strange request," said Mrs. Armstrong, whose opinions of what a lady might do without compromising her dignity and refinement were thoroughly shocked.

"Nothing done by a lady," replied Mr. Armstrong, with an emphasis on the word, "will ever degrade her, if it can be done by a woman without disgrace."

In spite of what were called his singular notions, there was no doubt perfect truth in this remark. We are reminded by it of George Herbert's lines:—

"Who sweeps a room, as in God's laws,
Makes that and the action fine."

Mary seemed to have the same impression; for after a pause she said,—"Father, I am quite willing to do as you wish, only——"

"Only what, my child?"

"I was going to say, it would take away the time from my studies, but I must work all the harder, I suppose, and I don't mind if mamma does not."

And so in this, at that period unusual association of domestic duties with refined studies, and the fashionable accomplishment of riding, Mary Armstrong passed the next two years of her life. Then occurred another phase in her father's opinion of what his daughter's education should be.

During the two years to which we have referred, partly as an additional reward for her efforts to please him, he had provided her with masters for French and music, and partly to relieve her mother, whose health had lately been rather uncertain. Mary's young brothers were high-spirited boys, and soon proved themselves too much for their mother's management.

The two elder were sent to school early, and the youngest, now five years old, was to accompany them after Midsummer. This was the opportunity for which Mr. Armstrong waited. He at once put a stop to the domestic duties, and took his daughter into his counting-house for two hours daily to act as his clerk; her love of arithmetic he knew would make this a pleasure to her.

But now worldly opinion interfered. One or two business men connected with the Corn Exchange, started with surprise at the appearance of a young girl writing at the desk when introduced to Mr. Armstrong's counting-house, and when alone with him spoke plainly on the subject.

Not all the domestic work, nor it must be confessed, the occasional coarseness of her father when angry, could counteract the influence of her mother on Mary's manner and appearance.

She was growing daily more like her, and the gentle graceful girl was in every respect a lady, and far superior in manners and appearance to the daughters of tradesmen in her father's position. Indeed, she knew nothing of any society but that of her mother's relations. The words which at last startled Mr. Armstrong were really needed to show him his error.

"Who is that young lady writing at the desk in your counting-house, Armstrong?"

"My daughter," he replied, proudly. "I wish her to acquire business habits, and this is the only plan I can adopt for the purpose."

"Then the sooner you discontinue it the better; nothing can be more unwise. Do your clerks have access to your counting-house?"

Mr. Armstrong was not without a certain degree of pride in his wife's connexions, and he flushed high as he replied—"Mrs. Armstrong's daughter is not likely to notice one of her father's clerks."

His friend shrugged his shoulders as he said,—"Well, Armstrong, you know best; but if I had such a beautiful girl for my daughter, I would not degrade her by placing her in a position on a level with those whom I considered her inferiors."

Half offended as he was, Mr. Armstrong yet took the hint. He returned to his counting-house and furtively examined the beautiful profile as Mary, con amore, leaned over her task. Her auburn hair hung in massive curls to her waist, and though braided on her forehead and thrown behind her ears, the curls drooped over the lower part of her face even to the paper on which she wrote.

"She's growing more like her mother than ever," was the father's thought. "I believe it is that profusion of hair which makes her so attractive; suppose it were cut off or rolled up in some way, I could insist——" He paused. "No; I should have mother, and aunts, and uncles all against me. I've had my way in most things, I suppose I must give up now and put a stop to this."

And so ended Mary's days in the counting-house. The time came when also for this short insight into business matters she could thank her father's peculiarities.

Mrs. Armstrong's sisters were, of course, duly informed of all these eccentric arrangements on the part of her husband, but they knew it was useless to interfere. They knew also that his influence over his daughter was too great for them to attempt to counteract it.

"Fancy, Helen," said Mrs. Armstrong one day to her sister, "Mary has not only to make beds and dust rooms, but actually spends an hour in the kitchen every morning learning to make pies and puddings, and even how to roast and boil meat!"

Mrs. Herbert shrugged her shoulders as she replied,—"Well, if all this nonsense about teaching her the duties of servants and such degrading employment does not eventually destroy all refinement of feeling and manners in Mary I shall be very much surprised."

But the two years passed, and the relatives of Mrs. Armstrong were obliged to own that no such terrible result had happened to their niece. She appeared at their social gatherings, she rode with her uncle and cousin Charles on horseback, and drove round the Park with her aunts in an open carriage, showing plainly both in person, dress, and manners, that the study of domestic duties had not unfitted her for good society.

Charles Herbert, the colonel's only child, was not only fond of his cousin Mary, but also a great admirer of his uncle Armstrong. Although scarcely old enough to retain a correct remembrance of the time when this uncle had snatched him from a watery grave, yet his mother had spoken of it to him so often that the impression made on his mind at four years of age had never been effaced. He once encountered Mary coming from the kitchen department with her curls tucked up beneath a white handkerchief, a large coarse apron before her, and her hands covered with flour.

"Why, Mary," exclaimed the youth of nineteen, "what ever will you do? there is mamma at the door in her carriage wailing to take you for a drive!"

"Come to the drawing-room, Charles, and wait for me," she said; "I will be ready to go with you and aunt in five minutes."

"Then you must be Cinderella," he replied, as he followed her upstairs as far as the drawing-room, "and have a fairy to help you!"

"So I have, and more than one," she replied, laughing, as she continued her flight upward.

Mary's fairies were Neatness, Quickness, Order, and Method. Therefore in very few minutes more than the time she had named she presented herself in the drawing-room ready for her drive.

All fear that domestic duties would make Mrs. Armstrong's daughter coarse or unrefined must have vanished at her appearance. She was simply attired in a pale violet silk dress and cape, with close-fitting gloves, lace collar and cuffs, and a broad-brimmed hat partly concealing her face, but not the profusion of auburn ringlets that fell around her shoulders.

"How like you grow to your mother, my dear," said her aunt, as Mary, with the softness and refinement of that mother's manner, advanced to welcome her. And as she rose to accompany her niece to the carriage she said to herself, "Well, perhaps after all Edward is right—a woman is none the worse for understanding the management of household duties."

One evening Mary was present at a family dinner-party at her uncle Sir James Elston's house in Portland Place. Very little had been said to the old sailor about what Mrs. Armstrong's sisters called the peculiar manner in which Edward Armstrong was educating his daughter, but that little had been met by him with a remark that silenced them—

"Making his girl domestic, is he? Wise man, wise man; that's all I can say."

On this family gathering, Mary, who was now in her sixteenth year, gave sufficient proof that learning to be domestic had not prevented her from becoming accomplished. A young French lady was present with whom Mary conversed with ease in her own tongue.

"You speak with a pure accent, mademoiselle," said the young lady; "have you resided in France?"

"No," was the reply; "but mamma was at school in Paris for years, and she has spoken French to me from my infancy."

In the course of the evening Mary was called upon to accompany her aunt Herbert in a duet for the harp and piano, and in this she succeeded so well as to gain approbation from every one present.

Another unexpected success awaited her. She had attempted to copy on ivory a miniature of her mother painted by Sir George Hayter. It was in truth only the effort of a learner, and by no means so deserving of praise as her studies of heads and landscapes; yet when Mr. Armstrong produced it, framed and reposing in a velvet-lined morocco case, it obtained for her great commendation.

"Oh, papa," said Mary, blushing deeply when she saw it in his hand, "my painting is not worth all that expense."

"I have had it done to show my approval of your conduct, Mary," said her father, in a low voice.

The flush on her face deepened at the words. Mary Armstrong sought for no greater reward than her father's approving smile.

"Well, brother Armstrong," said Colonel Herbert an hour afterwards, when the party were about to separate, "I must congratulate you on the success of your plans. If you are as much satisfied with Mary's exploits in the domestic line as we are with her in other respects, you have no reason to complain of failure."

And thus armed at all points but one for contact with the world, Mary Armstrong passed from girlhood to womanhood without a care for the future.

CHAPTER VII.

FREDDY'S NEW SCHOOL.

More than three years have passed since Mary's probation ended so pleasantly, and they have very much changed her father.

Perhaps we ought to say that the gentle influence of his wife and close association with her family, had to a certain extent softened down the rugged points of his character, and made him more amenable to the usages of the society in which he moved. The very fact of his choosing for a wife a woman of education and refinement proved that his tastes were above his position, for in the days of which we write, the idea of refinement in the wife of a tradesman would have been treated with incredulity, if not contempt.

During this period the death of Mrs. Armstrong's mother, Mrs. St. Clair, was the only change that occurred in his wife's family. The house at Richmond was given up, and Mary greatly missed the society of her dear grandmamma, and the pleasant visits to her house; but she still constantly associated with her aunts and uncles.

Among the changes of opinion which had by degrees crushed down Mr. Armstrong's prejudices and crotchets, were two important ones, not perhaps in themselves, but in their results. He took a house for his family at Kilburn, which was then a really rural suburb of London.

Sometimes he would ride into town to his business, or take the newly established omnibus which left that locality in time for business hours.

This arrangement led to the less important change from an early to a late dinner, and also to the choice of a school for his youngest boy, Freddy, now in his eighth year. The child's health had always suffered in London, and as, since their residence in the country, he appeared so much better, Mrs Armstrong wished him to remain at home and go daily to a school in the neighbourhood.

It was not long before a circular found its way from Englefield Grange School to Lime Grove, as Mr. Armstrong's residence was named, from two magnificent lime-trees which stood as sentinels on each side the entrance gate, in summer filling the air with their sweet fragrance.

Mrs. Armstrong decided to call upon the principal, Dr. Halford, herself, and with all a mother's anxiety talk to him about her boy.

Her own health had wonderfully improved during the six months of her residence at Kilburn. The open country—for houses then were few and far between—the sweet fresh air, the pleasant walks, gave her, as it were, new life, and last, but not least, the six o'clock dinner suited her better than a late supper. Mr. Armstrong would sometimes tell her she was growing young again, and it may be understood well how her relatives rejoiced over the change in her husband's opinions which had brought about such pleasant results. This improved state of health enabled Mrs. Armstrong to array herself fearlessly in warm winter clothing, and venture out in the cold frosty air a few weeks after Christmas, to call upon Dr. Halford. The distance along the country road was very trifling, and she had more than once noticed the large old-fashioned house which stood back from the road, surrounded by playgrounds, orchards, and a farmyard, all visible to the passer-by.

The vacation was nearly at an end, and the house, with its large dormitories and schoolrooms, in perfect readiness for the return of Dr. Halford's pupils. Its clean and well-furnished appearance satisfied the rather fastidious lady, although she had no intention of sending her boy as a boarder. She had been conducted to a pleasant drawing-room overlooking a beautiful prospect at the back of the house, and instead of taking the chair placed for her she advanced to the window to admire the view. While thus standing, she almost started as the door opened and the doctor entered.

A mildly speaking man, above the middle height, with silvery hair and keen intellectual eyes, advanced to greet the visitor, who quickly discerned that the schoolmaster, of whose erudition she had heard so much, was truly a gentleman of the old school. The cavalier deference in his manner to women, the old-fashioned courtesy with which he requested Mrs. Armstrong to be seated, and addressed her as "Madam," were essentially pleasing to that lady. They were soon quite at home on the subject of education, and Dr. Halford added no little to the prepossession he had created by listening to her anxieties respecting Freddy's health with courteous interest.

"You have children of your own, Dr. Halford?" said Mrs. Armstrong, in a tone of inquiry.

"I have two living, madam; a son and a daughter. My son is being educated for the Church, but at present he assists me in my school."

"And your daughter in the domestic arrangements, I presume," said the lady, with a kind of wish to know whether other men were as anxious over that point as her husband.

"She was accustomed to do so before her marriage," he replied, "but she has resided for several years with her husband in Australia. My son is much younger than his sister. She is the eldest of seven, and he the youngest."

Mrs. Armstrong mentally reflected on the sorrowful loss of five children, which must have caused such a terrible gap between the only surviving son and daughter, for there had been a sadness in his tone when he last spoke. Her own sympathies were too strong, and the memory of the loss of two children since Freddy, too painful still to allow her to continue the subject, so she said—

"When do you commence school again, Dr. Halford?"

"On Monday, madam," was the reply. "Would you like to see the schoolrooms and dining-rooms?" he added, "as your little boy is to dine with us."

Mrs. Armstrong gladly assented, and on her way to these apartments met Mrs. Halford, with whom she was equally pleased to make acquaintance. After a stay of nearly an hour, she at last took her leave of the doctor and his wife, saying—

"I shall send my little boy on Monday week, Dr. Halford, not before, and I feel sure he will make progress under your care, and be quite happy."

The terms for so young a pupil were not of such great importance as to justify Dr. Halford's pleasure at this addition to his numbers, but he had been as quick to detect a gentlewoman in Mrs. Armstrong as she had been respecting himself. Besides, he had heard rumours already of the wealth and good connexions of the family at Lime Grove, and the latter fact was more especially agreeable to him.

A clergyman who is a schoolmaster and his wife are both often well born and well connected though poor, and naturally they prefer to teach boys who learn refinement and good breeding at home, to those who are perhaps better paid for by parents who think everything, even intellect and good manners, can be obtained for money.

Mrs. Armstrong returned home at a quick pace; the pleasure she felt at being able to place her delicate Freddy with such nice people, and the fresh bracing air of the cold morning, invigorated her so greatly that Mary, who met her in the hall, exclaimed—

"Why, mamma, you look quite young and blooming, and as happy as if you had heard pleasant news!"

"Well, dear, I think I have, for Dr. Halford is one of the nicest schoolmasters I ever met with, rather of the old school in manners, but not in the least pedantic, and I like Mrs. Halford exceedingly, there is such a kind, motherly way about her, and they are both really well bred."

"So I suppose you intend Freddy to go there to school, mamma?" said Mary.

"Yes, indeed I do, my dear; and I am so pleased with the house and the arrangements, that if the Grange were not too near home, I should like to send Arthur and Edward as boarders. But I begin to feel rather tired, darling," she added, throwing herself into an easy-chair, "although the fresh bracing air seems to have given me new life."

"Ah, yes, so it may," cried Mary, "but, mamma, I can see you are tired; all the bright colour on your checks is beginning to fade already, so you must sit quite still in that chair till luncheon time; it will soon be ready, and I will take off your things and carry them upstairs while you rest."

The fairies of old are still Mary's attendants; gently and quickly she removed her mother's bonnet and wraps, and running upstairs with them, returned in a very few minutes with her head-dress, which she arranged tastefully on the pale brown hair, still worn in side curls as in the days of her youth.

Mrs. Armstrong has not yet reached the age of forty, and the delicate health of the last few years has only rendered her fair complexion more delicate and her physical powers weaker, without adding age to her appearance or a single grey hair to the shining curls which hang on each side of her face.

As Mary Armstrong stands by her mother, smoothing the soft ringlets, it is plainly to be seen that the pretty child of twelve has developed into a very beautiful woman. At the age of eighteen she resembles her mother only in complexion, eyes, and hair. Her features, though as regular, are not so delicately chiselled, they are larger and more marked; and in this, as in an expression of calm decision, the resemblance to her father is very striking. It is when she smiles, and her blue eyes light up with pleasure and interest, that strangers often exclaim, "How like you are to your mother, Miss Armstrong!" Mary has grown very little since the time when her cousin named her "Cinderella," but she looks taller, partly on account of her figure having fully developed into rounded proportions, but principally because the curls have disappeared. They have been tortured into plaits and massive coils at the back of her head, but true to Nature they often rebel, and escape here and there in the form of ringlets—often unnoticed by their owner, but when pointed out to her they are unceremoniously pushed back.

Mary is still influenced by the words of her father; he once said to her, "Mary, can you not arrange your hair as other girls do? those long curls are too childish at your age."

From this moment, to her mother's great regret, she, as it was then called, "turned up her hair" in the way we have described.

Her aunts approved, because this arrangement was less singular and more fashionable, which latter fact would have greatly surprised Mr. Armstrong. At all events, they differed from him in one respect still. When the rebellious hair would escape from the plaits in stray ringlets while in the company of her aunts, Mary had at first attempted to reduce them to submission, but she was quickly interrupted. "Leave your hair alone, Mary," her aunt Herbert exclaimed; "why, those stray ringlets are most effective, and quite an improvement to the appearance of your head. Surely your father will not object to what is natural; if you curled it in paper every night to produce an effect, then he might complain or disapprove."

Mary laughed, but when visiting at her aunt's she allowed Nature to act as she pleased. Yet at home there seemed no happier task to the young girl than to give way to every wish of her father, whether openly expressed or slightly hinted at, no matter to what it referred. It was a kind of hero-worship in the girl's heart. Her father was her hero, and the fact that she did not love him with the same clinging fondness as she loved her mother was quite unknown to herself.

Mary Armstrong certainly obeyed the command, "Honour thy father and thy mother;" yet in the family at Lime Grove there was still one thing wanting, "the perfect love that casteth out fear."

The principles of honour, rectitude, truthfulness, generosity, and other moral virtues were cultivated in Mary's home, but the "charity, or love," without which, St. Paul tells us, all our doings are as "sounding brass and tinkling cymbals," was wanting. Love to God and love to man, on which "hang all the law and the commandments," were known only in theory.

Mary Armstrong had yet to learn that to her Father in heaven she must turn in trouble and sorrow, and in future days she might have said almost in the words of Wolsey, "Had I but served my Father in heaven as diligently as I studied to please my father on earth, He would not have forsaken me now in my hour of sorrow." And yet for these days of trial Mary at last could feel thankful. Christianity in her home had been an acknowledged fact. Its outward duties, its moral principles, were all inculcated; but when our daily life passes smoothly, untroubled, by sorrow or poverty, which is, perhaps, the hardest trial of all to bear, especially when accompanied by sickness and pain, we are apt to forget the sweet principle of love to God and love to man which, St. Paul tells us, "is the fulfilling of the law;" and Mary Armstrong's life hitherto had known no trials more painful than those caused by her father's eccentricities.

CHAPTER VIII.

ENGLEFIELD GRANGE.

More than thirty-five years before the period of which we write, James Halford, who had been travelling tutor to the son of a nobleman, commenced a school at Bayswater, then a pretty rural village. His father, a country surgeon in good practice, had given his only son a superior education, but the young man had no liking for his father's profession. To send James to the university Mr. Halford felt would be beyond his means, and the young man's wish to enter the Church was therefore set aside, causing him great disappointment. Ultimately he was engaged as tutor to the youth already spoken of, and while with him in that capacity became acquainted with the governess of his sisters, Clara Marston, whom he afterwards married. At the death of his father a small but unexpected amount of money fell into his hands. He almost immediately relinquished his engagement with the son of Lord Rivers, and took a house at Bayswater. Trifling as the sum was, it still formed a sufficient capital upon which to commence a school, and so well had he performed his duty with his pupil that the high recommendation of the young man's relatives soon gained him several pupils. Six months after his father's death Clara Marston became his wife. For ten years they continued to carry on their school most successfully, till bricks and mortar had completely destroyed the countrified character of the place, and obliged them at last to seek a home elsewhere.

Armies of builders were already invading the beautiful fields and meadows in the neighbourhood; long rows of small semi-detached cottages, at rentals varying from 20l. to 50l. a year, sprung up as if by magic. Worse still, when the long leases of many old red brick mansions expired they were quickly demolished, and not only on their sites, but in the midst of the beautiful gardens and pleasure-grounds belonging to them arose piles of inferior buildings, bringing to their owners a quick return for the capital expended. The same spoliation of Nature is still going on around us, and in these days of utilitarianism how can it be avoided?

The loveliest of Nature's landscapes—the bright flowers of a well-kept garden—the glorious old trees, from the tops of which is heard the musical cawing of rooks—the red brick mansion with its many windows glittering in the setting sun, and its colour contrasting picturesquely with the green foliage—the stream of limpid water with the graceful swans gliding on its shadowed surface,—all this is very lovely to see, and belongs to the beautiful, but "will it pay?" is the question asked now; and the practical man of business knows that money not "knowledge is power," in these days of mammon-worship. So the beautiful is sacrificed without regret if it can be replaced by something that "pays better."

This brick-building mania, however, hastened Mr. Halford's removal from a house already too small for his increased number of pupils and rising family. His gentle firmness with the former, and his wife's clever domestic management, had made them very successful, and when they removed to their present commodious residence all their pupils followed them, and others were quickly added to their number.

Many sorrows, however, had overtaken them during the twenty-five years at Englefield Grange. Of their seven children two only survived, the eldest and the youngest.

Fanny Halford at the age of twenty had married, and accompanied her husband to Melbourne about fourteen years before the time of which we write. The youngest, Henry, a studious reading boy, was therefore the only hope of his parents. Dr. Halford, remembering his own disappointment about entering the Church, watched his boy anxiously, and as he grew from childhood to youth discovered with satisfaction that his wish to become a clergyman was as strong as his own had been.

Indeed, the youth's tastes all tended to such a result. At eight years old he commenced Greek; Cæsar, Horace, and Virgil were the companions of his play-hours, history an amusement, and poetry a delight. When these talents developed themselves Mr. Halford could not control his regret at a lost opportunity. Henry had not reached his seventh year when a friend obtained for him a presentation to Christ's Hospital; but the mother, who had followed so many children to the grave, could not spare her youngest boy. Mr. Halford hesitated to press it, and so the opportunity was lost. Now, however, she was ready to make any possible sacrifice to help in carrying out his own and his father's wishes.

When Henry Halford reached the age of sixteen it became necessary to make some decision as to his future. He had his faults, as all young people have, and they had been to a certain extent fostered by the indulgence of his loving mother and sister. Fanny was twelve years older than her brother, and knowing how he hated the restrictions of order and neatness, she would, during his early boyhood, quietly set to rights untidy rooms, carefully replace scattered books, and forgive his seeming indifference to her kind attention. Even a certain irritation of temper was passed over by mother and sister, for if he was hasty, was he not quick to forgive? and who so penitent as Henry Halford after uttering an angry or unjust word? Besides, they reasoned, studious and imaginative people were often very irritable. After his sister's marriage, he had another to spoil him in her place, of whom we shall hear more by-and-by. And so the time passed on till his father felt it necessary to obtain for his son suitable preparation for the university.

One evening he broached the subject to his wife. "My dear," he said, "there is no one to whom I could send Henry with so much confidence as to Dr. Mason; he is a man of high standing, and his pupils scarcely ever fail in passing for the professions in which he prepares them. He took a first class at Oxford, and has had many years' experience."

"Are not his terms a hundred a year?" asked Mrs. Halford.

"Yes," was the reply, "but I have thought the matter over seriously; Henry must be with Dr. Mason two years at least, and we can spare the 200l., Clara dear, don't you think so?"

"Indeed, I do," she replied; "I would make any sacrifice rather than interfere with the dear boy's prospects."

"There will be no sacrifice," said her husband, "even if it should cost the whole of the thousand pounds I have saved for him, to send him to the university. Fanny has had her share, and if Henry is willing for his portion to be spent on preparation for the Church we cannot object to his wishes."

"And is he willing?" asked the mother, who was ready to give up double the sum named by her husband if by so doing she could gratify her son.

"More than willing, he is most anxious. I never saw the boy look so eager and delighted as when he found I could spare the money I had set aside for him without inconvenience to myself. I explained to him the whole cost—200l. for two years with Dr. Mason,—and, at the lowest estimate, 600l. while at Oxford. Altogether, with coaching, private tutor, ordination fees, and other expenses, a thousand pounds will just about cover it."

"You have set my mind at ease, James, about the boy," said Mrs. Halford. "In six or seven years he will be ordained, and by that time, if our school continues to be successful, we may still have something to leave to our children after all."

"And you forget, my dear, that if I should be laid up or unable to work, Henry as a clergyman will be much more suitable to carry on the school than myself, although I have a foreign degree. And after my death there will be an income for him to fall back upon if he does not speedily obtain a living."

"Don't anticipate evil," said the hopefully proud mother. "God grant we may both live to see our son a useful minister in the Church before we die, whether as curate or rector."

And in this happy prospect Henry Halford, at the age of seventeen, had been placed with Dr. Mason to prepare for matriculation at Oxford.

The breakfast parlour at the Grange was situated at the back of the house, looking over the prospect so admired by Mrs. Armstrong. The sun shining upon the front of the house during the summer afternoon made this apartment cool and pleasant for tea, which was now prepared on a table near the window.

Close to it sat a lady past middle age, yet most attractive in appearance. On her white silky hair rested a lace cap tastefully trimmed; beneath the white hair and strongly contrasted with it were dark eyes, eyebrows, and lashes, still reminding those who knew her in youth of the bright and lively Clara Marston. The soft, patient face has now lost its vivacity, but it is not the less pleasing on that account. Her hand held a stocking, but it rested on her lap, her thoughts were evidently far away.

The door opened and Dr. Halford entered, followed by his niece, who exclaimed—

"Aunt, I declare you have been mending stockings, but I mean to hide that stocking-basket out of your sight; and now you are to make yourself comfortable in your easy-chair while I pour out the tea."

Mrs. Halford smiled, but she submitted quietly to her niece's injunctions, gave up the stocking which she took from her passive hand, and then drew her aunt's chair nearer to the table.

Happy as they appeared, Mrs. Halford could scarcely, even after the lapse of ten years, repress a sigh as she saw her niece take her absent daughter's place.

Perhaps she felt thankful at not being able to trace a likeness in her brother's daughter to her own Fanny, who in features, eyes, and hair so much resembled herself. But in truth Kate Marston was a great comfort to her aunt and uncle. Plain and homely, with a fair skin and rosy cheeks that betokened her north-country origin, she was yet active, methodical, and industrious—a daughter in loving attention to her aunt and uncle, and at all times good-tempered and cheerful.

"Uncle," she said presently, "you need not hide your letter, I saw the postman give you one this afternoon."

Mrs. Halford looked up quickly. "Is it from Dr. Mason?" she asked.

"Well, yes, it is," he replied. "I wanted to wait till we had finished tea, but Katey is impatient, so I suppose I must read it at once."

"Yes, uncle, of course you must; I saw the postmark when you took it in, so no wonder I am impatient."

We also need not wonder, for the orphan daughter of Mrs. Halford's only brother had no hopes or interests beyond those of Englefield Grange; and although she had long passed the ominous age of thirty she had no thought of marriage.

Dr. Halford took the letter from his pocket, and not even the mother's eyes could be brighter with interest as she listened while her husband read than those of Kate Marston. And this is what Dr. Mason wrote respecting the dearly loved son and cousin:—

"My dear Sir,—When you requested me to send you my opinion respecting the abilities and character of your son Henry at the end of one month, I feared it would be too soon to enable me to form a correct judgment.

"I might, however, have done so safely, for as I found him during the first month he still continues; to even a superficial observer his character and tendencies are plainly distinguishable. I never met with a youth less reticent or more transparent,—too much so indeed for contact with the world; he is fearless of consequences, and careless of concealment.

"I have been led to form this opinion from mere trifling matters which have come under my notice. A want of order and neatness, and a reckless disregard to rules, have made him break them openly, and as if unconscious that by so doing he was deserving of blame. I am inclined to think that Master Henry's mamma and cousin are answerable for all this, for the boy acts as if he had been accustomed to be waited upon hand and foot.

"He has a high proud spirit which will brook no insult; yet, quick as he is to resent, he is equally quick to forgive, and when he has given offence by a hasty or unjust remark he is ready to acknowledge it and to apologise in a moment. He is warm-hearted and generous to a fault, and a great favourite with some of my best pupils, all older than himself.

"Perhaps one great cause for this may arise from their admiration of his talents. My dear friend, you did not prepare me for such a genius as your boy. You have, no doubt, instructed him well, but there is in him a natural love for the acquirement of knowledge for its own sake, and indeed talents, which if cultivated will one day make of him a great man.

"Do not hesitate to send him to the university; and if he still wishes to become a clergyman, encourage him by all means to work for that end.

"The power over his own language which he displays in his translations of the Greek and Latin poets is wonderful in a youth of his age. He never seems at a loss for a word to express the true meaning of the original, and his English themes are superior in many respects to those of my oldest pupils.

"The style wants training and pruning, like a plant of luxurious growth, till it reaches perfection and beauty. Time and experience will do this, and I have no fear for the result.

"In mathematical studies, however, he is rather deficient, but for these he appears to have no predilection. I shall not allow him to give them up entirely, although I have no hopes of making him a mathematician. My epistle is extending itself beyond all reasonable limits, but I was most anxious to give you my candid opinion of your son's character and abilities, and I trust I have complied with your request in a satisfactory manner.

"With kind regards to Mrs. Halford and your niece, believe me to be

"Most faithfully yours,

"M. Mason."

CHAPTER IX.

LOOKING BACK.

A few miles from Meadow Farm, the birthplace of Edward Armstrong, stood a nobleman's mansion, which in spite of modern alterations and adornments, gave numerous proofs of its antiquity. The building formed three sides of a square, the fourth enclosed by iron railings and a curiously carved gate, gilded escutcheons and coats of arms forming its chief ornaments. The house stood on the brow of a hill, looking across the town of Basingstoke, which lay beneath it at a distance of a few miles.

A streamlet, issuing in little rills from springs on the summit of the ascent, fell in tiny cascades through woody glens and artificial grottoes till it approached the house. Here it formed a miniature lake on which the majestic swans sailed in stately pride. Continuing its course, it passed under a rustic bridge, a limpid stream, in which the speckled trout sported, fearless of the angler's line, beneath the shadow of lofty elms or gracefully bending willows.

Within, the house was equally attractive. A large hall occupied the centre of the building, its lofty dimensions reaching to the roof, and lighted by tall narrow windows which faced the entrance gates. From this hall, doors and a noble staircase led to other apartments, the dining-room and drawing-room occupying a similar space at the back. In the former room, a few days after the marriage of Arthur Franklyn to Fanny Halford, a family party were assembled at breakfast. From a deep oriel window, with its lattice and diamond panes open to the sweet perfumed air of spring, could be seen, not only gardens, shrubberies, and a richly wooded park, but a distant prospect of hill and valley, field and meadow, equalled, no doubt, but not often surpassed in our fertile island.

The furniture of the room, though suited to its antique architecture, wore an appearance of brightness which the light though simple morning attire of some of its occupants greatly increased.

The party consisted of three ladies, a gentleman in the prime of life, and a youth of sixteen. The eldest of the ladies, though pale and delicate, appeared almost too youthful to be the mother of the two girls of seventeen and nineteen who sat at the table by her side.

The younger of them had the Times newspaper in her hand, and appeared to be deeply engaged in examining its first column. The elder presided at the breakfast-table.

"Well, Dora," said her father, "what have you found in the paper interesting enough to make you oblivious to the fact that your breakfast is getting cold?"

"Why, papa," she replied, laughing, "I am not particularly interested, but puzzled with the advertisement of a wedding. The house of the bride's father has the same name as ours,—at least, not exactly; but listen, papa.

"'On the 6th instant, at the parish church, Kilburn, Arthur Leigh Franklyn, Esq., solicitor, of Clement's Inn, London, and Brook House, Clapton, to Frances Clara, only daughter of Dr. Halford, Englefield Grange, Kilburn.'"

"Halford's daughter married!" exclaimed the earl, for such he was; "truly indeed time flies: it seems but the other day that he and I were travelling together on the Continent, and studying men and manners."

"Oh, papa, I remember now. Dr. Halford was your tutor. I thought I had heard the name; but how came his house to be called Englefield Grange?"

"A liberty rather, I should say," remarked the young heir to the title and estate, Lord Robert, Viscount Woodville.

"My friend James Halford," said Earl Rivers, with a stress upon the word, "intended it as a compliment, Robert, yet he waited for my father's permission before he named his house Englefield Grange. My conscience smites me for having neglected him so long. I must pay them a visit this season while we are in London."

"I have heard your mother speak of Dr. Halford," said Lady Rivers; "did he not marry your sister's governess?"

"Yes, Clara Marston. Why, it must be two or three and twenty years ago. They lived at Bayswater for some time after their marriage, but I have seen nothing of them since they removed to Kilburn."

"And this daughter, papa," said Lady Dora, "did you ever see her?"

"Well, my dear, I have some recollection of a little dark-eyed girl named Fanny, to whom I was introduced in one of my visits at Bayswater. She was then, I should say, about eight years old, and the Halfords have resided nearly eleven years at Kilburn."

"If the little girl was named Fanny, papa, she must be the same who has just married, for the name in the paper is Frances. Oh yes," added Lady Dora, after another glance at the Times, "and it says only daughter, so this must be the bride."

"You appear greatly interested in this young married lady, my dear," said her father.

Lady Dora blushed. Her interest was only that of girls of seventeen in all ranks of society about brides in general, and one in particular if her age, parentage, and antecedents are known. "I think I am interested now," replied the young lady, "because you knew the bride when she was a little girl, and her father was your tutor; but the name of Englefield first attracted me in the newspaper. Papa," she continued after a slight pause, during which no one spoke, "Englefield is a strange title for any house, especially such a beautiful estate as this. Do you know how it originated?"

"From nothing very mysterious or romantic," said her father, laughing,—"at least, none that I ever heard of. According to the etymology of the word, however, we ought to be descended from the gipsies, for Engle is evidently derived from the old Saxon word Ingle, which signifies a hearth or chimney corner. Ingle or Engle in a field, as the name of this estate implies, must denote a cosy, homelike fireplace, in a meadow or on a common, such as only gipsies can invent. But you must decide upon this matter yourself, Dora," continued the earl, as he rose and looked at his watch; "I have no time for farther discussion upon the origin of a name which belonged to this estate more than four hundred years ago."

"How very absurd you are, Dora!" said her elder sister, when the earl had left the room, "just as if it mattered to us what originated the name of an estate which has descended to papa through so many generations. And why you should be interested about the marriage of a schoolmaster's daughter I cannot imagine."

"A schoolmaster's daughter!" repeated Lady Dora, "I did not know Dr. Halford kept a school."

"He does, my dear," said Lady Rivers, gently, "but Dr. Halford and his wife are truly well-bred people, and their profession has never lessened the respect and kind interest with which both your father and grandfather have always treated them."

Lady Mary Woodville shrugged her shoulders; she had been a frequent visitor at her grandmother's, the Dowager Lady Rivers, and this lady's influence and opinions had fostered in the heart of Lady Mary her natural pride of birth, and a foolish contempt for those who had to work for their living.

"You have not much to boast of, Mary," said her brother, laughing, as he rose from his seat and approached the window, "if, as papa suggests, we are descended from the gipsies."

"What nonsense you talk, Robert!" replied his sister.

"Well, perhaps I ought to have addressed you, Dora, instead of Mary, for with your brown face and your flashing black eyes you are an out-and-out little gipsy;" but as the youth spoke, his glance of affection too plainly proved that the "little gipsy" was a favourite sister.

"I am like papa, Robert," she replied, good-naturedly.

"Of course you are, my dear," said Lady Rivers, "and he has nothing of the gipsy about him; but do not waste time in talking nonsense.—Robert, I thought you asked Dora to ride with you this morning, and the sooner you order the horses the better, for this bright April weather may not continue all day."

Lord Robert hastened to follow his mother's advice, while Lady Dora gladly escaped from the room to prepare for her ride.

This little peep into the domestic habits and manners of the family at Englefield will give our readers some idea of the pleasant home in which James Halford met his future wife, Clara Marston, in the years gone by.

The present Earl Rivers, who had been Dr. Halford's pupil for three years from the age of twenty-one, had reached his forty-fifth year at the time of which we write. Well might Lady Rivers assert that there was nothing of the gipsy in his appearance, in spite of the dark eyes and hair in which, as well as in features, his youngest daughter so strongly resembled him. Lord Rivers' tall, commanding figure, noble bearing, and marked features belonged to the class which an Englishman designates aristocratic. Yet he had no proud assumption of superiority on this account. Although polished and refined, and a true English gentleman of the olden times, his manners were simple and unobtrusive; and now, as he rides his horse slowly through the park and along the road to the station, he recalls with pain the fact that he has neglected his friend Dr. Halford long enough for his little daughter Fanny, whose marriage is in the Times, to grow to womanhood and become a bride.

"I will pay them a visit next week," was his decision at length, as he put his horse into a canter.

April had fulfilled its proverbial destiny. It had passed away in "showers" and sunshine, leaving behind as its trophies the "May flowers" which were to gladden the earth with their beauty and fragrance in this the first summer month of the year.

One morning, while Kate Marston was busy in one of the rooms overlooking the road, she saw a gentleman on horseback stop at the gate and alight. She heard the peal of the gate bell, and then the question to the man-servant who answered it—

"Is Dr. Halford at home?"

The next moment the tall figure of a stranger to Kate approached the house, and she could hear the footsteps ascending the stairs to the drawing-room.

"Some gentleman about pupils," said Kate to herself, as she returned to her occupation. Yet she could not get rid of the idea that the visitor was not exactly of the same stamp as those who generally presented themselves at Englefield Grange.

Meanwhile Dr. Halford's man-servant had placed a card in his master's hand which made him rise hastily from his desk, leave the schoolroom to the care of the assistants, and hasten upstairs to welcome his visitor.

As the two gentlemen shook hands, so many recollections of the past thronged to their memories that neither for a moment could utter a word. Lord Rivers recovered himself first.

"Doctor," he said, the old familiar title coming naturally to his lips, "I am positively ashamed to meet you again after so many years of neglect, but here I am at last, to plead for myself, and ask you and your wife to forgive me."

"Lord Rivers," replied Dr. Halford, "there is nothing to forgive. I know too well what the demands upon the time of a man in your position must be, and my old pupil will always be welcome at Englefield Grange;" and as the gentleman spoke he placed a chair for his visitor and begged him to be seated.

"And this is the house you have named after Englefield," said the earl. "Well, it is a charming spot; and what a splendid prospect from that window!" he added, rising and approaching to obtain a more extended view. "I feel myself honoured by your choice of a name for such a residence."

"It can scarcely be called an honour," said the doctor, "but this house is a great improvement upon the one at Bayswater; do you remember it, Lord Rivers?"

"Indeed I do, to my regret. My last visit there must be nearly ten years ago, and that reminds me—I will make my confession at once—I saw in the Times of last week a notice of the marriage of your only daughter. I suppose the little Fanny I met at my last visit. The name of Englefield Grange attracted my youngest daughter's notice, and when she pointed it out to me I felt inclined to say, like the chief butler in Pharaoh's court, 'I do remember my faults this day.'"

"My dear Lord Rivers," began Dr. Halford, but the visitor stopped him.

"I will not say another word on the subject, doctor. And now tell me all about your daughter; whom she has married, and how many sons you have. And one question I should have asked first—how is Mrs. Halford? I must not go away without seeing her."

Dr. Halford was at this time fourteen years younger than on the day when Mrs. Armstrong called upon him to arrange about her little boy; a man still in the prime of life, scarcely ten years older than his late pupil, yet the parting with his only daughter had sprinkled the first grey streaks in his dark hair, and already aged him in appearance. Lord Rivers had brought to his memory the occasion to which his lordship had referred. On that last visit at Bayswater, Fanny, the eldest, had not been the only girl: his family consisted then of five children; four of these he had lost during a few succeeding years, and of the two boys born since, his son Henry alone survived.

The bereaved father felt that while the loss of his daughter Fanny was such a recent event he must nerve himself before he could call up old memories to enlighten his kind visitor.

Lord Rivers, he knew, was actuated by the kindest interest in questioning him on the past, and the earl's present ideas about Fanny's marriage were formed on the supposition that it was a matter for congratulation, and a time of joyful hopes. All this was evident to Dr. Halford, and he gladly seized upon the opportunity offered by the mention of Mrs. Halford's name to say—

"Lord Rivers, you will stay and lunch with us in our plain simple way; you must not refuse, indeed you must not, for the sake of olden times," he added quickly, as he noticed a look of hesitation in his friend's face.

"I do not mean to refuse," said his lordship, "but I was thinking about the horses and my groom; if he could be told to take them to the inn for an hour or so, and get provender for them and himself, I will gladly remain with you to lunch."

Glad of an excuse to leave the room and tell Mrs. Halford of the arrival, Dr. Halford, with a hasty apology and a promise to send the order of Lord Rivers to the groom, left the gentleman to himself.

But Mrs. Halford, the Clara Marston of olden times, was more calm and self-possessed in cases of emergency than her erudite husband. She had heard from Kate of the arrival of a gentleman on horseback, and from Thomas the name on the card.

Giving orders at once for lunch to be prepared in the private dining-room, she made some trifling addition to her dress, and waited for a summons from her husband.

As he left the drawing-room she met him on the stairs.

"Lord Rivers is here, Clara," was his flurried remark.

"I know it, my dear; everything is ready. Whither are you going?"

"To send Thomas out to the groom about the horses. You go up to the visitor; he is going to lunch with us."

"Do not be long," she said, as she continued her way upstairs and entered the room.

Lord Rivers started forward with pleasure to receive her, and in a very few minutes they were talking eagerly of old times at Englefield, when the earl, then Lord Woodville, a youth in his teens, had been sometimes a troublesome intruder on the school hours or music and drawing lessons of his two young sisters, Miss Marston's pupils.

Presently Dr. Halford joined them; he was more able to touch upon family sorrows with his wife for an ally, and a great amount of the sad part of the details was got over before the summons to lunch.

In one point, however, Lord Rivers did some real good.

Dr. Halford was expressing a kind of mournful regret that his daughter's marriage should take her so far away from home, when Lord Rivers interrupted him.

"My dear doctor, you are not keeping pace with the times. In the present day a voyage to Australia is not more distant as regards time than America or even the Mediterranean in years gone by. And the wonderful facility of communication by post unites friends personally separated by thousands of miles as closely in these days of rapid travelling as those who a hundred years ago merely occupied different parts of our own little island."

"Very true," replied Dr. Halford, "yet, still——" and he paused.

"Not satisfied yet?" exclaimed Lord Rivers, cheeringly, as they descended to the dining-room. "Are you more hopeful about your daughter, Mrs. Halford?"

"I am getting more reconciled to her loss," was the reply, "and perhaps in time the interchange of letters and news of Fanny's happiness will complete the cure."

During luncheon the conversation became more cheerful, and Lord Rivers was about to express his regret that he must leave such pleasant society, when the door opened and a little blue-eyed boy of about eight years old entered the room.

"Ah," exclaimed the visitor, "this is your youngest child, doctor, I suppose, of whom you were speaking just now.—Come here, my little man, and shake hands with papa's friend."

The boy advanced fearlessly and placed his little hand in that of his father's old pupil, while he looked in the face of Lord Rivers with bright, intelligent eyes, and that peculiar smile which even in childhood added such a charm to the face of Henry Halford.

"My only boy, Henry, and my only child now, I may say," was the remark of the father, in a rather sad tone.

"I see nothing in that fact calculated to make you speak sadly, doctor," said the nobleman, pushing back the brown curls from the child's broad white forehead. "There is room for any amount of knowledge here, I should say. Are you fond of your books, my boy?"

"I like reading history," replied Henry, simply—"all about those wonderful Greeks and Romans, and the great Northmen that conquered so many countries," and then the child paused suddenly, as if ashamed of his enthusiasm.

Lord Rivers, with a glance at the radiant face of the proud mother, drew the boy nearer to him, and said—

"Go on, Henry, tell me what books you like best; have you begun to learn Latin yet?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Henry, "I've been all through my Latin grammar and the Delectus, and now I'm learning Greek."

"So you mean to be a learned man like your father, eh, Master Henry?"

"I don't know, sir; but I should like to be a learned man very much."

"And I daresay you will, if you study very hard."

Lord Rivers glanced at his old tutor as he spoke, and said, "What do you mean to make of this boy, doctor?"

"Go into the schoolroom, Henry," said his father, "and ask Mr. Howard to assemble the classes for afternoon school."

Henry turned to obey. Lord Rivers detained him a moment.

"May I?" he said, holding a sovereign in his hand, which could only be seen by Dr. Halford. "Just a trifle to purchase any books he may choose, and consider them my present."

There was a silent acquiescence to this appeal, which Lord Rivers quickly understood.

Turning to the boy he placed the sovereign in his hand, saying, "Good-by, Henry; there is something to buy you any books you wish for, and you must call them my present."

The child for a moment looked bewildered, then he turned to his father with inquiring eyes.

"Thank Lord Rivers for his kind present, Henry," said his father, "and when you have delivered my message to Mr. Howard you can return here."

"Thank you, Lord Rivers," said the child; and then with an earnest look in the nobleman's face he asked, "Was papa your tutor once?"

"Yes, my boy," said the earl; and as he stooped to kiss the bright, intelligent face, he added, "And now go and deliver papa's message."

With a quick movement the boy, turning to his father, placed the sovereign in his hand, and hastily left the room.

"What a splendid boy!" was the earl's remark as the door closed on the child. "What do you intend to make of him? he has genius enough for any position."

"I hope to send him to the university," replied Dr. Halford, "and if I find he has any predilection that way, I shall encourage him to take orders."

"Almost a pity, doctor, to bury such talents in the Church, and limit the young man's income to 100l. a year as a curate."

"I shall be guided by the boy's own wishes; but if I find he desires to become a clergyman as earnestly as I did, I will not raise a single obstacle in his path."

"Well, no," said Lord Rivers, rising as Thomas entered with the information that the horses were at the door. "I can quite understand your wish that your son should not be thwarted in his hopes as you were; and remember one thing—if in the years to come your son Henry should become a clergyman, I have two livings in my gift, one of which shall be his as soon as it becomes vacant after he is ordained."

Before the delighted parents could express their warmest thanks for this promise, the little boy made his appearance, and accompanied his father to the gate with the visitor.

The child's eager admiration of the beautiful high-bred animal which the earl mounted, and indeed of the earl himself, was so enthusiastic that it formed an epoch in his life never to be forgotten while memory should last.

Not more lasting and real was the earl's promise in the memory of the doctor and his wife; and this promise, added to the fact that Henry Halford's talents and wishes tended the same way, led to the results which have been described in the preceding chapters of this history.

Perhaps Dr. Halford, whose character was not hopeful, did not allow himself to trust too much in the earl's promise. He remembered the words, "Put not your trust in princes, for vain is the help of man." Yet it influenced him to a certain extent, for he felt convinced that if his old pupil lived, and the opportunity presented itself, Lord Rivers was not likely to forget his promise.

CHAPTER X.

HENRY HALFORD'S NEW STUDY.

Mr. Armstrong's horse, a valuable and spirited chestnut, stood at the gate of Lime Grove about ten days after Mrs. Armstrong's visit to Englefield Grange.

The family had just finished breakfast in a large room overlooking a beautiful garden from its broad bay-window. The sun shone brightly on the frozen gravel walks, and glittered in the rime that hung on the branches of the leafless trees. Bare and cold as the January prospect of winter might be, yet the clear air and bright sunlight had an invigorating effect on youthful and healthy constitutions.

"Pray wrap up well," said Mrs. Armstrong, as she saw Mary helping her father with his great-coat, "you will have a cold ride this morning; and take care Firefly does not slip."

"No fear of that, Maria, he's a most sure-footed horse; and besides, the ground is too hard to be slippery. And as to wrapping up," he added, patting with his hand a thick shawl doubled across his chest and throat, "I think I am wrapped up sufficiently to defy any kind of weather."

"Not in Russia, papa" (the once objectionable title was tolerated now); "your nose would be frozen, and icicles would hang on your eyelashes; I learnt that in my geography at school."

"Yes, there is no doubt about that fact, Freddy; but in England such terrible results are not likely to happen; and that reminds me I hear you are going to a new school, and I hope you will be a good and attentive boy, and not give your mamma and sister any trouble about your lessons or by being late; and I must be off too," he added, glancing at the clock; "and, Freddy, you have only a quarter of an hour to finish your breakfast and get to school."

"I have finished now, papa," cried the boy, starting up as his father left the room; and then coming over to where his mother sat in an easy-chair by the fire, he put his little hand on hers and said—"Mamma, will you go with me to school? I don't like going by myself the first morning."

Mrs. Armstrong put her arm round her boy and drew him to her side.

"I am not well enough to venture out in the cold, Freddy," she replied, "but Mary will go with you; and you need not be afraid of Dr. Halford, he is most gentle and kind to little boys who are attentive and learn their lessons, and I hope you will try to please him.—Mary, my dear," continued Mrs. Armstrong as her daughter entered the room, "Freddy does not like to go to school the first time by himself, will you take him?"

"Oh yes, mamma, I should like the walk above all things on this bright cold morning. I know the house, it is not far—come Freddy."

Freddy kissed his mother, and then ran upstairs after Mary, and in a very few minutes they were walking along the country road together, Mary with elastic graceful step, and Freddy half walking, half running by her side.

The brother and sister were overflowing with health and spirits on this clear wintry day, and stepped quickly on till they drew near their destination; then Freddy subsided into a more sober pace. The first visit to a new school has rather a depressing influence upon the boyish feelings at eight years old. Freddy's manner excited Mary's sympathy, it was therefore with a very demure look that she led her little brother to the entrance and knocked.

As they stood waiting for admission several boys older than Freddy entered the gate, and passed round the house by a side way to the schoolroom entrance. Of course such a proceeding would have been at that moment too trying for Freddy's nerves, but he cast furtive, inquiring glances at his future schoolfellows, which they returned fearlessly and with interest.

So intent was the child that the opening of the door startled him, and he did not quite recover till he found himself alone with Mary in the drawing-room of Englefield Grange. How often in after years Mary recalled that visit! and how little she anticipated, as she stood admiring the prospect which had so attracted her mother, that its consequences would be interwoven with the whole thread of her future life!

Mrs. Armstrong had been unwilling to send her boy too soon after the close of the Christmas holidays. More than a week had passed, and yet the boarders were returning rather slowly.

"School is all very well," they argued, "in summer, when we can have cricket and games in the playground till bedtime." And we are quite willing to own that winter evenings at school are a trial to a boy who compares them with the warm carpeted parlour, the blazing fire, and the freedom of home, with no lessons to learn.

The arrangements at Dr. Halford's in winter were, however, very homelike. The boys sat on winter evenings in a comfortable class-room, with two fireplaces, not stoves, in which genial fires, protected by wire guards, blazed pleasantly, and large gas burners increased the warmth and created light and cheerfulness.

Still, during the first week or two after the holidays the restless boy-spirit often rebelled against the necessary restraint, without which or the presence of a master the room would very soon have become a modern Babel, or something worse, in noise and tumult.

On this Monday morning Mrs. Halford was busy in the dormitory, arranging, with the assistance of the wardrobe-keeper, the clothes of those boys who had arrived during the preceding week.

The door opened hastily, and Kate Marston entered. Mrs. Halford has changed very little since we saw her at the tea-table some years before, listening to Dr. Mason's letter. She looked up hastily and smiled as her niece said, "Aunt, is the key of the wardrobe room in your key-basket? I cannot find it anywhere." She advanced to the table on which the basket lay, and began to turn over the contents.

"I have the key, my dear," said her aunt, putting her hand into her pocket. "I found it in the door last evening, and took possession of it."

"Oh! Harry, Harry," exclaimed Kate, laughing, "you are incorrigible; how earnestly the dear old fellow did promise me to put the key back in its place! I expect I shall find the drawers open and every sash of the wardrobe pushed back."

Mrs. Halford smiled. "No, my dear," she said, "I went in and put everything to rights before I locked the door."

The kind, loving mother had found doors and wardrobe open, and the usual neatness of everything destroyed by her boy in his anxiety to discover a missing vest, which after all was found in his own bedroom.

Henry Halford has changed very little in character during the years that have elapsed since the receipt of Dr. Mason's letters. He has made great progress in his studies, and when he left Dr. Mason's care, about three years before the Christmas-time of which we write, his father, who had just parted with a classical assistant, found Henry quite capable of supplying his place.

Dr. Halford felt also the truth of Thomson's words—

"Teaching we learn, and giving we retain,
The birth of intellect, when dumb, forgot."

And Henry Halford so thoroughly understood the advantage to himself that he entered into his task with interest and zeal. Young as he was, he soon gained the honour and respect of his father's elder pupils, who were not slow to discover the real value of their young teacher's knowledge.

But Henry Halford at the age of twenty-two was far beyond that age in appearance as well as knowledge. His figure, though tall and rather slight, had a manliness of carriage seldom seen before twenty-five. The clear olive complexion looked even fair by contrast to the thick dark whiskers and eyebrows that adorned it. A beard and moustache were not then, as now, considered necessary ornaments, or we might say useful appendages for the mouth, neck, and throat. At all events, Harry Halford was pronounced handsome by those who were sufficiently intimate with him to observe the play of features, the mobile mouth, and the intelligent sparkling of the deep blue eyes while conversing, although the former was large and displayed want of firmness, and the nose scarcely escaped being pronounced a snub.

Such was the young tutor who now sat in the class-room of the Grange, reading some Greek author, and quite oblivious to the unchecked noise made by the early arrival of day pupils and the boarders in the room.

He had a wonderful power of concentrating his mind on any one subject in spite of surroundings which would have driven some students crazy. The brass bands or a grinding organ might have paraded London streets in peace so far as Henry Halford was concerned. And his sister and cousin would often practise together for hours in winter, in a room close to his little study, uncomplained of by him even when a boy.

As he grew older, and after Fanny left home on her marriage, he would often say to Kate Marston, "Why don't you practise, Kate? I assure you it will not disturb me."

But Kate, after his return from Dr. Mason's, seldom touched the piano while he was in the house; her love of music was so true that she could not understand the possibility of not being disturbed in any mental employment by the practice, not the perfect performance of a piece of music.

Well and correctly played, a beautiful air falls on the ear as melodious harmony without disturbing any mental effort then occupying the mind; but to a true musician every false note, every break of tune or measure, jars upon the senses, and attracts other mental powers beyond the mere sense of hearing, and totally breaks up for a time the disturbed train of thought.

But Henry Halford was no musician, and therefore not liable to interruptions of this kind, nor indeed of any other, as his present oblivion in the class-room plainly indicates.

Even the opening of the door failed to disturb him, and it was only when a sudden silence fell on the rebels that the voice of his father made itself heard.

Henry started from his seat, closed the book, and followed Dr. Halford, who beckoned him out of the room.

"Mrs. Armstrong is in the drawing-room, Henry. I suppose she has brought her little boy. Will you go and see her? I fear she will detain me. The clock has struck nine, and I will get these boys into order while you are gone."

Dr. Halford always took this "getting into order" upon himself; it was one of the duties he could not delegate to his son.

Dr. Halford had understood from the maidservant who admitted Mary and her brother that Mrs. Armstrong had brought the little boy, and Henry passed on to the drawing-room, prepared to be detained by a long story of the requirements of her child and the injunctions of a fond mother.

It must be owned he opened the door rather reluctantly, but it was to start with surprise, and for a few moments to lose all self-possession. A young, handsome, and elegant girl rose as he entered, and bowed also with slight confusion. Her mother had described Dr. Halford as a tall, pale, intellectual-looking man of sixty, with white hair and a slight stoop. Who then could this be, with his erect bearing and youthful face? Mary Armstrong could not control the deep blush that rose to her cheek, but she quickly recovered her self-possession. Mary had been subject to too many contrasts in life and was too really well-bred to allow of any awkwardness. She took Freddy's hand and led him forward as she said, "I have brought my little brother, Frederick Armstrong, to school; he did not like to come alone on the first morning, and mamma was not well enough to bring him herself."

Henry Halford by this time had also recovered himself to a certain degree as he stammered out—

"I will tell my father, Miss Armstrong; he is in the schoolroom at present. He asked me to see—I thought Mrs. Armstrong——" and then remembering his father's fear of being detained by that lady, and of his own dread of her in consequence, he paused in helpless confusion. Woman-like, this hesitation gave Mary courage. She could scarcely repress a smile as the young man's words explained unintentionally the cause of his evident surprise. He had expected a middle-aged lady, her mother, instead of a young girl. Perhaps this was the studious son spoken of by Dr. Halford to her mother. Bookworms were always awkward in the company of ladies, especially young ones; and as these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she said with her accustomed ease and dignity—for Mary Armstrong could be dignified at times—"I need not detain you, Mr. Halford, if you will kindly take my little brother to the schoolroom and explain to Dr. Halford why mamma could not bring him herself."

"Certainly, Miss Armstrong," was all he could say, as he opened the door and followed her with Freddy downstairs to the entrance.

When they reached the door he opened it for her to pass out.

"Be a good boy, Freddy," she said, as she stooped to kiss her brother, then she bowed to Henry Halford and descended the steps. On the gravel path she turned to give Freddy one more encouraging look. Henry Halford still stood at the open door, holding Freddy's hand in a firm clasp. Of course she could only bow to him again, but as she passed through the gate into the high road she reflected that this young man who held the child's hand so kindly would no doubt be kind to their little Freddy.

But of the thoughts which had been passing through Henry Halford's mind during that short interview Mary Armstrong was quite unsuspecting; neither had she the least idea that he stood at the open door watching her for some minutes, to Freddy's surprise, and until a movement of the child recalled him to the duties of the hour.

Hastily taking Freddy to the schoolroom and telling his father the child's name, he brought his mind to bear upon the duties of his class with his usual power of concentration. No sooner, however, had morning school closed than he retired to his own little sanctum, but not to his usual studies. A new object of study was occupying his mind, and he threw himself into his chair, and folding his arms, thought over again his adventure of the morning. How clearly every movement, every look, even every article of dress worn by the visitor was photographed on his memory! He could see again the tall graceful figure, the fair expressive face, the large blue eyes, the bright auburn hair, one or two locks as usual escaping under the hat.

He recalled the blush which added brilliance to the face, and knew that in action, word, and movement the young girl before him was a true gentlewoman. Even the dress, so suitable to the season and the hour, showed this—warm and dark and soft, only brightened by an ermine muff and furs, and red ribbons in the hat. And the boy too, young as he was, had more of the savoir faire about him than many of the sons of rich merchants who attended the school, and yet the father of these young people was a tradesman. Henry Halford was puzzled. He had been brought up with the foolish prejudice against trade then so prevalent. Both his parents had been well born and were well connected. His father's sister had married into a good family, although, like many of these old families, they had little to boast of in the way of money. And then the young student grew bewildered. Hitherto his books had so occupied every thought that any idea of falling in love had never entered his mind. Perhaps he had too much poetry and imagination in his heart connected with the subject of marriage to allow him to do so easily. In him there existed a refined and spiritualised sense of what a woman should be in the different phases of her existence, as daughter, sister, wife, and mother. Marriage to him was too holy, and the pure love of a woman too ethereal, for either to be trifled with, or made the means of merely obtaining a home or a settlement.

As he thus reflected he began to wonder that the mere meeting with a stranger could arouse in his mind such thoughts as these. Henry Halford had certainly never given the subject such deep consideration before in his life as now. He had met with many young ladies, sisters or relations of the boys under his father's care, and also among his own relations; but none had ever so struck him as Miss Armstrong. What and how did she differ from others? Most certainly there was something about her he could not define.

These conflicting thoughts no doubt arose from ignorance of the world. Perhaps also the mind, fatigued by teaching and study, required more frequent relaxation. Indeed, his mother felt this necessary, and often urged him to accept invitations which he had refused, but without success. Be this as it may, before Henry Halford had been sitting an hour in his little study the old habits asserted themselves. He started up. "Well, I wonder if I am suffering from premonitory symptoms of softening of the brain?" he said to himself. "What have I to do with falling in love or marriage for years to come? Such thoughts, too, just as I am about to succeed in my aims, and have matriculated at Oxford! No, no, this will never do, Henry Halford;" and shaking himself as a dog fresh from the water, he took up Seneca and buried himself in its pages till the dinner bell rang.

CHAPTER XI.

OUR ANTIPODES.

In direct contrast to the bright frosty day we have described in the last chapter, the reader must be introduced to the clear atmosphere, cloudless sky, and bright sunshine of a midsummer day at Melbourne—almost England's antipodes. The inhabitants are enjoying a long summer's day on this 29th of January, and the surrounding country is presenting a verdant aspect and leafy foliage something akin to England in July. Midsummer when we have Christmas. Cold and frosty weather while we enjoy June sunshine; picnics and evening strolls in the calm summer moonlight, while we are shivering by the fire, or preparing for a Christmas party; midnight while we have noon, and short summer nights when with us darkness sets in at four in the afternoon and continues until eight the next morning.

Such are some of the contrasts which astronomers tell us are the consequences of the earth's varied movements on her own axis and round the sun. But in neither country are the inhabitants conscious of these differences, much less can they realise that we in England are walking feet to feet with our brethren and sisters in Australia. At Melbourne, indeed, with its broad streets, elegant shops, and noble buildings, there is too much that reminds one of England to allow of any consciousness of contrast. Cathedrals, churches, colleges, botanical gardens, and other proofs of refined civilisation mark the progress of Saxon energy and enterprise, which have already supplanted in large territories of our globe the original inhabitants.

The English are carrying with them not only civilisation and refinement, but also the principles of that "knowledge of the Lord which shall cover the whole earth as the waters cover the sea."

True, the seed so scattered is mixed with the tares which settlers in distant lands carry with them from Christian England to her shame. But, like the grain of mustard seed, Christianity will grow and flourish into a large tree wherever the seeds of the "kingdom of heaven" are sown, in spite of the tares.

In a large drawing-room, luxuriously furnished, and lighted by noble windows overlooking a broad street more than a mile long, reclined a pale, delicate-looking lady, about thirty-four years of age. Her sofa had been drawn near the open window, and as she gazed upon the gaily attired passengers passing to and fro on the broad pavements, or making purchases in the shops, she sighed deeply.

"What makes you sigh, mamma?" said a pretty little girl of nine years, who sat reading in a low chair by her mother's side.

"If I sighed, darling," she replied, "it was because this place reminds me of England, and I could almost fancy myself in that broad street in London that you have heard me speak of, Mabel."

"Regent Street, you mean, mamma. Yes, I know, for I've heard papa say Bourke Street reminded him of it. He says there are just the same sort of beautiful shops, and lots of carriages, and ladies and children so handsomely dressed. Oh, mamma, I should so like to go to England, and see grandpapa and grandmamma, and uncle Henry. Do you think we ever shall?"

"Perhaps you may, my dear, but go on with your book, Mabel. I cannot bear talking."

The child gladly obeyed; she was a great lover of reading, and never more happy than when allowed to bring her book and her low chair, and sit near her mother, ready to attend to her every wish.

Mrs. Franklyn leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Some recollections of England had during the past few months been very painful to her from their contrast to the present time.

She had left her home at Englefield Grange, and readily consented to what appeared a sentence of banishment to every one but herself, for was she not sure of happiness with the man of her choice, even at the other side of the world to which they were going?

None of her friends could deny the apparent suitability of the marriage between the young lawyer, Arthur Franklyn, and Fanny Halford, the schoolmaster's only daughter. Arthur had been one of Dr. Halford's earliest pupils, and being an orphan and under the care of his aged grandmother, he often remained at school during the holidays. The boy soon became very fond of playing with the little Fanny, then nine years younger than himself, and this childish acquaintance was kept up long after he had left school to be articled to a solicitor. The almost friendless youth paid frequent visits to his old schoolmaster, and was always received with a kind welcome.

To make Fanny Halford his wife had been the purpose of Arthur Franklyn's heart for many years, but to mention the subject to her father until his means were sufficient to maintain a wife he well knew would be useless.

He had reached his twenty-ninth year, when the death of his grandmother made him the possessor of about fifteen hundred pounds. Now the way seemed open to him. But he had another scheme in view, which very nearly caused him the loss of Fanny. Australia had for many years been the El Dorado of his hopes; he had also distant relatives doing well at Melbourne, who had often expressed a wish that he should join them, but Fanny Halford had been the tie that bound him to England.

The little girl had learnt to love her boy playfellow in childhood as they grew older, and the young people, as if by mutual consent, seemed to take it for granted that some day they should be husband and wife. Although no word had passed on the subject either between them or to Fanny's parents, Dr. Halford felt towards the young man almost as much affection as for his own son, Henry Halford being at that time a mere child. It was not till his grandmother's legacy had altered Arthur Franklyn's position that his eyes were opened to the fact that the young man and his daughter might be attached to each other.

The good old gentleman, however, when once brought to understand the case, readily agreed to Arthur's proposals; and Mrs. Halford, much as she dreaded the loss of her child from her home, raised no objections. Her daughter would still of course be at a visiting distance now railways and omnibuses were becoming so general, and she could therefore often see her.

Arthur Franklyn's intimation, therefore, came upon them like a thunder-clap. "Australia! Our antipodes! No, no, Arthur, the idea is impossible, we cannot part with our child to such a distance," were the doctor's words. But neither the father's objections nor the mother's tears could influence Fanny, she would go with Arthur all over the world; and so at last the parents were conquered by the pale face and failing health of their only daughter, and they consented to the marriage.

To Arthur's legacy was added the 1000l. saved by Dr. Halford for his daughter's marriage portion, and the young people sailed for Australia with their own hopes for the future bright and glowing, and followed by the earnest prayers of their reluctant parents.

Fourteen years have rolled by since then, and what are Fanny Franklyn's reflections as she now reclines on the sofa in her luxurious home? What had she to complain of beyond the failing health and strength to which we are all liable? She had a kind and loving husband, four healthy, intelligent children, and every comfort and attention she required. But all this was on the surface; only wife or husband can detect faults in each other which are hidden from the world, unless those faults lead to or produce consequences which eventually become matters of publicity.

And a fear of this latter result had been the one bitter drop in Fanny Franklyn's happiness, the bane of her married life.

Arthur on arriving at Melbourne established himself as a solicitor, and for a time with moderate success. Then he became restless and dissatisfied. He wanted to make a fortune more rapidly, gave up his profession, and commenced speculating. With this began Fanny's anxieties. She had quickly discovered her husband's want of business knowledge. She could see how differently he acted from her own parents, to whose careful, saving habits she owed her marriage portion. Fortunately for Arthur, his wife was thoroughly domestic, and more than once she had warded off an impending blow by her economy and good management.

But as their family increased her anxieties became greater. The very good nature, and pleasant unsuspecting sociability which had won them all at Englefield Grange, proved Arthur's greatest danger. Sanguine to the highest degree respecting the results of a new speculation, he would recklessly act upon the mere hope of success, and involve himself in difficulties, and so it had been going on; at times living in a style of elegance and luxury, in consequence of a successful speculation, and at others in obscurity and almost penury.

No wonder poor Fanny Franklyn's health sunk in the midst of such vicissitudes.

While reflecting over the past which has been so briefly described, the sound of a hasty footstep roused her, and presently her husband stood by her couch anxiously questioning her.

"How are you, darling?" he said gently as he stooped to kiss the pale cheek. "I have been so much engaged all day, or I should have come in to see you before this." And then, without waiting for her to reply, he walked to the window and looked out on the gay and busy scene in the street beneath.

"You will soon get well in this lively place, Fanny," he said; "I cannot tell you how anxious I have been to get you out of that dull cottage on the hills, with nothing to look at but gardens and fields and trees."

"Yes, but, papa," said little Mabel, rising from her seat and coming to his side, "we were close to the Botanical Gardens and the park, and mamma used to go out in a chair every day."

"Well, so she can here, Mabel, and I should think you and Clara like these large noble rooms better than those low ceilings and cramped apartments at the cottage."

"There are some rooms I should prefer far beyond those at the cottage, or even these," said Mrs. Franklyn, gently.

Mr. Franklyn smiled, and was delighted to see a smile and a slight tinge of colour on his wife's face as she spoke. "Where are they, darling?" he exclaimed. "I have only taken these for a month certain; we would move directly if I thought it would do you good."

"I'm sorry I expressed my thoughts aloud, Arthur," she said, "for you must not incur any farther expense; but the rooms I mean are at Englefield Grange."

Arthur Franklyn became silent. He was longing to return to England almost as much as his wife; but at that moment he had more than one speculation in view, which he felt sure would make him a rich man; and then to return to his native land and star it amongst his schoolfellows, who had often scorned the penniless orphan, would be indeed a triumph.

"I wish I could take you to England at once, dearest," said her husband; "indeed, I should like to send you and the two girls now, and remain here alone for a year or two; but I cannot allow you to attempt such a voyage in your present weak state."

"No, no, Arthur," she replied, "I will not leave you, I could not go alone. Let us continue in this house as long as you like, rather than go to greater expense. I hope I shall be better as the weather becomes cooler."

The appearance of the tea-tray put a stop to the conversation, and Fanny consoled herself by the thought, "I cannot leave him of my own free-will, and if God sees fit to remove me before he is able to return to England, I can leave him and the dear children in His hands."

CHAPTER XII.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Mary Armstrong returned home after leaving Freddy at school, quite unaware of the disturbance her appearance had created in the mind of Henry Halford; and indeed so perfectly indifferent, that after removing her walking dress she entered the dining-room where her mother sat, and said—

"I did not see Dr. Halford, mamma, he was engaged in the schoolroom, but his son took charge of Freddy."

"His son! Ah, yes, I remember he spoke of a son who was studying for the Church. From Dr. Halford's description I should say this son was a man of very studious habits."

"Yes, mamma, and I am sure he must be, for he appears quite unused to the society of ladies; he hesitated, and stammered, and seemed hardly able to say a word: he did manage, however, to explain that he expected to see Mrs. Armstrong. I set him down as a bookworm at once."

Mrs. Armstrong glanced at her daughter; she was not one of those foolish mothers who overrate the charms of their daughters, but a thought she could not repress made her fear that this son of Dr. Halford's might be a dangerous acquaintance. A kind of presentiment of evil made her look at Mary intently as she took her German books from a side-table and commenced studying the language just then coming into vogue.

There was a look of perfect indifference on the face which Mrs. Armstrong so carefully studied, and yet she could not help saying suddenly, "What sort of young man is Dr. Halford's son in appearance, Mary?"

The sound of her mother's voice made Mary look up with a start from a difficult exercise. "Haben sie!" she exclaimed aloud; and then, "Oh, mamma, I beg your pardon, did you not ask me a question? I have such a puzzling sentence here, and I quite forgot what Herr Kling told me about it."

"It was nothing of importance, my dear," said her mother, as carelessly as she could speak; "I only asked you what sort of a young man Dr. Halford's son is in appearance."

"Handsome or plain, you mean, mamma," was the reply: "certainly not handsome, and his hair looked as if, while poring over a book, he had been pushing it up with his hands till it stood on end like pussy's tail when she is angry."

"My dear, what a comparison!" said her mother, with a laugh and a feeling of satisfaction. But Mary felt ashamed of her description.

"I ought not to speak in this way, mamma, I know; the fact is, when I found young Mr. Halford so confused, I avoided looking at him; but he is a gentleman, I could see that, and his hair is black. He appeared to be careless about his dress and appearance, and that, added to his confused manner, made me think he was a bookworm. You know, mamma, two or three of papa's friends who are so wrapped up in science and literature fidget me dreadfully when they dine here. Mr. Barnett, the great engineer, often has his collar on one side, or a button off his boots, and they all look as if they dressed in the dark, and without a looking-glass. So I suppose young Mr. Halford will be just the same. Oh, mamma, please don't make me talk any more," she added, glancing at the clock. "Herr Kling will be here in half an hour, and I am not yet ready for him."

Mrs. Armstrong was quite contented to remain silent. The easy and rather satirical tone in which Mary spoke of Dr. Halford's son removed all apprehension from her mind for the present.

Mr. Armstrong she knew too well would harshly oppose marriage for his daughter with any man who did not possess the means of making a handsome settlement on his wife, and raising her to the position of her mother's relations. Neither of Mary's parents wished her to marry young: the idea of losing her was agony to Mrs. Armstrong, and a constant dread had now arisen in the mother's heart lest this new position in a country home, which had already drawn them into society, might lead Mary to form a girlish attachment not in accordance with the conditions laid down by her father.

Mr. Armstrong, however, had no such fears; Mary's ready acquiescence in all his wishes, and the evident respect she had always shown to his opinions, caused him to overlook in his child a will as firm and unbending as his own.

Hitherto none of his requirements had been opposed to the deeper or more sensitive feelings of her nature. Mary could overcome her repugnance so long as her father's wishes only required the sacrifice of certain conventional rules, and minor matters of opinion. But he could make no distinction, and he was prepared to expect implicit obedience in every point, even where her wishes were opposed to his. The thought that she would ever fail in this obedience never entered his mind.

Mrs. Armstrong understood her daughter's character more correctly than her husband, with all his boasted superiority of intellect, and therefore she dreaded a passage of arms between these two so near and dear to her.

The trial was more closely at hand than even she for a moment anticipated.

Little Freddy often brought home from school a full and particular account of some incident that had occurred during the day, and in which he had been greatly interested.

These incidents were listened to by Mary only out of love to her little brother; and although very often Mr. Henry Halford's name stood prominent in these narrations, Mary's interest on that account was very little excited. It gratified her, however, to find that the child was treated with great kindness by both father and son, and to hear his earnest declaration—

"Oh, Mary, I like Mr. Henry Halford so much, he is so kind to us little ones in the playground; he plays at peg-top, and all sorts of games, with us; and sometimes we go into the cricket-field, without the big boys, and he teaches us how to play; isn't it kind of him?"

All this was very pleasing to Mrs. Armstrong, more especially as she could discern very clearly that Mary listened to it all as a matter of course. No suspicion that this kindness to her brother could arise from a wish to win the sister, or for her sake, entered her mind.

Not so her mother; suspicions of this kind would intrude themselves at times, only to be set aside by her daughter's evident indifference.

Mrs. Armstrong, however, was wrong. Henry Halford's kindness to the little boys arose from a natural love of children, and Freddy Armstrong was not favoured more than others. All thoughts of the fair girl whose appearance had so confused him on that cold January morning had been banished with determination. After school duties ceased he became, as usual every day, absorbed in his books, his only recreation a game at cricket, or, as we have heard, the fun with the juniors, which gave him the greatest pleasure. And so the weeks passed on, and brought with them signs of the approach of spring.

One afternoon, about a fortnight before Easter, Mr. Armstrong returned from the City rather earlier than usual, to have a ride with his daughter. He had on this account travelled to town and back by the omnibus.

"Give me half an hour's rest, Mary," he said, as she came in full of pleasure to ask when he wished to start.

"Yes, papa," she replied, "and there will be also time for you to have a cup of tea with mamma; she generally has it about four o'clock." Away ran Mary to hasten the refreshing "cup which cheers but not inebriates," while Mr. Armstrong seated himself and began to talk to his wife.

"I shall not be sorry to have a cup of tea," he said, "for I rode outside the 'bus, and the roads are too dusty to be pleasant, whatever the old proverb may say, and perhaps with some truth, that 'a peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom.'"

"If it is good for the gardens and the harvest to have a dry March," said Mrs. Armstrong, "it is certainly worth while to bear the inconvenience, and my health is always much better in dry, clear weather. Your proverb about March dust will form another incentive for patience when it troubles me while taking my daily walks."

"How much improved your health appears lately, my dear Maria!" remarked her husband, after a pause; "and you are looking almost as young as ever. I am not a little pleased to find you in such good spirits, because I want you to join me in accepting an invitation next week to dinner at the Drummonds'; I suppose you have returned Mrs. Drummond's visit?"

"Oh yes, a few weeks ago; she is a most pleasant, lady-like woman, and we were friends almost immediately."

"Then you will raise no objection, my dear; indeed, I am sure the change will be good for you. Mary is also invited, and I have my reasons for wishing her to go. Drummond rode with me from town to-day, and I accepted his invitation for Mary and myself at once, but for you conditionally."

"I shall be happy to go with you," replied his wife. "The Drummonds are people I should wish Mary to know, and I am much more able to bear an evening visit at this time of the year than in the depth of winter. You must remember, Edward, that even when living in London I always regained health and strength in the spring and early summer."

"And here, of course, your health and strength are doubly sure to improve in these seasons," he replied, laughing. "Ah, well, darling, I am glad we made the change for your sake."

The appearance of the tea put a stop to the conversation, and in a very short time Mrs. Armstrong stood at the door watching her daughter as she sprang lightly to her saddle, on a beautiful grey mare, her father's latest gift.

Bucephalus is not, however, quite discarded; sometimes in the morning she will take him for a canter over the heath, or in the holidays join her brothers, one of whom rides Rowland's pony, and the other Bucephalus. Edward Armstrong is fifteen now, and has grown too tall for Boosey; during the absence of the elder boys the pony belongs entirely to Freddy, who is learning to ride under Mary's guidance.

During their ride, Mr. Armstrong told Mary of the invitation to dinner at Mr. Drummond's. "You will like to pay such a visit, I suppose," he said, "and I have accepted the invitation for you as well as myself."

"Will it be a large party?" asked Mary, timidly; she had no thought of opposing her father's wishes, after hearing that he had accepted the invitation for her, but she remembered her discomfort at her first dinner-party, at which a large number of guests were present, some of them not very refined, and certainly not well-bred.

In fact, she could not help making comparisons between the noisy, and to her, almost vulgar visitors at the table; or at the evening parties of the rich in the neighbourhood, and the quiet refinement and dignity of such gatherings at the homes of her mother's relations.

Something akin to Mary's thoughts was passing through her father's mind before he answered her question, and influenced his reply.

"Mr. Drummond told me to-day that he did not expect more than six or eight guests in addition to his own family. And, Mary," he continued, "you need not fear meeting coarseness or vulgarity at Mr. Drummond's table. Your mother has readily consented to accompany us, and that is a sufficient proof that she considers the friends of Mrs. Drummond fit associates for her daughter."

"Oh, papa," said Mary, "I hope you do not think it was pride that made me speak as if I did not wish to go, only I do dread a large number of people; and papa——" But Mary paused; she hesitated, with the delicacy of a refined mind, to speak of the coarse flattery to which she had been subjected at one dinner-party by some of the gentlemen when they left the dining-room.

"And what, my dear?" said her father, gently.

"I told mamma," she replied, "when I came home, but I only meant to ask you whether some of the gentlemen at Mr. Ward's dinner party had not taken too much wine."

A flush of indignation rose to Mr. Armstrong's brow as he thought of what, under such circumstances, some of them might have said to his gentle daughter. Determining to ask her mother, however, he merely said,—"I fear such was the case, Mary, but you are not likely to meet with anything of that kind at the Drummonds'. The practice of staying for hours after dinner, drinking wine, till men make themselves unfit for the company of ladies, is happily becoming less frequent in good society. And now," he added, looking at his watch, "we must canter for awhile, or we shall be late for dinner."

CHAPTER XIII.

A CHANGE OF OPINION.

Among the guests expected at Mr. Drummond's table on that memorable occasion was a gentleman of great note in the scientific world, to whom Mr. Armstrong had been very anxious to be introduced. Indeed, this wish had influenced him greatly in his ready acceptance of the invitation.

"My friend Professor Logan will dine with us on that evening," had been Mr. Drummond's remark to Mr. Armstrong. "I suppose you have read his address at the Royal Society on the inventions of the last thirty years? It was correctly reported in the Times."

"Yes, indeed, and there I saw it," was the eager reply. "Is Professor Logan your friend, Drummond? It will be a great privilege to meet such a man."

"And he will be equally pleased with you," was the reply; "indeed, I expect it will be quite a learned gathering, for I have asked three or four other men of education to join us, and I almost fear the evening will be dull for Mrs. Armstrong and your bright, lively daughter; but Mrs. Drummond will be terribly disappointed if they do not come, and she will make the evening as pleasant as possible for them. My nieces are very musical, and——"

"Oh, pray do not make the invitation more attractive than it is already," interrupted Mr. Armstrong. "My daughter's tastes resemble my own, and she has had advantages of education which I have not. I'm afraid, Drummond, your friends will expect too much from a self-taught man like myself if you have, as you say, placed me on the list of your 'learned' acquaintance."

"Nonsense, Armstrong!" was the reply, as the omnibus stopped for that gentleman to alight. "Mind," he added, as he waved his hand in farewell, "we shall expect you all on Tuesday."

Mr. Armstrong's close carriage arrived at Argyle Lodge only five minutes before the hour appointed for dinner. In a very short time, therefore, Mary found herself being conducted to the dinner-table by a gentleman whose face seemed familiar to her, but whose name, when spoken by her hostess, she had not caught.

"I think I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Armstrong once before, when she brought her little brother to school," was the remark which made Mary turn and look at her companion.

There was a smile on the face she had called plain, but it did not now deserve such an epithet. The rough, dark hair, which in its disorder she had likened to a "pussy-cat's tail in a rage," was now arranged in shining wavy curls across the broad forehead; the dark eyebrows almost meeting over the nose gave character to the face, and a look in the deep blue eyes, although Mary Armstrong had quickly recognised her companion as Henry Halford, made her ask herself if she had really ever seen them before. So changed was the face, so expressive the glance, so winning the smile, that Mary could only stammer out with a blushing face—

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Halford; I did not at first recognise you, but I do now."

They entered the dining-room as she said this, and during the slight commotion occasioned by placing every one with due regard to the varied requirements which make the position of a hostess so difficult, Mary could only recall with shame and wonder her satirical description of Henry Halford.

The silence that generally pervades the company at the commencement of dinner enabled Mary to recover herself and look round for the home faces.

Her mother, who had been taken into dinner by Mr. Drummond, was seated nearly opposite to her at his right hand. At the moment of this discovery she observed her bow to some one on Mary's side of the table. Her surprise at this caused her to lean forward slightly. What friend of her mother's could be dining with Mr. Drummond?

A gentleman with white hair, and a pale, handsome face, was returning the recognition. Mary was fairly puzzled, but she had conquered the confusion caused by Mr. Henry Halford's unexpected appearance, and when the conversation became general she could talk to her companion with ease and intelligence.

Mary could hear her father's voice, but she could not see him, as he sat at the same side of the table as herself by Mrs. Drummond.

Presently Henry Halford spoke.

"Are you acquainted with that gentleman at the head of the table on Mrs. Drummond's left hand?" he asked, under cover of many voices.

Mary shook her head. She had observed that he and her father were already in earnest conversation across the table, but he was a total stranger to her.

"No, I am not," she replied; "all here are strangers to me, excepting Mr. and Mrs. Drummond and my own parents."

"Then you do not know my father, to whom your mamma bowed just now. I saw you lean forward to discover who had been so honoured by Mrs. Armstrong's notice."

"Is that gentleman your father, Mr. Halford?" said Mary, simply. "I think he is a very handsome old man; that silvery white hair always looks to me beautiful when accompanied with dark eyebrows and eyes."

"My father would feel extremely flattered if he heard your opinion of him, Miss Armstrong," said Henry Halford.

"I am not flattering," replied Mary, "I am only giving my opinion, and you have not told me the name of that gentleman opposite. He looks clever."

"Why, really, Miss Armstrong, I shall begin to be afraid of your opinion about myself if you are so quick at reading character. That gentleman is Professor Logan, whose address at the Royal Society has made such a stir in the scientific world."

"Oh, I am so glad to meet him!" she exclaimed. "I know he must be clever because papa is talking to him so earnestly, and I read his address at the Royal Society in the Times."

"Did you, indeed, Miss Armstrong?" said Henry, in a tone of surprise.

"Certainly I did, and with very great interest. Is there anything very wonderful in that, Mr. Halford?"

Henry Halford hesitated to reply; he looked earnestly at the young lady who could read an address on the most abstruse sciences with "great interest." He had heard young ladies spoken of rather contemptibly as "pedants" and "blue-stockings." Was this gentle, simple-speaking girl by his side one of these? Or if not, did she belong to the frivolous, half-educated young ladies, who think of nothing but dress, or lovers, or husbands in futuro? Although Mary had spoken of him as unused to ladies' society with some truth, yet he had seen and heard enough to judge of them as belonging to a sex inferior in strength both mentally and physically, and in those days of which we write his judgment was not far wrong.

"I will put a few questions to this young lady who expresses her interest in abstruse subjects," he said to himself. "Perhaps after all it is merely a smattering of knowledge which she possesses, and a wish to be thought a 'blue.' Are you fond of scientific subjects, Miss Armstrong?" he asked, with something akin to satire in the tone of his voice.

But Mary Armstrong did not detect it; she replied unaffectedly—

"I think I am, at least so far as I can understand them, and that is not to a very great extent; but arithmetic is a science, is it not? and I am very fond of that; and I like the study of thorough-bass quite as well as the practical part of music."

"I am rather surprised to hear a young lady say she is fond of arithmetic," replied Henry Halford, rather amused, and doubtful still. "How far have you penetrated into the mysteries of calculation?—to Practice, perhaps?"

Mary now detected a shadow of satire.

"A little beyond Practice," she replied, with a smile. "I begin to feel afraid to tell you how far, you appear so surprised that a girl should learn boys' studies, but my father wished me to do so."

Henry Halford flushed deeply. The straightforward simplicity of the young lady whom he wished to prove a pedant or a "blue" baffled him, and made him feel ashamed of his satire.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Armstrong," he said. "It is such an unusual thing in the present day to meet with young ladies who really care for any studies beyond music and singing, and what are called the fine arts, that I was a little incredulous; pray show me I am forgiven by telling me what advance you have made in these studies, which you consider belong to boys."

There was an earnestness and sincerity in the young man's voice which could not be mistaken.

Mary replied candidly, but without the slightest appearance of ostentation—

"Mr. Halford, papa himself taught me algebra after I had studied every rule in arithmetic, and the first book of Euclid. That is the extent of my knowledge—nothing so very wonderful, after all."

"And the pons asinorum, Miss Armstrong?"

"Yes," she replied, "even the pons asinorum."

There was a look of respect, mingled with surprise, on Henry Halford's face; for once he had met with a young lady who had evidently some pretensions to mental strength without being proud of it.

By degrees he managed to discover that, owing to her father's wise decision, she had not been allowed to learn music without studying thorough-bass, or drawing unless accompanied with the study of perspective. But as, without asking direct questions, he contrived to draw her out by adopting a conversational tone, he found to his delight that this scientific young lady was far more deeply interested in poetry and literature.

Mrs. Armstrong watched the fair face of her daughter as it lighted up with pleasure at the poetical remarks of her companion, who criticised her favourite authors with so much clearness and justice.

She was not sorry when Mrs. Drummond gave the signal for leaving the table. She could read in the gentleman a growing interest and admiration of her daughter, which made her uneasy; not a little increased by a remark of Mr. Drummond's—

"Mr. Henry Halford and your daughter are getting on famously together. I know that her education has been solid as well as accomplished, and he appears to have found out that fact."

"Is that Dr. Halford's son?" asked Mrs. Armstrong; she remembered her daughter's description of him as plain, but the young man so earnestly conversing with Mary on a favourite topic was as usual giving to that face the flashings of intellect, the expressive smile, and, it must be owned, a too evident admiration of the fair girl by his side, which made him unmistakably handsome.

"Yes; did you not know it?" was Mr. Drummond's reply. "And a really clever fellow he is too; he has lately matriculated at Oxford. His father wishes him to be a clergyman, and I have no doubt he will come off with 'flying colours.'"

No wonder Mrs. Armstrong was relieved when the signal came to remove her daughter from such dangerous company.

But Mary very soon restored her mother's peace of mind by the absence of all consciousness when she referred to Mr. Henry Halford.

On entering the drawing-room the mother noticed with anxiety the deep flush that so generally made Mary's face too brilliant. She watched her as she wandered alone to a distant table and took up a book, after examining several, and seated herself to read. She walked over to her and said, "You are interested in your book, Mary."

"Yes, mamma; Mr. Henry Halford has been talking about Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' and he has explained to me a great deal of those learned terms and classical references which make some pages of the book so difficult to understand, and I mean to read it through again; you know how fond I am of Milton."

"Yes, dear," said her mother, "but you cannot do so now in Mrs. Drummond's drawing-room."

"No, mamma, of course not; I was only glancing over a few pages to try how much I could remember of Mr. Henry Halford's explanations. Oh, mamma, you cannot imagine how clever he is."

"No doubt, and I hear he is at Oxford studying for the Church. But, Mary, do you remember your description of Dr. Halford's son? In my opinion he is anything but plain, and his hair——"

"Oh, mamma, pray don't refer to what I once said;" and Mrs. Armstrong knew that the flush on Mary's cheek as she spoke arose from shame at her foolish words, nothing more. "I hardly looked at him that morning, but now that I have heard him speak with so much animation and cleverness I consider Mr. Henry Halford handsome; don't you, mamma?"

This simple admission satisfied the anxious mother; she agreed readily with her daughter's remark, and a servant advancing with tea and coffee put a stop to the conversation.

Presently the gentlemen made their appearance.

Mary noticed that her father and Mr. Henry Halford were eagerly discussing scientific subjects with Professor Logan as they entered.

Even as they stood with a cup of coffee in the hand of each, the subject was being carried on with great earnestness.

At last one of Mr. Drummond's nieces approached the piano, at her aunt's request, and struck a few chords.

A sudden pause, and then the rich tones of the singer hushed the scientific controversy. Even those who had no natural appreciation of harmonious sounds were attracted to listen; among these ranked Henry Halford.

To a singer with less confidence the silence would have been fatal, but Edith Longford was not likely to fail from nervousness, and there is nothing so calculated to steady the nerves of a performer in any subject as a perfect knowledge of what he is about.

As the soft melodious tones ceased, Henry Halford contrived to whisper to Miss Armstrong a question, intended to try whether the young girl, whose conversation had so interested him at dinner, could bear the praise of another without jealousy.

During the song he had not been able to resist the attraction of her presence. Although really occupied with the subject of dispute as he entered the room, Henry Halford's quick eye discovered at once the whereabouts of Mr. Armstrong's daughter, and he had gradually moved towards the table where she sat.

"Miss Longford plays and sings well, Miss Armstrong," were the words that made Mary start from a reverie. "I am quite ignorant of music theoretically, and I have no natural taste for the harmonies; but you can tell me whether my opinion is a correct one."

"I, Mr. Halford!" said Mary, recovering herself; "Miss Longford is far beyond me in music. I could not take the liberty of forming a judgment upon her, excepting that I know she sings and plays far better than I do."

"Generous and candid," said the young man to himself as a gentleman advanced to lead Mary to the piano. He followed them, and stood listening with surprise to the simple English ballad which Mary sang with real taste and feeling.

Henry Halford when alone in his room that night made a decision in his own mind on certain points; in some of these, had he remained firm and unshaken, our story would have ended here.

"Mary Armstrong is a very beautiful girl," were his first mental words, "full of intellectual knowledge, far beyond any young lady I have ever met. She is candid, plain-speaking, impervious to flattery, and generous to a rival—at least if Miss Longford is a rival. For my part, I consider Miss Armstrong's music far more pleasing. And then what a talented man her father is! no wonder, with such a teacher, his daughter should be so different from other girls. I have met many girls, but none like Miss Armstrong."

By a strange association of ideas, to which we are all subject, Easter and Oxford presented themselves to his mind, and the involuntary sigh that followed a recollection of the fact that in less than a week he should be miles away from Mary Armstrong, changed the whole current of his thoughts.

"How absurdly I am allowing my mind to dwell upon this young lady!" he said to himself. "A man so rich as her father will of course wish her to marry a man of wealth, and one equal in position to her mother's relations. I might lay claim to the latter qualification, but what shall I be at the end of my three years at Oxford? an usher in my father's school, or a curate with an income of perhaps 100l. a year or less. I will think of her no more!"

CHAPTER XIV.

AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY.

Whatever impression might have been made by Mr. Henry Halford's cleverness on the mind of Mary Armstrong was destined to be obliterated by the most unlooked-for occurrence.

One evening, about a fortnight after Easter, Mr. Armstrong returned at an unusually early hour, and entered the library, where Mary and her mother were seated, with a look of anxiety on his face which surprised them both.

He held a letter in his hand, and his wife asked nervously—

"What is the matter, Edward? you have no bad news about the boys, I hope."

"No, no," he said hastily, "but I have had a letter from John Armstrong; my poor father, he says, is sinking fast, and wishes to see me once more."

"Oh, papa, when are you going?" cried Mary, "can I pack your carpet bag, or prepare anything for you? I suppose you will go this evening?"

"I should have gone direct from London, after sending you a telegram," he replied, "but my father wishes me to bring Mary; have you any objection, my dear?" he added, turning to his wife.

"No, indeed," she replied, "take her with you by all means; I remember how pleased the dear old gentleman was with his little granddaughter when we paid him a visit fifteen years ago."

Mary, who had risen when she offered to assist in preparing for her father's hasty departure, stood still during this conversation in silent astonishment. Rapid thoughts passed through her mind. Was she really going to see the dear old grandfather, of whom she had so often heard her mother speak, and beautiful Meadow Farm, the home of her father's childhood, and the house in which he was born?

So bewildered did she feel at the sudden news, that her mother had to say—

"Do you not wish to accompany your father, Mary?"

"Oh yes, yes, mamma, but it seems too good to be true."

"You must be quick, Mary, if you wish to go," said her father, looking at his watch; "I have ordered James to have the brougham at the door by half-past three, and the train starts from Waterloo at 4.30."

In a moment all was bustle and excitement. Slight refreshment was quickly prepared for the travellers. But Mary had still her useful fairies at her elbow, and when her father summoned her from the dining-room at the time appointed, she only detained him one moment to cling to her mother's neck and kiss her fondly.

Mrs. Armstrong stood at the door to see them off and wish them bon voyage. Then she returned to the library to rest after the hurried excitement, which fatigued her even more than a long walk.

This hasty summons which her husband had received carried her memory back to those early days of her married life when with her husband and her little daughter Mary, she had visited Mr. Armstrong's paternal home. She recalled the sweet country landscape, the apple-orchards in full blossom, the fragrant hayfields, the leafy woods surrounding Meadow Farm, then redolent with the delights of early summer.

She saw and heard again, in imagination, the crowing of cocks, the clucking of hens, the chirping chicks and lowing cattle, and the occasional "quack, quack" of ducks and geese, all of which sights and sounds greeted eye and ear from her bedroom window when she rose in the morning.

Even the journey by the old-fashioned stage-coach was not without interest; and how well she remembered the pride of her mother's heart as her little Mary, then scarcely three years old, excited the astonishment of the passengers by spelling from the coach window the letters upside down, which formed the name of the coach proprietor!

Again she recalled their amusement at one of Mary's childlike speeches, when they stopped to change horses on the road. Across the inn yard came a man with a wooden leg, carrying a pail of water. The child, who had never before seen this substitute for a human limb, almost screamed with excitement as she exclaimed—

"Oh, mamma, mamma, do look; there's a man with one leg, and a piece of stick for another!"

Even now she could smile at the memory of the child's remark, but it was soon lost as her thoughts turned to the time when she stood in the old hall at Meadow Farm to receive the welcome of her husband's father, a tall, noble-looking man, one of the olden times, whose dark eyes at the age of sixty-seven had not lost their sparkling intelligence. These eyes, with eyelashes and brows equally dark, contrasted pleasantly with the silvery white hair; and the face with its winter-apple colour, though bronzed by constant exposure to the weather, wore a refined dignity of which his son Edward could scarcely boast. The welcome awarded by this fine old yeoman to his son's wife had a mixture of deference and affection which deeply gratified the well-born daughter of the St. Clairs, and her father-in-law's love for his little fairy grandchild completely won her heart.

All this Mrs. Armstrong had described to Mary so vividly, that the young girl felt as if she already knew every nook and cranny of the old farm, as well as the face of the dear old gentleman who was her father's father. And yet she had not the slightest recollection of the visit so clearly remembered by her mother.

Since that time Mr. Armstrong had more than once paid a visit to his paternal home, but delicate health and an increasing family prevented his wife from accompanying him, yet he never offered to take Mary. Once her mother had proposed to him to do so, but he repudiated the idea.

"No, Maria dear," he had said, "there are no women at Meadow Farm, or in the neighbourhood, who are fit associates for your daughter. By-and-by, when her manners are more formed, I shall have no objection."

But Mrs. Armstrong was not deceived by these excuses; she knew that as her husband's income increased, so did his pride. For eccentric persons are always inconsistent, and his strange notions about his daughter's education, and his refusal to allow her to ride on horseback after a certain hour, with other objections to practices which he called "aping the gentry," all arose from "the pride that apes humility."

Meanwhile, quite unaware of her mother's reflections or her father's opinions, Mary seated herself in a first-class carriage, her happiness in the prospect of the coming journey only clouded by the fact that her aged grandfather was approaching the borders of the grave.

They were alone in the carriage as far as Slough, and as the express train sped on the consciousness of this made her so uneasy that she could not help breaking the silence by saying—

"Papa, do you think my grandfather will remember me?"

"I think not, my daughter," he replied; "you were scarcely three years old when he saw you last, and now you are a woman."

"But I do hope he will be well enough to know who I am," she said. "I have heard mamma talk of grandpapa so often that I feel sure I shall recognise him when I see him, from her description."

"Your mother does talk to you, then, about her visit to Meadow Farm?"

"Yes, papa, often, and she says grandpapa was a fine, handsome old man when she saw him fifteen years ago."

There was a little feeling of gratification in Mr. Armstrong's heart at this proof that his lady-wife could so think of his father; she had often so spoken of him in conversation, but he had passed it by as the loving words of a wife who wished to prove that she did not look down with contempt on her husband's relations.

But in her remarks to Mary there could be no such motives, and it was in a tone of regret that he replied—

"Fifteen years will make a great difference in your grandfather's appearance, Mary, and I expect you will find him decrepit, and infirm at eighty-two years of age, and very much changed from the handsome old man your mother describes."

"I shall love him just the same, papa," she said firmly.

The early spring evening was closing in as Mr. Armstrong and his daughter drove to the gates of Meadow Farm. Mary could see, however, that her father's face was pale with anxiety, as he hastily alighted from the railway fly and turned to assist his daughter.

At the same moment she heard a pleasant voice exclaiming—

"You have brought your daughter, Edward; I am very glad, for uncle is longing to see her.—You are the image of your mother, Miss Armstrong," continued the speaker, with a sudden deference, as the tall, graceful girl held out her hand to the lady whom her father introduced as his cousin Sarah. "The men will bring in your luggage, Edward," she added; "come in at once and see uncle; he seems to have gained new life since we sent for you and—Mary."

The name came at last after a slight hesitation, for the bearing and manner of Mary Armstrong, though perfectly free from pride, threw a restraint upon her homely kinswoman, who remembered her only as a little child of three years.

Before they reached the house John Armstrong met them, and involuntarily removed his garden hat, when his cousin Edward asked him if he remembered his little playfellow Mary.

"I hope you do, cousin," said Mary, pleasantly, to put him at his ease, for this deferential treatment by her country cousins pained her greatly. "I have often heard mamma speak of cousin Sarah and cousin John, and I am so happy to be able to pay you a visit at last."

As she spoke they entered the old farm kitchen. A space round the fire was partially hidden by a screen.

Mr. Armstrong led his daughter forward to the enclosed spot.

"Who is come, Sarah?" said the quavering voice of an old man.

"It is your son Edward. Father, how are you? This is my daughter, the little Mary of whom you were once so fond."

The old man looked up and grasped the hand of his son; then, as he saw Mary, he made an effort to rise.

"No, no, grandfather," she exclaimed, kneeling by his side and kissing his cheek; "you must try to forget I am taller and older than the little Mary you once knew."

"Thank God that I have lived to see you, my child," said the old man, laying his hand on her head, for Mary had thrown off her hat; "I thought you wouldn't bring her, Edward," continued the old man, in the tearful voice of excited old age. "But now you're come, my dear, we'll make you happy. You're like your mother, child. Dear me, how the time flies! Ah, well, I'm almost home now, and I feel like old Simeon, 'ready to depart in peace,'" and the voice had a choking sound as he paused as if for breath. Cousin Sarah approached.

"You must be quiet for a little while, uncle," she said, "and not excite yourself. I'm going to take Miss Armstrong upstairs for a few minutes till tea is ready, and Edward would like to go to his room, I daresay."

"Yes, yes, quite right, Sarah, I'll take care of myself," replied the old man. "I'm only a little overcome at first." And as they left the room he leaned back in his easy-chair and quietly watched the rosy country servant as she covered the table with a profusion of good things, such profusion as country people consider necessary to prove their hospitality.

Meanwhile Mary had followed cousin Sarah to a bedroom which, while it lacked many of the elegant luxuries of her own room at home, charmed her by its simplicity, cleanliness, and tasteful arrangements. The ceiling, across which appeared a large beam, was low, the floor uneven and only partially covered with a carpet. But through the lattice window the moonlight fell in diamond patterns on the floor, only broken by the shadow of the flickering rose-leaves that surrounded it. The dimity curtains, the quilt, the bed furniture, and the toilet covers were of snowy whiteness, and that peculiar fragrance of the country which is often found in country bedrooms pervaded the room.

Twilight still lingered, yet Mrs. John Armstrong carried a lighted candle which flared and flickered in the draught from the open window.

"I am sorry the window has not been closed, Miss Armstrong," she said, as she shaded the candle in her hand, and advanced to fasten the casement.

"Please call me Mary, cousin Sarah," said the young lady, earnestly; "and if you will put out the candle and leave the window curtains undrawn, I shall prefer the moonlight. Oh, what a pleasant window!" she added, as she looked out on the prospect so often described by her mother. "Did mamma sleep here?"

"No, your papa has the room in which she slept, it is larger than this; but you shall see it to-morrow, the window overlooks the orchard."

"Yes, I know," said Mary; "mamma has described it so often that I am sure I shall recognise it."

"Then Mrs. Armstrong remembers her visit to Meadow Farm?"

"Indeed she does with great pleasure, and I have been so longing to come here. I hope, however, that my coming has not excited dear grandfather too much," she added, anxiously; "but I did not expect to find him up from what cousin John said in the letter."

"Oh, did you not? Why, uncle has never kept his bed a whole day yet; he always comes down to dinner; strong, healthy men like he has been seldom live long after once they take to their beds."

Mary had been hastily making some slight alteration in her dress, and emptying her carpet bag with a quickness which surprised cousin Sarah; and seeing her ready they went downstairs together.

Mary Armstrong had never before seen a real farm-house kitchen, and she was not likely to forget the scene that presented itself as she entered.

A large roomy apartment, containing two oriel windows, with leaden casements and diamond window-panes. On one side a dresser and shelves, covered with pewter plates, old china bowls, and various articles of wedgwood and earthenware.

Through an opposite door she could see another large kitchen lighted by the blaze of a wood fire, in which servants were apparently busy, and the voices of men and women could be heard. She noticed as she followed her cousin to the screen that the window nearest the entrance door was uncovered, and that the floor of the old kitchen appeared to be formed of rough stones which she afterwards found was a mixture of lime and sand. But for the moonlight, which passed through the uncovered window and glittered like silver on the pewter plates, this part of the farm kitchen would have had a very desolate aspect. Once, however, inside the screen, how changed everything appeared! The portion enclosed was as large as many a London parlour, and entirely covered with a thick carpet. On the wide, open hearth lay a pile of coals and wooden logs, that sent a blaze and a sparkle up the chimney, while the glowing heat rendered the stone on which the carpet in front of the fire lay a far warmer resting-place for a cold foot than the thickest hearth-rug ever invented.

On a large round table in the centre, covered with a snowy cloth, were arranged china teacups of curious shape and rare value, the silver teapot, cream-jug, and sugar-dish of most antique patterns, in which the firelight gleamed and flickered, adding brightness to the good fare with which the table was loaded. Above the high mantelpiece hung various useful kitchen articles composed of tin, copper, and brass, all so carefully and brightly polished that the light from a lamp and the reflected blaze of the fire flashed from their surfaces with a glitter that illuminated the enclosed portion of the kitchen, making the outer part darker by contrast.

In the most protected corner of this pleasant enclosure, and near the glowing fire, sat old Mr. Armstrong with his son by his side, cheering the old man by his pleasant conversation. Mary, as she entered, thought she had never seen her father to so much advantage. The tender, deferential manner of the son to the aged father was a new phase in his character which charmed his youthful daughter. Mrs. John Armstrong took her seat at the tea-table, while her husband rose with a native politeness to place a chair for Mary, which made her forget that his dress was the homely garb of a farmer.

"Give up your seat to your daughter, Edward, and let Mary sit by me."

The change was quickly made, and then the old gentleman said—

"Ah, my dear, I can see you more plainly now in the light of the lamp; there is a look of the little child I remember so well, although you are grown so tall and womanly."

"Do you not think Mary is like her mother, uncle?" said cousin Sarah; "and yet she has a look sometimes that reminds me of Edward."

"Never mind whom she resembles," said the old man; "if my granddaughter is, as I hear from her father, a dutiful and affectionate daughter, that is of far more value than her personal appearance."

How pleasantly that evening passed! Mary played a game of chess with the old gentleman, whose mind was still clear, notwithstanding his eighty-two years, and delighted him by her quick intelligence, and perhaps not less by finding that he could beat her after a well-matched contest.

When Mary laid her head on her pillow that night in the pretty white bedroom, as she called it, she felt that there could be found much more real happiness in a country life than in all the gaieties and frivolities of a London season.

But Mary had yet to learn the real foundation of the peace and harmony which seemed to surround the residents at Meadow Farm like a halo, and even to make her sleep more sweetly in her white-curtained bed than she had ever done even in the richly furnished rooms and luxurious couches at her aunt Elston's, in Portland Place, after an evening spent in gaiety and excitement.

For the first time in her life Mary had knelt at family prayer.

The old clock in the kitchen had scarcely finished striking nine when cousin Sarah rose, and taking from a shelf a large old-fashioned Bible and book of family prayers, placed them on the table before Edward Armstrong.

"Do you not read yourself, father?" he asked.

"No, my son, I have not been able to do so for some years; John always supplies my place; but now you are here you must officiate."

To Mary all this was new. Except at church she had never seen her father with a Bible in his hand, and she wondered whether he had been accustomed to this in his childhood.

Edward Armstrong possessed one accomplishment which is not always sufficiently appreciated, he read well; and the beautiful chapter which his father requested him to read sounded to Mary as something she had never before heard—the 15th chapter of St. Luke, and the story of the prodigal son.

The prayer also which followed was new to her. It seemed so suited to the time and place and persons assembled, that she could follow every petition as if it came from her own heart. No wonder Mary Armstrong after this could sleep peacefully.

The sunbeams of an April morning aroused her at an early hour next morning. She sprung out of bed and drew back the window-curtains. What a charming prospect met her view! Close beneath her lay stretched a large and well-kept garden, old-fashioned paths bordered with box, and flower-beds of various geometrical shapes, in which crocus and snowdrop, wallflower, and polyanthus spread themselves in picturesque confusion.

Nearer the house the lilac buds were just bursting into flower, and around her windows the monthly roses mingled their delicate pink leaves with the dark green ivy that covered the wall.

Beyond stretched field and meadow in early spring verdure. In the furrows of an adjacent field men were already busily employed in sowing seeds, and from a distance could be heard the lowing of cattle, the clucking of hens as they led their chirping broods, the quacking of ducks and geese, the peculiar note of the guinea-fowl, and above them all Chanticleer's shrill but familiar crow. Mary turned from the window with a hasty determination to obtain a closer inspection of these pleasant rural sights and sounds. Dressing herself quickly she descended the stairs, and found every one in the house up and busy except her father and grandfather, although it was not yet half-past six o'clock.

Mrs. John Armstrong came forward with surprise to greet the London lady, who could leave her room at such an early hour.

"What, up already, Mary?" she said, "I did not expect to see you till nine o'clock."

"I rise early at home always," she replied; "papa often leaves for London at half-past eight, and I breakfast with him."

"Ah, yes, I forgot that you live at some distance from London now, and therefore our country manners and ways are not quite new to you."

"It is very pleasant country where we live, but not so rural as this," said Mary; and then, as she observed her cousin take some barley from a bin in the outer kitchen, she exclaimed, "Oh, cousin Sarah, if you are going to feed the chickens, do let me go with you, I am longing to see the farmyard, and I can carry something for you."

"Of course you shall go, my dear; I shall be glad to have you. Ned and Jack are away at school now in Southampton, and I miss their help very much."

Mary was soon loaded with a basket containing provision for the farmyard pensioners, and while they walked she asked many questions about her cousins John and Edward, boys of eleven and fifteen, cousin Sarah's only surviving children. But the strange farmyard scenes soon occupied all Mary's attention. Never in her life had she seen so many geese, ducks, chickens, and pigeons, and until they were all fed and satisfied nothing else could be attempted.

At length Mary was at liberty to look round her. The farmyard was surrounded by barns, stables for horses and cattle, waggon-sheds, hen and pigeon-houses, rabbit-hutches, and a pond in the centre, by no means small, for the ducks and geese, near which stood their comfortable nests.

"The man is going to feed the pigs, Mary," said her cousin; "their sties are at the back of the stables, opening into a field."

She led the way from the farmyard as she spoke, and as they drew near the spot Mary heard a most unmelodious sound, half-grunting, half-squeaking, with which the little hungry animals greeted their keeper. There appeared about a hundred little pigs in a portion of the field adjoining the sties, and railed in from the other part by wooden palings and hurdles. At intervals, close to the fence, stood troughs, and the moment their keeper appeared in sight there arose such a perfect yell and growl of grunting and squealing that Mary could not attempt to speak.

The little animals, who varied in age from six weeks to three months, were beautifully clean and white, and when Mary saw them looking through holes in the palings, and many of them standing on their hind-legs to put their noses over, she could scarcely speak for laughing.

"I thought pigs were such heavy, stupid things," she said at last, "but these are lively enough."

"They be lively enough when they be'es hungry," said the man, as he entered the enclosure and drove them back into their houses while he and his helper filled their troughs.

"You can come and see them fed another morning," said cousin Sarah, "but I must go in and prepare breakfast now. Will you amuse yourself in the garden till you hear the bell ring, and gather some flowers for the table?"

"Yes, I should like it of all things;" and Mrs. John Armstrong led Mary to the garden gate and left her.

Mary wandered down the dew moistened paths, now and then gathering flowers as she passed. In her mind, while looking at the ungainly little beasts in the field, had arisen a memory of words in the parable she had heard read the evening before—"and he sent him into the fields to feed swine." Her knowledge of Oriental customs enabled her to understand the deep degradation of such employment, not only to the Jew, but to the natives of other Eastern countries. And yet, after all, the prodigal's father received him again with open arms.

She was walking still in deep thought when her father's step aroused her.

"What is the subject of my daughter's thoughts?" he said as he placed his arm round her.

Mary avoided a direct reply. Not even to her father could she open her heart on the real subject of her thoughts. But she described with so much vivacity the scenes she had lately visited, not forgetting the greedy pigs, that her father was quite amused.

The eight o'clock bell summoned the whole household to prayers, and when Mary entered the farm kitchen she found the screen drawn back and about twenty farm-servants, male and female, waiting to join in the morning devotions.

Her grandfather was absent, but her father conducted the service as on the previous evening. And when she seated herself at the breakfast-table the glow of health on her cheek was not brighter than the glow of pleasure in her heart as she thought of a whole family kneeling and asking God to guide and keep them through the day from danger and sin.

Mr. Edward Armstrong was obliged to return to London on the day after his arrival, and finding his father so much better than he expected he did so with less regret. "You can leave your daughter for a few days longer, Edward," said his father; "I have hardly had time to renew my acquaintance with her, and it is not possible that I shall ever see her again in this world."

"Would you like to stay for a week, Mary?" asked her father.

"Yes, papa, very much, if dear mamma can spare me for so long."

"There is no doubt of that, my dear," he replied, "especially if she thinks your stay will be agreeable to your grandfather."

And so Mary Armstrong remained at Meadow Farm for a week, a period which in after-life was never forgotten. The loving affection of the kind old man was returned by her in attention to his every wish. So much, indeed, had this visit cheered and revived him, that on fine afternoons, when persuaded by Mary, he would lean on her strong young arm, and walk about the garden and fields of the farm.

On the Sunday he even ventured to the village church; and when congratulated by friends who wondered at the elegant graceful girl on whose arm he leaned, he would say with affectionate pride, "This is my granddaughter, Edward's eldest child."

In these walks the young girl opened her heart to the aged Christian, who had had a long life's experience in the "ways of wisdom," and had found her paths "paths of peace."

From him Mary Armstrong learnt those truths which were to be her comfort and guide in after days of sorrow and trial.

When her father came for her at the end of the week she felt the parting from her grandfather and cousins only softened by the thought that she was returning to her mother so dearly loved. At parting the good old gentleman gave her a Bible with marginal references, and a concordance, which she received with many tears, for she felt that never again on earth should she hear the loving voice that had first said to her, "This is the way, walk ye in it."

CHAPTER XV.

A VISIT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

During the evening at Mr. Drummond's there had been very little opportunity for Mr. Armstrong to discover that the gentleman with white hair was the head of the school at which his little Freddy attended as a pupil. He had been greatly pleased with the gentle and refined manners of Dr. Halford and his son, and felt at once that they were both men of superior education. He had greatly appreciated their remarks on both literary and scientific subjects after the ladies had left the dinner-table; but, unfortunately, one of Mr. Armstrong's narrow-minded prejudices made him judge schoolmasters and clergymen with anything but Christian charity. Added to this they were proverbially poor, and poverty in his eyes was becoming almost a crime.

"What business," he would say, "has a man to educate his son to be a clergyman if he has not independent means, or a living ready for him? or even to be a schoolmaster, with fine notions about education, and not a penny in his pocket? Better by far make him a carpenter or a shoemaker, to work for his living without having to endure the torture of keeping up a genteel appearance upon poverty."

Mr. Armstrong had been unfortunate in his experience respecting schoolmasters and curates; and with the unbending obstinacy of his nature adhered to the opinion he had formed. The bare idea that Dr. Halford could be a schoolmaster, or that his son was studying at Oxford to become a curate, never occurred to him. His wife, who knew his prejudiced opinions too well, would not enlighten him on the subject, while speaking next morning of the great pleasure he had found in their society, although she wondered that the name had not reminded him of Freddy's school.

Mrs. Armstrong congratulated herself, as she remembered that Mary's father had been too much occupied at the dinner-table to notice the gentleman who sat by her side. "If any unpleasantness should arise from the attentions of that young man to my daughter," she said to herself, "I shall have to remove my little Freddy from school, and he is so happy there."

One afternoon, after the Easter holidays, Freddy brought home a little note, fortunately addressed to herself, containing the quarter's account. The sum was comparatively trifling, and she sent it herself the next day by Freddy. It had been made out to Mr. Armstrong; but she feared to show him the bill on which the name of Halford stood so conspicuously written.

Mrs. Armstrong was giving herself unnecessary anxiety. Henry Halford was already at Oxford absorbed in his books, and more than ever determined to ignore even the existence of a certain young lady with large grey eyes and bright brown hair, who had for a time dazzled his senses.

And Mary, did a thought of that pleasant dinner-party ever pass over her mind? Yes; for true to her promise she had read Milton's works with greater interest than ever; she had made notes of the explanations Mr. Henry Halford had given her so far as she could remember them, and perhaps a little feeling of disappointment arose in her heart that he had not sent the copy of "Paradise Lost," which he had offered to lend her, and which contained notes in the margin. Mary Armstrong owned to herself that she liked Mr. Henry Halford, both in manners and appearance; and, above all, for being so evidently clever and well-informed; but she was not likely to be easily won. The thought of marriage, as a possible event at some future time, would sometimes occur to her; but falling in love implied a weakness, and the citadel of Mary Armstrong's heart was so well guarded by constant and active employment, a love of acquiring knowledge, and a mind well informed on the best subjects, that it would need a strong siege to make the citadel surrender. At present, therefore, Mary was free; and the spring months passed away; and June, with its roses, its blue skies and balmy air, arrived to gladden the earth.

The health of Mrs. Armstrong had greatly improved since her residence at Lime Grove. Freddy was also looking well and rosy; and letters from Edward and Arthur were full of the anticipation of the happiness in store for them during the Midsummer holidays.

One morning early in June a carriage drove up to the gate of Lime Grove, and to Mrs. Armstrong's great satisfaction she saw her sister, Mrs. Herbert, preparing to alight. The colonel and his wife had been abroad during the winter; and the sisters met in the hall with affectionate pleasure.

"Why, Mary," said her aunt, as her niece came forward to welcome her, "you are grown quite a woman; and you and your mother look so well, I am sure this place must agree with you."

"Yes, indeed it does, aunt," replied Mary, leading her to a chair; "but has it not made a change in mamma?"

"Wonderful!" said the lady, as she seated herself.

"Wont you take off your bonnet, Helen, and stay to lunch?" asked her sister.

"Yes, presently. I want a little talk first, and there is plenty of time."

"Let me send a message to the coachman to put up the horses, aunt," said Mary; "it's a long drive from town, and they must want rest."

Mrs. Herbert agreed to remain for an hour or two; the horses were safely stabled, and the servants desired to give the two men their dinners; all, indeed, was arranged according to Mary's wishes, for Mrs. Armstrong gave up every household management to her active, energetic daughter.

"Well, upon my word, Mary," said her aunt, after having been, as she said, carried upstairs by force of arms to remove her bonnet and shawl, and was now seated in a luxurious chair near an open window, "upon my word you manage to have your own way very decidedly."

"Perhaps I do," she replied, laughing; "but now, aunt, is it not more comfortable to feel you have nothing to do but talk or listen, instead of being obliged to interrupt a pleasant conversation to get ready for lunch in a great hurry?"

"Ah, yes, I daresay you are right, Mary; but now, before I tell you one cause of my visit I must hear all the news. Do you like your house as well as ever?"

"Yes, quite; indeed I may say, better, for the garden is repaying the money we laid out upon it last year, and we have obtained such a nice school for Freddy."

"Your flowers are beautiful, I can see so far," said Mrs. Herbert—and so of one thing and another the ladies continued to talk, till at last, after Mary's drawings had been examined, her German lessons described, as well as the beautiful grey mare her father had given her—Mrs. Herbert said, "When will Edward be at home, Maria?"

"Not before five; we dine at six. If you wish to see him you must stay to dinner."

"I would rather not do so; it will make my return home so late. Do you think I may venture to take Mary away for a week or ten days without asking her father's consent?"

"Oh, aunt, I'm afraid not," said Mary, "if you wish me to visit you in Park Lane."

"Only for a day or two, my dear. Your uncle and I are going to Oxford for a week on a special invitation from Charles, and in his letter he says I am to be sure and bring Mary."

"It is no use to look so anxiously at me, my dear," said Mrs. Armstrong; "I could not decide myself in such a matter; you must persuade your aunt to stay to dinner, and then she can ask your father herself."

"Would you like to go, Mary?" said her aunt.

"Oh yes, above all things, aunt. I went to Cambridge once with papa, but he says it is nothing to Oxford. We shall be able to visit the colleges, and the museum, and libraries. I've read about them; and to visit such ancient, antique places, will be a great treat."

"Charles seems to think," replied her aunt, "that there is nothing so likely to attract visitors to Oxford as the grand commemoration which takes place once in three years, and is to happen this year. I suppose, from what he says, that it will be a very gay and exciting time at Oxford."

"Can you manage without me, mamma?" asked Mary, suddenly.

"Certainly, darling; I would not deprive you of such a pleasure for a great deal."

"Then if aunt cannot stay I'll ask papa myself, and perhaps he will take me to Park Lane to-morrow, when he goes to town."

"I should like to have a decision to-day, my dear, that I may write to Charles and tell him when to expect us, so I suppose I must stay, for I intend to take you back with me this evening, Mary; and as it is daylight till ten o'clock, we need not mind being late."

This decision gave pleasure to both mother and daughter; and after luncheon Mary left the sisters to their pleasant afternoon chat, while she went to pack a box with various articles which she knew she should require for so long a visit.

"I don't think my father will refuse to grant me this great pleasure," she said to herself, "so I may as well have everything in readiness, and not keep aunt Helen waiting when his consent is obtained. If he does object to my going I can easily unpack my box again, and replace everything."

But Mary sighed at the prospect of a disappointment.

She was, however, not doomed to such a result. Mr. Armstrong could not resist the pleading eyes of his daughter when her aunt stated her wish, and readily gave his consent. As quickly as possible after they had dined, the carriage was brought to the door. Yet with all the delightful anticipations of the visit in store for her, Mary could not part from her mother without a feeling of regret which almost produced tears. She had so lately left her to visit her grandfather for a week, and as she kissed her she whispered—"Mamma, are you sure you can manage without me, and shall you feel lonely?"

"No no, dearest, don't be afraid, Morris will do all I require, and I shall amuse myself by thinking of your happiness, and of all you will have to tell me on your return."

Mr. Armstrong seemed to participate fully in his daughter's pleasure, and as he placed her in the carriage with her aunt, after kissing her affectionately, a deep feeling of pride rose in his heart. Mary was all he could wish her to be. He had superintended her education, and to himself alone he attributed all the good qualities she possessed.

"My daughter will attract notice in the society she meets at Colonel Herbert's," he said to himself. "I wish her to marry well, both as to position and money. She is not likely to make a foolish attachment. At all events, should such a thing arise I have influence enough with her to put a stop to it. Mary will not disobey me."

Meanwhile Colonel Herbert's open carriage was bowling along on its delicate springs towards London in the pleasant summer evening.

For some minutes the present and anticipated enjoyment kept Mary silent. At last her aunt made some remark which caused her to say—"I thought cousin Charles was at Windsor with his regiment."

"So he was a week ago, but he has taken advantage of leave of absence to visit an old friend at Oxford, who has lately obtained a fellowship, and he is so delighted with the place that he wishes us to participate in his pleasure."

"He is very kind to think of me," replied Mary, "and you could not have proposed for me a greater treat. When do you intend to start?"

"On Thursday, I hope, but I must write to Charles this evening that he may secure apartments at the Mitre Hotel. I believe that during the week of commemoration Oxford presents a very gay appearance, and every available room in the town is quickly hired at a fabulous rent. I have heard the scenes described, but while Charles was at the Woolwich Academy the grand days there in which he figured were my greatest attraction."

"Oh yes, aunt, I can quite understand a preference for the places where our own relations are studying. Those days when you took me to Woolwich while cousin Charles was a cadet were delightful."

And so the aunt and niece continued to talk till the carriage drove into Park Lane, and Colonel Herbert appeared to welcome the arrival of his niece.

"Well done, Helen," he said, as his wife led Mary in. "So you have succeeded in your expedition, and enticed the home bird from her nest?"

"Not without waiting for permission from head-quarters," she replied. "I was made to remain to dinner, for the young lady appeared resolute; she would not stir without her father's sanction, which, however, was most readily given."

"Quite right, Mary, there can be no hope of future happiness in any matter which opposes a parent's will."

"Take Miss Armstrong to her room, Annette," said Mrs. Herbert to the little French maid, who stood waiting to attend the young lady; and then she added in English—"I am going to write to Charles at once, Mary. Go with Annette, she will unpack your box, and do all you require."

Mary followed the tastefully yet neatly dressed French girl to a pleasant room overlooking the park, and soon delighted the young foreigner in a strange land by addressing her with ease in her own language.

Mary, after arranging her dress, and allowing her beautiful hair to pass through the agile fingers of the French girl, seated herself at the open window to watch with eager amusement the varied groups who still lingered or sauntered leisurely along in the cool evening air.

The summons for tea took her to the drawing-room, and the evening passed in listening to descriptions of her aunt's journey to the south of France, and of the beautiful château overlooking the blue waters of the Mediterranean in which they had lived.

"We often wished you and your mother were with us, Mary," said her uncle, "all the reading in the world about these lovely spots can never realise the scenes to the imagination of the reader in their full beauty. They must be seen to be understood."

"I hope I shall have that opportunity some day," said Mary. "Papa often talks about spending a few months on the Continent, although he dreads the thought of leaving the management of his business to others. But, aunt Helen, I should think some of the scenery in Wales or Scotland, and in England too, especially in the lake country, must be as beautiful as any place in foreign lands."

"England has a beauty of its own in its soft and picturesque scenery," said her uncle, "but in the glorious south the sunshine, the luxurious vegetation, and the clear air, which makes distant objects so sharply defined, render the scenery very unlike that of a northern landscape. Still, it is a fact that many English people go abroad to admire foreign countries who know nothing of the beauties in their own native land."

"I've heard papa make the same remark, uncle, and I shall always feel thankful to him for taking me so many pleasant trips through England, and if I ever have the good fortune to visit other countries I shall be able to make comparisons, and I don't think dear old England will lose much after all."

"Quite right, Mary, stand up for your own native land, and be thankful that you are not being suffocated with the heat in India, nor subject in England to earthquakes, tornados, or storms, such as destroy cities, and terrify so often the inhabitants of the torrid zone."

"Indeed I am thankful already, uncle, for I have heard Aunt Helen describe Indian storms, and the terrible heat, too often not to be glad I have a dear English home. Is the scenery round Oxford beautiful?" she asked after a pause.

"It is rather flat, but very picturesque on the banks of the Thames, which runs behind Christchurch Meadows, especially in summer. Have you never been in Oxfordshire, Mary?"

"No, uncle, but I have seen Windsor, that is the next county, so I suppose there is a similarity in the scenery."

"A little, perhaps, but I will leave you to judge for yourself. And now, suppose you give us a little music."

And thus the evening passed away, and we cannot wonder if in Mary's dreams were mixed up various subjects which had made that day so different to the quiet studious scenes of home.

Next day they drove to the Kensington Museum, and afterwards spent a few hours at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, the latter always a delight to Mary. And at a rather early hour she laid her head on her pillow full of joyous anticipations of the morrow's journey.

Could she have foreseen the result of this visit would she have shrunk from it? We cannot tell.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE COMMEMORATION WEEK.

Brightly shone the sun over the towers and pinnacles of the glorious old city as the train sped along between Didcot and Oxford. Down the High Street towards the railway station two gentlemen were walking slowly, one of them wearing the Master of Arts gown and the trencher cap; the other, though in plain clothes, had the bearing and gait of a soldier.

Except the bright dark eyes and the clear olive skin there is very little in the tall manly figure and whiskered face to recall the Charley Herbert whom Edward Armstrong saved from an untimely death. His companion, who scarcely reaches to his shoulder, has no such personal attractions as his friend, but the keen eye, broad forehead, and intellectual, studious face, command at once respect and attention.

"At what time is the train due?" asked Charles Herbert, taking out his watch.

"12.30," was the reply.

"Oh, then we have plenty of time to drop in at Queen's and asked Maurice about the boatrace. Hollo, old fellow, where are you going?" and the young officer looked at the offered hand of his friend with surprise.

"I ought not to intrude upon your friends on the very moment of their arrival, Herbert, so I'll say good-by now."

"Nonsense! I want you to know them; come, along, Wilton; you are not going to escape me in this way; and here comes Maurice, the very man I want. Who is that tall fellow with him?" he added hastily, in a low tone, as the two undergraduates approached, one of them with a pleased recognition of Charles and his friend.

"I'll introduce you if you like," had been Mr. Wilton's reply, and as the four gentlemen met and exchanged a friendly greeting, Charles found himself returning the bow of the stranger, who was being named to him as "Mr. Henry Halford, of Queen's."

"I think we have met before, Mr. Herbert," said Henry, with a smile, "we were fellow pupils at Dr. Mason's."

"To be sure, I thought the name was familiar," exclaimed Charles, holding out his hand, "but how was I to recognise our famous Grecian as a tall undergrad. with whiskers; but I remember the face now." And then the two gentlemen stood talking over olden times until Horace Wilton reminded Charles Herbert that he had but a few minutes to spare if he wished to reach the station in time to meet his friends, and persisting in wishing him "Good-by," started him off.

Hasty promises were made to meet on the morrow, hasty farewells uttered, and then Charles Herbert found himself proceeding alone at a rapid rate towards the station.

He had, however, several minutes to wait on the platform before the train slowly drew up, and then from a window of a first-class carriage he recognised the bright, intelligent face of his cousin Mary.

In a few moments the door of the carriage was opened, and a proud, fond welcome from the son whom the mother had not seen for so many months almost brought tears in Mary's eyes.

"Are you tired? Shall we walk to the hotel, and leave the boxes for a porter to bring?" were the eager questions readily assented to at last, and then Charles Herbert, taking possession of his cousin's arm, led the way to his hotel.

Perhaps, to a stranger, no period of time at Oxford can be more fraught with interest than the week in which the yearly commemoration is held. The town no doubt appears more dull by contrast during the long vacation, but in full term time the streets seem redolent of learning; the grave don walking with stately step, as if conscious how far above all other is the power conferred by knowledge and mental superiority; the severe-looking proctor, with his black velvet-trimmed gown adding to his appearance of stern, gloomy determination to be the punisher of evildoers; the youthful freshman, who wears his new honours with shy pride, contrasted with the careless indifference of his more experienced companion, who, carrying a number of musty-looking volumes under his arm, seems quite unconscious that his gown is in rags, or that the cane is visible at one or more corners of his cap.

The yearly commemoration at Oxford certainly presents a scene of excitement scarcely equalled, from the peculiar features of the place, the period, and the principal actors.

It is preceded by that terrible time when the aspirants for honours, shivering and pale, sit writing answers to questions of alarming difficulty, or replying with painful nervousness to their seemingly stern examiners, who sit or stand before them with covered heads.

This is followed by sickening suspense till the list of names decides their fate. Then the scene changes; books are laid aside, learning seems for a time ignored. The long vacation is about to commence; all is pleasure and gaiety.

Happy fathers, proud mothers, brothers, sisters, and cousins, occupy every habitable part of Oxford outside the college walls, submitting to any inconvenience that they may be present during the exciting week.

On the day of Mary's arrival with her aunt and uncle, several of the men who had been going through a terrible ordeal in the schools might be seen with pale and anxious faces wending their way to different colleges. But as Mary entered the High Street at Magdalen Bridge, the colleges on either side of the road, and the steeples in the distance so occupied her attention that she scarcely noticed any other object.

"What college is that?" she asked, as the beautiful but antique outline of Magdalen first met her view.

"I am not quite up in the wonders of Oxford yet," he replied, "although I have been here a week; but I can tell you the names of those before you. This is Magdalen College. A little higher on the right is Queen's; the one opposite is University. That church with the spire is St. Mary's, the University Church; close to it All Soul's College, and——"

"Oh, stop," cried Mary, "if you have whole streets of colleges and churches in Oxford to describe, you must let me learn their names a few at a time, or I shall mix them all up together. Are those young men with caps and gowns clergymen?" she asked, suddenly.

"No, but what made you think so, Mary?"

"Because they have white ties, and others in the same dress have not."

"I am glad to be able to explain so far," he replied, laughing; "they have been passing their examination in the schools, and at such an occasion, I am told, the white tie is a customary appendage. But, Mary, if you are bent upon understanding all the unusual things you see at Oxford, I must provide you with a more experienced guide than myself. And here we are at the hotel," he added, as he stopped to wait for his parents, who were examining the buildings they passed with almost as much eagerness and interest as Mary.

They turned into the hotel together, and in a very short time, after taking a hasty lunch, they sallied forth in the bright sunshine, bent upon exploring the wonders of a city so famed in ancient lore.

"We may as well begin with Magdalen College," said Charles, as they walked down the High Street, but on reaching Queen's, he suddenly paused, and saying, "Wait for me a moment," darted into the quadrangle, and disappeared among the cloisters.

In a few moments he returned in the company of a gentlemanly-looking man, in cap and gown, whom he introduced to the colonel and Mrs. Herbert. Then turning to his cousin, he said—

"Mr. Maurice, my cousin Miss Armstrong has been already asking me so many questions about the manners, customs, and buildings of your famous university, that I shall be glad to place her in the charge of a more well-informed guide than myself."

The young man, who wore a bachelor's gown with its large sleeves, gladly but modestly accepted the charge so pleasantly made over to him. And Mary, though at first a little reserved, soon found it pleasant to have a companion who could answer her questions and give her unasked many interesting particulars. In the course of the afternoon they were joined by Mr. Wilton, Charles Herbert's friend, who proved himself a very valuable addition to the party.

And so Friday and Saturday passed away in sight-seeing, visits to the colleges, or attending afternoon service at New College and Magdalen; and yet Mary showed no signs of fatigue. Never in her life had she been more deeply interested; and although as Show Sunday approached, the streets were filled with well-dressed people, her attention was not easily diverted. Sunday arrived, a bright June day, and in the evening a gathering took place in Christ Church meadows, singularly styled Vanity Fair. Fair ladies are certainly present on these occasions, but who would apply to them the term vanity, although they have literally come out to see and to be seen?

Show Sunday, as the Sunday before commemoration is termed, certainly presents a show very seldom seen in any other locality in England.

The most dignified of Oxford's learned magnates are there, accompanied by the ladies of their families and distinguished visitors.

Strings of gownsmen, arm-in-arm, parade the Long Walk, observing with a sort of good-natured envy their more favoured fellows, on whose arms lean some of the fairest and noblest of England's daughters. And in almost every instance the promenaders of the gentler sex are attired in that simple elegance of style which marks the well-bred woman of polished society. Into this novel and attractive scene Mary Armstrong was led by her cousin and Frank Maurice, upon whose arm she leaned.

Her uncle and aunt had continued their walk to the water side, but Charles and his friend detained her after the second turn in the Long Walk for another stroll through the broad promenade beneath the lofty elm trees.

Charles Herbert felt proud of the slight, graceful figure, so becomingly attired, by whom he walked. The simple, white dress, lace mantle, and blue silk bonnet were attractive from their simplicity, and more than one gownsman, who raised his cap to Frank Maurice, cast admiring eyes on the fair, intellectual face and noble features of the young lady by his side. Presently two gownsmen turned into the walk, and as they approached, one of them said to the other—

"Why, Halford, here comes Wilton's tall friend with Maurice, and a lady on his arm."

The young man thus addressed started as his companion spoke; he had quickly recognised the young lady whom he had twice met, and now as they drew near, and Charles Herbert advanced to claim his acquaintance in a friendly manner, his face became pale as death. It flushed, however, and the consciousness of this restored his self-possession as Charles introduced his cousin, Miss Armstrong.

"I have met Miss Armstrong before," he said, with an effort; "my father resides at Kilburn, at a very short distance from the Limes."

For once Mary was at fault, so great was her surprise to see her dinner-table friend, and her little brother's tutor, at Oxford, in the costume of an undergraduate. But as the new-comers joined them in their walk, and entered into conversation, with her companions, she recovered herself, and took the first opportunity to address a few words to him.

The bells began to toll for evening service, and Frank Maurice, excusing himself to Mary and her cousin, wished them good evening and joined the gownsmen with whom Henry Halford had a few minutes before made his appearance.

"Whither shall we go this evening, Mary?" asked her cousin.

"I have no choice," she replied; "aunt talked of going to St. Mary's, but where are uncle and aunt gone?" she exclaimed, looking round in surprise.

Charles Herbert hesitated for a moment, and then, as the sudden thought occurred that Mary had met an old acquaintance, he said—

"Mr. Halford, if you will kindly take care of my cousin, I will go in search of my runaway relatives."

Henry Halford bowed, and as Charles quickly disappeared he offered his arm to Mary, and led her slowly on in the direction taken by her cousin.

For some minutes conflicting thoughts filled the minds of these two young people so suddenly thrown into each other's society.

"How very pale Mr. Halford looked when he met us just now!" said Mary Armstrong to herself. "What could be the cause? How strange that I should meet him here! and yet I remember now that mamma said Dr. Halford's son was going to Oxford. How nervous he seems! and so different from his manner at the dinner-table at Mr. Drummond's. Ah, how clever I thought him then! and after a university education I should feel absolutely afraid to talk with him. I expect he will end by taking a fellowship like Mr. Wilton. These clever men never marry;" and then a quick flash of thought that crimsoned the young girl's face passed through her mind: "yet I should like my husband to be even more clever and well informed than papa." The silence was becoming painful, and Mary was glad enough to be able to say—

Englefield Grange; or, Mary Armstrong's Troubles

ENGLEFIELD GRANGE

OR, MARY ARMSTRONG'S TROUBLES

BY MRS. H. B. PAULL

AUTHOR OF "EVELYN-HOWARD," "STRAIGHT PATHS AND CROOKED WAYS"

Warne's Star Series

LONDON:FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.AND NEW YORK

CONTENTS.

ENGLEFIELD GRANGE

CHAPTER I.

BY THE SEA.

CHAPTER II.

WHO SAVED HER?

CHAPTER III.

A SOCIAL DILEMMA.

CHAPTER IV.

DIFFICULTIES TO BE OVERCOME.

CHAPTER V.

AT THE REVIEW.

CHAPTER VI.

BUCEPHALUS.

CHAPTER VII.

FREDDY'S NEW SCHOOL.

CHAPTER VIII.

ENGLEFIELD GRANGE.

CHAPTER IX.

LOOKING BACK.

CHAPTER X.

HENRY HALFORD'S NEW STUDY.

CHAPTER XI.

OUR ANTIPODES.

CHAPTER XII.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

CHAPTER XIII.

A CHANGE OF OPINION.

CHAPTER XIV.

AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY.

CHAPTER XV.

A VISIT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE COMMEMORATION WEEK.

LONDON:
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
AND NEW YORK