"I wish I could not; but I can, and shall."

"But you will come back here soon?"

"I don't know: one never knows anything in this world, I find. It is all a living 'au jour la journée."" "O but we won't live without seeing you again. We shall all die."

"I will come at all events to your funeral, Mr. Latimer."

"And not to Mark Apley's? Poor fellow! he will die first. I shall make a struggle, and pine away by degrees. But what do you do with yourself in that enchanted abode where nobody penetrates? Has any body ever got in? Have you, Mr. Redmond?"

"O yes, he has," she answered quickly, "often enough. He is 'mon pays,' as the French peasants say."

"They tell me you read immensely."

"How do they know anything about it?"

"Here is Lady Clara, and the about-to-be-annihilated Mark. She says she must go away to

morrow."

"So she told me this morning, but I would not believe her. Besides, she ought not to go before the doctor has given his permission."

"I must, dear Lady Clara. I have told mamma to send the carriage for me to-morrow."

"Then you must come back as soon as you can, dear child. We cannot do without you."

"So I told her. She will find us lying about like dead flies, if she stays away too long. Perhaps Sir William Marlow may survive, and wander about the house like the last man."

Mark's usually radiant face was overcast. He was provoked at Mr. Latimer's manner to Gertrude. He felt he had not made any way with her since she had been at Audley Park; he was not quick enough to discover where was the danger he had to fear, and was jealous of the sort of easy footing on which Mr. Latimer was with her, although he was quite old enough to be her father. Maurice was disappointed at her departure, and yet relieved in one sense by the reflection that she was to be replaced in the solitary position where none approached her. He felt frightened at his own agitation when any other man spoke to her; Mr. Latimer's manner, his jokes about Mark, were intolerable to him. If he felt that already, what would it be to live in the same house with her, in the midst of such a society. He should never be able to control his nervous irritation. It was better she should go. He would have wished to hurry her away. Once within those old walls of Lifford Grange, he could think of her, dream of her, get a glimpse of her now and then, and no one else would gaze on her beauty, no one else would call her Lady-Bird, or talk in joke of dying for her. What business had they to joke with such a thought? Poor Maurice, it

-

was no laughing matter to him.

While he was dressing

for dinner, he'embodied these thoughts in verse, according to his usual practice, and set them to an impassioned German air.

"Return, return where careless eyes may never rest on thee,
Where none, not even once by chance, may see thy face but me.
Go back to those old yew-trees' shade, where often from afar
I've watched thee as the learned watch in the deep sky a star.
Go back where birds and whisp'ring winds alone will haunt thine ears;
Go back to those deserted walks, the haunts of former years.
The jests, the smiles of thoughtless men, were never meant for one
Who in those silent solemn halls has lived and bloomed alone:
Let them not praise thee, hold thy hand, and call thee by a name
Which time has stamped upon my brain in characters of flame.
Go, for the sake of pity, go. Thy every word and look,
Here, amidst those who laugh or sigh, my spirit cannot brook."

There were sincere and insincere regrets uttered for Gertrude's departure, and sincere and insincere wishes for her return. She did not care much for any of them. Lady Clara, whom she was really fond of, she knew was sorry to lose her. Though worldly in some respects, or rather of the world, there was an openness in her clear eyes and smooth brow which was unmistakeable. The truth was in her, and her smile was a pledge. Adrien had not approached her that day; and it was rather late in the evening before he did so. He had been engaged in a long conversation with Mrs. Crofton and Sir William Marlow. The latter had treated him "Du haut de sa petite grandeur" at first; but finding what an adversary he had to deal with, had become eager and put forth all the strength of his

understanding, and a close encounter had taken place between them on some of the leading questions of the day. Mrs. Crofton, with that admirable art of listening which she possessed to an eminent degree, had stimulated the sharp encounter, and given an amusing turn to it, when Sir William was growing bitter. Nearly opposite to them sat Gertrude, with one of the Miss Apleys, and several men around them. Maurice was sitting on a chair a little behind her, and she now and then turned round to speak to him.

"I wonder," he said, in a low voice, "if they would think M. d'Arberg quite sane here, if they knew some of the things he does. To me, who know how a great deal of his time is employed and the use he makes of his fortune, it seems so odd to see him in this sort of society making himself agreeable like any ordinary man of the world."

"He is very rich, is not he?"

"Very rich; I believe his mother was an heiress, his father married her when he was an émigré. His good works are prodigious, also; but they are done so secretly that few people know anything of them. I am convinced he will end by being a priest." Gertrude turned pale; Maurice saw it and a jealous pang shot through his heart. Thank Heaven, she was going the next day, and d'Arberg would not, probably, stay long in England. They might never meet again. Why had he not dreaded their becoming acquainted? Why, fool

that he was, had he talked to her so much about him? He went on in an odd abrupt manner to say that he must have hurt his fortune by his extravagant charities, that this was probably the reason why he had never married

"O, no," she said in a quiet manner, “Mr. Audley, who knows him well, says he has large property both in France and in Ireland."

"You have ascertained that he is rich?" he answered in a tone of ill-disguised agitation.

"I have heard it," she said, and then became absent, for the hand of the French clock was travelling fast, and her impatience was becoming almost intolerable. At last the conversation at the opposite table came to an end, and Adrien, as if he had perceived her for the first time that evening, came and sat in the chair opposite to her. Miss Apley was talking eagerly to some one on the other side of the couch. Maurice had seized a newspaper, and seemed engrossed with it, but was still near enough to hear every word that passed. "I hear you are going home to-morrow, "Adrien said, and looked at her with an expression of interest. "Yes," she answered, without raising her eyes from the nosegay she held in her hand, “life cannot be spent amongst flowers: not mine at least."

"You have enjoyed yourself here?"

"Almost too much. I wish I had not been thrown