creeping stealthily over the dark oak floors, while they gave weird fantastic shapes to the grotesque carving in which the old house abounded.

Bessie Grant was in her own room, where she had been making the most of the waning light, giving the finishing touches to an exquisite little painting of her own, upon which she had been working in secret. It was her intention to hang it in the old man's room, and give him a pleasant surprise in this evidence of her artistic skill. The subject was simple, representing a young lady holding a newly-gathered bunch of roses enshrined in a tuft of leaves. The drawing and colouring were perfect; the brilliant hues of the flowers thrown out in striking contrast to the dark-eyed brunette. The bouquet was so naturally rendered that the flowers seemed to bloom on the canvas, and one might fancy the dew to be glistening on the cool green leaves. She had been busy until the light faded, and now sat on the low, old-fashioned window-seat apparently examining her work, but in reality lost in one of the dreaming reveries in which she had a habit of indulging. They belonged to the inner life which the solitary girl had learned to live, in an ideal world of her own, for her nature possessed all the poetry of the true artist.

The young servant, Phoebe, had just come in to know if she should light the lamp. As her entrance had not been noticed, she stood waiting at the door with a shyness that sat somewhat awkwardly upon her. Phoebe was a red-handed, red cheeked maiden rejoicing in a powerful development of bone and muscle. She was often a source of irritation to her mother, for she was wilful and restive under any control but that of Miss Bessie, to whom she was devotedly attached.

The young lady's fit of abstraction lasted so long that Phoebe grew tired of waiting, and coughed to attract her attention. Bessie gave a little start and looked round. Phoebe explained "I just come to see if you would have the lamp, miss."

"Not yet, thank you, Phoebe. I will ring when I require it."

The girl was going away, but stopped to say, "You must let me come and do your hair to-morrow morning, Miss Bessie."

"It will be a pity to trouble you, Phoebe, I can do in five minutes all that is necessary."

"Yes, but I would rather, if you don't mind, miss. I want to practise before the day you go to the flower-show. I am so glad you're going somewhere at last, where you can be seen, and it will be a treat to have a hand in dressing you, for I am sure you'll look beautiful, miss."

Bessie blushed, and murmured, "Foolish Phoebe, you talk nonsense sometimes," which remark was received with unruffled good humour.

At that moment a large bony hand unceremoniously put Phoebe aside from the doorway, which suggestive action was accompanied by a sharp well-known

voice-" You might find other work beside loitering here, Phoebe." And leaving her daughter to digest the admonition, Philis Ford walked up to Bessie, bearing in her hand a tray containing a small basin and a plate. The young girl looked up inquiringly, for she remarked a pucker of anxiety on the rugged face of the old housekeeper. She was not left long in doubt as to the cause. "Are you busy, Miss Bessie ?"

"Not just now, Philis."

"Because I want you to take this drop of broth to master, and get him to drink it. I know he'll open the door for you, and it's the only way to manage him when he takes these fits-locking himself in that den of his, as if he'd done something wicked, and was hiding from everybody." "Mrs. Ford!"

Bessie's tone of remonstrance was not without its effect upon the eccentric housekeeper, who could not bear to be thus addressed by her favourite.

She spoke in an apologetic tone. "It's no use, Miss Bessie, I can't help getting aggravated to see him going on as if he meant to starve himself, and him an old man too; it's enough to bring him to his grave."

Bessie's colour changed. There was so much real solicitude and regard for her master under all the grumbling, that the girl's impressionable nature quickly responded.

Her momentary displeasure had all vanished when she held out her hand, saying quietly, "Give me the tray, Philis."

A few minutes later Bessie was standing at the door of the old man's room. She heard the sound of footsteps pacing to and fro across the room, a habit he had when anything disturbed or excited him. She recalled what Philis had said; she herself had noticed his strange manner during the last few days. What could be the cause? Was he ill, and unwilling to be troubled with anything? She remembered he was usually impatient under sickness, and disliked seeing any one; or was it some trouble? Poor old man, who could tell what he might be suffering there alone? The thought brought tears into Bessie's eyes.

She had to repeat her knock before she heard the key turn in the lock. The door was opened in a quick, irritable way, characteristic of Lewis Darley whenever his solitude was intruded upon against his will.

The sight of Bessie effected an instant change in look and manner.

"My darling."

He spoke with even more than his usual tenderness, but something in his appearance startled herit was such a haggard, care-burdened face. To her fancy, the rusty-looking old coat seemed to hang more loosely round the attenuated figure. He was certainly getting thinner.

Bessie took some reproach to herself for not having noticed it before. She could not divest herself of a feeling of uneasiness and anxiety on his account; yet she assailed him playfully-"Uncle, you shall not talk, and I will not listen, until you have taken this broth."

He obeyed without objection, though declining the meat which Bessie proposed as an addition to his slight meal. So far she was satisfied with the success of her errand.

It was nearly dark, and the great room looked very dismal to Bessie; its desolation chilled her, and she gave an involuntary shiver. The old man turned up his reading-lamp, and in the pale circle of light which it threw around, Bessie continued her anxious scrutiny of his features. The conviction was growing upon her that he had some burden of trouble on his mind, and that it was affecting his health. At his request she sat down near him, and he amused himself by stroking down the shining waves of brown hair.

"Now, uncle, as a punishment for locking yourself in here like a prisoner, I am going to stay and cross-examine you. Will you promise to answer my questions ?"

The reply was given with some hesitation. "Yes, my dear, to the best of my ability I will; but what have you to ask?”

"Well, uncle, to begin with, I should like to know why you gave me so many cautions before I went out shopping with Philis-cautions about talking to strangers, in the event of our meeting any who would take the liberty to try to speak to us. You were so particular about it, uncle, that it struck me as being rather strange; but I remember you said some very odd things that evening when you came back so very poorly-I mean the day you told Philis I could go to the flower-show."

He remembered it well; the evening he returned from the interview with the stranger at the railwaystation, when his nerves had not been under his own control, and he had scarcely been accountable for anything he might have said. Why had Bessie chosen that subject of all others?

He replied evasively-"I can give no explanation, my dear, except that I must have thought it necessary to give such caution to a recluse like my Bessie, for Philis could not be counted much protection; she may be a good, faithful servant, but she knows little of the world, and she is getting old. But all that is scarcely worth talking about; let us change the subject."

"Very well, uncle; I'll consent to let you off this time, on the condition that you are good, and do whatever I want you."

"Very nice of you, Miss Bessie, to dictate to me like that, but wait until you get married, your husband will pay off all my debts; and now, my dear, will you tell me how old you are ?"

51

"Have you forgotten, uncle ? I am twenty-one next birthday."

"Ah, yes, but that is nearly twelve months off; there may be great changes before then, my darling— perhaps sad ones. I am glad you came here to-night, for there is something I have to say to you-something that lies very near my heart. How long is it since you heard from Gerald Darley?"

"I have not heard for some time, uncle." "Well, my dear, I have been writing to ask him to get a holiday for a day or two and run down here, to be your escort to the flower-show. Will you be glad for him to some?"

Without any preparation, as he spoke, he put his hand under her chin and raised her face, then eagerly, earnestly, as if his own dearest interests in life depended upon her answer, and the manner of receiving his question, he looked full into her eyes, as if trying to read there what answer she would give.

CHAPTER XI.

THE SECOND VISIT.

"YES, it has been rather an obstinate case, Mr. Darley. The man's constitutional tendencies have retarded his recovery; but now we may safely say that the worst is over. By-the-bye, this is the evening you want to get away."

"Yes, if possible. My uncle will expect me, but if—”

The doctor interrupted him. "You must go, Mr. Darley; that is decided. I don't want you to disappoint the old man, for I suppose one of your visits is always a sort of event to him.”

Gerald smiled, as he said, "I believe he is glad to see me whenever I go down.”

"I should think so." Dr. Ward did not say this in words, but it was plainly expressed in his manner. He looked kindly at his assistant. The young man had taken a firm hold upon his confidence and esteem.

"What time do you go?"

"I had fixed upon the seven o'clock train, but if you have anything for me to do, doctor, I can take a later one."

"Thanks for your offer, Mr. Darley, but I don't think I shall have occasion to interfere with your arrangements."

The speakers were in the consulting-room-the old physician seated at his desk, the assistant standing opposite, his arm carelessly resting on the back of a chair-the one usually occupied by the patients-a commonplace bit of mahogany to look at, but full of sad associations to many who had sat there to receive from the candid lips of the doctor, the verdict that extinguished their hope of restored health. There was a momentary pause, during which Dr. Ward's pen was busy jotting down professional notes in his peculiar caligraphy, which would have

been a source of dire perplexity to any one uninitiated in the mystery of those apparently unintelligible scratches.

It was Gerald Darley who resumed: "When you were talking about Mr. Ayrton just now, you mentioned something about not being able to see him to-day."

"Ah, yes! I recollect most of my visits lay in an opposite direction. He was going on favourably when I left him yesterday, and I must trust to the people of the hotel letting me know if there is any change."

"Then you think he is not quite out of danger; a relapse is still possible?"

"Yes. These cases are very uncertain; but, as I said before, everything was satisfactory, and with proper care, I don't think there is anything to

fear.'

"If you like, doctor, I will call on my way to the station and see Mr. Aryton. I can send you a report of the case if I find it necessary."

This proposal was eagerly accepted, and Gerald Darley was thus a second time about to be brought into association with the gentleman lying at the "Eagle." Gerald had not seen him since his first visit on the night of the accident, when he had gone in the doctor's place. But the dangerous condition of the injured man required the presence of the more experienced physician, and Dr. Ward had himself attended the case until that day, when he reported the worst to be over, an opinion which was fully confirmed by the appearance of the patient, who was able to converse, thus giving the young doctor an opportunity for examining his features more minutely than on his former visit. Then the man had been stunned and insensible from the kick of a frightened horse; now he saw him as an intelligent gentleman, with peculiarities enough to invest him at once with an individuality. He was evidently a man of education, to whom social refinements were not unknown. It was a perfectly cultivated voice that answered Gerald's inquiries. The line of the lips was drawn fine as a thread, and the long, tapering hands seemed made for anything requiring subtlety of manipulation. The same indication was conveyed by the cast of the thin, keen face and the expression of the eyes. If he had not been lying, Gerald would not have failed to notice the tall, military figure. As it was, the handsome, haughty face interested him. Granted time and opportunity, his inclination would have been to study the character thus brought under his notice, for he felt desirous to know how far he was correct in the opinion which he had formed, that the man before him was one likely to exercise an influence, powerful either for good or evil, upon those with whom he might be brought into association. He had scarcely crossed the threshold before he became aware what Dr. Ward had meant when he said the man's constitutional tendencies had retarded

his recovery. He guessed it in the restless movement, the impatient turn of the head, and the complaint uttered by the quick, querulous voice.

"At last I am spared the trouble of sending round. To me time is money; beside, I am wanted elsewhere, and I will have it known that no doctor shall keep me a prisoner against my will."

was

Here a respectable elderly woman, who evidently the nurse, went to the patient and began a whispered explanation. "It is not Dr. Ward, sir, but his assistant."

Gerald put several questions to the patient, which were duly answered, but he persisted in calling him Dr. Ward.

The nurse again whispered, "It is not Dr. Ward, sir, but his assistant, Mr. Darley."

The sentence seemed all but lost upon him, except the name, which he instantly caught. The effect produced upon him startled both the nurse and Gerald.

What was that you said? surely not Darley! I must have been mistaken."

Here the assistant stepped forward. "No mistake, sir; my name is Darley."

In reply, the man raised himself on his elbow, and fixing his keen, bright eyes on the young man's face, held up a trembling hand, saying breathlessly, "Darley; surely you-you

But this afternoon his young mistress tightened the reins, and brought the horse to a walk. The groom's look of astonishment at this proceeding was almost ludicrous. Unconsciously he touched his horse with the whip, and being high-spirited, away it bounded, taking him some distance past his mistress before he was able to check it. As he repassed Lucy, she said, kindly, "I am afraid Nettle is getting troublesome, Roberts ?"

"Not at all, miss; he's only a bit lively, and you generally give him a gallop about this part, and I think it does him good."

The way to East End lay through exquisitely wooded scenery, with lovely bits of landscape, that would have supplied an artist with rich stores of material. The white line of road wound gently up the hill, between hedges, that walled it with verdure. At another time Lucy would have revelled in the wealth of bloom and beauty that surrounded her. In her unaffected girlish way, she was a loving, appreciative student of nature, and her young heart would have freely responded to all the gladdening influences abroad on that summer day, drinking in every trill of bird-music from the leafy boughs, and every wave of perfume which the soft wind carried as a message of sweetness from the wild flowers which it had found out, and kissed in their coy hiding-places. But Lucy was not like herself; the disappointment about her father was fretting her still, and the thought of Cyril's sternness kept recurring to her mind, putting a shadow between her and the sunshine, and effectually marring the enjoyment of her ride. She had reached East End farm, a large substantial-looking house, commanding on every side a view of the fair pasture lands so coveted by Cyril Chadburn, in his dream of one day gathering back and reuniting those portions of the family estates which had been disposed of, to repair the extravagance of former improvident baronets.

But such speculations did not trouble Lucy. She had no personal desires on the subject of East End and its purchase-no anxiety about the ownership of the picturesque old castle of Chadburn, with its blackened crumbling walls. The ruin formed part of the estate now held by Lewis Darley. According to her custom, the young lady reined up her horse at the farm, to make inquiries about the health of the old farmer, and exchange a little gossip with his rosy-cheeked granddaughter, who ran out, all smiles and eagerness, when she caught sight of the wellknown chestnut. Lucy did not stay long enough to try the patience of her old servant, who was somewhat given to discontented moralising. Gently resisting the urgent entreaty to "come in, and see grandfather," Lucy turned her horse's head in the direction of a path that led home by way of the village. It was a sequestered lane, where the spreading trees formed overhead a green arch, through which the sunbeams filtered down in golden drops, and the dreamy stillness was only broken at intervals by the soft lowing of cattle in the adjoining fields.

How fair the world is, and what a pity that any one should be unhappy in it!

These would have been Lucy's words if her thoughts had been spoken aloud. She was more cheerful after the talk with the farmer's grand

Come, Dasher, we must go a little faster." This was said with a caressing touch of the sleek brown neck. It was enough for Dasher. The horse seemed to understand what was said to him. They had not proceeded far before a short, joyous bark was heard, which sounded familiar to Lucy; and looking round, she recognised a pet terrier of Harold's, in a vivacious little dog which had just come bounding from a field, and was making energetic rushes about the horse's feet. Lucy uttered an exclamation of pleasure. The dog's master had not made his appearance, but she guessed that he was not far distant. The dog vanished almost as suddenly as he had appeared, and Lucy urged her horse forward, for a bend in the road and the dense foliage of the trees prevented her seeing in the direction which the animal had taken, without paying the slightest attention to her calls.

"Is not that Snap, Roberts ?" Lucy asked, as the groom rode up in obedience to her signal.

'Yes, miss; I know his bark, and it's a sign Mr. Harold isn't many miles away.” As they passed round the bend, the man added, "And yonder he is, miss, crossing the fields." And touching his hat, he fell back to his former position..

The dog was saluting his master with a succession of shrill barks, and the execution of a wild dance about his legs, which demonstration Harold had to check by means of the light walking-cane that he carried. His attention being thus occupied, he did not see his sister at first, so she had an opportunity of observing the expression of his face, and her gentle heart sank in dismay at what she read there. Lucy Chadburn was not remarkable for extraordinary quickness of the perceptive faculties; but she was strong in the capacity for loving, and had her share of the fine, unerring intuition that belongs to such natures where their affections are brought into active exercise, as it was now in her observation of Harold. He was her favourite brother. She had clung to him with the same fondness from the nursery days, when he cut out for her wonderful paper figures of birds and animals, and took her pet kitten under his special patronage, down to their later days, when she knew he was sorely in need of such frail support as her love and sympathy could yield, to keep alive his better nature. Lucy gave him credit for all the good he had in him, and even believed the exploded family legend which had once mapped out for the second son a better and brighter future than seemed to be now awaiting him.

She called to him, "Harold!"

The young man started, and looked up at the unexpected sound of his name. When he saw Lucy a flash of pleasure shot from his eyes. She leaned from her saddle and spoke to him, her face giving a