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MARGUERITE VERNE;

OR:

SCENES FROM CANADIAN LIFE.

BY

RE. AGATHA ARMOUR.

CHAPTER I.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

"Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New Year blithe and bold, my friend
Comes up to take his own."—Tennyson.

New Year's Eve in the fair city of St. John, that queenly little city which sits upon her rocky throne overlooking the broad expanse of bay at her feet.

Reader, we do not wish to weary you with the known, but love for our own dear New Brunswick is surely sufficient apology.

It is one of the feelings of human nature to be possessed with a desire to worship the great and titled, to become enamoured with those appendages, which are the symbols of social distinction. Let us consider how we, as a people, are privileged. Is there any grander title this side of Heaven than found in these words, "I am a British subject," and next "I am a New Brunswicker"? You who have travelled have often felt your hearts rebound when listening to the eulogiums passed upon our country and its gifted sons through the medium of the pulpit, the platform and the press. "He is a New Brunswick boy." Ah, those words are sufficient to inspire us with thoughts ennobling, grand and elevating. There are to be found growlers in every clime, and it is only such that will desert their fatherland and seek refuge under foreign skies. We have liberty, right, education, refinement and culture in our midst; we have a good government, noble reforms, and all advantages to make us good and happy. Then let us cherish every right and institution which makes our beloved New Brunswick the pride of its loyal people. It is such feeling which prompts this work, and if the different scenes throughout the province which we will endeavor to portray, the usages of society, custom, &c., and the few characters introduced from real life, meet your approbation, our highest expectation will be realized.

Now back to our fair city.

On this New Year's Eve the moon was holding high carnival. Wrapped in a costume of silvery radiance, she was displaying her charms to the busy throng beneath with all the coquetry she could summon, to her aid, darting quick glances at youths and maidens, and by covert smiles bringing even the middle-aged man of business to her feet. The air is also influenced by her wooing, and is inclined to be less severe than some hours earlier. Floods of light are radiating King Square, giving even to its leafless trees a charm of softness and effect. Pedestrians are going to and fro, while several halt in the vicinity of the fountain to smoke their pipes and discuss the news of the day. Presently a quick step is heard approaching, and a trim little figure greets us, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, which, despite its ungainliness, cannot conceal the grace of the wearer. As the maiden casts a passing glance we are impressed by the sweet purity of her face—a face that will stamp its image upon more than one heart, and leave memories that cannot be forgotten.

Such was Marguerite Verne as we now attempt to introduce her in the fond hope that others will see her as we do.

"Marguerite," exclaimed the child who had overtaken her as she reached the pavement in front of the Royal Hotel, "Marguerite I am tired running, I thought I never would get up to you. Golly, how you do streak along!"

"Charlie Verne, you naughty boy," returned the girl as she confronted her pet brother, his childish face aglow with the late exercise, "I thought you were going to keep house with Winnie?'

"So I was," said the boy, eyeing his sister closely to watch the effect of his speech, "but the Listers have arrived and I had to run and tell you."

At this announcement Marguerite Verne could scarce repress a hearty laugh and her large, deep violet eyes sparkled, and from their changing expressions exhibited such variety of shade that one would scarce venture to say which was the original one.

A deeper tinge now rested upon the purely oval cheek as the girl returned the recognition of a thoughtful-looking young man who had the air and manner of one possessed with more common sense than generally falls to the lot of the young men courted by the creme de la creme.

"Miss Verne, I see that you too are bent upon enjoying this glorious evening; the old year is going out in all its serenity."

"Yes indeed, Mr. Lawson; the old year is dying with all the true greatness that characterizes its life; it has left nothing undone, and if we have failed to garner up its hours sacredly, to us—not it—we lay the blame."

"True indeed; but how little do we think of those lessons until they are beyond reach. We make grand resolutions on each New Year, but how often do they go to the winds ere the first week has passed around."

Phillip Lawson's words took an earnest tone and his manner was earnest also. His rich, deep voice found its way far down in the maiden's heart; but she would not allow herself to think so. She would not acknowledge to herself that the restless emotions within her heart were other than a passing thought to a very dear friend! She must not see that Phillip Lawson, in his gifted, manly character, was her hero of all that was good and true, and that his was the nature by which she tested others.

As the foregoing remarks turned into a lengthy conversation Marguerite scarcely heeded that Trinity chimed out the hour of nine when the trio turned their steps homeward, Master Charlie forming an advance guard, and making the air resound with all the hilarity at his command when he came in friendly contact with some of his "fellers" as he expressed himself.

When Marguerite bade good night to her companion and stood for a moment in the hallway watching the retreating figure, we will not disclose her thoughts, but will follow her to the drawing-room, where "the Listers" are marshalled en masse awaiting her return.

"Marguerite, you darling!" exclaimed the eldest Miss Lister rushing forward and embracing the former in a manner that was more demonstrative than conventional, but was accepted with the best of grace, notwithstanding there was to be a repetition four times in succession.

Mrs. Lister was a distant cousin of Mr. Verne, and having six marriageable daughters on hand, had recourse to much diplomacy in the way of matrimonial speculations. For several years she had been in the habit of spending the New Year with the Verne family, each year adding one more eligible, until she has now the happy six.

It had ever been the boast of Mrs. Lister that she had attended boarding school, and carried off several prizes for her classic ability; and in order to establish the fact, had named her six daughters after six of the Muses. Clio, the eldest, inherited the largest part of her mother's ability.

The former often regretted that three unruly boys came to interrupt the succession of the classic nine.

But all this addition of inspiration at this festive season did not inspire the Verne family with any such high-toned sentiments as might have been expected.

"Marguerite Verne," explained the haughty Evelyn, the imperious first-born of the family, "you are enough to drive anyone distracted! How can you submit so tamely to being bored to death by such pests? Indeed, Aunt Hester with all her wisdom is preferable to that empty headed woman and her muses."

Marguerite had retired to her own room. She was sitting at a small ebony writing desk, jotting down a few thoughts in her diary When her sister entered, but now arose and drew forth a luxurious arm-chair for the imperious beauty to recline in.

"If worrying myself to death would do me any good, I might try it too, Evelyn; but as it does not, I try to make the best of it."

"There you are again, with your philosophical ideas. I must expect nothing else from one who cares so little for the opinions of others, and lives only in sight of all the old half-crazed poets and fanatics of the Dark Ages."

Marguerite durst not look toward the speaker, lest her quizzical expression might heap further assault upon her; so she sat quietly regarding a favorite print that hung over the mantelshelf. After a few moments silence, Evelyn drew herself up haughtily and arose to go, when Marguerite felt a rising sensation in her throat, and instantly rushed into her sister's arms. "Eve, dearest, I know you are disappointed in not going out this evening, and I am sorry; can you not believe me?"

Evelyn Verne was a beauty—beautiful as an houri, imperial as Cleopatra, but merciless as a De Medicis. She was a true woman of the world; self was the only shrine at which she worshipped; and if indeed she could feel a momentary sympathetic chord, surely Marguerite was the cause. The piercing black eyes send forth a flash that is electrifying, then fix themselves upon her companion. She is perhaps struggling between pride and duty, and it costs her a heavy sacrifice. As she gazes upon that sweet, soulful face she is almost tempted to become a nobler and better being; but the world has too heavy a hold upon her, and slightly pressing a kiss upon Marguerite's cheek, she takes leave without saying another word. As the latter listens to the rustle of the silken train through the spacious hall and stairway, she heaves a deep sigh, and once more seats herself beside her desk. On the pages of the little book she pens thoughts worthy of such a soul, and worthy of the memorable eve—worthy of the dying moments of the year which had been her friend, her comforter and her hope. She could look back without many regrets. The hours had not been misspent, and she could say: "Old Year, I used you well. Now that you are nearly gone I will not regret, but try, with God's help, to welcome in your child."

Marguerite sat thus while the clock struck twelve, when she buried her face in her hands and remained in thoughtful silence—a feeling too reverential for words, as something too sacred for intruding upon.

And now the New Year had been welcomed in. The moon, in all her majesty, witnessed the solemn pageant; and unseen choristers wafted the tidings from pole to pole.

"Another year," murmured Marguerite, as she gently raised the casement and looked out upon the beauty of the scene. Queen Square, studded with tributes to the Loyalists, was peaceful as the grave. Beyond was the calm, blue water of the harbor; while here and there a white sail upon its bosom added to the effect. Peace reigns over the city, and the lights have at last disappeared from the Verne mansion. Let us take the liberty to mention a few facts that may be necessary ere we proceed further.

The Vernes belonged to a genteel and respectable family. They did not lay claim to an aristocratic ancestry, but for generations could reckon on a spirit of proud independence and honest worth. Mr. Verne was a man of honor and sound principles in every sense of the word; and he always tried to inculcate those principles in the minds of his children. If he daily saw in his first-born traits of character which he openly condemned and censured, there stood in bold relief upon his heart the pure, high and noble character of his delicate Marguerite. Nor was he to be disappointed in the younger scions of the family. Fred. Verne was a noble, manly boy of fifteen, and gave promise of being a good and upright citizen; while the precocious Charlie, despite the daily amount of spoiling received in the domestic circle, was a clever little fellow, as ready with an answer as he was ready for his daily supply of chocolate caramels.

Mr. Verne had married when very young, and was still in the prime of manhood. He was not handsome; but an intelligent, open countenance was the most pleasing attraction in his face. One could look upon him the second time without a feeling of dislike or even indifference.

But there is another important personage of whom we must make mention—the mistress of the Verne mansion. She is, to say it in as few words as possible, an out-and-out woman of the world—one who never says or does anything without considering what will be the world's opinion of her, and one who never says or does anything unless there be some selfish motive at the bottom of it; one who lives only for the gratification of her own selfish ends, so far as her friends and family are concerned, and whose chief delight is show, display and social greatness.

It may be said that when Mr. Verne married his child-wife, who had been petted and spoiled by her elders, he made much allowance for her daily short-comings, and fondly hoped that he might bend the impulsive nature to his will; but when he saw the great mistake he had made, he calmly bowed his head in submission to the decrees of fate, and labored more diligently to set a good example before his children. When vainly remonstrating with his wife, upon the increasing gaiety into which she plunged so wildly, he always found encouragement from the sympathetic Marguerite; and when retired from the noise and din of the drawing-room, his favorite amusement was a game of chess, with the latter for partner. It was then that Marguerite's deep violet eyes would sparkle and her face glow with enthusiasm, as she followed her father through the mazes of the game, and her clear silvery laughter had more charm than the ravishing strains of the most brilliant fantasia.

Surrounded by the elite of the city of St. John, Evelyn Verne was courted by the rich, the gay and the distinguished. It was the sole end of Mrs. Verne's existence that her daughters should make grand matches. For this purpose she entered upon a career which we intend to pursue through all its straight and crooked paths, hoping in the sequel to impart the sad but profitable lesson!

CHAPTER II.

SUNNYBANK.

Sunnybank, the stately residence of the Vernes, is indeed an imposing structure. Its towering form and massive appearance mark it as one of the noblest piles in St. John. Its costly windows, reflecting all the colors of the rainbow; its solid brick walls, stone pillars and grand entrance, bespeak it the home of wealth and affluence. Even the solid brick pavement leading from the main gateway to the terrace marks the substantial tone of the edifice, and impresses one with the stability of its owner. And the statuary, seen from the highway, denotes the taste displayed in the vestibule, with its floor of tesselated pavement, echoing to the tread of footsteps as the corridors of some grand old cathedral.

It is now our privilege to be introduced to the interior, and we make good use of our opportunity while mingling with its guests.

On this clear wintry evening as we are ushered into the Verne drawing-room with its beautifully-frescoed wall and rare painting a pretty sight is presented to our view. Seated at the piano is Marguerite, who is singing a quaint little ballad for the benefit of a company of children gathered at her feet. She is evidently their queen, as the sly glances at the happy-faced maiden are ever increasing to be repaid by the sweetest of smiles. Evelyn Verne appeared in a heavy garnet silk with bodice and draperies of the same shade in velvet. Her elbow sleeves reveal arms that would rival in miniature those of the master-piece of Phidias—the Pallas Athena—which graced the Parthenon in by-gone ages. Her hair, of purplish blackness, gives effect to the creamy tints of her complexion, and heightens the damask tinge of the beautifully-rounded cheeks. One glance at this magnificent looking form and you are victimized by her charms; you cast a side glance towards the childish-looking girl at the piano, and you will only pronounce her passing fair. Beauty is beauty, and will charm while the world goes on, and while we are endowed with that sense which, in general, has outweighed all others; but in most cases we are, in the end, taught that the beauty of the soul will wear until time is no more, and the beauty that fades is a thing of the past!

"Evelyn, dearest, if Paris had now to decide between the goddesses, he certainly would have awarded you the golden apple," exclaimed the first muse, who never let an opportunity slip to display her knowledge of mythology.

"What nonsense you talk, Clio!" returned Evelyn, whose heightened color betrayed the insincerity of her speech.

Urania Lister, "the Fifth Muse," as Fred. Verne had dubbed her, now entered from the conservatory, and throwing aside a scarlet wrap, also joined in the conversation. She was a slight creature, with some pretension to good looks; but there was a sort of languor in her manner that disappointed one ere she had uttered half a dozen sentences. In order to sustain the character her name suggested, she was continually soaring into immensity of space and deducing celestial problems for the uninitiated habitant of this lower sphere. It was when Urania had taken one of her upper flights into empyrean air that the fond mother would exclaim: "If Galileo were alive to-day I believe he could get ideas from my dear Urania."

But to return to the drawing-room.

The children have been dismissed to their homes, and Charlie consigned to the limits of his own apartments. A slight bustle is heard in the hall, and presently two visitors are duly announced by a servant in waiting. A smile of satisfaction beamed on the countenance of the anxious Mrs. Lister as she eyed the two young gentlemen on their being introduced to her three daughters, and in less time than it would be possible to conceive, she was consummating two brilliant matches for the ancient-looking Clio and the celestial Urania.

Be it said for this lady's benefit, and by way of explanation, she had consigned three of the muses to "dear papa," and kept the three most eligible under the shadow of her wing.

While the devoted parent is weaving all manner of bright visions, she resolves that practice be not sacrificed to theory, and commences by a skilful contrivance to expatiate upon the ability and goodness of her offspring.

Montague Arnold is indeed an expert in all that concerns society through its labyrinthine phases. Not a look or tone but he has thoroughly studied, and ere he is many moments in an individual's society can accommodate his pliable nature to every demand. His physique is striking, his face handsome, his manner engaging, and he is reputed to be wealthy. His family connections are desirable, and he has education, accomplishment, and the benefit of a lengthened tour on the continent.

What then is to debar such an one from entry into the best social circle the city affords?

Will we overstep the bounds of charity and describe a scene in which
Montague Arnold and his companion, Hubert Tracy, played a
conspicuous part a few hours previous? Ah, no! "Tell it not in
Gath!" Let them be happy while they may.

Of Hubert Tracy we might have a more favorable opinion. There is still upon his broad, fair forehead a trace of manliness and honor, but there is about the lower part of his youthful looking face a lack of determination that threatens to mark him as a victim for the wary and dissipated man of the world.

Conversation had now become general, while music and games filled up the intervals.

Evelyn Verne was indeed the object upon whom Mr. Arnold lavished his attentions—a fact not overlooked by Mrs. Lister. Hubert Tracy was devoting himself to the Muses, and occasionally venturing a glance at Marguerite, who took much interest in the younger members of the circle, and seemed happy in her devotedness to brother Fred, and his chum, silently engaged over a game of chess. Mrs. Verne smiled, chatted and listened to each as opportunity served, and looked with fond delight upon the imperious Evelyn, who, by a series of coquettish manoeuvres, held her admirer in chains apparently ready to be put to any test for her sake.

"This new beau of Eve's is in earnest, and there is no chance for my dear Urania. Well, well! men do not appreciate a girl of such heavenly ideas as my celestial-minded daughter, and they throw themselves away upon a pretty face without an ounce of brains." Poor Mrs. Lister had murmured these sentences after the events of the evening had transpired and she was enjoying the privacy of her own room. She always expressed her thoughts to herself, as she judged best never to let her dear girls know that she felt anxious for their settlement in life.

A few mornings later while the family lingered over the late breakfast in the handsomely-furnished morning-room, with its delicate tints of mauve and gold, the conversation turned upon the gossip of the preceding days. Miss Verne had not sufficiently recruited from the dissipation attendant upon a large assemblage, given by a lady friend in honor of some relative who had arrived from Ottawa. She was inclined to be resentful and petulant, and found fault with everything, from the delicious hot coffee and tempting rolls to the generous sunbeam that danced in at the opposite window, and it increased her anger so that she could scarcely restrain herself in the presence of her guests.

"You are somewhat uncharitable this morning, my dear," was the only reproof of Mrs. Verne, while she sought to cover her annoyance in a marked attention towards the others at the table.

"Indeed, Miss Marguerite; it will be a long time before I shall tell as many lies for you again. I was really ashamed, for they all knew that they were broad falsehoods," exclaimed Miss Verne, casting an angry glance at her sister, who sat between her mother and Mrs. Lister, looking the very picture of contentment and good nature.

"I am sorry, Eve, that you committed any grievous sins on my account, for it was a very unnecessary thing to do."

"Unnecessary! Be careful, my dear little Madge, or I will out with the whole truth; and if I do not bring the blushes to your cheek my name is not Evelyn Verne."

"Come, come, girls—never mind more talk now," said Mrs. Verne, rising from her seat, and motioning them to withdraw, at the same time trying to conceal a look of displeasure that had contracted into a dark frown.

Mrs. Verne was a woman not to be trifled with. She had a look of one born to command, and well each member of her family was aware of the fact. She was a handsome woman, of proud and dignified presence, high-tempered, and in many instances unreasonable, her opinions being strengthened by the force of circumstances, and very seldom on the side of right. On this morning in question she was inclined to feel somewhat ruffled at Marguerite, rather than the aggressor. Miss Verne had thrown out a hint that was more effective than a well-timed speech of polished oratory, and well she knew it.

"Such a ridiculous thing to think of," repeated the haughty mistress with emphasis, as she swept from room to room giving orders to each domestic, and arranging and rearranging matters to meet her own taste and convenience. The pretty crimson cashmere morning robe, with relief of creamy lace, hung in graceful folds and set off Mrs. Verne's form to advantage; and as you looked upon her then and thought how she must have looked more than twenty years in the past, you could not blame Mr. Verne for seeking her to grace his luxurious and beautiful home.

Evelyn Verne has picked up a very sensational novel and is languishing on a divan of crimson velvet and old gold plush, with a drapery of beautiful design which she had thrown aside. One arm is gracefully curved around her head, while the other clasps the book, and in contrast with the rich hue of oriental costume resembles that of polished ivory.

The passage being read is certainly pleasing—yes, rapturous—for a current of an electrifying nature suffuses the slightly-pale cheeks and delicate lips, and again Evelyn Verne wears a beauty that is fatal in its effects. While the latter is engaged in this selfish manner we hasten to a somewhat odd-looking apartment, which, from its confused array of books, playthings, fishing-tackle, hammocks, old guns, powder-horns, costumes that had assisted in personating pages and courtiers, and also many other articles of less pretensions, might be taken for a veritable curiosity-shop. A central figure gives interest to the surroundings and prompts our curiosity to watch the proceedings.

The mischievous smile upon Marguerite Verne's face is of sufficient proof that she is engaged in a pleasant occupation. She has pressed two of the Misses Lister into willing service, and they are a happy group.

"What will this make, Madge?" yelled Charlie, with as much as his lungs had capacity, holding up an old green velvet tunic with enormous supply of tinsel.

"I'll go as Coeur de Lion, and wear it," exclaimed little Ned
Bertram, snatching the precious article from the other.

"Nonsense, children!" cried Marguerite, who, with her companions, laughed long and heartily at the ludicrous representation of the "knight of the black plume."

Considerable time had been spent in bringing these would-be heroes to any decision as to their respective characters. Ned wished to be Richard the Third, and Charlie that of Richmond and repeat the triumphs of Bosworth; but meeting such obstinate opposition from their council, turned their attention to "something commoner," as Ned expressed himself. After several hours intermingled with side-splitting laughter and grave discussion, a fair representation of Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday was produced, while Marguerite and her friends received more compliments from the young aspirants than the most gallant cavalier of the sixteenth century ever paid to the queen of love and beauty. But the last remark was a deep thrust from the innocent and unconscious boy.

"You darling old Madge! I am going to tell Mr. Lawson you got us up, and I am sure we will get the prize. And I bet you I'll not forget to put a word in for you too, Miss Marguerite, and mind you Mr. Lawson don't consider me no small account."

The manner in which this twelve-year-old urchin got off the speech had a telling effect. His air of importance brought a burst of laughter, but it could scarcely hide the blushes that played hide-and-seek on the girl's face—which fact fortunately escaped the notice of the Listers.

The long-looked-for hour has arrived, and Crusoe and Friday emerge from their "den," as Miss Verne contemptuously designated the curiosity-shop. On this occasion Marguerite remains at home. Her constitution is rather delicate, and owing to a slight cold and throat irritation it is deemed advisable to exercise caution.

"I am sorry that you will not have your papa's company this evening. There is to be a meeting of the Board. There is always something going on."

"Don't mind me, mamma. Please bear in mind I am good company for myself. I remember once reading a passage in some book which said that all the pleasure we derived had its source in ourselves, and not in external objects. I often think of it and believe it to be true."

"What a sensible, but conceited girl!" exclaimed the proud matron as she kissed Marguerite, and sallied forth to chaperone the Misses Lister and their loquacious mamma.

"You dear old room, I'm with you once again," said the girl in half dramatic tones, as she drew her favorite arm-chair near the grate and sat down, not to read but to weave bright, golden dreams—fit task for a sweet maiden of eighteen summers—with a quaint simplicity of manner that is more captivating than all the wily manoeuvres that coquetry can devise. Were there any pretty pictures in those dreams? Yes. But those that gave the most pleasure she tried hard to shut out from her sight and with a gentle sigh murmured "it can never be."

Sweet Marguerite! Has she her "concealments" too?

CHAPTER III.

A NOBLE CHARACTER.

In Phillip Lawson, a young lawyer of more than average ability, is realized Pope's definition of an honest man—"the noblest work of God." Those who think that all lawyers are a set of unscrupulous and unprincipled men are sadly mistaken. There are in our midst men of the legal profession who follow the paths of high-souled honor and integrity with as unerring coarse as the magnet the north pole.

But it is in a special sense we wish to speak.

Phillip Lawson is sitting at his desk in one of the upstair apartments of a large building not many rods from "the Chambers." His office is not inviting in its appearance—no luxurious leather-upholstered arm-chairs, Brussels carpeting—nothing to suggest ease or even comfort. Stamped upon every inch of space enclosed within those four bare walls we fancy we can almost see the words "up-hill work! up-hill work"!—and look toward the young aspirant to see if he is in the least disheartened thereby. But our friend receives us with a gracious smile and extends his hand in a manner that is hearty and genuine. Even the tone of his voice is assuring, and we listen, wrapt in admiration, forgetful that we are trespassing upon his generosity. But we must first introduce you personally to the subject of our remarks, that you may form your own impression:

Phillip Lawson is not handsome. His large irregular features are not in keeping with the proportions we call classic, nor is the sallow complexion any improvement; but despite these facts, there is indeed much that is attractive in Mr. Lawson's face. His gray eyes have a tender sympathetic look—tender as that of a woman; his brows have the reflection of genius as they are being knitted over some intricate and perplexing law points at issue; and the look of benevolence expressed in the lips, mouth, and chin, impart a tone of self-respect and dignity which, united with culture and refinement, make our legal friend an ornament to the profession.

Nor is it when office hours are over that Mr. Lawson's labors are ended. His services are freely given to many societies. Old and young, rich and poor, can testify to the fact.

Yet he does not rest here. Many an hour the midnight oil has burned low as this thoughtful student sat poring over pile upon pile of some old work as he kept up his never-flagging research, or penned his thoughts with marvellous rapidity.

As anyone appears to better advantage in a neat, cosy little library, with a bright fire burning in the grate, than in a cheerless, dim and prosy den, called by way of courtesy, an "office," we thus look in upon the young man of books and letters. Phillip Lawson has just returned from a meeting in connexion with his church, and judging from his haggard looks, has had a busy day. His bright-eyed little sister has made her appearance at his elbow, and has placed upon the pretty five-o'clock table a cup of coffee and some of her own making of tea-cakes.

"Lottie, you silly little puss, why did you go to such trouble?" asked the admiring brother, as he took the little hands in his and looked into the piquant face for answer.

"Just as if I am going to let you work yourself to death and starve you into the bargain! Oh, no, my big brother, I am too selfish to keep you for myself to do any such thing; so go now and take the coffee while it is hot, else I shall have to bring more."

Lottie Lawson shook her head with all the determination of a miss of fourteen, and emphasized the fact by settling herself very cosily into a low seat to see that every cake is disposed of to her satisfaction.

"Have you anything to tell me, little one? You know I can talk and eat at the same time," said Phillip, sipping his coffee with the abandon of an epicure.

"Indeed, I have not one bit of news worth telling. I hear anything except a lot of the silly stuff the girls bring to school."

"Well, that must be worth something, arising from such a variety of sources," replied the young man, his grave face expressive of the fund of true humor within.

"Suppose you heard of the quarrel between Maud Harrington and Hattie
Reynolds?"

"No; what was it about?"

"Oh! I can hardly tell you; but it was at recess, and nearly all the girls were out, except three or four. Maud said that Carrie Wilson's mamma had been calling at Mrs. Simpson's and that she said that Mrs. Ashley told that Hattie's sister Belle was the most dowdy-looking girl at the Langley's party."

"How did Hattie find it out?" asked Phillip, with all the gravity he would exercise on one of his clients.

"Oh! you know listeners never hear anything good about themselves. Hattie was listening and never said a word about it until she got home, and then Hattie's mother went to all the folks who were mixed up in it and they had an awful time of it. Oh, yes, and what do you think?——" Lottie gave another piece of news of much more importance to her brother than the preceding one, but he very quietly kept his own counsel, and soon after dismissed the little maiden, that he might take up a few hours of hard study. The student lamp was lighted, and new fuel added to the grate. Phillip Lawson sat himself down; but it cost him great effort to concentrate his thoughts upon the work before him. Still he labored on and fought manfully with the intruding thoughts, that, despite all resistance, would at times be heard. But duty gained the victory, and it was not until the young man had placed the much-prized manuscript in its resting place, drawn his chair nearer the hearth, and lit a cigar with the blessed expectation of having a puff of the weed, that he again reverted to the banished subject.

"How the child could hear such a thing! Much as I dislike gossip I should, like to question her further, but I dare not encourage such things in a child," murmured the young man, involuntarily pressing his hand upon his brow, as if bent upon study. And it Was a study both pleasant and unpleasant. It presented two pictures—one fair and bewitching, which lit up the student's face with its reflection, while the other, dark and lowering from its deep and gloomy appearance, shed a cloud of despondency and sadness upon the thoughtful brow, leaving thereon an expression that was fretful and annoying.

"If the fellow were worthy of her I would not care so much, I could and would live it down; but for me to see her associated with him through life, it is something dreadful. And what am I to do? Warn them of the danger myself? oh, no; that will never do! I will be accused of plotting to secure the prize myself. But you will certainly do it in justice to the man whom you value as a true friend, if for nothing else," were the burning thoughts that forced themselves uppermost, and bade the young man reflect very seriously. "Yes, that is a motive sufficient to nerve any man; but there is a deeper one—yes, I will admit it—a selfish one." There was a struggle going on worthy the soul of this noble-minded youth. He was trying to solve a problem which vacillated between right and wrong. It was no common task, for when duty pointed the way, the form of self overshadowed the path, and showed only fitful gleams of light.

"I will be cautious; but she must not be sacrificed to the artful wiles of unprincipled tricksters while I have an trinity. Come what may, I must and will speak out!" Phillip Lawson thus resolved, with a sense of relief. He knew now how to act, and his mind was clear, calmly awaiting the hour to carry his resolutions into effect. But how often do a few careless words change the whole course of action which hours of thought had premeditated.

Phillip Lawson's high-toned resolutions by these means were scattered to the winds, and he turned once more to the lofty aspirations of his intellectual nature for refuge.

Let us explain:

It is the hour of twilight, and the streets have an air of desertion. The people of fashion that are daily to be seen on King and Prince William streets have retired within their palatial residences, and none are abroad except an occasional man of business, with wearied and abstracted air, soon to find rest in the bosom of his family. Suddenly a handsome turnout claims our attention, and instantly the driver assists a lady to alight. She is dressed in costly furs and velvet, and her haughty mien shows that her associations and preferences are with the patrician side of nature.

"Will you come in, too, Rania? I need not ask Marguerite, lest she might miss a chance of seeing 'Farmer Phil' and lose effervescence of the hayseed. Do you know he is always associated, in my mind, with homespun and hayseed."

Evelyn Verne laughed at the cleverness of her remark, and adjusting her mantle entered a publisher's establishment, followed by the said Rania Lister.

"Homespun and hayseed," muttered a muffled figure as he stood in the recess of a doorway, from which situation he could see each occupant of the sleigh and hear every syllable that was uttered.

"Homespun and hayseed! ah! my proud beauty, the effervescence of hayseed is less noxious than the stench odors inhaled from dissipation and vice, notwithstanding the fact that they are perfumed over with all the garish compliments and conventional gallantries that society demands."

Phillip Lawson had a highly-wrought imaginative temperament. He had not heard more than those few words, but his mind was quick to take in the whole situation. He could hear the lengthy speeches of ridicule and sarcasm aimed at him from every possible standpoint, and he felt the more determined to live down the scathing thoughts. The man did not hear the reply by Marguerite Verne to her arrogant sister, but he calmly and slowly repeated the words—"God bless you, noble girl!" He still had faith in the purity of her mind, and would have given much to be able to convince her of the fact.

It did, indeed, seem a coincidence that the moment Phillip Lawson uttered the words above quoted, an almost perfect repetition found their way into Marguerite's heart, and left a deep impression which all the taunts of the subtle Evelyn could not shake off. Nor did it seem strange to her when she fancied that a figure, on the opposite side of the street, hurrying along at a rapid pace could be none other than the subject of her thoughts.

* * * * *

"A delightful evening, indeed. It is almost too fine to remain indoors."

The speaker is none other than Mr. Lawson. He is looking his best in the neatly-fitting dress suit, with all the little make-ups necessary to complete a gentleman's evening costume, and while he leisurely surveys the groups of pretty faces on every side, is also engaged in entertaining a bewitching little brunette, charmingly attired in cream veiling and lace, with clusters of lovely damask roses to enhance the brilliancy of her complexion.

The scene was truly intoxicating. Mrs. Holman, the fashionable belle of society and wife of one of the leading physicians of the city, was entertaining a brilliant assemblage of the elite. The informal announcement of her grand "at home" had kept society in a delightful state of anticipation for the past ten days, and reality was indeed equal to all that could be devised. The grand drawing-room, furnished with regard to the beautiful in art, was certainly a fit receptacle for such an array of beauty and grace. There was the exquisite blonde, with face of angelic purity; next came the imperial Cleopatras, with their dusky grandeur of style rivalling that of empresses; and conspicuous among the latter was Evelyn Verne. Her amber-satin robes revealed the fact that she was an adept in the art of dress, and spared no pains to display the beautifully-rounded form and graceful carriage as she whirled through the mazes of the waltz, with Montague Arnold as partner. The latter was indeed a handsome man—one that is sure to attract a fashionable woman. There is a sarcastic expression lurking around the well-formed mouth, that has not, to the intelligent mind, a wholesome tendency; but then there is such a dash of style, and an amount of gay and charming sentiment in every word, that the resistless Montague Arnold finds himself an important adjunct to every gathering representing wealth and prestige.

To an ordinary observer the contrast between Phillip Lawson and the acknowledged beau of society never appeared more striking, and many would exclaim, "Well, Lawson is a very nice fellow, but then he is awkward, and makes a poor appearance in society."

At this moment a familiar and graceful figure engaged the attention of the young lawyer. Marguerite Verne has been dancing, and accidentally finds herself seated near the conservatory in which Phillip stood. He is instantly at her side and it is then that the real beauty asserts itself—beauty of soul. "Miss Marguerite, I see you are determined to enjoy yourself, if I may judge by the number of dances you have already participated in," said the young man, eager to join in conversation with the gentle but dignified girl.

"Why are you not doing likewise, Mr. Lawson? Now if all the gentlemen were like you what would be our fate? What an array of hopeless wallflowers there would be! Really I feel half angry at you already!—" Marguerite stopped suddenly in her remarks. Hubert Tracy came to claim her for the next dance, and as she took the arm of the latter, she quickly turned towards Phillip Lawson exclaiming, "Remember, I will be back in a few moments to finish what I intended to say. Indeed you need not think to escape censure so easily;" while the accompanying ripple of silvery laughter "low and sweet" were something to contemplate in the happy meantime.

"Mr. Lawson is evidently not intended to be a society man," remarked Hubert Tracy to his partner, when they had reached the other end of the room.

"In my opinion he is all the more to be appreciated," returned the other in a tone of reproof which stung the young man with deep anger and resentment; but he was too artful to express himself, and from that moment there entered into his mind a firm resolve to lessen the high estimate that Marguerite Verne had formed of the would-be lover.

CHAPTER IV.

A SCENE OF HILARITY.

Several weeks had elapsed since Hubert Tracy had made up his mind to thwart the man whom he hated with a bitter hate. He was not backward in expressing his thoughts to the accomplished Mr. Arnold, who entered into the project heart and soul, and discussed the subject with all the nonchalance his shallow nature was capable of.

On the evening in question they are seated at a small side-table, profusely decorated with champagne bottles, glasses, and a few delicate morsels of refreshments.

"At the bazaar, Dick?" exclaimed Montague, stroking his artistically-waxed moustache with considerable dexterity.

The individual addressed as Dick was certainly a dude of the fifteenth degree—his pale-blue pantaloons being sufficient proof without venturing another glance. His movements, voice and manner were constant reminders of the excruciating assertion, "I'm a dude." But of the question.

"Oh! is that you, Arnold? I really did not expect to see you here to-night. How is business at the governor's? Hear you are making a bold dash there?"

"Yes, you can bet on that! I'm the white-headed boy there now."

As Arnold was in a short time highly exhilarated by the contents of the table, he became very communicative, and as his conversation was not such as would be under the head of pure language, we will leave him to make merry with his set of jovial companions.

Hubert Tracy was calm and self-possessed. He was too much intent upon some plans to allow himself to become incapable. He had "another iron in the fire," to quote his expression as he thought the matter over to himself, and called upon all the powers unknown to come to his aid.

It was within a short time that Hubert Tracy had become vitiated in his moral nature. He had hitherto been known as a good-living young man—one that respected what was good and pure; but the old, old story—he fell in with bad company, and almost fell beyond reprieve.

You ask, "Had he a home?" He had, indeed, a home, where all that was good and pure was daily practised—loving, warm-hearted sisters, and a fond trusting mother had not the power to drag him back from the tempting gulf of dissipation and allurement. But we will not say that their prayers were lost. There was yet a small, still voice, that would intrude itself upon the young man, and despite his attempts to silence it forever, would steal upon him in the silent hour of midnight, and haunt him in the noisy abodes of revelry and carousal. It even forces itself upon him now as he sits planning a scheme to outwit his rival. The voice is repeating over and over again the words "Lawson is a good young man," and they are re-echoed until Hubert Tracy raises his head and glances around as if to convince himself of the reality. "A good young man," he murmurs bitterly; "I was one myself—in the past."

A bitter groan escaped the lips of the speaker as he uttered the sentence, and his face became stone-like in expression.

"It is of no use; I must not give up. The fellow is good; but what is that to me now? If he win the day, I am lost forever—for it is only through her I will be a better man—and surely, with Lawson's nature, he would willingly make the sacrifice. But here I am, moralizing like a preacher," cried the young man, as he arose and began pacing up and down the floor in an excited manner. "By heaven! it won't do to give up! If I ever expect to be a better man I must first fall still lower!"

A strange method of reasoning indeed! But a striking illustration of the fact that degenerate natures have always some loop-hole to crawl through in order to shield themselves from just reproach.

Hubert Tracy had not sufficient moral courage to take upon himself the responsibility of his actions. He had not faith to strike out on the path of right, and with a sense of his own helplessness, turn to Providence for his guide. Oh no, he could not see ahead of him with an honest hopefulness; but instead "an ever-during dark surrounds him," and he, with all the cowardice of his nature, consoles himself with the thought that the nobility of Phillip Lawson is apology for his base actions.

It was after such reverie that Hubert Tracy bethought himself of an engagement he had made to join a number of acquaintances at a whist party. He straightened himself up and cast a glance in the mirror opposite to see if he would "pass muster" in a crowd. "Guess I'm all right," he exclaimed, stroking his fingers through the masses of chestnut curls that clung so prettily around his well-shaped head.

"Halloo, Tracy, not going so soon? The night's young yet, boy! Come, sit down and have some of the 'rosy,'" shouted a rubicund-faced youth, with a generous proportion of carrotty hair crowning his low flat forehead.

"Sit down Tracy," exclaimed another, slapping him on the back by way of accompaniment to the words: "We'll not go home till morning," which song the whole company began to roar in a style more forcible than artistic.

When the last strains of music had spent its force and a general interchange of silly speeches had been made, the young man once more rose to go, but a youth with broad Scotch accent seized him by the arm exclaiming: "Don't go yet, Tracy dear; for if ye do, ye need'nt come back here."

"A poet of the first water," cried a voice from behind, at which all joined in another roar of laughter, which reached its climax when a feminine-looking youth exclaimed, "What a pity the government have not discovered such talent! they would surely have him for poet laureate."

Before quiet was again restored Tracy took advantage of the occasion to cover his retreat, and hastily gained a small side entrance which led to the suspicious-looking alley not many yards from a very public thoroughfare. Having reached the street without any serious apprehension, he then set off at a rapid pace in the direction of his lodging.

A careful toilet, including some necessary antidotes, and we find the subject of our remarks an honored guest in one of the luxurious drawing-rooms in the city. Not a trace of the recent association is visible as Mr. Tracy takes his seat at a whist-table with an interesting and amiable young lady for partner.

"What a brilliant young man Mr. Tracy is," remarked an anxious mamma to a lady sitting near, who also was on the qui vive for an eligible parti in the capacity of a son-in-law.

"Don't you think Miss Simpkins is very forward; just see how she is flirting with Mr. Tracy. I'm glad she is no relation of mine."

Miss Dorothy Strong had ventured the above speech in hopes of testing the strong tendencies of her audience. She was a spinster of youthful pretension, and invariably took occasion to condemn any such exhibition on the part of others a dozen years her junior. Not meeting any remonstrance she made quite a speech on the familiarity of young ladies, their want of dignity, and ended in a grand peroration upon the conceit of the young men, their vicious habits and all short-comings she could bring to bear upon the subject.

But Miss Dorothy's speech was unhappily chosen, and therefore "lost its sweetness upon a desert air."

"Sour grapes," whispered a pretty miss of sixteen to her elder sister, as they stood apart from the others and watched the effect of the oration.

As we glance towards the said Miss Simpkins and watch the game for a few moments, we feel certain that Hubert Tracy is not deeply concerned whether he win or lose. He is evidently studying a deeper game—one on which he would willingly stake all he possessed.

"Now, Mr. Tracy, that was mine as it lay!" cried his partner, somewhat petulantly, as she noted the mistake.

"Never mind this time; I will look out better again," said the culprit, his penitential look being sufficient apology for a more grievous offence.

"If I didn't know you better, Tracy, I would say you were in love," exclaimed a fashionable young man, engaged as bookkeeper in one of the largest wholesale firms in the city.

"You seem to have great confidence in your own opinion, Mr. Berkeley," retorted Miss Simpkins, who, be it said, was a girl of much moral stamina, having an aversion to conceited young men, and let no opportunity slip when she could give a home-thrust.

"Pray don't be so captious, Lottie; I am certain that Mr. Berkeley's opinions are always founded on correct observation," timidly ventured a mild-looking little woman, whose speech had no other motive than a desire to throw oil on troubled waters.

As the game progressed, the party became more interested, and after an hour or more thus engaged Miss Simpkins was congratulated on her run of good luck; and Mr. Tracy, to show his appreciation of her ability, turned out some pretty compliments.

"Where is Mr. Arnold to-night, Mr. Tracy?" asked one of the guests, as the party stood in the hall making their adieux to the hostess.

"I cannot say," replied the young man, tugging at his great coat with more vehemence than was necessary, but affording relief to hide this oracular reply.

"Oh! you need not ask that question," exclaimed a voice near; "we all know that he is at 'Sunnybank,' paying his devoirs to the peerless Evelyn." The speaker was a young lady, and the tone of this speech intimated that jealousy was at the bottom of it. But there was another side to the story. Turning to Hubert Tracy, with an air of playful badinage, the young lady continued: "And I believe that Miss Marguerite has a lover too. Surely, Mr. Tracy, you must know about it for you are on intimate terms with the family. You can enlighten us upon the subject."

Hubert Tracy was master of his feelings, but he had difficulty to suppress himself. An opportune bustle among some of the other guests gave him time to reply in a cool and wholly indifferent manner which would turn their attention to another source.

It was only when this would-be suitor had thrown off the mask of studied indifference that he began to realize the state of his mind.

"It will never be," he cried, in a fit, half-anger, half-emotional, as he paced his room during the silent hours that precede the dawn.

"I don't want to injure the fellow in any other way. Arnold says wipe him out; but—heavens! those words—he is a good young man! what makes them haunt me! It seems as if my mother and the dear girls at home are repeating them to me: Why was I not dragged up, instead of living hourly under the influence of a sainted mother and devoted self-sacrificing sisters? Ah! young man; it is a hard struggle for you to fall when you think of 'Home, sweet home!'"

Such was the soliloquy of Hubert Tracy as he sat himself down in a half-desperate state and commenced writing a letter with that nervous haste which showed he was anxious to get rid of the disagreeable task at once. After the envelope had been addressed the writer gave a sigh of relief, and rising from his seat, exclaimed: "Heavens! I would rather than a fortune it was over with!"

Despite the fact that curiosity has been defined "the lowest emotion of the soul," we cannot forbear glancing over the content of the letter which seemed to affect the writer so deeply. It ran thus:—

ST. JOHN, Jan. 25th, 188-.

Dear Friend,—Intended to write you some days ago, but am now at fever heat, and manufacture my thoughts accordingly. Going to make no excuse, but come to the point right off. You heard the report about Lawson. It is too true, and if I cannot choke him off somehow, it is all up with me. I want to get the fellow out of the way. Can you secure that site for him instead of poor Jim Watters? If we can only get that deuced sprig of the law entrapped out there, some goodly stroke of malaria may come to the rescue, and I can breathe the grateful fog with double freedom. "Give the devil his due," I believe the fellow is a veritable Mark Tapley—jolly under all circumstances—and will in the end thank us for giving him a change of climate and the vicissitudes of life so invigorating to his athletic and muscular composition. Much depends upon you to think and act at once. Saw that "drummer" yesterday; not a bad sort of a fellow. He speaks well of you—says you are a tramp. Go to headquarters on receipt of this and write immediately. If Lawson can be induced to go, my prayers will follow you for life.

Yours in dilemma, H. T.

This epistle—disconnected and vague as it seems—needed no further explanation on the part of the writer. The recipient was acquainted with the whole history of Hubert Tracy's career and also that of Montague Arnold.

It is necessary to add that while this correspondence was being carried on, that Hubert Tracy was a daily caller at Mr. Lawson's office, and without any apparent effort, had the satisfaction of knowing that the young lawyer was much attracted by his engaging manners and persuasive tongue.

It had been considered somewhat strange that a man of Lawson's integrity should look with favor upon a gay youth whose preferences were ever on the side of conviviality, but many wise-headed seniors said that the influence might be exerted upon the other side and Tracy would thank heaven for the star which guided him thither.

It was surprising how many little attentions were paid our young lawyer from the fact of the newly-formed friendship, and how many consultations were held as regards a promising field which glittered before the eye of the hopeful aspirant. A wide range of labor lay within his grasp, and Phillip Lawson was not made of the stuff to lose a prize when it could be attained at any cost of self-sacrifice and personal feeling. With herculean effort he shakes off the bitter thoughts that hourly intrude within the privacy of his own heart, and armed with all the moral courage and true heroism of his soul he goes forth into the world's conflicts a noble defender of the rights of true manhood!

CHAPTER V.

MORNING CALLS—"GLADSWOOD."

A bevy of fair and interesting young girls are grouped around Marguerite Verne in the spacious bay-window of the library. One, a bewitching brunette, dressed in slight mourning, is indeed a pretty picture to contemplate. Louise Rutherford possesses a face and form which bespeaks a high degree of idealism—an aesthetic nature that is lofty and inspiring. As she turns toward the fair young hostess, there is an expressive look of sympathy that leads one to know they are firm friends.

"It is no use to say anything against it if you two have made up your minds," exclaimed a good-natured looking maiden of seventeen, who had been trying to convince her audience that they had not selected the most fashionable characters for the coming parlor entertainment.

"That's just what I always have said, Mattie. You know well what Damon proposes Pythias will ever agree to," ventured another devotee with a "cute" little face, tiny hands and tiny feet, with decisive tone and dignity of manner showing that she was beyond the ordinary type of girlhood, whose highest ambition is to have a good time, cheat her teachers out of as many lessons as she can, and walk, skate and dance, with a train of admirers ever at her command.

Helen Rushton was a native of Halifax and had been bred upon strictly conservative principles, but there was an innate generosity of heart that converted them into a happy medium.

She had relatives in St. John, and hearing much of its advantages And disadvantages, had accepted an invitation to see for herself, And now, after six months had been passed amid the grateful breezes and invigorating fog, she dreaded the approaching season, which demanded her return home.

Marguerite Verne was indeed the crowning deity on that happy morning, as she replied to the many little speeches intended for her benefit, and as the color came and went she was truly worthy of all the admiration then and there bestowed.

She is in striking contrast to Louise Rutherford whose black cashmere costume forms an effective back-ground.

Marguerite's delicate cream-colored morning robe is also relieved by the shades of garnet worn by the others.

Much real happiness is exhibited as one looks upon every countenance within the radius of her smiles. No jealousy lurks upon the brow of any. Thrice happy Marguerite! The secret of making others happy lies within the confines of your own unselfish nature!

"Well, girls, I declare, you have not told me one bit of news. Surely there must be something going on worth talking about," exclaimed a new comer who had pounced in upon the company sans ceremonie.

"Nothing much, Josie," returned Marguerite, "we have just been having an old-fashioned chat, and I am not sorry to say gossip has been at a discount."

"Oh, you bad girl! Now, had that been Louise I would have been 'hoppin', but, girls, you see, we take everything from Madge."

"Yes, anything from her is worth coming from Halifax to hear," exclaimed Helen Rushton, rising from her position and crossing over to the range of bookshelves that adorned the opposite walls.

"Well, it's no use; I'm out of my element here. I can't get up to your high-toned talk. Look at Louise—reminds one of a Roman empress—and you, my self-conceited Haligonian, must follow suit; was there ever such a set?" The manner in which this speech was dictated set the circle in a roar of laughter, and Josie Jordan felt repaid seventy-times-seven.

"Helen is going to leave us soon. That is news," exclaimed Louise
Rutherford, glancing at the incorrigible Josie.

"But bad news," chimed in Marguerite.

"Not going home so soon, Helen," ventured Josie, with an earnest, inquiring glance.

"I am only going to Fredericton, or the Celestial City, as it is generally called," said the other in reply.

"Pardon me, Helen, but the manner in which you say that word only would lead one to suppose you did not entertain a high opinion of our seat of government. I have been there during several sessions, and I always felt sorry when the time was up, and the M.P.P.'s and their families turned their faces homeward."

The speaker was Louise Rutherford—her face aglow with an enthusiasm, called up by those pleasing associations which gave rise to her speech.

"Louise Rutherford," said Helen Rushton, the color mounting higher in her cheeks, "you misinterpret my thoughts. If I have not sufficient command of the powers of speech to express myself without blunder, you should not attribute it to want of charity. Indeed," added the girl, with more than due emphasis, "if, for no other reason, I should speak respectfully of the place, from the fact that I have very dear friends there."

"Josie, this is all your doings," cried Marguerite, raising her hand in a menacing gesture and trying playfully to restore quiet.

"I'm always bent upon mischief," cried Josie, her eyes sparkling with merriment. "Indeed, at home, I am treated to that highly- seasoned speech every hour of the day, and now I don't think I could live without it."

"Helen, my dear, I did not"—"think to shed a tear in all my miseries," shouted Josie, in a stagy and tragic style, and then, 'twixt laughter and song, attempted a series of courtesies worthy a star actress.

"Why did you interrupt Louise when she was going to say something good?" asked Marguerite in a half-reproachful tone.

"Just because I want no scenes until to-morrow evening, when Miss Louise Rutherford and Miss Rushton will not display their histrionic ability to a desert air."

"Hear! hear!" cried a voice from without, and instantly a promising youth dashed in sans ceremonie, claiming all the familiarity due a younger brother.

Fred. Verne's arrival changed the current of conversation. Louise and Helen were soon interested in the costumes to be worn at the theatricals, and Marguerite's good taste was always to be consulted on such occasions.

"Madge is a genius of the first order. Charlie and the boys all swear by her, and say she would beat the fellow that invented the carnivals."

"Fred, do be moderate," cried Marguerite; who at the same moment could not repress a feeling of pride in the boy's earnestness and filial affection.

But Fred, was not to be gainsaid, and edged in his witticisms with an air of infinite satisfaction. Trinity chimed out the hour of twelve, and served as a reminder for the withdrawal of the guests. Josie had succeeded in getting up a first-class encounter with the indomitable Fred, and then beat a hasty retreat, utterly regardless of the least approach to etiquette.

"I will see you again before you go away, Helen?"

"Yes, my dear Madge," cried the other putting her arms around Marguerite in a sweet caressing manner, "and I shall have one more chat that will last until I see your dear old face again."

Marguerite Verne stood in the outer doorway waving adieu and throwing tokens of affection to the two young girls until they had crossed Queen Square and were lost to view.

On returning to her room a formidable array of letters lay awaiting their owner.

A glance at the address of each was sufficient. Marguerite rapidly seized a large square and heavy one from among the number and very soon devoured its contents. It came from "cousin Jennie Montgomery," a genuine and true hearted girl whom Marguerite loved as a sister. Mrs. Montgomery was a sister of Mrs. Verne but never was nature known to indulge in so many freaks as when she bestowed such relationship.

"Gladswood," the comfortable and happy home of the Montgomerys, was indeed no misnomer; for in this beautiful and sylvan retreat every heart was truly made glad and every guest only felt sad when the summons of duty suggested departure.

Marguerite Verne never had too many society demands upon her to neglect correspondence with cousin Jennie, and she was more than delighted on this morning to hear such glowing accounts of "Gladswood" and its inmates. On the situation of this charming country seat we might exhaust pages and never weary of the effort. It stood on a rising knoll surrounded by the picturesque scenery of Sussex Vale. Here was that enchanting beauty of nature in which the most aesthetic soul might revel. In the months of summer the verdure was "a thing of beauty." Luxuriant meadows showered with golden buttercups, alternating with patches of highly-scented red and white clover, while the air seemed freighted with the balsamic odor of the crowning foliage. But the foliage of "Gladswood"! We have no powers capable of description. The majestic maples, stately willows and graceful elms were grouped with an effect that baffled the mind of man. And the interfacings of soft feathery furze, moss and ferns. Surely this spot must have been in the mystic ages one grand amphitheatre for the sylvan deities. And the stately manor-house, for such it much resembles with its quaint wings and irregular outbuildings. Its old-fashioned windows, tall chimneys, projecting eaves and arched doorway have an inviting appearance and impresses one with the fact that there are still some substantial homes—some reminder of the past.

And now we come to the mistress of "Gladswood." While she is carefully pruning some choice specimens of ferns growing on the shady side of the doorway, we take advantage of the situation, and hence the result: Mrs. Montgomery is a matronly-looking woman, of about forty-five years of age, perhaps less; for the abundant mass of dark chestnut hair reveals not one silvery thread. One glance is sufficient. Never was character more cleverly delineated than upon this woman's face. There, in bold relief, is the deep penetrative mind—one that has power to read the masses as they pass before her mental vision. Her's is the heart that opens wide to the one crushed and broken by the uncharitable sect called "the world." Her's is the hand ready to help the suffering and support the tottering. The shoddyisms of modern every-day life have no charms for Mrs. Montgomery. Woe be to the victim who comes under her censure. She has no mercy upon those who are under a daily strain to cater to the usages of society.

Let us see good, honest and noble-minded men and women, and then will follow all those accomplishments that are really necessary. Jennie Montgomery had early imbibed those principles, and in her we see a striking illustration of this truth.

But in our praise of the mistress we must not forget to introduce the master.

Mr. Montgomery is not the sort of man one would naturally associate with his energetic and self-reliant helpmate. There is a lack of shrewdness and an utter want of that keen discriminating power, which can give at first glance the full numerical value of all exterior objects. The owner of "Gladswood" belonged to that "come-easy-go-easy" class, who, unless circumstances come to their relief, are ever being duped or made a prey to the avaricious. But Mr. Montgomery had a source of never-failing strength in his wife. "Had William Montgomery married a different kind of wife he would have become a poor man," had grown into a proverb regarding matters at "Gladswood." All business transactions and pecuniary affairs always received the approval of Mrs. Montgomery before they took effect; while each and every individual about the farm well understood the business-like capacity of their respected mistress. But it must not be supposed that Mrs. Montgomery was the ruling spirit of "Gladswood." She displayed no strong-minded nor dictatorial manner; no arrogant gestures or inclinations to combativeness; but seemed as one endowed with the happy faculty of presenting herself at the right time and right place, and by her motherly counsel to superintend the working of her household in a perfect and unconscious manner.

There are several younger members of this family, but as they are not necessary throughout the work we will not make mention of them here.

On the morning when Marguerite Verne sat in the luxurious crimson velvet arm-chair reading Cousin Jennie's letter, the latter was engaged in fashioning some dainty scraps of wool and silk into various little knick-knacks for a bazaar.

The pupils in attendance at the common school were anxious to procure some extra apparatus for the hall, and having received much assistance from the young ladies of the district, entered into the work with a will.

Jennie Montgomery was a host in herself. A bright, amiable girl of eighteen, with robust constitution, sunny disposition, and step elastic as a fairy. She was, indeed, an ornament to her home and also to the community.

Jennie was not a beauty—had not the least pretentions to one. Her dark complexion was pure and health-like; but it was not heightened by that peachy bloom peculiar to brunette's, instead only a warm, bright and ruddy hue, which some might consider as approaching the rustic. Her eyes, as they sparkle with delight at the pretty array of bright colors, might not be admired as of the poetic or ideal type, but in their depths lurks a keen and significant expression of the peculiarly intelligent and earnest appeal that seldom speaks in vain. The neat and cosy parlor, with its many articles of female handiwork, speak for the taste and talent displayed by this interesting girl. The pretty sketches of familiar haunts near her loved home showed that genius had stamped the brow of Jennie Montgomery, and inspired her with a deep enthusiasm for the beautiful and sublime.

Presently she rises from the work table, and opening a door leading to the balcony, stands for some moments gazing in mute admiration upon the lovely view of Sussex Vale, wrapped in its mantle of purest white, reflected in the sunshine as a vast expanse of frosted silver.

CHAPTER VI.

A LAWYER'S REVERIE—A VERDANT CLIENT.

A dismal dreary day. The fog had crept slowly over the city and enveloped every object within its reach. There was fog clinging to turrets, spires and towers, fog in the streets, fog in the alleys, fog in the ditches—all was fog. It hurried along utterly regardless of the delicate fabrics that were ruthlessly despoiled by its touch, musing now and then, doubtlessly, on the ingratitude of the fair daughters of St. John who, in the possession of their clear and brilliant complexions forgot to give thanks to the great enhancer.

In the midst of this fog many pedestrians are wandering to and fro, crowding the streets, hurrying along the wharves, hailing vehicles, accosting their friends, and in fact as perfectly happy in their surroundings as though the cheerful, sunshine were illuminating all visible space.

Passing along Prince William street as far as Chubb's Corner we see a familiar form—it is Phillip Lawson. He is enveloped in a gray Mackintosh and his soft felt hat is worn with an air of careless ease that is more becoming than otherwise.

"Chubb's Corner" had lost its charm for the young lawyer. He did not stop to consult stocks, exchanges, debentures or any such business, but merely nodding to an acquaintance or so crossed the street and wended his steps to the lawyers' nests—nests from the fact that in this, locality they hatched all the schemes by which to victimize their unwary clients.

But of our friend. He gained his apartments, and throwing aside the outer garment, sat down at his desk and drawing his hand across his forehead, began to think. "I want to see nobody for the next hour," murmured the young man, his brows contracting as he spoke.

A deep shade settled upon the usually mild countenance. A question of momentous importance was to be decided. "To be or not to be" was the final answer. Each solution involved a corresponding number of conflicting doubts and anxieties, and left scarcely any choice in the mind of the reasoner.

"No doubt it's a good field for a beginner in life. St. John has more lawyers than would start a colony. Some of us must go to the wall, and I don't fancy being one of that number."

This was the sunny side of Phillip's reflection. He was trying to cheat himself into the belief that "green fields and pastures new" were panacea for all other grievances, and that that was the goal of his ambition.

"Yes, it's a good 'spec'; but why is the fellow so anxious for me to get it? Still I would like to hear more of the matter before I question the motives."

The young lawyer was aware of the fact that Hubert Tracy had been using his influence for another a short time previous, and he could not see his motives for such change of opinion. True, a sudden intimacy had sprung up between them, but the subject had been hitherto mentioned and acted upon; therefore the last reason formed no groundwork for his convictions.

Occasionally a dark thought crossed Phillip Lawson's mind. Can the fellow be honest? I cannot bear to think ill of a fellow-man, and I must not now. I know that Tracy is not what he might be, yet he has a kind heart and what's the use of my talking, who is faultless? "Let him that is without sin cast the first stone."

It was here that the beauty of Phillip Lawson's character showed itself. The young man was a Christian. He had always cherished the principles of true piety, and as he repeated over the words of Him who was the friend of sinners, it was in tones of sublime tenderness.

Instantly a second thought flashed across his mind—he had an acquaintance—a member of a legal firm in that newly-founded city in the Northwest. He, therefore, made up his mind to write at an early date and make all the necessary inquiries.

Having settled his mind upon this point another subject presented itself to our friend, and from the sudden flash of his grey eyes one would imagine that it was of an electrifying nature.

It is one, which, from the remote ages, has had power to magnetize, humanize and civilize; it is the power which makes man what he should be—love—that short word of four letters—what a world of thought it embraces—it held the heart of Phillip Lawson at will, and despite his power of self-control he was often the victim of its vagaries.

But the lawyer had not long time to indulge in such thoughts. A knock aroused him.

"Come-in."

A stalwart looking youth of muscular build (with suit of grey homespun not cut exactly in the proportions of that of a dude) stood upon the threshold with a look upon his florid face that betrayed some embarrassment.

"You be Mr. Lawson the lawyer, sir."

"Yes, sir," said the young practitioner, a smile lighting up his face and making him an interlocutor not to be dreaded by the most unsophisticated client.

"'Spose I needn't ask, be you pretty well posted in law?" queried the individual on taking his seat, at the same time pulling out an enormous expanse of red and yellow cotton, called by way of courtesy a handkerchief, which he vigorously switched across his face as though a swarm of mosquitoes were on the aggressive, and kept the field unflinchingly.

"What is the cause of complaint, sir?" ventured the interested lawyer, scarcely able to repress a smile.

"Well, sir, to come to the pint at once, as you fellers allus happin to say, since I was knee-hight of a grasshopper I had a hankerin' after the law, and allus envied tother fellers when they'd to go to the 'Squire's on trials, and I tell you they thought themselves some punkins when they got a day's wages for goin'"—

"Of your question at issue," interrupted our legal friend, "I mean on what point do you wish to consult me, sir?"

"Well, sir, as I told you before, I'm comin' straight to the pint," replied the youth, giving the aforesaid bandana a more vigorous switch in the direction of his interrogator, then continued, "and, firstly (as them lecturin' fellers say) I allus thought I'd like mighty well to have a trial myself, and bring some un up to the scratch; and I've jest got my wish, and if it costs all dad's worth I'll make 'em sweat!

"Are you a minor, sir?" demanded the lawyer.

"No, sir; I'm no relative to them miners, nor don't want to be, tho' Sally Ann is allus taggin' arter me, and would like terrible well to hitch on to me; but I tell you, 'Squire, I'm not so green as they think, though I'm mighty fond of buckwheat."

This last speech was too much tax on the risibility of the "'Squire," as familiarly dubbed by the would-be client, and after some merriment, explained the tenor of his question, assuring the youth that it bore no allusion to "Sally Ann."

After the young lawyer had taxed his ingenuity to draw the verdant client "to the point" he learned that the cause of complaint was directed against one Joshua Jones, who had given himself an invitation to haul off some cedar poles claimed to be the property of the said Mose Spriggins, and the said Mose wished indemnification right speedily.

"Tell you what 'Squire I'll put him fur as the law will carry it, and if you can slap on plenty of cost 'Squire, it'll do me more good than eaten my supper."

"I shall do the best I can for you sir," said the young man, carefully noting the points which Mose brought to bear on the matter.

"Well now 'Squire, suppose you want your wages for this 'eer job.
What's your price?"

Mose now produced a complicated piece of mechanism from his expansive waistcoat pocket. It might have been constructed for a three-fold purpose—for money, pipes and tobacco. The odoriferous exhalation giving strong evidence of the latter commodity.

"Well 'Squire, you fellers earn your livin' mighty easy," exclaimed
Mose, tendering the five dollar bill into the lawyer's hand.

The latter smiled, pocketed the fee and commenced writing the letter to the defendant Joshua Jones.

"Now sir, if this thing works well, I don't grudge ye the money 'Squire, and any time I have somethin' more in the law business I'll throw it your way, for I think you a squarer sort of a chap than them ere gang further up the street. I tell you they're sharpers, they fleeced dad last summer and I wasn't agoin' to be so green, eh 'Squire?"

"Well Mr. Spriggins, I shall always try to work to your satisfaction any time you are in need of advice," returned our friend, rising from the desk and going toward the window.

Mr. Spriggins thought he would soon be ready for "startin'" and also rose up, in the meantime depositing the before-mentioned wallet in his waistcoat pocket. Silence reigned in the lawyer's office for three minutes, when the door was reopened and Mose Spriggins' rubicund face once more adorned the apartment.

"Say, 'Squire, aint there a new kind of insurance consarn 'round these diggins? I'm thinkin' of gittin' my life insured—not 'cause there's any kinsumption in our fam'ly, only there's no tellin' when a feller might peg out. Tell you, 'Squire, I'm sound as a bell."

Mr. Spriggins turned himself around for inspection, and shrugged his broad shoulders with an air of evident self-esteem.

A lengthy speech might have followed, but our legal friend averted
the catastrophe by informing his client that the Dominion Safety
Fund office was close at hand, and with quiet mien escorted the said
Mr. Spriggins to the door.

A genial "come in" answered the summons of the applicant, and in another chapter we will be able to inform the reader how the veritable Mr. Spriggins was sent home rejoicing from the fact that he had become insured in the Safety Fund.

Phillip Lawson was re-established at his desk, and not wishing to allow his thoughts to wander to the subject which had hitherto occupied them, took up a novel that lay upon the opposite shelf. It was one of George Eliot's masterpieces—Daniel Deronda. Its depth of thought and richness in the sublime and beautiful theories as regards the Jewish dispensation had a charm for the talented scholar, and he read for more than an hour, deeply buried in the inspired words of the gifted author—one who will occupy a deep niche in the inmost recesses of all hearts, so long as the literature bearing her impress shall make its way in all tongues and through every clime! Presently a light, well-known step greets the reader's ears, and a trim little maiden, with waterproof, heavy boots, and umbrella in the foreground, presents herself upon terms of much familiarity.

"And my dear old Phillip, how happy you look in here! Why, its fearfully disagreeable out to-day, and you look as contented as if the room was heated only by the sunshine, while I am really shivering with the dampness and fog."

"Well, little woman, what brought you out to-day?" exclaimed the indulgent brother, stroking the fair hair of his pet sister as she stood beside him, looking into his face with a look of pure devotion—a look which showed that her brother was her world, and in his face shone all that was good and true in her eyes.

Lottie Lawson was a child of a sweet and tender nature. She had been watched over by a model mother, and this earnest mother's prayers had not fallen unanswered.

"God grant that the woman be a living realization of the child," was the fervent prayer that dwelt upon Phillip Lawson's lips, as he drew the child towards him and tenderly kissed the fair forehead.

"You wonder why I am out to-day, brother Phillip; I came on a message from Kitty."

The latter was the house-maid, and the young man smiled as he thought of the force of character which constituted this efficient maid of all works.

"Oh, I see now, there is some excuse for you. What are Miss Kitty's demands to-day?"

"She is having a new dress made and wished me to select some samples for trimmings, and as she wants to wear the dress home next Sunday, I had to go to-day."

"Yes, that is all right; Kitty's wishes must be attended to," said
Phillip, with an air of much gravity.

"Will you soon be ready to go with me Phillip. I shall wait for you. It is just such a day as needs your dear old self to drive the gloom from the back parlor."

The little maiden had not long to wait for an answer, as the young lawyer took down his mackintosh, and in a very short time the pair were to be seen walking at a quick pace along Charlotte street, through King Square and out beyond the limits of the old church-yard.

A neat and cosy cottage is reached, and a tidy looking domestic answers the summons and smiles graciously as the coveted samples are placed in her hand while she receives a full explanation of the prices and the additional advice of Miss Lottie thrown in as extras. The cottage has an air of neatness throughout. Its windows filled with choice plants and gorgeous foliage lend a charm that impresses one with the taste of the inmates. The spotless purity of the muslin curtains and the transparency of the windows bespeak the thorough cleanliness and comfort of this home-like little nest. And the inviting parlor: it's furniture was neither elegant nor costly. The plain mahogany chairs and straight-backed old-fashioned sofa were well preserved. Not a particle of dust could be seen without the aid of a microscope. And the beautifully polished andirons which had done service in the family for many years, and seemed to assume an air of importance over the less attractive articles grouped around. A pretty little work-table with writing-desk combined stood at the left side of the hearth. It was a gift from Phillip Lawson to sister Lottie. It was the child's favorite seat, and that fact repaid the brother more than the most extravagant praise.

The upright piano was not neglected. Piles of music lay near, and the well-worn rug beneath showed that music had its charms for the members of this household.

Reader, we will not weary you with minute details, but merely say, such was the home of Phillip Lawson. In this abode he could look back to a country home, with which, as the haughty Evelyn Verne said, "you could associate hayseed." But did that fact lesson the reputation of this gifted scholar?

Nay; the sons of the soil are in reality the "lords of creation." They have the first and highest calling, and ere the proud beauty had passed through all the ordeals of life, she hastily repented of the bitter and sarcastic words.

CHAPTER VII.

ADVERSITY.

As our legal friend occupies a prominent part in our story we will endeavor to give such explanation as will enable the reader to form a true estimate of his character.

Phillip Lawson was indeed the son of a farmer—a man who had, by honest industry and untiring perseverance, made a comfortable home for his family in one of the frontier settlements of Carleton County—that truly agricultural locality where nature has done so much to assist the sons of toil—that county where the crops are almost spontaneous, and where none need be ill off, unless through misfortune or mismanagement.

"The Lawson farm" was the abode of comfort and happiness. Thrift greeted the eye on every side—from the well-filled barns to the unbroken range of fences, through which a sheep could not crawl, nor even could the most "highlariously" inclined Ayrshire be tempted to try the pass.

The neat farmhouse, with its bright coat of paint, was the attraction of the district, and was just such a place as would be besieged by all the lecturers, agents, and travellers that happened to strike oil in this direction. Nor were they ever disappointed.

Mrs. Lawson was truly wife, mother and friend. None passed her door without the hospitality they craved.

"It is a wonder to me how the Lawson's stand it," was often the comments of the less hospitable neighbors, as they watched with no uncommon curiosity the daily arrival of some unexpected guest.

"The more we give the more we'll have," was the wise mother's reply as she sometimes heard complaints from the female portion of the household as regards the extra work.

It had always been the highest ambition of John Lawson that his family should grow up industrious men and women and that they should each receive all the benefits of education that lay within his power.

In his eldest son he saw much ability and also a mind logical and argumentative, and he had fully resolved that the boy should be educated and trained for the legal profession. And the farmer "plodded his weary way homeward" each day buoyed up with the thought that he was doing his duty towards his family and above all towards his God.

"But man proposes and God disposes."

Ere the young student had finished his collegiate course the fond parent was called to his long home, and within a year the heart-broken mother was re-united in that world where sorrow never comes; where she awaits a further re-union, when she shall once more gather to her bosom the loved forms whom she watches over in anxious solicitude from the portals of her blessed abode. It was from this time that the noble minded youth was aroused to a sense of his duty. He must not give up the course of action which had been laid out for him.

What was to be done?

Sickness and death had told heavily upon the pecuniary resources of the family. Much of the produce had to go to pay the wages of labourers, and only by dint of much anxiety and careful management could the farm be made to cover expenses. Something further must be done.

Julia Lawson had reached her sixteenth year, and possessing more than ordinary ability, resolved to prepare for the vocation of teaching; and within a year from the time she had formed such resolution, was actually engaged as teacher of the school in their immediate district.

This fact gave Phillip Lawson much relief of mind, as the young teacher could still have a care over the household, and give advice to the two younger children under her charge. The young student having received his degree at the N. B. University next turned his thoughts towards the law.

While spending a few weeks at home to assist in the farm-work, he received a letter from an old friend of his father. Nothing could exceed the joy of this young man as he read and re-read the kind-hearted proposal from one of St. John's most able and popular lawyers, praying that the son of his old friend engage to enter as a student in his office.

"The Lord will provide," was the earnest comment of the reader, as he folded the missive and laid it away between the leaves of his wallet.

But means were necessary as well. Phillip had, much against his inclination, to raise money by a mortgage upon the farm. He had often heard it said that a property once mortgaged was never redeemed, and the thought gave much concern. But the old maxim, "Where there's a will, there's a way," was ever rising uppermost in his mind, and he was doubly resolved to make the trial.

A few weeks later the student is at his desk, poring over the dry documents and legal lore. On his brow is determination and disregard of difficulties.

Phillip Lawson soon became a general favorite. His generous nature and frank manners won the esteem of his fellow students, and also that of the senior members of the firm.

"Lawson will make a mark some day—he has it in him," was the first remark passed upon the student as the eagle-eyed solicitor glanced at the son of his friend, whose thoughts were intent upon the copy of Blackstone before him.

Things went on prosperously at the homestead; and as the student had succeeded in increasing his means by giving evening lessons to a class of young men, he felt comforted and assured that in the end all would come out right.

But a heavy blow had suddenly fallen upon the Lawson family—typhoid fever came into the household and prostrated the noble-minded Julia upon a bed of suffering.

Uncomplainingly she had watched her pet sister through all the stages of this dread disease, until the child had been pronounced out of danger. It was then that outraged nature asserted itself and the worn-out system was not equal to the strain—she succumbed to the raging and delirious fever an object of deep and tender pity.

"God help me," cried Phillip Lawson, in despairing tones as he read the letter conveying the news in as mild a form as possible. "If Julia lives I shall never be separated from her again," were the reproachful thoughts that forced themselves upon the affectionate brother.

Need we speak of the agonizing hours spent in the dread suspense that followed.

In the midnight watches as the hours dragged slowly by, the young student was silently learning to "suffer and be strong." And it was well that these lessons took deep root in good soil, for within a few weeks Phillip Lawson knelt beside the dying bed of his beloved sister, and in heart-broken accents commending her departing spirit to the loving Saviour.

Ah, such a scene is too sacred for intrusion; but it is only by such means that we can realize the true value of our esteemed friend.

And as the last sod had been placed upon Julia Lawson's grave, and the flowers that she loved strewn over it by loving hands, we cannot move from the spot.

It is scenes like those that teach us what we are, so long as there is the least impress of the Divine in our nature will we look to those scenes as mile-stones on our journey through life.

Kneeling beside the sacred spot the grief-stricken brother was utterly unconscious of our presence. With tearless eyes he gazed upon the mound that held the remains of her he loved so fondly.

Who will not say that in that dark hour there hovered near a band of angelic beings, and foremost in that band the angel mother whose breath fanned the pale brow of the mourner and quieted the soul within?

Ah, yes; it is not heresy to think thus. Phillip Lawson surely felt such influence as he arose and in tones of quiet resignation murmured, "Father thy will be done." Then picking up a half blown rose that had fallen upon the ground, pressed it to his lips exclaiming, "fitting emblem of the pure and innocent young life cut off ere it had blossomed into womanhood."

And the hollow sounds that greeted the mourner as he wandered listlessly from room to room apparently looking for some object, some vague uncertainty, something indefinable.

What solemn stillness reigns around where death has been! The painful oppression, the muffled tread, the echoes that haunt as tidings from the spirit world, borne on invisible wings, confronting us at every step.

To the most matter-of-fact mind these things are indeed a solemn reality. Death has power to change our every-day thoughts to others ennobling, beautifying and divine! But we do not sink under the weight of affliction. God has seen otherwise for us. He heals the wounds and bids us go on amid life's cares administering to those around us with increased diligence, happy in the thought of doing what is required of us.

Throughout the inexhaustible stores of poetry and song is there anything more exquisitely touching than the lofty and inspired dirge wailed out in tremulous tones—in memoriam—and the healthful words,

"Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind."

But to return to the Lawson homestead.

Very soon all was bustle and preparation. The young student had rented the farm and by selling off the stock had raised means to secure a home for the children in the city, and ere a few weeks had passed around we find them comfortably situated in a convenient tenement in the suburbs of St. John.

But a stouter heart than our young friend might well have groaned under the weight of difficulties that pressed upon him.

What with the management of his household, the hours of office work, and the hours devoted to his classes, and hours of anxiety and care, the young student was oftentimes depressed and wore a look beyond his years; but he never once swerved from his duty, and trudged manfully onward his eyes ever bent upon "the strait and narrow path." Lottie the pretty child, full of life and hope with her sweet winning ways imparted warmth and sunshine to the snug home; and the merry high-spirited Tom, a blue-eyed youth of fourteen, gave life and freshness to the surroundings.

It was indeed a pretty sight that greeted a visitor as he entered the plain but neatly-furnished parlor, in this quiet home. It is the hour between tea-time and that prescribed for evening work. It is the only hour of leisure during the day, and it is generally devoted to the boy and girl at his side, the latter sometimes sitting upon his knee looking into the face that in these moments wore a smile that oftentimes belied the conflicting and agitated thoughts within.

Such was the history of Phillip Lawson previous to the opening of our story. A period of six years had elapsed since he commenced life in the city and now we find him an honoured barrister, with sufficient practice to meet the expenses of the pretty residence to which he had removed some months ago and to which we referred in the previous chapter.

We now see the reason which prompted Evelyn Verne in associating the young lawyer with "hayseed'" It is only shallow sordid natures as hers can indulge in such meanness, but thank heaven the venom has only a momentary sting, a resting place in proportion to the superficial source whence it springs.

In respect to other members of the Verne family it must be said that Phillip Lawson had received much kindness and hospitality within the walls of their princely residence, and if the spoiled beauty indulged in spiteful taunts it was because she saw in the young man that ability and soundness of principle which placed her set of worldings at painful disadvantage.

Montague Arnold with his waxed moustache, Adonis-like form and studied hauteur, minus the brains, amiability and that true politeness which constitutes the real gentleman cut a sorry figure when contrasted with Phillip Lawson.

Mrs. Verne was in every sense a votaress to the world's caprice, yet she was not devoid of insight. She could see the noble traits of character in Phillip Lawson; but she must bow to the mandates of fashionable folly.

Mr. Verne, deeply absorbed in stocks and exchanges, seldom took respite in the gaieties of the drawing-room; but in his business hours he saw enough of young Lawson to convince him of his character.

A slight circumstance happened one evening which had a tenfold effect upon Marguerite Verne; but the girl kept her own counsel, and cherished the thought as a happy talisman through all the months and years that followed ere events brought about the consummation of her fondest hopes. Mr. Verne was seated in the library. Brilliant rays of light were reflected from the highly-burnished chandelier. "Madge, my girl, come read awhile," exclaimed the former, as he espied his favorite across the hall with a delicate bouquet of hot-house plants in her hand.

"I will be with you in a minute, papa, dear," was the response, in a sweet, childlike voice, as the speaker ran up the broad staircase with elfin grace and gaiety.

"So the flowers were not for me, you naughty girl. Well, well, times have changed since when, in the eyes of the august peers of our motherland, it was considered 'an atrocious crime' to be a young man."

"Oh, papa, you see I do know a little history—enough to accuse that 'young man' of being guilty of sarcasm in the highest degree."

"Well done, my Madge! Here, take the paper—read me the rest of that speech of young Lawson's. It is a clever defence, and goes to prove my words—that he is a young man of sound judgment, and every day gives proof of greater force."

It was well for Marguerite Verne that the newspaper hid the blushes that, despite her efforts at self-control, played hide-and-seek upon the soft, fair cheeks.

"I am waiting, Madge."

The sweet, silvery tones were the only response, and though the maiden knew it not, there was a tender chord of sympathy that united father and child more firmly, and bent their thoughts in the same happy direction.

CHAPTER VIII.

HUBERT TRACY'S DILEMMA.

As Phillip Lawson sat silently poring over a formidable looking volume, bound in heavy parchment, he was accosted by a familiar voice.

"Working as usual, Lawson?"

"Yes, sir; I generally find something to keep me out of mischief," said the barrister, smiling, in the meantime clearing the proffered seat of a pile of documents that had been cast aside as useless.

"What's the news?" demanded Hubert Tracy in his indifferent and careless style.

There was a restless, wearied look upon the face of Phillip Lawson, as he glanced towards his interrogator. "To tell you the truth Tracy I've heard nothing startling to-day. I might for your amusement give you some of my own afflictions. In the first place I have a headache that I would gladly part with."

"For heaven's sake don't wish it upon me," cried the visitor, thinking no doubt of the unsteady hand and nervous headache of the previous morning.

But this was not the kind of news that Hubert Tracy sought. He wished to draw out some well-timed allusion to the northwest and he had not the courage to do so.

He had been a frequent guest at the Verne mansion of late, but the fact did not add to his felicity. Marguerite Verne could not play the coquette. She was attentive to her callers but nothing more.

Montague Arnold, who was on the eve of declaration to the imperious Evelyn, had now gleaned much of the affairs of the family. He learned that Mr. Verne had a high regard for the rising young barrister and he knew well that there was strong sympathy between father and daughter.

"That little dame has plenty of grit to fight the battle, but if I can manage it she will have to give up, if not she is a match for the old fellow."

The above remark of Montague Arnold gave his companion some assurance yet it did not satisfy him.

"I tell you what Mont, the only chance for me is to get the fellow out of the way, then you can influence the old lady and if she puts her foot down we are all right."

Hubert Tracy was far from being in a settled state of mind. He had a continual dread of his suspected rival, while a strange fascination possessed him—a something which attracted him to the latter with a force in proportion equal to the dread.

It was this state of mind that forced his steps to the barrister's office at this time, and as he turned the burning subject over and over he felt more confused.

"It is madness to give up—it will kill me;" were the thoughts that rose half framed to his lips and then forced themselves back with renewed energy.

But of the forgoing conversation which we interrupted.

"Don't be alarmed my friend," cried Phillip "I can get rid of it sooner than you, and judging from your looks this morning one would imagine you too had been battling with some of the 'ills that human flesh is heir to.'"

Hubert Tracy winced under this remark but the fact was lost upon the other who innocently exclaimed, "Any trouble in the shipping business just now."

The young man laughed.

"Thank heaven I'm right on that score and don't even expect much trouble unless the world would get turned upside down."

"Which is an unlikelihood," said Phillip adroitly. And much as we speak of the uncertainties of this world, the latter remark might be accepted as a truism in regard to the pecuniary affairs of Hubert Tracy.

He was the heir of a rich uncle—a modern Croesus—a man who had amassed a princely fortune by his wonderful success as a manufacturer and speculator.

It was this circumstance which gave the nephew such value in the eyes of good society. Hubert Tracy was fully aware how matters stood. He knew that money was the only screen to cover up all the shortcomings and glaring deformities of our nature. He well knew that he could haunt the abode of dissipation and vice and fill up the intervals with the gaieties of the fashionable drawing-rooms. He well knew that a young man of pure morals with strong determination to rise to the highest manhood would have no chance with the heir of Peter Tracy.

And the young man was right. He was sought after and courted by fashionable mothers who saw only in this beau ideal of a son-in-law—fine houses, fine carriages and in short everything that wealth could give.

The worldly Mrs. Verne was not without her day dreams on this subject. She never let an opportunity slip when she could show Mr. Tracy that patronage which his prospects demanded.

But this woman of the world did nothing rashly. She was always acting from motive and though apparently unconcerned was keenly alive to the situation of the hour.

Such was the tenor of Phillip Lawson's thoughts as he chatted to Hubert Tracy for more than half an hour, when the latter departed less satisfied than when he entered. Then the former set to work upon some important business, and being a rapid penman, soon finished the job. Finding time for a short brown study, or more properly speaking a soliloquy.

"If I go out there and be dissatisfied it will be worse than ever, and there is Lottie, I cannot think of taking her with me. The poor child would break her heart if I left her behind, and our cosy home would be broken up—perhaps forever."

Home had always been the oasis in the dreary waste of Phillip Lawson's late eventful life. After the monotonous round of office-work he always anticipated with delight the hour and circumstances so truthfully depicted by the poet.

"Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steaming column and the cups
That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in."

Therefore the thought gave much pain. "But life is made up of such struggles," murmured Phillip, "and it is our duty to be happy wherever we are—in Winnipeg as well as St. John." The last words were repeated in a tone of determination and the speaker arose hastily, took down his overcoat and shortly afterwards was to be seen walking along the north side of King street with a rapid but regular step. Having gained Charlotte street the young lawyer is greeted in an artless and unaffected manner by Marguerite.

The graceful and sylph-like form had sufficient power to cast all the high minded resolutions to the four winds of the earth. In the maiden's presence Phillip Lawson was bound body and soul, yet he would not allow himself to think so.

"I am quite fortunate in meeting you, Mr. Lawson, as I am saved the trouble of sending a note." Marguerite emphasized the word trouble in a manner altogether peculiar to herself and a manner which infected the banister with a certain degree of gaiety that was unusual to him.

And no wonder that our friend felt the influence of the maiden's smiles. Marguerite Verne was indeed a pretty picture to study. Her rich costume of seal brown, plush with ruchings of feathers, the coquettish hat to match with the jaunty ostrich plume were becoming in the extreme and gave an air of richness and refined elegance.

"Is it any harm to inquire as to your wishes Miss Marguerite?" said
Phillip, glancing inquisitively into her face.

"I don't think I shall tell you to-day."

There was a look of arch mischief accompanying the words—a spirit of banter that was truly fascinating.

Phillip had escorted his companion as far as Coburg street, where the latter was to call upon some of her friends.

"Mr. Lawson, I am not quite so dreadful as you think. Come this evening and I shall gratify your curiosity at once, and you know papa always likes to see you."

"I shall go," exclaimed the barrister to himself, as he had turned down Paddock street on his way homewards. "Her papa will receive me; why did she not say Evelyn?"

Marguerite was sensitive on the subject of Mr. Lawson's reception, and she had a modest intuition of her friend's feelings, and, as is too often the case in trying to smooth matters, only made a greater blunder.

"Why did I not let well alone," exclaimed the girl, as she stood on the broad stone steps leading to the elegant home. It was six o'clock and the first bell gave the warning that there was barely time to dress for dinner.

"He will be here without fail, for I know his word is inviolable," cried the girl, as she hastily re-arranged some lace on the sleeves of her pretty dinner dress—a combination of silk and velvet in shade of ash of roses.

"Dear me, there is the bell, and my hair not presentable."

But Marguerite was mistaken.

"Why, Madge, where have you been?"

"I have been out making calls," said she, with an air of surprise.

"Well, my dear, I advise you to go every day if you can bring back such roses."

Marguerite blushed as deeply as if the compliment came from an admirer—aye, more so; for the girl well knew that those from her fond parent were from the heart.

"There now, don't spoil them, ma belle," cried Mr. Verne, his eye resting with fond admiration upon his daughter.

Children are oftentimes de trop, and Charlie Verne proved no exception.

"Papa, I was one day with Madge, and she had two big red spots on her cheeks as big peonies."

The precocious youth was on the eve of explanation, when Mrs. Verne's—"Children should be seen and not heard" put an end to the subject.

It were well for Marguerite that her elder sister did not grace the festive board that evening. Evelyn's keen and penetrative eye would have taken in the situation at a glance. The light in the soft, deep, violet eyes would tell the tale that the maiden would strive to conceal; and the bright flush, heightened by fond anticipation, would have accomplished its deadly work.

But Marguerite was granted further respite.

She gave Phillip Lawson a quiet reception, and much to the relief of the latter, they were allowed to chat at their ease the greater part of the evening, uninterrupted by a guest.

Mr. Verne, having returned from one of those Board of Trade meetings, on hearing that Mr. Lawson was in the drawing-room, immediately made his appearance, and from his warm greeting, one might see that the young lawyer stood high in his favor, and that his prospects were indeed fair as any suitor might wish for.

CHAPTER IX.

MR. SPRIGGINS GETS INSURED—THE DOMINION SAFETY FUND.

As Mr. Spriggins is a gentleman of no mean pretensions and occupying a prominent place among our characters we will again introduce him as he is seated in the office of the Dominion Safety Fund.

The general agent greets Mr. Spriggins in his usual gentlemanly and unassuming manner—a fact which is not lost upon the applicant. "Well, Mr. Agent, spose you'll think it a mighty queer business to see a feller comin' here without a bein' asked, so to make a long story short, I might as well till you all about it."

With this remark the speaker pulled his chair closer to the desk and with an assumed business air began—

"You see, Mr. Agent, I'm not a married feller but have a terrible good mind to hitch on one of these days and that's the reason I'm here to-day."

"A poor place this to come to look for a wife," remarked an elderly gentleman in a gruff voice, who had just entered on business as the last words had been repeated.

A happy smile illuminated Mr. Spriggins' face as he rose to retaliate.

"Oh, indeed sir, I'm posted on such affairs. When I want a pard'ner I know mighty well where to go—none of yer peeaner players for me—give me the girl that can make butter and boil a pot of tatters without havin' em all rags and mush."

Mr. Spriggins became more and more eloquent upon the necessary qualifications of the future Mrs. Spriggins, and then once more addressed the gentleman behind the desk.

"Well, now, Mr. Agent, suppose you don't mind me a askin' a few questions on this eer bisness."

"Not at all sir, that is our pleasure Mr. ——"

"Spriggins sir. I'm Moses Spriggins of Mill Crossin', but they allus call me Mose to hum for short."

Mr. Spriggins would have added further explanatory remarks but was interrupted by the official:

"Now Mr. Spriggins, I wish to hear from you—"

"What do you say the name of this consarn is Mr. Agent?"

"The Dominion Safety Fund Life Association."

"Well now, that's a terrible long name. Hanged if that doesn't beat
Uncle Amaziar Wiggleses family, for their oldest gal's name is
Samanthy Eunice Esmereldy Jerushy."

At this speech Mr. Spriggins burst into a fit of laughter, affording sufficient proof to the company that there was little need of the necessary medical examination to testify that the applicant was of sound health.

"Why do you call it the Dominion Fund?" queried the applicant looking intently at the title.

"Because it is the only one of its kind in the Dominion sir!"

"All right, Mr. Agent. Safety Fund—that's a queer name. Would you mind explainin' that. You musn't think hard of me sir if I want to know all about this business, for you know people have been so taken in by so many humbuggin' consarns that it makes a feller keerful."

Within a very short time Mr. Spriggins was led to see the beauty of the Safety Fund. How that the longer he was insured the more favorable his position; how persistent members of the class received the benefit, etc.

"That's just the thing I've been lookin' for," exclaimed the applicant, his face aglow with enthusiasm.

A few more preliminaries were discussed to the entire satisfaction of Mr. Moses Spriggins, and arrangements were made that he should present himself before the medical examiner on the following morning at ten o'clock.

"Nothin' could suit better, Sir, for one of our naber's girls is a'stayin' in town now, and there's enough attraction there, sir, to keep me here for to-night."

Mr. Spriggins cast a knowing glance at the official as much as to say "you understand me."

On his way up Princess street the veritable Mose might be heard soliloquizing at a wholesale rate—"Well, now, its mighty cheap, too, and a feller is gettin' sich profit; better that than raisin' tatters and lettin' the bugs eat 'em—on a thousand, too. By George, it's next to nothin'; let me see: four times $1.44—4 times 4 are 16. 6 and carry 1; 4 times 4 are 16 and 1 are 17; 4 times 1 are 4 and 1 are 5—576, that is $5.76, and $3.00—$8.76—and next year less—then lesser, and then I'll be a makin' right straight along— won't Melindy Jane be astonished." A dashing turnout for the nonce arrested Mr. Spriggins' attention, and as he gazed at the richly caprisoned steeds, and fair occupants, exultingly exclaimed, "Yes, ye think yer a mighty fine crowd, but there's not one I'd swop for Melindy Jane."

And Mr. Spriggins had not changed his opinion when, at the appointed hour, next morning, his good-natured face wreathed in smiles, made its appearance before the official, hailing all with delight, and full of conversation of the most animated style.

The entrance of the medical examiner now claimed attention, and when the said Mr. Spriggins had passed the fiery ordeal his delight knew no bounds.

"What did I tell you—sound as a bell—no kinsumption among the
Sprigginses."

This and corresponding remarks fell from the lips of Moses as the papers were being filled. Silence was the order for a few moments when our friend rising quickly to his feet exclaimed:

"But, hold on, here's sumthin' I've not seen afore. Is it part of the agreement?"

Mr. Spriggins then drew attention to the motto—

"non mihi sed meis vivo."

The medical gentleman very quietly allayed Mr. Spriggins' fears by convincing him that it was the motto—the principle which governed the working of the institution, and also, gave the literal meaning in our mother tongue.

"The very words I told Melindy Jane last night. Well, if it don't seem, like magic. If it don't suit my case to a tee—not for myself but others—well, there is just one mistake in it. I would say not for myself—but mine."

Mr. Spriggins directed his remarks to the follower of Aeculapius with an air of importance, and then began a vigorous onslaught on the pronunciation of the foreign words.

"And that's Latin. Well, I never had such liken' for Latin afore. If I wasn't too old would try to learn it yet—by jimminey, doesn't it say nice things though?"

The forms being filled in and payments being made Mr. Spriggins reluctantly arose to depart, but another glance at the motto and he broke forth afresh. "It's just the thing that old Parson Simes was speakin' of last Sunday—gracious me—who'd a thought there was so much religion in the insurance business. Well, sir, I feel like a different man already; and now folks, if you see any more fellers from the Crossin' you'll know who sent 'em that's a sure case. I tell you what the crossin's not the worst place to come to, and if any of yous would happen to come our way don't forget to give us a call."

Thus ended Mr. Spriggins' speech and as he made his exit through the doorway at a two-forty gait a smile was visible upon the occupants of the office. But ere business had been suspended for the day Mr. Spriggins again appeared on the scene with the following exclamation:

"I could'nt go back to the Crossin' without seeing you and tellin' what I heard. Of course I wouldn't like it to go outside as it is a kinder secret but thought it too good to keep, eh Mr. Agent."

Mr. Spriggins threw himself into an arm-chair and then in lively tones continued:

"You know them ere Verneses that live in the big house on that high bank near the Square—well that's where Melindy Jane is hired, so of course when I left here I went up there and as I was a showin' the paper to Melindy Jane and explainin' it who should walk in but one of the young ladies.—(Now between you and me and the wall I believe it was a put up job of Melindy's to show me off and have the young missis' idees of me.)"

At this point Mr. Spriggins became very confidential and lowered his voice almost to a whisper, then, no doubt bethinking himself of the importance of the subject added: "Howandever its no matter here nor there, so as I was a sayin', the young missis came right over and I had to say sumthin', so I ups and tells her where I had bin and you never seed anyone more delighted. She seemed to know all about it and told me it was the best insurance consarn in the dominion."

At this remark the agent smiled and said that he was pleased to know that young ladies were interested in the Institution.

"Well, sir," continued he, "but that was not the hull of the conversation. I was a'telling her about that ere young lawyer, the young feller that gave the advice for Josh Jones (I declare it makes me bile over while I think on it), and she listened quite attentif and took great consarn in it, and said she was sure I would get justice, as Mr. Lawson was an honest lawyer, (and between you and me, Mr. Agent, that's more'n can be said of most of 'em)."

"You are rather severe on the legal profession, sir," ventured a voice from the other side of the room.

Mr. Spriggins having confided his affairs, and seeing that business absorbed the attention of his audience, finally took leave, with the parting injunction to give him a call if they happened his way.

It did, indeed, seem a strange coincidence that while Mr. Moses Spriggins drew Miss Marguerite's Verne's attention to his legal proceedings that Phillip Lawson should be turning over certain facts in his memory in order to elucidate some important problems as regards his relation to this fair being.

Could he then have seen the respectful manner with which Marguerite greeted the son of toil, he would feel more deeply impressed with the beauty of her character, and could he have heard her modest eulogium upon himself, an emotional chord would have vibrated to the musical tones of her soft and well-modulated voice. But our young friend was not to be thus gratified. It is contrary to the laws which govern the order of the universe that an eternal fitness should adapt itself to our circumstances.

Ah, no, my young dreamer, much as we would wish it otherwise, we must sit patiently and see you suffer much mental agony in trying to discipline your mind for the trying ordeal through which you must irrevocably pass.

Nor did the sweet-faced Marguerite, as she chatted in her quiet happy way, for one moment dream that the brawny and muscular hand of Moses Spriggins should be yet held in friendly grasp, and that she would ever cherish this sturdy son of toil in grateful memory.

Standing there on that uneventful morn with the rays of sunshine playing hide and seek through her silken hair, could she have looked beyond the surrounding of the present, and cast her eye along the dim and shadowy perspective, what sorrow might have been averted; what heart-throes might have been quieted! But let us not be carried away by such thoughts. Let us not seek to penetrate beyond the airy nothings of every-day life.

Marguerite Verne went back into the presence of the other members of the family. She chatted, laughed and sang blithe as a bird carolling its earliest matin.

Marguerite's pure and transparent soul finds shelter in the daily acts of goodness emanating from her loving heart, and if she feels a momentary pang she struggles bravely and lives on. She could ill repress her feelings when the peerless Evelyn, radiant in convenient smiles and blushes, went to be congratulated on her engagement to Montague Arnold.

"You never did seem like a sister to me Madge, and you act less like one now. I did not come to tell you that I was going to die."

Evelyn's manner was anything but amiable. She could brook no opposition to her will, and she was piqued to the highest degree that Marguerite did not break forth with the wildest terms of extravagant congratulation. But it matters not. Marguerite is not a hypocrite. She pities from the bottom of her heart the woman who will wed an unprincipled man like Montague Arnold.

How her tender pitying nature went out to the first-born of the family but the girl knew well the stubborn haughty spirit and looked calmly on without reproach.

Mrs. Verne had accomplished much in her own eyes. Her daughter was to revel in the comforts and elegancies of life. And when once the grand event had taken place she would have further opportunity to turn her attention to Marguerite. "I must get rid of Evelyn first," was her comment as she bent over a piece of embroidery designed for a mantle drapery—bunches of delicate ferns and golden rod on garnet plush, and intended for the home of the future Mrs. Montague Arnold.

But there was one who took a different view of the matter. Mr. Verne looked on in grave disquietude. It may be sacrilegious but we cannot refrain from intruding upon his inmost thoughts and with heartfelt sympathy grieve for the indulgent parent who sees his fair first-born sacrificed to the world and mammon. The man of far-seeing penetration knows too well the great mistake and with painful intensity contrasts the sweet girlish wife of his youth with the fashionable woman of the world who presides supreme over his household—he sighs deeply and plunges deeper into the ponderous folios before him.

Presently a smile illuminates the grave face. A graceful form is at his side, and as the maiden holds up a pretty bouquet arranged by her own fair hands, the fond father draws her towards him and tenderly kisses the white, smooth forehead earnestly hoping that his favorite child may have a happier prospect before her—that she may be happy with one she loves.

"A guardian angel o'er his life presiding
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing."

CHAPTER X.

HELEN RUSHTON AT THE "CELESTIAL."

A few weeks had rolled by and Helen Rushton once more entered
"Sunnybank."

Marguerite receives her visitor with open arms.

"I am so glad to see you, Madge," exclaimed the quaint little maiden, as she threw aside the pretty wrap, worn carelessly around her shoulders.

"I ought to be angry with you, you naughty girl," returned
Marguerite, playfully, shaking the former by way of punishment.

"Oh, please don't say a word, like a good old dear. I did intend to write, but you just know how we spend the time running around, and I had so many demands upon me."

"Well, this time, I shall 'take the will for the deed,' but remember the second offence will be dealt with according to law."

Madge emphasized this threat with a hearty embrace and turned her eyes in the direction of the door.

"Well, if that is not too good to keep," shouted Josie Jordan, rushing in pell-mell, and seizing the pair with a lustiness peculiar only to a maiden of athletic pretensions.

"Oh, you nuisance," exclaimed Helen. "How did you know I was here?"

"If that is not ignoring our hostess I should like to know what is.
Indeed, Miss Helen, I came intent on weighty business matters, but
Madge's allusion to the law drove it out of my head."

Josie shrugged her shoulders and gave way to fits of laughter, then exclaimed, "But you know, Helen, why Madge should be interested in legal matters."

"Josie Jordan, I believe you are the greatest pest I ever met, just to come in when I was going to entertain Madge with my visit."

Helen Rushton had adroitly commenced an attack upon the former to conceal her friend's embarrassment. She saw that Marguerite liked not the badinage of the thoughtless Josie, and she was determined at her own expense to turn the conversation.

"Just as if I am not as much interested in hearing celestial gossip as our worthy hostess," exclaimed Josie, making one of her most stately bows and assuming a very mock-serious air.

"We can both listen, you saucy puss," said Marguerite, drawing a pair of pretty ottomans close to the sofa on which Helen sat.

"Indeed I am not going to listen—I can't wait—I am going to ask questions, and then we will hear more in the prescribed time—as the teachers say.

"As you wish," said Helen, patting the mass of golden curls that were as antagonistic to all order as the fair head they adorned.

"Did you go often to the House, Helen? Now for my questions.

"Yes, I went when there was anything worth going to hear."

"And I suppose that was not often."

"Hard on the M.P.P.'s, Josie," said Marguerite, smiling.

"Not half hard enough!" said the girl, vehemently. "They go there and sit and have a good time at the expense of the Province, and show off a little with a passage-at-arms now and then that suggests more of a gladiatorial arena than that of a body of august law-givers!"

"Oh, mercy! hear the girl!" cried Marguerite, raising her hands in tender appeal.

"I tell you it's the truth; I will ask Helen if it is not so," cried the speaker turning to the latter for answer.

"I must confess that to a certain extent Josie is not far astray. I have seen exhibitions of cross-firing not strictly in accordance with one's ideas of a gentleman. But I suppose sometimes they forget themselves."

"A gentlemen never forgets himself, Helen. Although you have high-toned notions of the Capital, and granting that you have been lionized right and left, it does not excuse you from exercising a sense of right and wrong."

Marguerite could not but admire the brave girl with such an earnest look upon her face. The laughing, romping hoyden was capable of sound sensible argument, her character was made up of opposites; and Helen Rushton, clever in many things, was almost baffled.

Marguerite soon poured oil on the troubled waters.

"You told me where you were going to stay Helen but I have forgotten," ventured the latter.

"I did not happen to find my friends in the Belgravian district, but what matters it?" returned Helen.

"Up town or down town, that is the burning question always uppermost in Fredericton," cried Josie.

"It was that part I believe they call the West End, but unlike London and other cities it is not a locality habitable by the fashionable or good form of the pretty little city. But the residence of my friends is, notwithstanding this drawback, the home of culture and refinement, nay more—it is the home of generosity, for never did I see more genuine true-heartedness than in this truly happy home."

"You doubtless have found many such people during your visit, for the hospitality of Fredericton is proverbial," exclaimed Marguerite in a soft and gentle manner.

"I did indeed," exclaimed Helen, "the people are very much conservative, but that gives them all the more favor in my eyes."

"Ah, you precious daughter of the old school," cried the vehement Josie, "it were well that you went to the Celestial ere you started for Halifax, in order that you might, to a certain extent, have re-acquired that amount of red tapeism which you must have almost forgotten amid the more liberally-inclined citizens of our fog-begirt city."

"Quite an orator, Josie," ventured Marguerite. "I will not interrupt you again, Helen, only to assist your memory by questions. Were there many young ladies in the family?"

"There was just one of the loveliest and sweetest girls in existence," cried Helen, enthusiastically.

"Be careful now, we are jealous already," said Josie, holding up her forefinger, menacingly.

"And two young gentlemen, lately enrolled as professionals."

"At which?" cried Josie, in mock gravity.

"Where's your promise now?" ventured Marguerite.

"Never mind, Madge, I can manage," replied Helen, smiling. The latter then gave an interesting description of her visit from general to particular. She had listened to the speeches from the government and opposition; admired the pretty surroundings of the Parliament buildings; glanced over several of the volumes in the neatly-kept library, and in the meantime formed opinions upon many of the representatives of our Province. Government House also received much notice.

"I've never been there yet," cried Josie, in a half-regretful tone.

"Then you have something in store worth going to Fredericton for," said Helen, "it is such a grand old place. The conservatory is charming—a spot where you can dream that you are in the land of perpetual summer and golden sunshine. Standing upon the threshold of the blue drawing-room you are almost spell-bound. Really my eyes were dazzled with the array of lovely pink and white azaleas that were arranged at respective distances. And the camelias—really, I had to hold my breath—then came the endless group of calla lilies— pure, transparent and beautiful."

"Oh, Helen, I should have been tempted to pluck a stray one and say, 'old conscience, it is public property.'"

Marguerite laughed at the amusing look depicted upon Josie's face, but Helen disconcerted went on. "But what made the scene more effective was the soft and velvety carpeting of luxuriant grass growing in the centre of the conservatory—nothing to be seen but lovely flowers, foliage and verdure."

"Suppose great care must be bestowed upon it," said Marguerite.

"Truly, I could have lingered there for days and not been wearied."

"And in the meantime live upon the effervescence of your beautiful thoughts," cried Josie, bursting out into a wild ringing laugh.

"You mentioned the blue drawing-room, Helen," said Marguerite, anxious to prolong the conversation; "is it not very pretty?"

"Pretty is indeed the term suitable for it, Madge. There is no elegance, but it is sweet and inviting, pretty draperies, pretty bric-a-brac, and pretty effect.

"Did you notice anything different from other drawing-rooms, Helen," queried Madge.

"Yes, I did," replied Helen. "The entire absence of so many silly knick-knacks oftentimes heaped up in ordinary drawing-rooms. How my eyes gloated over a few pieces of quaint and rare old china!"

Helen's keen, scrutinizing gaze had taken in the whole situation, doubtless without any apparent effort; good-breeding was the innate principle which actuated the speaker's every-day life; and it was now from a desire to speak in high terms of life in the capital, that she wished to entertain her companions. "I have heard Louise speak so many times of the kindness she received there, that I seem to know all about it," said Marguerite, her dark violet eyes aglow with earnestness.

"And yet you never went with her?" queried Helen.

"Something always happened to prevent my going then, yet I have some pleasant associations connected with Fredericton."

"Pleasant anticipations you should say," chimed in the irrepressible
Josie.

"Miss Jordan, please do not misconstrue Madge's words, you saucy girl!" retorted Helen, tapping her toes upon the stool near, by way of calling the other to order.

A brilliant description of a ball at the Government House then followed, also several parties and other indoor amusements.

"That is all very nice Helen," cried Josie, "but I want to hear about the people. There is always so much talk about the celestials, their culture, refinement and all that sort of thing, now you can give us your opinion."

"That is a delicate subject for Helen to handle," said Marguerite with a slight shade of embarrassment heightening her color and making more pathetic the soft speaking eyes.

"Indeed my peerless ones you are all good and lovely in my sight and the fair Marian is among the number."

"Is she pretty, Helen?"

"Not what the world would call pretty, but she is neat and graceful, has a pretty form and graceful carriage and carries her head like a queen."

"What of her brothers—are they blonde or brunette?"

"Neither, but tall, straight and rather inclined to be fashionable young men."

"Then I cannot bear to hear of them; for anything in this world I despise is a dude," exclaimed Josie with an expression of disgust upon her face that was in accord with her speech.

"Anything in moderation is tolerable," returned Helen, "I cannot say that I admire the extremely fashionable young man but I must say that I cannot appreciate the young man of antediluvian aspect."

The latter then settled down to a lengthy detail of her visit in particular, the different characters she met and the pleasant hours enjoyed in their company.

"How different your visit has been to some who have gone there. Why, I have heard the girls say all you could do was go up and down Queen street for a few times, hear remarks passed upon you by the loungers at the hotel doors, and then stow yourself away to be scorched to powder in summer or be converted into a tolerable sized iceberg if it happened to be winter."

"Like all other places, Josie, one's impressions are always formed according to circumstances and I must say I never will forget the happy hours in Fredericton."

"But you never told us of the 'head of the family,' Helen?"

"That thought was uppermost when you spoke, Josie. I never can fully express my gratitude to the esteemed couple who so kindly invited me to their house.

"Marian's father is fat, fair, and slightly over forty, with the most happy and frank countenance that you ever met. He has a good story always on hand, can entertain clergy or laity, and never wearies in contributing his store of amusing anecdotes, which oftentimes are at the expense of his nearest relatives."

"How I should like to listen to them; it does me so much good to laugh," cried Josie, her eyes beaming with fond satisfaction. "Kingsnook" (for such we will name this happy professional's abode) is of all others the place for a good hearty laugh. No simpering, silly affectation is allowed much reception within the neat and tastefully arranged parlors, or tempted to display itself on the shady verandah, cool, leafy shrubberies, or spacious garden.

"Did you see much military life there, Helen?" asked Marguerite, who had been for some moments apparently engaged in deep study.

"That is the beauty of it, my dear. The study, the drawing-room, and in fact, every inch of 'Kingsnook' reminded one of the true spirit of patriotism which ruled its master, who could look with pride back to the sturdy and high-spirited ancestors who wore the uniform of the British army. I am not the daughter nor grand-daughter of a British officer, but I could look with pride upon the arms and accoutrements adorning the study walls, and feel a wave of emotion break over me and fire my soul with a pride that can only be experienced by one of Britannia's children."

"Hear, hear," cried Josie Jordan, springing to her feet, and seizing the speaker by the hand. "Helen, I am with you heart and soul. Remember, we New Brunswickers are true loyalists. I am proud to belong to that good old stock which gives our Province so much of its prestige."

The bright romping girl had now changed into a whole-souled woman.
There was a dignity in her bearing worthy the mother of the Gracchi.

But an unlooked-for event put an unceremonious end to the conversation and Helen Rushton took leave promising to tell them much of the friends she made during her late visit.

The unlooked-for event was the arrival of Cousin Jennie Montgomery.

"I thought it best to surprise you, Madge!" cried the bright sunny-faced maiden as she was folded in the arms of the outwitted Marguerite.

"I suppose it is best to forgive you," cried the latter and putting an arm around Cousin Jennie led her into the family parlor to receive greetings from the rest of the family.

CHAPTER XI.

PHILLIP LAWSON HAS GAINED AN ALLY.

It is needless to say that Cousin Jennie was a welcome visitor at "Sunnybank." Her bright presence shone everywhere from the drawing-room to that particular spot dedicated to the sports of the romping, noisy boys.

"We will have the jolly times," was the password of the latter;
"Cousin Jennie is the girl to help us fellers along."

And there was the usual stir and bustle necessary for the equipment of Evelyn Verne's trousseau. The beauty had scarce time to think of anything but the different styles of dresses, pretty bonnets, delicate laces, and the most costly trifles, from the gorgeous fan to the delicate tiny slippers.

"Dearest Eve, I should think you would be tired looking over such a lot of things," exclaimed Cousin Jennie in her cheery tone, "really my eyes would get sore in less than no time."

"What a speech, Cousin Jennie. Indeed, you are not so unsophisticated as you confess to be," said the dark-eyed fiancee, with a tinge of sarcasm accompanying the words.

"Well, fair cousin, much as I may lose caste by my confession, I cannot help it,—you know the country folks never see grand weddings, and I may say truthfully that I never expect to see so much finery again."

"Then you ought to make good use of your eyes now," was the rather ungracious reply.

As Evelyn stood amid the heap of boxes, arranging and rearranging the delicate fabrics to her heart's content, she was not an object of envy. She was flattering, herself that she was moving a grand marriage and she never let her thoughts wander beyond that well-defined boundary line. Hers was a nature seemingly devoid of feeling and incapable of fine thought, and when she artfully feigned such in the presence of her lover, it was only from a desire to make him more completely her slave.

Jennie Montgomery was not many days at "Sunnybank" ere she saw a glimpse of the world from a fashionable society standpoint.

"Oh, Madge, how can Eve marry that man? You surely do not like him either?"

Jennie Montgomery had favorable opportunity of passing judgment upon Montague Arnold the previous evening, and now she had directed her appeal to her favorite cousin.

"I will be candid, Jennie. You know I never could admire, much less respect, an unprincipled man—I mean a man who lives for his own sordid pleasure—and my sister will have cause to repent the rash step. Poor Evelyn; she has faults, but really she has many good traits of character if her pride would not stand in the way."

Sweet, confiding Marguerite. She fain would shield her sister from censure, and hoped for her a brighter future than she durst picture.

While at "Sunnybank" Jennie Montgomery saw much to like and dislike. She met many kind-hearted women whose mission on earth was to do good. With the keen, discriminating acuteness peculiar to this maiden, she could sift the wheat from the chaff—she inherited this gift from her far-sighted mother, and was happy in such possession.

But there was one who claimed due attention from Cousin Jennie.

Phillip Lawson of late had made several calls at the Verne mansion and had received a more than hearty welcome from Mr. Verne.

The latter held young Lawson in high respect and took no pains to conceal the fact—which was not lost upon the deliberating Mrs. Verne; but she was cautious, knowing well that moderation was the surest way to overcome opposition.

Within a short time the young barrister and Cousin Jennie became the best of friends. They chatted together without interruption and to the evident delight of Mrs. Verne seemed happy in each other's company.

Jennie was of a quick, decided turn of mind and had a dash of sentiment in her nature that might have been considered dangerous on this occasion; but her whole-souled sense of honor would have saved her from taking a step from the path of right.

"It is the best thing that ever happened, mamma," exclaimed Evelyn Verne as she stood arrayed in an elegant velvet reception dress which she was admiring before the large plate-mirror in her dressing-room.

"I will forgive Jennie of all her rudeness and country ways if she will only rid us of this importunate suitor," said Mrs. Verne, giving the lengthy train a few more touches to add to its effect.

"He seems very much in love with her at present," replied Evelyn,
"and indeed they are just suited for each other. It is to be hoped
Mr. Lawson will find one more congenial to his rustic manner than
Madge."

"Of course, my dear, you don't think Jennie very rustic in her ideas, but she has a certain odd way about her that is not the highest mark of good breeding."

"Common sense, as her wise-headed mother terms it," remarked Evelyn, with a scornful curl upon the otherwise pretty lips.

On the following evening Mr. Verne entered the small back parlor adjoining the library. Mrs. Verne was seated at a daintily-carved ebony work-table. A piece of silk lay upon her knee and many shades of crewel were spread out before her.

"Busy, my dear?" queried the husband, greeting his wife in a pleasant, quiet way.

"Really, Stephen [Note: hand-written, 'Richard' inked out], have you found time to venture in here? Surely there must have been a mistake somewhere," returned Mrs. Verne, in an affected and patronizing manner, that from a quick-tempered man would have forced a hasty and perhaps disagreeable speech.

But Mr. Verne sat down and commenced asking such stray questions as came into his mind.

"Where have the girls gone to-night, Matilda?"

"Jennie and Marguerite, you mean?" queried Mrs. Verne, dexterously weaving the bright silks into a pretty many-hued flower.

"It is the night of the concert, and they have accepted Mr. Lawson as escort." A slight frown accompanies the speech.

"Indeed," said Mr. Verne, with a knowing look upon his face, then turning abruptly towards his wife, added, "It seems to me that Jennie has made an impression upon Mr. Lawson."

"I hope so," was the only reply.

Mr. Verne was bent upon forcing from his wife the true state of her feelings towards his young favorite.

"Jennie will be a lucky girl if she can win such a prize," said he, with considerable warmth of expression.

"He is, indeed, a very suitable husband for Jennie," replied Mrs.
Verne in icy chilling tones.

"He is a fit husband for any young lady in St. John, my dear. If he were to look with favor upon Marguerite I should say she, sweet child that she is, would be honored by the proposal of marriage from such a man."

This was too much for Mrs. Verne. It aroused her temper and gave opportunity for many harsh, bitter sayings. Then she found relief in sarcasm.

"I am pleased to know that Mr. Lawson occupies such a proud place in your esteem. No doubt you have been making a few encouraging suggestions to this second Gladstone." Then changing her tones to a higher key exclaimed, "Remember, I will not oppose you in this step, but If will never sanction my child's encouragement of that upsetting, half-starved lawyer."

"Please bear in mind, Matilda, that Mr. Lawson has never once spoken to me upon the subject and it is very foolish to suppose that he wishes to pay any attention to Marguerite otherwise than any young gentleman might."

"You need not think to hoodwink me, I can see for myself, and it seems too bad that when a mother expects her children to become well settled in life that she is sure to be disappointed."

Mrs. Verne within a few moments entirely changed her course of action. She was almost moved to tears and her manner seemed to say, "Well, I suppose it is all for the best, come what will I am prepared for it." But might we not quote the words of the Psalmist, "The words of his mouth were sweeter than butter but war was in his heart."

A clever thought had entered Mrs. Verne's mind. She is already armed for the occasion hoping that she will come off victor.

"Well, my dear, we will not quarrel over this matter. It seems so foolish, knowing it is only conceit on our part, for I believe that Mr. Lawson is very much interested in Jennie Montgomery."

"Jennie has grown to be a fine girl," remarked Mr. Verne, in a matter-of-fact way.

But the fact did not change his opinion as regards the preference for Marguerite.

"It would perhaps be better that such would be the case," exclaimed the parent, as he was once more closeted in his private apartments looking ever the list of bills and documents awaiting his signature.

In the meantime Mrs. Verne had found her way into the drawing-room, where she was soon after joined by Evelyn and her distinguished betrothed. What a smile greeted the seemingly happy pair! In languid, drawling tones the beauty was relating her adventures of the previous afternoon—the calls made, and the making of a new acquaintance.

"A gentleman from England, did you say, my dear? How delightful! I shall be most happy to meet him."

"And so you shall, dear mamma, for he intends calling upon us very soon."

Mr. Arnold seemed not to notice the radiant smile which illuminated the countenance of his betrothed. Yet it gave him annoyance.

He bit his upper lip and bent closer over the new song that lay open before the piano. "She will sing a different tune before long," was his comment.

In truth Montague Arnold possessed not that feeling which can only be cherished by true, unselfish love. He openly admired Evelyn Verne for her beauty. His sole desire was to make her his, and bend her to his will. His nature was too superficial to harbor jealousy, but his stubborn vanity answered the purpose.

Ah, my peerless Evelyn! you may blush and smile at the well-timed compliments of your admirers now, but your reign seems nearly at an end!

"What a grand opportunity to give a party," exclaimed Mrs. Verne, glancing at her daughter for approval.

"It would be just the thing, mamma," said Evelyn, in her nonchalant and dreamy sort of air.

"You are already settled my dear and now I must try to do my duty towards Marguerite. Really, dearest, you have no idea of the anxiety I have about that girl. She is so much like her father that I am at a loss how to act. You know that she secretly adores that good-for-nothing lawyer and if it were only on her part I would not care, but I am certain that he is head and ears in love with her. Dear me! What a world of trouble we poor mothers have to endure. Why do not our children see as we do?"

Poor Mrs. Verne! She seemed in much distress and assumed a woebegone appearance.

Dear mamma—I think you ought to feel less uneasiness just now for I verily believe that Cousin Jennie has designs upon our unfortunate visitor."

"God grant that she may be successful," was the reply.

"You must encourage it in every way, dear mamma," said Evelyn, with more earnestness than usual.

"Yes; I was just thinking of a plan which doubtless by clever management, will succeed."

"Let me hear it, mamma," said Evelyn, raising her jewelled fingers, cautiously.

Mrs. Verne glanced in the direction of the smoking-room, (whither her future son-in-law had retired to enjoy the delightful weed,) and finding that there was no fear of interruption for the next ten minutes, cleverly sketched out her plan of action.

We will not give the outline of this cleverly devised speech, but merely say that from this time Cousin Jennie was honored to her heart's content, and was induced to remain much longer than she intended.

Mr. Lawson was a frequent visitor, and to the great delight of Mrs.
Verne signified his intention of accepting the invitation of Mrs.
Montgomery to spend part of his summer vacation at "Gladswood."

"That will certainly put an end to all your fears, mamma," said Evelyn, standing before the bronze mantel shelf admiring a pretty and rare vase which had arrived from England as a wedding present from an old school mate. And so matters went quietly along.

Mr. Verne kept his counsel and worked away amidst his folios, And when his pet daughter shed a ray of sunshine over the matter-of-fact apartment, he felt a tinge of sadness and fondly hoped that no darkening clouds should burst over this idolized treasure.

"What a pity that such a being should ever know the meaning of the word sorrow. In one way, my darling, I can save you, in another I cannot."

Mr. Verne was almost convinced that Cousin Jennie had supplanted
Marguerite, and he well knew the proud nature of the latter.

"Perhaps it is all for the best. My pearl could never outweigh all difficulties like the self-reliant Jennie." Such murmurs escaped the lips of the fond parent as he glanced up and down the long row of figures balancing his accounts with a rapidity only acquired by long experience and constant practice. But what of Marguerite?

The girl was not unhappy. She lived on cheered by her happy, dreamy nature, and as it was far above that allotted to ordinary mortals, it sustained her and kept her mind above all sordid thoughts.

"Time has laid his hand
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it,
But as a harper lays his open palm
Upon his harp to deaden its vibrations."

CHAPTER XII.

EVELYN'S BRIDAL MORN—FESTIVITIES AT "SUNNYBANK."

. . . "To the nuptial bower
I led her blushing like the moon, all heaven,
And happy constellations on that hour
Shed their selectest influence, the earth
Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill,
Joyous the birds;" —Milton

Such is the glowing description of the appearance of nature on the morn when, in the presence of God and the host of white-robed angels, was celebrated the nuptials of our common ancestors— nuptials whence sprang the ills of our humanity.

Could the fair and beautiful Eve have foreseen the future that to her seemed so promising, would she not have given up to despair and remained aloof from sound of tempting voice?

But God's decree willed it otherwise, and the fair Eve, whose beauty and submissive charms had power to influence her lord and master, became the mother of mankind.

It would be unjust, uncharitable, to intrude upon the feelings of the pair to participate in the present festive ceremony at "Sunnybank."

Evelyn Verne emerges from her boudoir "a thing of beauty." Was ever bride more enchanting, radiant or beautiful? Were ever bridal robes more graceful? Perfect beauty, queenly beauty, dazzling beauty. It is needless to expatiate upon the shimmering train, mist-like veil or conventional orange blossoms. Reader, we will allow your imagination full scope. Let it rest upon the radiant bride until the eye becomes familiar with the minutest arrangement of the elegant costume.

And then the bridesmaids! Five lovely maidens—St. John's fairest daughters. Five bewitching forms with grace in all their movements, claim our attention; and on all sides—"How pretty!" "How sweet!" "How beautiful!"

Two sisters are exquisitely dressed in India muslin and antique lace—one in pale-blue and the other in pink.

Marguerite Verne is radiant in pearl-colored satin and ruchings of delicate pink azaleas.

Two younger girls are becomingly attired in cream lace and soft filmy crepe of the same shade.

Each maiden carries a bewitching basket of flowers, and imparts to the senses the most delightful effect. Indeed, it is seldom that historic Trinity ever witnessed a grander pageant within its sacred walls.

As the handsome and distinguished-looking bridegroom stood before the altar awaiting the entrance of his bride, it were almost sacrilege to utter a word deprecatory or otherwise.

Hubert Tracy supports his friend with an air of interest. He seems more impatient than the other, and has a look of ill-concealed uneasiness upon his slightly furrowed brow. He hears not the remarks of pretty maidens or dignified matrons, else the slight frown would have given place to a smile.

"Mr. Tracy is as handsome as the groom, mamma."

"Handsomer, my dear."

There was still a chance to ensnare the uncaged bird, and this fact was alone in the mind of the anxious mamma. But the entrance of the bridal party put an end to all talk concerning the sterner sex.

"Isn't she lovely?" "What a magnificent dress?" "She is so composed." "Really, Marguerite is as pretty as the bride." "Oh, indeed; fine feathers make fine birds." "If our girls could have all the money they want and nothing to do I bet you they would look better than any one of them." "Well, well. The world is ill divided." "Isn't Miss —— gorgeous in that lovely lace." "If we had some of the money that has been spent upon them dresses we wouldn't have to work any this summer."

Such was a brief outline of the speeches made upon this important event, but they were lost upon the wedding party.

The guests comprised the wealth and beauty of St. John and as each guest was ushered in one could not fail to exclaim: "St. John has wealth, beauty and refinement."

The scene was an imposing one. While the choir sang,

"The voice that breathed o'er Eden,"

a young man entered and took his place among the guests. He had been detained but arrived in time to tender his congratulations to one more important to him than the radiant bride.

Why does Hubert Tracy instinctively cast a glance towards the new comer, and feel a slight shudder through his frame?

It matters not at present. Let him enjoy the benefit of his thoughts while we turn to our old friend.

"Mr. Lawson is growing better looking every day," is our verdict, as with genial warmth we grasp him by the hand.

An intelligent face can never remain long in obscurity, and when a generous soul and kind, true heart are also accompanying graces there is a beauty that is unfading. But it is only the higher side of humanity which can discover this beauty. And perhaps on this festive morn many of the worldly minded would fail to recognize this superior style of beauty.

But proudly Phillip Lawson stands with the consciousness of having tried to act well his part and live in obedience to the dictates of his God.

It was only when the guests had assembled in the spacious drawing- room at "Sunnybank" that our friend found opportunity to have a short conversation with Marguerite, who with sunlit face took no pains to conceal her delight. She chatted with Phillip Lawson with a familiarity that led the calculating mother to think that she had no further troubles from that source.

And Cousin Jennie's presence heightened the effect of this illusion.

Clad in draperies of soft nun's veiling Jennie Montgomery was, if not pretty, quite interesting, and her bright, fresh face was refreshing as the air of her native vales.

As in truth every wedding boasts of the time-honored conventionalities, toasts and speeches, that of "Sunnybank" formed no exception, and we will not weary you with the endless list of compliments and amount-to-nothing-in-the-end talk which is current at such times.

It was only when the hour for departure had arrived that a sense of loneliness crept over Marguerite.

The elegant presents had been inspected, luncheon served, and the bride, attired in a superb travelling costume, stood in the doorway awaiting the carriage.

Montague Arnold wears all the necessary smiles that are expected of him, and as he takes his place beside his bride a new responsibility dawns upon him.

A large number of the party accompany the newly-wedded pair to the
Fairville Station, and Marguerite is assigned to Mr. Lawson and
Cousin Jennie.

The latter is cheerful and witty and strives, under cover of her remarks, to divert her cousin from the sadness that is common to such occasions.

Phillip Lawson sees with gratitude the girl's kindness and thanks her in a way that is tenfold more valued than the counterfeit everyday thanks passed around in common life. If the young barrister could have seen the true state of Cousin Jennie's feelings towards him he would have fallen on his knees and thanked God for such a friend.

But Phillip Lawson was not a mind reader. He could not divine the thoughts that were passing through Jennie Montgomery's ready and active brain. But one thing he did know, that in this warm-hearted girl he had a true friend.

When Marguerite returned to her home a vague, undefined feeling took possession of her, and gladly would she have given herself up to this feeling, and indulged in a good, old-fashioned, time-honored cry.

She felt a sudden pang of remorse. She thought of the lost opportunities when she might have had a stronger hold upon the sympathies of her elder sister.

"Poor Eve," murmured the girl, "she was less to blame than I. We have never had each other's confidence. I hope she will try to love Montague as a woman should love her husband. How I should like to ask mamma what she thinks; but what is the use. She will say it is one of the best matches of the season, and no doubt she will end by advising me as to her anxiety—on my behalf. Oh, dear! why cannot we live in a state of blissful oblivion?"

The miniature bronzed clock on the mantel-shelf caused Marguerite to look up.

"Four o'clock—dear me; I wish this afternoon was over. The house seems as if a funeral had left it. Poor Evelyn."

"You naughty Madge, where are you?"

The speaker was Jennie Montgomery. She had been busy over the arrangement of a number of bouquets for the dinner-table, and assisting Mrs. Verne in many ways, and now made a hasty transit towards Madge's favorite retreat—a pretty boudoir adjoining her mamma's dressing-room.

"Just as auntie said, you old offender. A pretty time for day-dreams when everybody is head over ears in business."

"I have not been here an hour, Jennie," said Madge, in an apologetic manner, putting her arms caressingly around her cousin's waist.

The latter, though apparently preoccupied, could not fail to admire this quaint and pretty nook—just such a spot as one could sit in and dream their life away; a sort of lotus bed, where one inhaled the beguiling odors, and cast all worldly cares to the shores left behind.

And little wonder cousin Jennie gazed in admiration.

The walls were of the most delicate rose color, tinged with gold; the carpet, a ground of white velvet pile bestrewed with delicate roses; the furniture of delicate pink satin, with setting of quaintly carved ebony.

But the "seat of state," as Jennie termed it, was the crowning feature in this pretty retreat.

This seat of state was a raised dais, curtained with costly lace and surmounted by a canopy of pretty workmanship. In this alcove was an antique chair or fauteuil, and beside it a small cabinet, inlaid with mother of pearl, while opposite stood an ebony writing desk, strewed with fragments of exquisitely perfumed note paper.

It was evident that Marguerite had been penning down some stray thoughts, for the pen stood in the inkstand, and traces of ink were to be seen on her fingers.

This seat of state was just such a place as our sweet-faced Marguerite looked to advantage, not as a queen upon her throne, but as a type of the spirituelles—of the pure-minded maiden with a slight shade of melancholy, giving interest to the soft, fair face.

"You remind me of a madonna, my saint-like cousin," said Jennie, placing her bright red cheek against the purely transparent and more delicate one of her companion.

"What a contrast, Madge. Just look at your country cousin—a blooming peony, and you, my most delicate blush rose. Ha! ha! ha!"

Cousin Jennie's laugh was one of the genuine ring—untrammelled by affectation or repressed by pain or languor. She gave vent to her feelings and exercised such influence upon Cousin Madge who now joined in with a clear silvery peal of laughter, sweeter than the most bewitching music. Nor was this "sweetness lost upon a desert air."

Mr. Verne had been engaged in his apartments for some minutes. He had entered unobserved in company with a friend and a few minutes later a gentleman bearing some legal looking documents entered and without ceremony was ushered in. It was while the latter was taking leave that the well-known tones of Marguerite Verne's voice rang out its silvery sweetness and caused the listener to start. But it matters not who the latter was—suffice, a man

"of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear;
Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gained no title, and who lost no friend."

"Come with me Madge and see what I have done. Indeed, I am not going to put my light under a bushel. Everyone must see my good works," exclaimed Jennie, drawing her arm through that of her cousin and leading her out to the supper room where a sight worth seeing presented itself.

The tables were arranged with an eye to the beautiful. Everything that art and taste could suggest was there.

Epergnes costly and rare almost overpowered the senses with the exhalations of their gorgeous exotics. It was a difficult matter to determine from what source came the most assistance, the caterer or the decorater, but all harmonized and all made up one perfect adaptation.

"Jennie I am ashamed of myself," cried Marguerite, standing before an exquisite combination of roses, heliotrope, lilies and smilax which occupied a central place on the supper-table, "you can do anything. How I envy you."

"Beware my little coz, I have read a little line somewhere throughout the course of my extensive reading—

'Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise.'

Now be governed accordingly and escape the fearful condemnation."

Marguerite smiled at the bright cheery girl and wondered if it were possible that such a life might ever feel the weight of care. She was thinking might it be possible that the girl would give her heart to the whole-souled friend who always seemed brighter in her presence.

Is it possible that jealousy finds a lurking place within so fair a soul—that it may take root and grow and bloom and scatter the noxious weeds peculiar to its growth?

Ah no, pure minded Marguerite. We accord thee a higher mission upon earth. Thy nature is too exalted, too ethereal, too much of the divine.

"I verily believe if I were not here to arouse you, Madge, that you would be off in another dream in less than no time. I believe some day in the not very far future if one happened to stray as far as Boston that on looking over the Herald the first notice that will greet us is:—

"Madame Marguerite DeCoeur—Clarivoyant. Predicts past, present and future. Much attention given to maidens seeking a husband. For particulars see circular. Advice sent on receipt of postage stamps. No. —— Court Street, Boston, Mass."

"What's all the fun about, I'd like to know?" chimed in none other than Master Fred. Verne with an eager curiosity common to his youth.

"Some time you may feel interested my young man, then you may consult your big sister," was the reply of Cousin Jennie.

Four hours later Marguerite Verne was, as Cousin Jeanie said a perfect picture—a being born to be admired and loved. Never had she appeared more bewitching and as the clear-headed Jennie watched the effect produced upon a pair of thoughtful grey eyes she felt a sudden relief, murmuring "he will love but one 'my Marguerite.'"

CHAPTER XIII.

MARGUERITE AT "GLADSWOOD."

Reader, another glimpse of life at "Gladswood," and in this inviting
retreat imagine Marguerite. Great indeed, was the delight of Jennie
Montgomery, when, on a shining, bright May morn, she set forth from
"Sunnybank," accompanied by her favorite cousin.

"Take good care of my Madge, Jennie. You see she is of two-fold value now. I cannot afford to lose my second daughter for a very long time."

Mr. Verne had arrived at the railway station in time to see the girls off, and his parting injunction to Jennie was playful, and partook more of the nature of a brother than that of a parent.

In the companionship of sympathetic natures he was warmhearted, affectionate and familiar, but in ordinary moods thoughtful and reserved, and at times gloomy.

"Jennie, do you think it possible for any girl to love her father as much as I do mine," asked Marguerite, as she leaned forward and waved adieu, then throwing a kiss sat down beside her companion.

"What a question," cried Jennie. "I hope you don't imagine I care one straw less for my dear old man than you do for yours, my sweet, saucy coz. You really must be punished."

Cousin Jennie gave her companion a hearty shake and the subject dropped.

Friends and acquaintances coming in at Torryburn claimed their attention and when they arrived at Rothesay a greater reinforcement came—a party of pic-nickers going to Hampton to feast upon the beauties of that pretty rural town, and divide the remainder of the day between the delicacies of the luncheon baskets and the more delicious bits of gossip common to such gatherings.

"Miss Verne, I really did not expect to see you to-day!" cried a sprightly miss, springing towards her at no gentle rate.

The girl was Lottie Lawson, her bright young face beaming with excitement and happiness.

"I have been at Rothesay for a week, and just think, Miss Verne,
Phillip has not found time to come and see me."

Lottie's manner expressed that of a deeply-wronged maiden, and
Marguerite broke forth in a ripple of silvery laughter. Cousin
Jennie also joined, and the infection spread to the aggrieved
sister, whose child-like, musical tones were refreshing to all.

"How I should like to go as far as Sussex! but my visit ends to-morrow, and Phillip will expect me," said Lottie, in a half regretful tone.

"But you can come with Mr. Lawson during his vacation. He has promised me to come to 'Gladswood' then."

"How funny that everything seems to come contrary! I have promised to go to Woodstock."

Having reached the Hampton station Marguerite glanced out of the window.

It was fortunate that Cousin Jennie was at that moment deeply engaged in conversation with a lady in the next seat. A blush mantled a maiden's cheek, then left her a shade paler than before.

"Brother Phillip—" In another instant the child was in her brother's arms. "You bad brother, you did not come to see me, I was just telling Miss Verne."

The young barrister then espied the latter and holding his sister by the hand walked to the front of the platform.

"I must soon steal her away for a few days, Mr. Lawson. If business did not interfere, I should feel like making a second raid and secure another citizen."

Cousin Jennie spoke in a way that one seldom hears. Her artless, heartfelt manner, was acceptable to our friend, and with true gentlemanly grace, he bowed acknowledgment.

One of the picnic party—a vinegar-faced woman of forty-five, with two eligibles at her side—declared to a very intimate friend that she thought it very queer that Miss Verne should be following at Mr. Lawson's heels all the time. "For the life of me I can't see why girls will make themselves so ridiculous. Why, I often see her cutting across the Square to overtake him."

"Oh, indeed; the girls now-a-days don't have much modesty. Just see how she is laughing and talking now," exclaimed the confederate.

"Yes," retorted the first speaker "and that country-looking cousin is just a cloak for them. She is watching a chance to catch some others of the firm."

"Nice looking, did you say? Not a bit of it. For my part, I think she is homely; her face is too round and red."

The last remark was made by a saucy-looking maiden of sixteen, who owned to nothing being good that did not belong to herself.

Marguerite was utterly unconscious of the comments made upon herself and companion.

In the minutes that Mr. Lawson remained they found much to say, and there was an absence of coquetry that was gracious to see. The thoughtful, yet bright, expression of Marguerite's eyes had power to magnetize the most callous-hearted, and on this morn they were truly dangerous. The graceful form, attired in pretty travelling costume, could not fail to attract notice, and we see her repeatedly acknowledge the recognitions of many of the sterner sex with her quaint rare smile.

Just as the train was starting a voice exclaimed, "Miss Verne here are some violets, I brought them purposely to match your eyes." The fairy-like child placed the treasures in Marguerite's hand and bounded away without further comment.

"She is a good child," said Phillip, waving adieu to his companion and hurrying towards the carriage awaiting him.

Cousin Jennie now came forward demanding a share of the violets.

"Mr. Lawson thinks so much of her that I almost love him!" cried she vehemently. "And she is so cute, I'm sure her brother cannot pay such pretty compliments, Madge!"

Marguerite smiled and glanced far away over the distant hills, crowned with trees and foliage already flaunting themselves in holiday attire.

At that moment Phillip Lawson was thinking over a host of compliments, which if repeated would have caused Marguerite Verne's spirituelle face to glow with maiden blushes.

But let us believe—

"One truth is dear, whatever is, is right,"

and leave each to the free range of thought indulged in at the self-same moment.

The lovely views of nature on this lonely morn soon claimed
Marguerite's attention.

"If the world were all so fair! Oh, how charming!" exclaimed the latter rising from her seat and drinking deep of the glowing beauty of hill and dale, beautifully undulating expanse of green carpeted fields lying in the distance, the purple mountain tops glowing with regal splendour and above all the ethereal dome of heavenly blue with fleecy clouds in fantastic shapes and trooping along in gay and festive march across the boundless field.

As the spire of Apohaqui Church gleamed in the distance Jennie caught her companion by the arm exclaiming, "Madge, I cannot realize that we are going to have your dear old self for three long weeks. I hope papa will be at the station to meet us."

"If not what matter; I love to take good long walks."

"And so do I, my pretty coz; just wait until I trot you out over the hills and far away," said Jennie, giving her companion a pinch on the ear that caused it to assume a crimson dye. Sussex Vale, in all its loveliness now came within sight.

"My own, my native land," cried Jennie, in high glee, as she eagerly looked for the guard of honor that would be awaiting the arrival.

"I thought so. Look Madge."

The latter saw a group of merry children, a respectable-looking man, whose good-natured face could belong to none other than Uncle William Montgomery.

"Wasn't it lucky that you came on a Saturday, Cousin Marguerite; it is just lovely in the fields now."

The bright-eyed urchin had claimed a seat beside the delighted maiden with all the airs of a gallant, and jealously guarded all access from the other unfortunates.

"Hal is not going to ride beside Cousin Marguerite to-morrow, for I will get in first," whispered a younger lad to his confidante— Jennie.

"Yes, Jimmie, you shall have fair play. Count on me as your champion," whispered the former in conciliatory tones.

It is needless to speak of the beauty of Sussex Vale. Did ever passenger travel along the Intercolonial "with soul so dead" as not to be stirred with a sense of the beautiful as he neared this delightful spot.

On this golden May morn Marguerite was indeed intoxicated with delight. But she could not remain in silent admiration, for Master Hal's attentions demanded recognition, and after chatting gaily for half an hour the phaeton deposited its smiling load upon the terrace at "Gladswood."

Truly "Gladswood," for upon every side arose some sight to make glad the heart.

There stood the warm-hearted and energetic mistress, her genuine soul stamped upon every lineament of the plain but inviting face.

"And you did make out to come, Marguerite!" exclaimed Mrs.
Montgomery giving the girl a warm, hearty kiss.

"Yes, we've got her now and the city folks can do without her until we are ready."

At this ambiguous declaration the gallant Hal gave his head a defiant toss and gathering up an array of sundry feminine indispensibles made towards a side entrance where he deposited the said articles.

"Cousin Marguerite come out and see the calves." We have two of the loveliest little creatures with large eyes and such pretty white spots! And you would think they had their foreheads banged!"

"Well, they must be very pretty, Jimmie," said Marguerite, laughing heartily at the lad's description.

"Now children do let Cousin Marguerite have time to draw her breath before you tease her to death about your stock," said Aunt Hester with an amused look upon her face.

"Cousin Marguerite will excuse herself to the company," cried Jennie, motioning Marguerite to follow her and the latter was soon snugly ensconced in the cosiest and most inviting chamber that one ever beheld.

It was not the spare room but a smaller one adjoining that of Cousin
Jennie.

The walls, contrary to fashion, were covered with a delicate paper, a white ground sprigged with pale lavender, the paints were pure white and the hangings and draperies were transparent in their whiteness.

The neat furniture was also of a dazzling white relieved by stripes of gold and pale lavender. The old fashioned window was formed in a kind of recess which was filled with pots of the choicest flowers, while just within reach stood a large lilac bush which on the least provocation forced its branches into the room.

"Cousin Jennie, the grandeur of St. John cannot boast of a spot like this. Can it be reality." cried Marguerite, pushing aside the lilac branches and glancing out upon the enchanting landscape, which gave such effect to the pretty room.

"It is so cool," broke from the girl in rapturous tones as she eyed the bare floor with its coat of soft tinted lavender and deeper shaded border. "You know it would be such a disgraceful thing to have an uncarpeted floor in the city."

The last remark was in tones slightly ironical, and showed that Marguerite Verne held views not in accordance with good form and fearlessly regarded the consequence.

"Of course, mother would not have a carpeted chamber in the summer season, and now, I really like it, but I fear that some of our guests are very often surprised."

It being past the noon dinner-hour a luncheon was prepared and the girls were interrupted by the indefatigable Hal knocking lustily on the chamber door.

"Really, Jennie, I would rather sit here than eat," said Marguerite, going to the mirror to re-arrange the mass of silken hair that crowned her prettily shaped head.

"I am going to take Cousin Marguerite down to luncheon," cried a voice from without.

This set both girls in a fit of laughter.

"You can't say that you did not raise a beau while in the Vale," cried Jennie, with a roguish twinkle of her eye.

"Indeed, Cousin Marguerite will hare no city chaps skulkin' 'round while I am here," cried our twelve-year old with all the airs of a dude of twenty.

Next in turn came a tramp around the proud old domain of
"Gladswood."

The stately elms seemed to extend a kindly welcome. All nature seemed to say "welcome, to Gladswood." The birds seemed to have been practising some of their latest melodies, for never did grander strains issue from their sylvan orchestra.

How pleasantly the hours glided by in this charming abode. Truly it hath been said—

"How noiseless falls the foot of time
That only treads on flowers."

"It is a fortnight to-day since I came to Gladswood," said Marguerite, one bright, sunny afternoon, as she came up the broad avenue, crowned with lovely wild flowers and such trophies as the neighboring wood afforded.

Cousin Jennie had remained at home to assist in some extra duties, and as she greeted the "spirit of the woods," as she playfully dubbed Marguerite, she was worthy of notice.

A neatly fitting light colored print wrapper, spotless in its purity; a linen collar, fastened by a silver horse shoe pin; a long, plain, white muslin apron; a neat and substantial shoe, tied with black ribbon, and high over all a crowning mass of purplish black hair, in beautiful and striking contrast.

"You radiant country maid," cried Marguerite, "stand until I admire you awhile."

Jennie was playfully turned around as an automaton in a shop window, and at length breaking forth into a merry laugh, exclaimed, "You saucy minx, please turn your wit upon some other object."

And thus amid fun, frolic and gaiety, Marguerite's visit came to an end, and on the last eve to be spent at Gladswood, the girls are seated in the old summer house enjoying an uninterrupted chat—that blissful recreation peculiar to each and every maiden.

"Madge, I am almost sorry that you came," said Jennie, taking the pretty white hand within her own. "Promise me that you will come while Mr. Lawson is here," cried the girl in a vehement and almost determined manner, while the large, brown eyes had a far-off look that she tried hard to conceal.

"It is impossible, Jennie; besides, you must not mention the matter again."

Marguerite's voice was clear and bird-like, but Jennie Montgomery fancied she felt a slight tremor in the last words uttered, and with that intuitive caution characteristic of her mother pressed the subject no further, and the warm-hearted maiden felt keenly her utter helplessness to render her companion any sympathy.

"Let us go in, Cousin Jennie," said Marguerite, in tender tones that seemed as reproach to the high-minded girl, but she heeded not, and playfully putting her arm around her companion's waist, led her into the parlor, where the rest of the family were seated around awaiting their appearance.

"Marguerite is too proud," murmured Jennie, as she sought her own room on returning from seeing her fair cousin aboard the down accommodation train which was to carry her homewards.

"Oh, my loving Marguerite, I know more than you think. I could indeed tell you much that you little dream of, but why is it thus?" and humming an old-fashioned air Jennie mechanically went back to her household duties, as if all the world were sunshine and brightness, and not a troubled thought had ever found a resting-place within her mind.

CHAPTER XIV.

AT THE NORTHWEST.

The scene is changed; and we find ourselves transported beyond a doubt to the far-famed city of Winnipeg—that emporium of wealth, enterprise and industry which arose from its prairie surroundings as by the magic of the enchanter's wand.

It is a bright, cheerful day in leafy June, and as one jogs leisurely adown Main street, there are to be seen many happy smiling faces.

But we are bent upon important business, and yield not to the more leisurely inclined side of our nature. A large four-story building is our destination. Its door posts, windows and available space are decorated with the inevitable shingle that sooner or later ushers the professional into the notice of his victims. And this building was not alone in such style of decoration.

"Dear me, I believe every other man in this place is a lawyer! Sakes alive—it's worse than being among a nest of hornets." Such was the exclamation of an elderly lady who had recently arrived, and was out taking a survey of the town.

And the old lady was not far astray, as Winnipeg has proportionately more of the legal fraternity than any other city of the Dominion.

But to our subject. Having arrived at the end of a spacious corridor we stop directly opposite a door bearing a placard—the letters are of gilt upon a black ground:

N. H. SHARPLEY,
Attorney-at-Law,
Notary Public, etc.

A medium-sized man is seated at the desk busily engaged over a lengthy looking document which he has just received from the young copyist at the further end of the office.

"All right, Ned, you are at liberty for the next hour. Wait: You can in the meantime run up for the ink," said Mr. Sharpley, Attorney-at-Law, in an impatient tone, as though he wished to enjoy the delightful communion of his own thoughts.

And while the scion of the law was wending his steps towards the Hudson Bay Company store—that mammoth collection of goods from every clime—the father, yea rather grandfather, of variety stores— the disciple of Coke and Blackstone takes out of his breast pocket a letter, which, judging from its crumpled state, must have claimed the reader's attention more than once.

"Five thousand dollars—not bad, by Jove," muttered Mr. Sharpley, in firm set tones, then began whistling the air accompanying the words:

"Never kick a man when he's going down the hill."

Before going further let us take a survey at Nicholas Sharpley, Esq., Attorney-at-Law, as he sits with his right arm resting on the desk and his left supporting his very important head. He is about thirty-five years of age, or perhaps less. His face is long and his chin sharp, so that his name is no misnomer. A pair of glittering, steel-like eyes, play a prominent part in the expression of his face. A sinister smile plays hide-and-seek around the thin, pale lips, while the movement betray a flexibility of mind that is not nattering to the possessor.

There is about the man a striking combination of Uriah Heap and Mr. Pecksniff; which, to an honest-minded man, rendered him intolerable.

But Nicholas Sharpley had his followers, and thrived and shone bright among the legal luminaries, and was always ready to do the most unprincipled jobs to be met with.

A cunning leer passed over the greyish countenance as the dazzling vision protruded itself before Mr. Sharpley. He drew his fingers convulsively through the mass of bristling hair (which might be designated by that color known as iron grey), and then suppressing a yawn, muttered: "It's worth the trying. The fellow's good for another five—that's a bonanza these devilish hard times."

The attorney then glanced over the contents of the prized letter once more and evidently experienced a fresh sensation of delight.

"Tracy beats the devil—all for the sake of a girl too; bet my life she's no better than the rest of them. Well, Mr. Tracy, my humble client, you will pay a good price for the enchanting dearie, who has caught you body and soul—fools—fools—men are fools."

Poor Nicholas made the last assertion with much force of manner, betraying his own feelings more than he would have dared to acknowledge.

Dame Rumor had not been sparing in circulating the love affairs of our attorney-at-law, and when she fearlessly came forward and declared that a certain maiden with more pin money than beauty, rejected his suit, there went forth from the four walls of the bachelor's apartments an edict ruthlessly vowing vengeance upon the whole sex, and comforting himself with the thought that he loved a good horse better than anything in this fluctuating world.

"Ten thousand out of it; not a bad speck—and that in the eight per cent—a thousand times better than the other side of the bargain. Eh, Moll?" The latter part of the sentence was addressed to the pretty animal that was reined up before the court-yard just as the speaker rose to his feet.

It was four o'clock and Mr. Sharpley, taking the ribbons from the boy with all the importance of his position, rode down Main street towards the old fort, and afterwards through the different streets lined with the most imposing and stately residence so characteristic of the southern portion of the city.

Have patience, reader, while we give another thought to the crumpled letter. Its pages make mention of one very dear to us. Phillip Lawson is on the eve of being the dupe of two unprincipled schemers.

Hubert Tracy knew well where to look for an accomplice. He possessed money or the means of getting it, and he knew that for the precious dust the high handed and unscrupulous soul of Nicholas Sharpley was his only help.

"Ten thousand—not bad—and more to follow," were the words that rose to Mr. Sharpley's lips and which he muttered incoherently as he sat over a rubber of whist in a private apartment of the hotel on the self-same evening, and as the many-sided character of the attorney-at-law presented itself, we can see in bold relief a placard bearing the mark "$10,000—not bad—and more to follow."

And there is another on the eve of happiness—a rival is to be set aside—that other is Hubert Tracy, and the rival is Phillip Lawson.

Within a few hours from the time that Mr. Sharpley had made up his mind, there lay on the office desk a letter addressed:

W. CLARKE CONNOR, ESQ.,
Barrister,
Portage, La Prarie.

Barrister at Portage La Prarie. Yes, my friend; barristers at the northermost corner of the earth.

Mr. Connor was a man of fifty years or upwards. He had formerly practised in Winnipeg and in his office Nicholas Sharpley first entered as a law student. Doubtless the quick-sighted lawyer saw in the former much in common with his own sordid nature and liked communion with kindred spirits, for Nicholas Sharpley rose high in Mr. Connor's esteem, and when the latter started out for "greener fields and pastures new," he was in full confidence of the affairs of the younger lawyer.

Mr. Connor was a man whom few liked but very many dreaded. He had the power of ingratiating himself in favor when he was least sought, and his bland oily manner could scarcely be disconcerted.

"That old nuisance of a Connor is always poking his nose where he is not wanted," was often heard from any outspoken Miss who had the audacity to express her honest thoughts.

Mr. Connor always appeared to take a very great interest in church affairs and from his indefatigable labor generally strove to be at the head of all measures advanced in the interest of his own church. Whether or no the congregation of the pretty Presbyterian Church on the outskirts of the town appreciated such labor we will not say but let the reader judge for himself.

But to the subject in question. Mr. Sharpley had no hesitation in disclosing his mind on the present burning question.

A great inducement was to be held out to Mr. Lawson to enter into partnership with the said Mr. Connor, Barrister. Nothing was to be left undone in order to accomplish this scheme. The wide field, large practice, wealth of the country; its future greatness was pictured in a wonderfully clever manner.

Mr. Sharpley had been made acquainted with the affairs of the St.
John barrister in every particular.

Hubert Tracy had carefully noted the average salary of the latter and found that it was only by dint of perseverance and up-hill work that he could meet all his demands.

"The stronger the inducements the easier the job," was Tracy's advice to the Winnipeg lawyer and it is needless to say that such advice was carried out to the letter.

Portage La Prarie was indeed an enterprising little town and possessing many of the characteristics of earlier settled districts.

On Main street are to be seen several fine buildings, fine stores and fine residences, while Pacific and Belliveau hotels are quite imposing.

And the education of the youth is not forgotten. On an elevated position commanding a fine view of the town stands the new schoolhouse, a pretty and imposing structure with surroundings in keeping with such an institution.

And to this habitation the young lawyer was to be consigned. He could not see his way out of the arrangement to which he had partially given his consent. And when Mr. Sharpley's letters were read and re-read, Phillip Lawson was in no enviable state of mind. To do or not to do—to do was invariably the answer. Then there arose another side to the question, which the young man hardly durst think of.

"I may stay here until my hair is gray, and what matters it? I have no reason to think that there ever will be any hope for me in that respect."

Here Phillip fell to musing, and what his musings were, we may divine from the foregoing speech. He considered Mr. Tracy in several ways, and though he felt a little uneasiness in the matter attributed it to the morbid state of his own mind.

"With a wider field I can do something," murmured the lawyer, as he gathered up the loose sheets of paper lying around and threw them into the waste basket.

But Phillip Lawson only saw one side of the proceeding—the alluring, tempting side.

There was, indeed, a complication of schemes already concocted, and each one was to follow in a well conceived and nicely arranged order—"a wheel within a wheel," as Hubert Tracy coolly expressed himself.

Perhaps no more diabolical scheme could have been more cleverly planned to ruin the character of a fellow-being. But it is ever thus, and shall be until the arch fiend, who first plotted in the Amaranthine bowers of Eden, shall be cast out forever beyond the reach of mortal ear.

Had Phillip Lawson now received the timely warning of one kind friend—but there was none to warn. If he asked the advice of some older members of the profession, the answer invariably was: "Try it, my boy, if you think you will succeed." So the outcome of it all was that the young man had made up his mind to try it, and, after a long conversation with Hubert Tracy, resolved to inform Mr. Sharpley of his intention at the earliest opportunity.

But Tracy was not so deeply enthusiastic as might be expected. He seemed quite indifferent as to the result, and the change would have puzzled as wise a head as Mr. Lawson's. Great was the surprise of the latter when a few mornings earlier Mr. Tracy called to bid good-bye. He was ready to take the train for Halifax, whence he was to sail for England.

"I may never see you again, Lawson, so think of me as you will," cried the young man, with a sudden outburst of energy quite foreign to his nature.

"You may not go to the North-West?"

"I certainly shall," answered the lawyer, determinedly.

"Well may God prosper you, old boy," cried Hubert Tracy with a choking sensation in his throat, and rushing madly out Phillip Lawson caught the peculiar glance in his eye which he many a time called to mind years afterwards when he could interpret it with all clearness—the look which seemed to plead for forgiveness—which seemed to say, "I was desperate and the devil tempted me, I was indeed brought up by a good, pious mother."

But it matters not that Hubert Tracy had been early trained in the paths of right, he was possessed of a weak many-sided nature and fell a prey to vice on the first opportunity.

Worse still, he appeared in good society and was looked upon alike by maidens and mothers as a most desirable acquisition by way of alliance, notwithstanding the fact that many had doubts concerning the tone of morality set up as his standard.

Let us, however, earnestly hope that the pure heart of Marguerite Verne shall never come in contact with such deadly poisonous influence. May she ever remain the guileless, sweet creature that she now is.

CHAPTER XV.

HELEN'S CELESTIAL SKETCHES.

A few mornings after Marguerite had arrived from "Gladswood" she was sitting in the library writing a note to cousin Jennie.

A fresh young voice gaily greeted her and Helen Rushton stood before her, a pretty picture in her morning costume of delicate cambric.

"Madge, darling, it seems a year since I saw your dear old face!" cried Helen enthusiastically, at the same moment embracing the former in truly genuine style.

Marguerite returned her friend's salutation, and putting her into an old-fashioned arm-chair drew her own seat near and was ready for a good chat.

"Madge, I have news for you."

"Good news or bad news?" queried Marguerite.

"Both," said Helen, "can you guess?"

"Spare my patience, Helen, I am no good at guessing."

"Then you give up?"

"I do, but you know full well that I have as much curiosity as any of Eve's daughters."

"Indeed, Madge, I will not give you credit for any such thing. I do think you have the least curiosity of any girl I ever met—you are far above it, you precious darling."

"Be careful, Helen, or I shall begin to have more conceit than is strictly in accordance with what is right," said Marguerite earnestly. "But of the news, Helen? You see, I cannot conceal the weakness after all you have said."

"Well, I shall not tease you any more. Last evening I received a letter saying that papa was called away to England on business to be absent for three months, and as mamma's health is delicate the physicians thought the trip would be highly beneficial to her. Papa and mamma both write and ask if I would like to remain here while they are absent."

"Oh, I am so glad Helen—of course you will," cried Marguerite in earnest pleading tones.

"Yes Madge, I will stay. My brothers are in Philadelphia and the dear old home would seem very lonely."

Helen was about to say more but the unceremonious arrival of Josie
Jordan brought it to an abrupt end.

"Well, of all things! You girls here! I do think I am mean to come when I wasn't sent for. Now Madge Verne, you are one of the meanest girls I ever met."

"What have I been guilty of now, Josie?"

"Oh yes, to be home more than a week without sending Fred. or
Charlie to let me know. And this precious article," pointing to
Helen, "I thought in Halifax."

"Am sorry you are so sadly disappointed, Josie."

"Come now Miss Helen, I mean no offence and though it is nearly two months since I saw you, remember I have not forgotten your promise."

"What about?" asked Helen.

"Celestial entertainment, my dear," ventured Madge.

"I thought myself to be free, for you know, my dear, that was some time ago," said Helen, laughing.

"I'm ready with questions girls. Let us call the House to order. Is the House ready for the question?" cried Josie, jumping to her feet and brandishing a lignum vitae rule which she held in her hand.

"Well girls to be serious I don't know how to begin. Last evening I had a note from Marion and she says they had a most delightful time at the Encaenia and spoke of two young gentlemen who graduated with the highest honors. I met them frequently and received much kindness from them."

"Suppose you saw in them a 'Roland and an Oliver,'" cried Josie, making a series of amusing grimaces.

"One was from Westmoreland and the other from Kings—the latter, I am told, is the banner county for intelligence and ability."

"Now Helen Rushton, I am not going to stand that," exclaimed Josie, her eyes sparkling with good natured repartee—"indeed the famous county of St. John has been the birthplace of men who ranked high in intellectual ability, proud attainments and held their own with the professionals, legislators and statesmen of other countries."

"Well done Josie, you are true to the core," cried Helen in rapt admiration at the defiant and fearless girl.

"What if York could have her say, I suppose she claims to be historic and grand too," remarked Marguerite with a sly glance towards Helen.

"Aye, and that she is, too," said the latter, the bright color on her cheek betokening the earnestness of her speech, "surely you will give to York the credit of the 104th regiment. It was while there I heard much of that glorious march which is unparalleled in history. When the brave veterans set forth amid all the hardships of piercing winter winds and boundless wastes of snow, the patriotic band, their hearts kept warm by the patriotic fire within, toiling on without a murmur, and singing snatches of song to sustain their drooping spirits, at last reached the goal; and when called into action, fought bravely and to the end, shedding greater lustre on the Province of their birth than if each soldier had been raised to a peerage."

"New Brunswick has many such true, loyal and brave sons, Helen, and if the hour should come when our country demands them, not one will shirk his duty."

Marguerite Verne was the speaker, and at that moment the enthusiastic expression of her face showed that the girl would not stand idly by if she could also administer to the sufferings of the wounded and the dying.

"Well, I do believe we are the oddest crowd of girls in existence. Just look where our conversation has landed us, and for goodness sake look at Madge! One would suppose she was starting off with an ambulance and all the other requisites necessary for a field nurse! Ha! ha! ha!"

Josie's ringing laugh infected the others, and a general laugh succeeded.

"This reminds me of an evening while in Fredericton," said Helen. "Some company happened in, and after music we formed a party for whist, and during the first half hour as the game progressed the conversation was, strange to say, of a serious nature, when in an instant a bright, happy girl sitting near me, by an unconscious remark, completely changed the current of thought and convulsed the entire party with fits of laughter."

"How I would have enjoyed it, Helen. If there be anything in this world that I admire in people it is a propensity for laughing," said Josie.

"Yes," added Marguerite, "if people laughed more heartily there would be less doctor's bills to pay, and less palatial drugstores at every corner."

"I believe so, too; but as I have many friends among the medical faculty, would not like to take a shingle off by advising too frequent hilarity," said Helen, laughing herself as contradiction to the speech.

"Oh, I forgot, Helen; you said that you visited in a professional gentleman's family. I hope your host would not be among the list to be boycotted by our new method of prescription?"

We will not give Helen's answer. Suffice it to say the girls received all the facts they wished to know, and felt more than ever impressed with Helen's ideas of celestial hospitality.

Then followed a vivid description of several of the M.P.P.'s, particularly the younger members of that august assemblage.

"The Crichton's of the House, did you say, Helen?" cried Josie, abruptly.

"Yes, several are considered quite beaux; I believe many of the young ladies have had designs upon them."

"And they are invulnerable?"

"Not exactly so, if rumor is correct; but as I never met the young ladies in question, cannot tell you much about it. Yes, I was at several parties, and had a good opportunity of seeing many people."

"Did you form as favorable opinions of the fair sex, there as those of our set?"

"You absurd girl! what a question! Well, to be candid, I saw much to approve and much to disapprove. One thing I did not like—that was the young ladies invariably flirted with the married gentlemen, and vice versa,—anything I despise in this world is a male flirt."

Helen Rushton drew herself up proudly and looked the embodiment of scorn and disgust.

"And I dare say little Helen was not behind in the list, for you see, girls, she favors it among the fair beauties."

"Josie Jordan, I would not stoop so far beneath the dignity of woman as to indulge in the most 'harmless flirtation,' and I pity the woman who does so; but man, with all his high sense of honor, and in possession of those manly graces which, when properly directed, are a guiding-star to society, falls low indeed when he becomes what is generally termed a flirt."

"Dear me," cried Josie, "and you really passed through the campaign without making an attack upon any of the celestials?"

"I am not going to tell you, Josie. I only wish you to know that I walked, danced, sang and was kindly entertained, and hope that I may only have an opportunity of returning such kindness when any of those acquaintances should happily tread on Haligonian classic soil."

"I believe the poetic and aesthetic of the celestial have taken, deep root already! Girls, just listen to the style of speech—tread on classic soil!"

At this Marguerite smiled, yet she did not altogether endorse Josie's repartee, and going to a cabinet took out a portfolio, which she passed to Helen.

"Excuse me, Josie, I had almost forgotten to have these sketches ready to send by the evening mail. I have promised two of them to Cousin Jennie, and really am at a loss to decide—which do you like best?"

Marguerite had now arranged several pretty sketches before her companions, and to decide was no easy task.

"This is cute!" cried Josie, holding up the foremost of the group.

"The banks of Nith," remarked Helen, examining the pretty Scotch landscape with the air of a connoiseur.

"Yes, I believe Jennie will like that," said Marguerite, taking the proffered sketch.

"Like it? she will adore it! for if she be like me she will admire anything that is Scotch—Scotch music—oh, girls! is there anything on this earth more enchanting than a quaint old Scotch ballad?"

"Yes; and if Madge or yours very humbly ever gets to Halifax we may expect a daily repast of oatmeal bannocks," turning towards Helen, and was about to exercise some of her latent strength upon her, when a reminder from Marguerite caused her to turn in dismay.

"Look what you have done!"

The sketches were lying upon the carpet. Instantly Josie was on her knees; and as she placed each sketch upon the cabinet, described its merits and demerits most heartily.

A pretty companion sketch—"Kilchurn Castle," rendered famous by Wordsworth—was also selected, and when the package had been sealed it passed into Josie's hands to be mailed on her way homeward.

Before the girls separated, Helen had given a glowing description of a choral service in the Cathedral. She described the building itself with the precision of an architect, not excepting the massive key which was also in keeping with the style of architecture—the form of a cross. And this grand and imposing Gothic structure, its solemn service, inspiring music pealing along the corridors, echoing and re-echoing through the vaulted arches, the solemn procession wending slowly down from the altar and entering by the eastern door, the prelates in the order of succession.

"It was a sight I shall never forget," said Helen, with a peculiar earnestness. "I stood long in the grand tesselated vestibule and took in the scene, and as I did so, I noticed a young gentleman who seemed spell-bound; he was wrapped in deep enthusiasm, and on making enquiries learned that the dreamer was an artist—a native artist— in fact I could almost see the poetic glow overspreading each feature of the expressive face."

"And thus it ended that Helen Rushton went to the Celestial and fell in love with a Celestial artist. Amen, so let it be!"

"Josie Jordan, how irreverent!"

"Forgive me, Madge! I forget that I am in the presence of High
Church people. Now dear, I will be ever so humble."

Josie's contrition was of short duration. Within a few moments she had to be reproved for interrupting Helen in the midst of a short but clearly-defined picture of the University and the pretty groves and avenues.

"I am determined to see those places later in the season."

"Then you will be repaid a thousand times, Helen," said Madge, a smile resting upon the madonna-like face and throwing a halo around her. "Last summer a number of friends were staying at the 'Barker,' and in the meantime Cousin Jennie and I found ourselves in Uncle William's care and registered at the 'Queen.' It was a lovely morning in August, and as we were engaged to attend a garden party on the self-same evening, we set off in the direction of Mr. Bebbington's garden, to get some of his choice roses. I was somewhat ahead of the party, and on turning the corner of Queen and Church streets the scene was truly enchanting. I was pleased to be alone to drink in the grandeur. I never could half describe that picture, it was as one brief glimpse of some paradise that appears only in dreamland. Not a sound marred the effect. All was calm and peaceful indeed. Stretching out in graceful curves lay the river, looking indeed like living silver; the soft, green sward and grassy bank; then the Cathedral in its sombre Gothic dress, its leafy grove, its hallowed associations. I looked further, and there stood the outlying hills crowned with lovely foliage, and above all the soft, fleecy clouds chasing each other through the blue sky. Soft and beautiful as an Italian landscape! And the neat, suburban cottages with artistically-arranged flower gardens in front. All was in keeping with the scene.

'No sound of busy life was heard.'

"As I stood in wrapt admiration, the Cathedral clock chimed out in soft, silvery tones, summoning the worshipper to the morning matin. Presently a figure emerges from the doorway of a neat residence and crosses the street. It is the Lord Bishop, who for so many years has crossed the same well-beaten path. The calm serenity of the place, the hour and the solemnity of the scene was overpowering. I dared not wait until the ethereal sweetness of the music would cease. I took one lingering gaze and murmured: This is indeed Elysium—a step nearer Heaven, and with feelings of reverential awe set forth on my errand."

"It must indeed have been grand!" cried the listeners in concert.

"I can never forget it," said Marguerite, "and if you should ever happen to see the same picture, you can imagine my emotions at the time."

"It is growing late, and I must attend to business," said Josie, taking up the package and setting off for the post office, while Helen and Marguerite stood on the balcony throwing tokens of affection, and as the coquettish form was lost in the distance, Helen, turning towards her companion, said:

"If Josie could only remain as she is—a grown-up child!"

CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. ARNOLD AS A DIPLOMATIST.

Some evenings later Phillip Lawson found his way to "Sunnybank." He was received by the stately mistress with more than usual courtesy.

"You have surely forgotten us of late, Mr. Lawson," exclaimed she, in a playful and remonstrating style. "Are we to attribute your delinquency to business or total neglect?"

"I must plead business to a certain extent, Mrs. Verne," said the young man with a quaint dignified reserve.

"I understand that you intend spending your vacation at 'Gladswood' Mr. Lawson. Really I envy you the prospect, for it is a truly delightful spot."

Mrs. Verne had seated herself upon the sofa. She wore a rich black moire robe which, with the addition of a magnificent display of garnets with setting of gold, made an elaborate costume.

"I am sorry that circumstance has cancelled my engagement in that direction. In fact I regret it deeply, I was anticipating too much and was justly punished."

"It must be weighty business that would thus interfere, Mr. Lawson.
I am inclined to believe that you are already becoming too worldly."
Mrs. Verne had raised her jewelled fingers and rested them upon her
forehead.

Among the many weaknesses of Mrs. Verne was her vain and uncontrollable desire to show off her beautifully shaped hands—fit models for the sculptor's chisel—rivals for those of, the Venus of Cnidos by Praxiteles.

The young barrister had kept his negotiations quiet and had no intention to gratify the woman's curiosity.

Marguerite now entered accompanied by Louise Rutherford. The latter had returned from Montreal and was making her first call at "Sunnybank."

"Mr. Lawson has just been receiving a slight reproof, young ladies, and I think you have arrived in time to assist me," said Mrs. Verne glancing at Louise with a bewitching smile.

"I for one always think that when Mr. Lawson neglects any part of his duties it is wholly from inability to perform them," said Louise.

"Duties! That is the great trouble. It is to duty that we attribute the true source of our complaint. To the stern goddess is sacrificed every would-be pleasure."

"Forgive me Mrs. Verne, I believe that Mr. Lawson is right, and forgetful of every presence Louise exclaimed:—

"Stern daughter of the voice of God,
O duty, if that name thou love,
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove—
Thou, who art victory and law,
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free,
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity."

"Noble girl," thought the young man, "those words give me greater strength."

Little did Marguerite Verne dream of the thoughts passing through Mr. Lawson's mind as he bowed acknowledgment to her companion's quotation.

The rising blush betrayed Louise Rutherford's embarrassment.

"Really Mr. Lawson, I beg to be excused. I have a habit of committing to memory any subject that I admire and it sometimes makes me seem very ridiculous when they unconsciously repeat themselves."

"Not in this particular, I assure you, Miss Rutherford," said the young man very earnestly, and as Marguerite fancied, with a hidden meaning in their depths.

"I presume you are aware that Mr. Tracy has sailed for Europe?" said Mrs. Verne, casting a meaning glance at Marguerite and watching the effect upon Mr. Lawson.

"Yes; I was somewhat surprised when he called at the office to make his adieu. It must surely have been an impromptu arrangement. Within a fortnight he had been planning a different course," said Mr. Lawson, quite cheerily.

"Sooner or later he will join Mr. and Mrs. Arnold," said Mrs. Verne, referring to the newly wedded pair with proud delight.

"That will be very pleasant, indeed," said Mr. Lawson.

"Would you not like to be one of the party, Madge?" cried Louise, with all the honest enthusiasm of her nature."

"I cannot say that I would," replied Marguerite.

"Oh! you are such an old-fashioned home body, Madge; I might know your answer without asking the question. Suppose I might ask you, Mr. Lawson," ventured Louise, persistent in getting a favorable reply.

The young barrister smiled, and that smile was a conquest in itself. It had powers to enable a mild and spirituelle maiden to form a resolve that was as unyielding as the marble hearthstone beside her, while on the other hand it exercised a spirit in the calculating matron that no human influence could brook.

Mr. Lawson had little thought of the agencies at work in those two beings of widely different natures, and of which time alone will interpret the result.

Marguerite Verne was sweetly irresistible. Her dress was simple—a sweet simplicity in every look, motion and gesture. The pure white draperies gave to the spirituelle face the radiance of a Madonna, and placed the maiden in striking contrast to the sparkling bright and witty Louise—a striking and high-spirited brunette, with a mind of no common order.

As Mr. Lawson sat in the Verne drawing-room with the being that he idolized so near him, a deadly struggle was going on within. What a conflict—what doubt, what irresolution!

It was worse than ever to give up all earthly hope, all earthly happiness.

What prevented the young man—aye, every inch a man—from falling on his knees and declaring his love, and begging a slight return for such love?

Go ask the weird sisters upon whose spindles hang the threads of every human life! Go ask the winds that echo the wails of human hearts and often carry them along with a cruel insatiable spirit of revenge, until all is hushed in the stillness of death.

Mrs. Verne dwelt with pride upon the adulation which her firstborn was receiving in them other country. Mrs. Arnold's beauty had been commented upon in the journals; her face was sought after in all the fashionable resorts, and her queenly torso was the subject of every artist.

"They are going to remain for some weeks in Paris, and I am really afraid that Evelyn will be intoxicated with gaiety. She is such a lover of society, the dear girl, and Montague is just as fond of gaiety as Eve. What a happy couple they must be—they write such sweetly interesting letters. Really, Mr. Lawson, it would do one good to read them."

The subjects of those remarks were in the meantime enjoying life at a hotel in Picadilly. They had seen the sights of the great French metropolis, but were they really enjoying life as it should be. Was there real true happiness existing between these two hearts—"this happy couple?"

This is a question to be answered in due time, and which will be "sweetly interesting" to know.

When Mr. Lawson rose to take leave he was uncomfortably conscious of the patronage bestowed upon him. Mrs. Verne was radiant in smiles and gave her hand to the departing guest with the grace of a dowager.

"You must not stay away so long again, Mr. Lawson. Remember if you do, I shall be very angry, and, perhaps, not so easily conciliated."

It did, indeed, seem a coincidence that at the very moment that Louise Rutherford had asked Marguerite if she did not wish to be one of the tourists that a thought flashed through Mrs. Vernes' head with the rapidity of lightning, and in less time than is conceivable was formed into high and daring resolve.

And more surprising still is the fact that some hours previous the same bent of thought was being cherished by the wily Mrs. Montague Arnold.

The latter was determined that through her influence upon her worldly mother that Marguerite should wed Hubert Tracy, heir to Sir Peter Tracy's grand estates.

"Mamma will accomplish her end if any person on earth can do it, and
Marguerite is too good, too conscientious, to disobey."

Was this peerless beauty so fond of Hubert Tracy? Did she entertain, such high opinion of this fashionable young man? No! He had riches— that was all in all. That was one reason; and another, it would be the means of outwitting Philip Lawson, whom she hated with a bitter hate.

When Evelyn Verne gave her hand to Montague Arnold she never gave her heart.

Her marriage was in the eyes of the world a good match, and that was all that was necessary. Mr. Arnold was a man of the world, addicted to many habits that were not what the better side of life would approve of; but his wife had her failings, likewise, and she availed herself of the license thus given her—the liberties of fashionable folly. Mrs. Arnold being a beauty, was courted by the gay and fashionable world. She flirted without restraint, and took delight in making conquests among the degenerated nobility, and lost no opportunity of displaying her charms. Excitement was as necessary to Mrs. Arnold's nature as the air is necessary for the support of animal life. She was buoyed up by excitement and kept alive by excitement. Life was one giddy round of delights—the dejeuner fete, opera, and ball-room.

It matters not to know whether this woman of fashion ever gave one thought to the real object of life—whether she even dreamed that God gave man an intellect, with mind-power capable of being brought nearer that state from which he fell ere he lost the impress of the Divine; but it matters us to know that she strove to bring every one whom she met on a level with her own superficial mind.

"Madge must marry Hubert Tracy; once with us she is perfectly safe. Papa will be beyond reach, and his counsel or suggestions will not come in time."

Such was the comment of Mrs. Arnold as she stood opposite the elegant plate mirror which reflected a life-size portrait of herself.

"I am beautiful, and it is but in justice to myself that 'I improve the shining hour.' Oh, Montague Arnold, you were a lucky man to wed such a prize," murmured the woman, clasping her hands over her head in an attitude often seen upon the stage when the actress is exhibiting much feeling: then looking into the depths of the brilliant dark eyes, exclaimed, "What jewels can compare with thee, my priceless orbs?"

The elegant evening costume was a marvel in itself—creamy lace, shining satin, and flowing draperies, while bright jewels gleamed from the dusky hair and burned upon the heaving bosom.

"Evelyn, my queen, you are ready for the conquest!" cried the beauty, taking one long gaze, and then picking up the jewelled fan that fell at her feet went forth at the summons of the waiting-maid to receive a visitor in the drawing-room.

"The Hon. Cecil Featherstone! The man is my slave! Why is he here at such an early hour?—it is too bad! What shall I do with poor Huntington, my latest flame? Oh, dear! I wish the men were not so incorrigible! Featherstone—it ought to be Featherhead, for I believe his head is sadly light of brains. Featherhead—Hon. Cecil Featherhead!—ha! ha! ha!"

Had not the grand drawing-room been at the other end of the spacious hall the latter part of Mrs. Arnold's speech would have been heard by the subject of these remarks. Be it said, to that gentleman's ease of mind, that he was in the meantime admiring some choice paintings and counting the minutes hours until the fair hostess should arrive.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Featherstone! I was really wondering what I should do with myself until the opera—and how kind of you, Mr. Featherstone, to think of me! I believe that I am one of the most favored of mortals!"

Having made this speech, Mrs. Arnold cast upon Mr. Featherstone one of her duly-organized smiles—a smile that was magnetic, and that set the heart of the luckless visitor into a flutter beyond recall.

"My dear Mrs. Arnold, you certainly do me the highest honor that can be bestowed upon a human being"—Mr. Featherstone felt considerable difficulty in getting off this speech, but another glance at the fair creature and he continued—"for you are certainly born to be worshipped at a distance—a something too lovely to be approached by anything this side of paradise!"

"Oh, Mr. Featherstone, spare me this flattery—I cannot really receive such, and from you-one endowed with such intellectual power, such ability and such genius! The thought is really dreadful!"